turning of heads! And to think that among us this stuff is read, this
merchandise accepted as genuine; that these drawing-room farces are
taken as tragedies, and received as important! In this way, all
difference between an honest woman and a harlot is effaced; and a
society position is created for puppets without a nest of their own.
This French gilding suits our puppets, and they exhibit themselves under
the authority of such and such authors. There is no principle in it, no
character, no feeling of duty, no moral sense; there is nothing in it
but false aspirations, and false posing for a psychological riddle."

Vyadrovski was too intelligent not to understand that by speaking in
this fashion he was throwing stones at Pani Elzen; but, being thoroughly
malevolent, he spoke so purposely. Pani Elzen listened to his words with
all the greater vexation, because there was truth in them. Svirski was
burning with a wish to answer rudely; but he knew that he could not take
Vyadrovski's words as having any application, so he chose to give a new
turn to the conversation.

"In French novels, something else has always struck me," said he;
"namely, this, that it is a world of barren women. In other countries,
when two people fall in love, either according to law or outside of it,
the result is a child; but in French novels, no one has children. How
strange this is! It does not seem to occur to those gentlemen who write
novels that love cannot remain without results."

"As the society, so the literature," said old Kladzki. "It is known that
in France population is decreasing. In the upper society a child--is an
exception!"

"Mais c'est plus commode et plus elégant," answered De Sinten.

"The literature of sated idlers who must disappear with it," said
Kresovich, who had snorted previously.

"What do you say?" inquired De Sinten.

The student turned his resolute face to the baron, "I say the literature
of sated idlers!"

Prince Valerian discovered America a second time. "Every class has its
beauties and its pleasures," said he. "I have two passions: politics and
photography."

But the dinner was nearing its end; a quarter of an hour later all
passed into the adjoining room for coffee. It seemed to Pani Elzen that
a certain negligence ought to please Svirski, as he was an artist and
somewhat of a gypsy, so she lighted a very slender cigarette, and,
leaning on the arm of her easy-chair, crossed her legs. But, being of
comparatively low stature, and a trifle broad in the hips, she raised
her dress too high by this posture. Young Kladzki dropped his match
immediately, and looked for it so long that his uncle punched him
slightly in the side, and whispered angrily,--

"What are you thinking of; where are you?"

The young man straightened himself and said in a whisper, "That is what
I do not know."

Pani Elzen knew from experience that even well-bred men, when they can
take some advantage, become rude in presence of women, especially if
those women are unprotected. This time she had not observed young
Kladzki's movement; but when she saw the unrestrained and almost cynical
smile with which he answered his uncle, she felt convinced that he was
talking of her. And in her heart she had a contempt for all that society
except Svirski and Kresovich, the tutor, whom she suspected of being in
love with her, notwithstanding his hatred for women of her circle.

But that evening Vyadrovski brought her almost to a nervous attack; for
it seemed as though for what he had eaten and drunk, he had undertaken
to poison every spoonful of her coffee, and every moment of her time. He
spoke generally, and as it were objectively, of women, without crossing
the bounds of politeness, but at the bottom of his words there was not
only cynicism, but a completeness of allusion to Pani Elzen's character
and social position, which was simply offensive, and to her, immensely
disagreeable, especially before Svirski, who both suffered and was
impatient.

A stone fell from her heart, therefore, when at last the guests went
away and only the artist remained.

"Aa!" exclaimed she, breathing deeply, "I feel the beginning of
neuralgia, and I know not myself what is happening to me."

"They tormented you?"

"Yes, yes--and more than tormented!"

"Why do you invite them?"

She approached him feverishly, as if losing control of her nerves, and
said,--

"Sit quietly, do not move! I cannot tell--perhaps I destroy myself in
your eyes; but I need this as a medicine. Oh, yes! To remain a moment in
this way at the side of an honest man--a moment in this way!"

All at once her eyelids were bedewed abundantly; but she put her finger
to her lips time after time as a sign not to speak, and to let her
remain silent.

But Svirski was moved, since he had always grown soft as wax at sight of
woman's tears. The confidence which she showed him, conquered the man
and filled his heart with tenderness. He understood that the decisive
moment had come, so, putting his arm around her, he said,--

"Stay with me forever; give me a right to yourself."

Pani Elzen made no answer; great tears were flowing from her eyes, but
they were silent tears.

"Be mine," repeated Svirski.

She put her hand on his other shoulder, and nestled up to him as a child
to its mother.

Svirski, bending over, kissed her forehead, then he fell to kissing
tears from her eyes, and gradually the flame seized him; in a moment he
caught her in his athletic arms, pressed her with all his strength to
his breast, and sought her lips with his lips. But she defended herself.

"No! no!" said she, with panting voice. "Thou art not like
others--later! No! no! Have pity!"

Svirski held her in his embrace; she bent backward; at that moment he
was just like other men; happily for Pani Elzen, there was a knock at
the door. They sprang apart.

"Who is there?" inquired Pani Elzen, impatiently.

The gloomy head of Kresovich appeared in the doorway.

"Pardon me," said he, in a broken voice. "Romulus is coughing, and
perhaps he has a fever; I thought it necessary to inform you."

Svirski stood up.

"Should you not send for a doctor?"

Pani Elzen had recovered her usual self-possession already.

"I thank you," said she; "if necessary, we will send from the hotel; but
first I must see the boy. Thank you! but I must go--so till to-morrow!
Thank you!"

And she stretched her hand to him, which Svirski raised to his lips.

"Till to-morrow--and every day. Till we meet again!"

Pani Elzen, when alone with Kresovich, looked at him inquiringly, and
asked,--

"What is the trouble with Romulus?"

The student grew paler than usual, and answered almost rudely,--

"Nothing."

"What does this mean?" asked she, with a frown.

"It means--dismiss me, otherwise--I shall go mad!" And turning he walked
out. Pani Elzen stood for a moment with flashes of anger in her eyes and
with wrinkled brows; but her forehead smoothed gradually. She was
thirty-five years of age, it is true, but here was a fresh proof that no
man had thus far been able to resist her. Next moment she went to the
mirror as if to seek in it confirmation of that thought.

Svirski returned to Nice in a car without other passengers; he raised to
his face from moment to moment a hand which retained the odor of
heliotrope. He felt disturbed, but also happy; and the blood was rushing
to his head, for his nostrils were inhaling Pani Elzen's favorite
perfume.

CHAPTER III.

Next morning the artist woke with a heavy head, as if after a night
spent in drinking, and, moreover, with great alarm in his heart. When
light falls in the daytime on theatrical decorations, that which seemed
magic the night before looks a daub. In life, the same thing takes
place. Nothing unexpected had happened to Svirski. He knew that he had
been going toward this, that he must go to it; but now, when the latch
had fallen, he had a feeling of incomprehensible fear. He understood
that as late as yesterday he might have withdrawn; and regret took
possession of him. In vain did he repeat to himself that it was not the
time for reasoning. Various reproaches which formerly he had made to
himself regarding Pani Elzen, and above all regarding marriage with her,
returned to him with renewed force. The voice which formerly had
whispered unceasingly in his ear, "Do not be a fool!" began to cry,
"Thou art a fool!" And he could not put down this voice either by
arguments, or by repeating, "It has happened!" for reason told him that
the folly had become a fact, and that the cause lay in his own weakness.

At that thought shame possessed him. For had he been young, he would
have had youth as his excuse. Had he made the acquaintance of that lady
on the Riviera, had he heard nothing of her before, his ignorance of her
character and her past would have justified him; but he had met her
before. He had seen her rarely, it is true; but he had heard enough,
when people in Warsaw spoke more of her than of any one else. She was
called there the "Wonder woman," and humorists had sharpened their wits
on her, as a knife is sharpened on a grindstone; this, however, had not
prevented men from crowding to her salon. Women, though less favorable,
received her also out of regard for the remoter or nearer relationship
which connected her with the society of the city. Some, especially those
whose interest it was that opinion in general should not be too strict,
even rose in defence of the beautiful widow. Others, less yielding,
still did not dare to close their doors against her, for the reason that
they had not courage to take this course earlier than others. Once a
local comedy writer, on hearing some one reckon Pani Elzen among the
"demi-monde," answered, "She is neither the half world nor the whole
world, she is rather three-quarters."

But since everything in great cities is effaced, Pani Elzen's position
was effaced in time. Her friends said, "We cannot, of course, ask too
much of Helena; but she has her own really good traits." And, without
noting it, they conceded greater freedom to her than to other women. At
one time it was stated by some one that for a period before the death of
her husband, she had not lived with him; at another it was whispered
that she was rearing Romulus and Remus like jesters, or that she had no
thought for them of any kind; but to such malevolent statements
attention would have been turned only if Pani Elzen had been a woman of
less beauty and less wealth, or had kept a less hospitable house. Among
themselves, men had not been backward in speaking of the "Wonder
woman,"--not even those who were in love with her; they talked of her
through jealousy; only those were silent who, at the given moment, were
fortunate, or who wished to pass as more fortunate than others. In
general, malice was such that according to report Pani Helena had one
man for the winter in the city, and another for the summer.

Svirski knew all this. He knew it better than other men, for an
acquaintance of his in Warsaw, a certain Pani Bronich, a near relative
of the beautiful widow, told him of an event painful to Pani Elzen,
which ended in a grievous illness. "What that poor Helena suffered, God
alone knows; but perhaps in His mercy He brought it about before the
time, so as to save her from greater moral suffering." Svirski, however,
admitted that this "event before the time" might be a pure invention;
still it was less possible for him than for others to be deceived as to
Pani Elzen's past, and least of all was it possible for him to believe
that she was a woman to whom he could confide his peace with safety.

Still, all these facts roused his curiosity, and drew him to her
specially. When he heard of her presence at Monte Carlo, he desired,
with intentions not entirely honest, perhaps, to approach her and know
her better. He wanted also, as an artist, to analyze the charm exercised
on men by that woman, who was talked of everywhere.

But he met only disenchantment from the first. She was beautiful and
physically attractive; but he saw that she lacked goodness and kindness
toward people. In her eyes a man was of value only in so far as he was
useful to her in some way. Beyond that, she was as indifferent as a
stone. Svirski did not note in her either any feeling for mental life,
art, or literature. She took from them what she needed, giving nothing
in return. He, as an artist and a man of thought, understood perfectly
that such a relation betrays at the basis of things a nature which,
despite all elegant semblances, is vain, rude, and barbarous. But to him
women of that kind had been known from of old. He knew that they impose
on the world by a certain force which position and a mighty merciless
egotism confers. Of that sort of creature, it had been said often in his
presence, "A cold, but clever woman." He had always thought of such
persons without respect and with contempt. They were to his mind devoid
not only of lofty spiritual finish, but of intellect. Beasts have the
mind which snatches everything for itself, and leaves nothing to others.

In Pani Elzen, as in Romulus and Remus, he saw a type in which there is
no culture below the surface; beneath is an unknown plebeian depth.
Beyond that, he was struck by her cosmopolitan character. She was like a
coin, so worn that one could hardly discover to what country it
belonged. And he was penetrated by disgust, not only as a man of
qualities opposite to hers, but also as a man of a society really
higher, and who knew that in England, for instance, or France or Italy,
people would not deny the soil from which they had grown and would look
with contempt on cosmopolitan twigs without a root.

Vyadrovski was right when he said that Romulus and Remus were reared
like commercial travellers, or like porters in a great hotel. It was
known universally that Pani Elzen's father possessed a title, that was
true; but her grandfather was the manager of an estate; and Svirski, who
had a high sense of humor, thought it ridiculous that these
great-grandsons of a farm bailiff not only did not know Polish well, but
like genuine Parisians could not pronounce _r_. They offended him too in
his character of an artist. The boys were good-looking, even beautiful;
Svirski, however, felt, with his subtle artistic sense, that in those
two bird skulls, which resembled each other, and in those faces, the
beauty was not inherited through a series of generations, but was as if
by accident, by physical chance, which had come from their twinship. In
vain did he say to himself that their mother too was beautiful; the
feeling adhered to him always that that beauty did not belong to the
mother or the sons, and that in this, as in the question of property,
they were parvenus. It was only after long intercourse with them that
this impression was weakened.

Pani Elzen, from the beginning of their acquaintance, commenced to
prefer Svirski and to attract him. He was of more value to her than the
rest of her acquaintances; he bore a good family name; he had
considerable property and a great reputation. He lacked youth, it is
true; but Pani Elzen herself was thirty-five years of age, and his form
of a Hercules might take the place of youth. Finally, for a woman who
had been mentioned without respect, to marry him meant the recovery of
honor and position. She might suspect him of other inclinations and a
fickle disposition; but he possessed kindness and--like every artist--a
certain basis of simplicity in his soul; hence, Pani Elzen thought
herself able to bend him to her will. In the end of ends she was
influenced not by calculation only, but by this too, that as he let
himself be attracted, he attracted her. At last she said to herself that
she loved him, and she even believed that she did.

With him that happened which happens to many, even perfectly intelligent
people. His reason ceased to act when his inclinations were roused, or,
worse still, it entered their service; instead of striving to conquer,
it undertook to find arguments to justify them. In this fashion Svirski,
who knew and understood every weak point, began to make excuses,
twisting, mollifying, explaining. "It is true," thought he, "that
neither her nature nor her conduct, so far, give guarantees; but who
can say that she is not tortured by her present life, that she is not
yearning with all her soul for another? In her action there is
undoubtedly much coquetry; but again who will say that she has not
developed that coquetry because she has fallen in love with me
sincerely? To imagine that a person, even filled with faults and
failings, has no good side, is childish. What a medley is the human
soul! There is merely need of proper conditions to develop the good
side, and the bad will disappear. Pani Elzen has passed her first youth.
What stupidity to suppose that no voice in her is calling for calm,
rest, honor, and healing. And just for these reasons perhaps a woman
like her values more than others an honest man, who would make her feel
certain of all things." This last thought seemed to him uncommonly
profound and appropriate. Formerly sound judgment had declared that Pani
Elzen wanted to catch him, but now he answered, "She is right; we may
say of any woman, even one of the most ideal character, who wishes to
unite herself to a man whom she loves, that she wants to catch him." As
to the future, the hope also of children quieted him. He thought that he
would have something to love, and she would be obliged to break with
vain, social life, for she would not have time for it; and before
children could grow up, her youth would have passed; after that her
house would attract her more than society. Finally, he said, "In every
case life must arrange itself; before old age comes I shall live a
number of years with an interesting and beautiful woman, near whom every
week day will seem a festival."

And those "few years" became in fact the main charm for him. There was
something humiliating for Pani Elzen in this, that he feared no
extraordinary event for the single reason that her youth, and therefore
possibilities, must soon pass. He did not confess this to himself,
though it was the basis of his consolation; and he deceived himself, as
is ever the case with people in whom reason has become the pander of
their wishes.

And now, after the event of the previous evening, he woke up with
immense alarm and disgust. He could not avoid thinking of two things:
first, that if any man had told him a month before that he would propose
to Pani Elzen, he would have thought that man an idiot; second, that the
charm of relations with her which lay in uncertainty, in unfinished
words, in the mutual divining of glances and thoughts, in the deferred
confessions and in mutual attractions, was greater than that which
flowed from the present condition. For Svirski it had been more
agreeable to prepare the engagement than to be engaged; now he was
thinking that if in the same proportion it would be less agreeable to
become a husband than to be an affianced, deuce take his fate. At
moments the feeling that he was bound, that he had no escape, that,
whether he wished or not, he must take Pani Elzen with Romulus and Remus
into his life-boat seemed to him simply unendurable. Not wishing then as
a man of honor to curse Pani Elzen, he cursed Romulus and Remus, with
their lisping, their bird-like, narrow heads and bird-like skulls.

"I have had my cares, but really I have been as free as a bird, and I
could put my whole soul into my pictures," said he to himself; "now,
Satan knows how it will be!" And the cares of an artist, which he felt
at that moment, spoiled his good-humor, though they turned his thoughts
in another direction. Pani Elzen and the whole marriage question receded
into the second place; and into the first came his picture, "Sleep and
Death," on which he had been working for a number of months, and to
which he attributed immense importance. This picture was a protest
against the accepted idea of death. Frequently, while talking with
artists, Svirski had been indignant at Christianity because it had
brought into life and art the representation of death as a skeleton.
That seemed to him the greatest injustice. The Greeks had imagined
Thanatos[14] as a winged genius; that was correct. What can be more
disgusting and frightful than a skeleton? If death be represented in
that way, it should not be by Christians, who conceive death as a return
to new life. According to Svirski, the present idea was born in the
gloomy German soul which created Gothic architecture,--solemn and
majestic, but as gloomy as if the church were a passage, not to the
glories of heaven, but to underground gulfs. Svirski had marvelled
always that the Renaissance had not recreated the symbol of death.
Indeed, if Death had not always been silent, and had desired to
complain, it would have said, "Why do people depict me as a skeleton? A
skeleton is just what I have no wish to be, and will not be!" In
Svirski's picture the genius of Sleep was delivering, mildly and
quietly, the body of a maiden to the genius of Death, who, bending down,
extinguished in silence the flame of a lamp burning at her head.

[14] Death.

Svirski when painting had said to himself, "Oh, what wonderful silence
there is here!" and he wanted that silence to appear from the lines, the
form, the expression, and the color. He thought also that if he could
convey that feeling, and if the picture could interpret itself, the work
would be both new and uncommon. He had another object also: following
the general current of the time, he had convinced himself that painting
should avoid literary ideas; but he understood that there was an immense
difference between renouncing literary ideas, and a passionless
reflection of the external world as is shown in photographic plates.
Form, color, stain--and nothing more! as if the duty of an artist were
to destroy in himself the thinking essence! He recollected that whenever
he had seen pictures by English artists, for example, he had been
impressed, first of all, by the mental elevation of those artists. It
was evident from their canvases that they were masters of a lofty mental
culture, greatly developed intellects, thinking deeply, often even
learned. In Poles, on the contrary, he saw always something which was
directly the opposite. With the exception of a few, or at best of a
small number, the generality was composed of men capable, but lacking
thought, men of uncommonly small development, and devoid of all culture.
They lived, nourished somewhat by crumbs of doctrines falling from the
French table, and crumbs which had lost much of their savor. These
artists did not admit for a moment that it was possible to think out
anything original touching art, and especially to produce original
creations in a Polish style. To Svirski, it was clear, also, that a
doctrine which enjoins absence of thought must please their hearts. To
bear the title of artist, and at the same time be mentally a minor, is
convenient. To read, know, think--deuce take such toil!

Svirski thought that if even a landscape is simply a state of soul, that
soul should be capable not only of the moods of a Matsek (a peasant),
but should be subtle, sensitive, developed, and expanded. He had
quarrelled about this with his comrades, and had discussed with them
passionately. "I do not require you," said he, "to paint as well as the
French, the English, or the Spanish-- I demand that you paint better!
Above all, that you paint in your own style; whoso does not strive for
this should make copper kettles." He showed, therefore, that if a
picture represents a stack of hay, or hens scratching in a yard, or a
potato field, or horses at pasture, or a corner of sleeping water in a
pond, there should, above all, be a soul in it; hence he put into his
pictures as much of his own self as he could, and besides he "confessed
himself" in other pictures, the last of which was to be Hypnos and
Thanatos (Sleep and Death).

The two geniuses were almost finished; but he had no success with the
head of the maiden. Svirski understood that she must be not only
beautiful, but possess great individuality. Models came who were really
good, but not sufficiently individual. Madame Lageat, at whose house the
artist had taken his studio, and who was an old acquaintance, had
promised to find him one, but the work advanced slowly. Some new model
was to appear that morning; but she had not come, though it was eleven
o'clock.

All this, combined with his yesterday's proposal, caused Svirski to be
in doubt touching not only his own peace of mind, but his artistic
future in general, and his picture in particular. Hypnos seemed to him
at that moment somewhat heavy, Thanatos somewhat stupid. Finally, he
thought that since he could not work, he would better stroll to the
shore, where a sight of the sea might clear mind and soul.

Just at the moment when he was ready to go, the bell sounded in the
entrance, and next appeared in the studio two Scottish plaids, two heads
of hair, and the two bird faces of Romulus and Remus; after them came
Kresovich, paler than usual and gloomier than ever.

"Good-day, sir! Good-day, sir!" cried the two boys. "Mamma sends these
roses and invites you to lunch."

While speaking, they shook bunches of tea and moss roses, then handed
them to Svirski, and began to run about and look at the studio. They
wondered especially at the sketches representing naked bodies, and were
stopped by them, for they stood before these sketches, and, punching
each other with their elbows, said,--

"Tiens!"

"Regarde!"

Svirski, who was angered by this, looked at his watch and said,--

"If we are to be in time for lunch, we must go at once." He took his
hat, and they went out. There were no carriages near the studio, so they
walked. The artist passed on with Kresovich, and inquired,--

"Well, how are your pupils?"

Kresovich, turning to him his malignant, sneering face, answered,--

"My pupils? Oh, nothing! They are as healthy as fish, and are
comfortable in their Scottish dresses. There will be fun with them; but
not for me."

"Why so?"

"Because I am going to-morrow."

"Why so?" asked Svirski, with astonishment. "I knew nothing of this; no
one mentioned it. I am sorry!"

"They are not sorry," answered Kresovich.

"Perhaps they do not understand."

"They will never understand. Neither to-day, nor at any time in their
lives! Never!"

"I hope that you are mistaken," said Svirski, dryly; "but in every case
it is unpleasant for me to hear this."

"Yes!" continued the student, as if speaking to himself. "A pity, but a
pity for time lost. What do they care for me, or I for them? It is even
better that they should be as they will be. A man who wishes to sow
wheat must plough in the grass; and the weaker it is, the easier it is
to plough it in. Much might be said of this matter; but it is not worth
while, especially not for me. The microbes are eating me, anyhow."

"Consumption has never threatened you. Before Pani Elzen asked you to
teach, she questioned the doctor about your health--and you should not
wonder at that, for she was anxious about her children. The doctor
assured her that there was no danger."

"Of course not. I have discovered a certain remedy against microbes."

"What is the remedy?"

"It will be announced in the papers. Such discoveries as that are never
hidden under a bushel."

Svirski glanced at Kresovich, as if to convince himself that the man was
not speaking in a fever; meanwhile they reached the station, which was
swarming with people.

The visitors at Nice were going as usual in the morning to Monte Carlo.
At the moment when Svirski was buying a ticket, Vyadrovski saw him.

"Good-morning," said he, coming up; "you are going to the Mountain?"

"Yes. Have you a ticket?"

"I have a monthly one. The train will be crowded."

"We can stand in a passage."

"This is a genuine Exodus, is it not? And each one carries his mite to
the widow. Good-morning, Pan Kresovich! What say you of life in this
place? Make some remark from the point of view of your party."

Kresovich blinked as if unable to understand what was asked of him, then
answered,--

"I enroll myself in the party of the silent."

"I know, I know!--a strong party: it is either silent or explosive," and
he laughed.

Meanwhile the bell rang, and there was need of haste. From the platform
came the call, "En voiture! en voiture!" The next moment Svirski,
Kresovich, Vyadrovski, and the two boys were in the passage of a car.

"With my sciatica this is pleasant!" said Vyadrovski. "See what is going
on. Useless to think of a seat. A regular migration of nations!"

Not only the seats, but the passages were crowded with people of every
nationality. Poles, Russians, English, French, Germans, all going with a
rush to break the bank, which daily repulsed and broke them, as a cliff
jutting out from the shore breaks a wave of the sea. Women were crowding
up to the windows,--women from whom came the odor of iris and
heliotrope. The sun shone on the artificial flowers in their hats, on
satin, on lace, on false and genuine diamond ear-rings, on jet
glittering like armor on projecting bosoms increased with india-rubber,
on blackened brows, and on faces covered with powder or rouge, and
excited with the hope of amusement and play. The most practised eye
could not distinguish the demi-monde who pretended to be women of
society, from women of society who pretended to be of the demi-monde.
Men with violets in their buttonholes examined that crowd of women with
inquiring and insolent gaze, inspecting their dresses, their faces,
their arms, and their hips, with as cool minuteness as if they were
inspecting, for example, objects set out for sale. There was in that
throng a kind of disorder of the market-place, and a species of haste.
One moment the train rushed into the darkness of tunnels, again the sun
glittered in the windows, the sky, the sea, palm groves, olive groves,
villas, the white almond-trees, and a moment later night embraced all
again. Station appeared after station. New crowds thronged into the
cars, elegant, exquisite, hurrying on, as it were, to a great, glad
festival.

"What a true picture of a breakneck life!" said Vyadrovski.

"What is this true picture?"

"This train. I might philosophize till lunch-time; but since I prefer to
philosophize after lunch, perhaps you would consent to lunch with me?"

"Excuse me," answered Svirski; "I am invited by Pani Elzen."

"In that case I withdraw!" And he smiled.

The supposition that Svirski was to marry Pani Elzen had not entered his
head for an instant. He felt even certain that the artist was concerned
in the same way as others; but being an admirer of artists in general,
and of Svirski in particular, he felt glad that Svirski was beating his
opponents.

"I represent property," thought he; "Prince Valerian a title; young
Kladzki youth; and De Sinten the world of fashionable fools. All these,
especially here, possess no small value, and still the Wonder woman took
Svirski. She is surely a person of taste." And looking at the artist he
began to mutter, "Jo triumpe, tu moraris aureos currus--"

"What do you say?" inquired Svirski, who had not heard because of the
noise of the train.

"Nothing! A hiccough from Horace. I will say that since you refuse me, I
will give a breakfast of condolence to myself, De Sinten, Prince
Valerian, and Kladzki."

"Indeed! why do you wish to condole?" asked Svirski, pushing forward
suddenly, and looking into his eyes almost threateningly.

"For the loss of your society," answered Vyadrovski, coolly. "But, my
dear sir, what cause have you in mind?"

Svirski shut his lips and gave no answer; but he thought, "His cap burns
the head of a criminal. Were I to marry any ordinary girl of the
country, the idea would never have come to my head that any man could
have me in mind when speaking with irony and malice."

Pani Elzen, freshened, young, and comely, was waiting for them at the
station. It was evident that she had come only the moment before, for
she breathed hurriedly, and there was a flush on her face which might be
taken for emotion. When she gave Svirski both hands at greeting,
Vyadrovski thought,--

"Yes, he has beaten us all by seven lengths. She seems really in love."

And he glanced at her almost favorably. In a white flannel robe, with
sailor collar, and with gleaming eyes, she seemed to him, in spite of
slight traces of powder on her face, younger and more enchanting than
ever. For a moment he was sorry that he was not the happy man whom she
had come to greet, and he thought that the method by which he had sought
her favor, through relying on the utterance of stinging words, was
stupid. But he comforted himself with the thought of how he would sneer
at De Sinten and the other "distanced men."

After the greeting, Svirski thanked her for the roses; and she listened
with a certain vexation, glancing momentarily at Vyadrovski, as if
ashamed that he was a witness of those thanks.

On his part, Vyadrovski understood that he would do better to leave
them. But all went together again in a lift up the mountain on which was
the Casino and the garden. On the way, Pani Elzen recovered self-control
thoroughly.

"To lunch at once! to lunch!" said she, joyously. "I have an appetite
like a whale!"

Vyadrovski muttered to himself that he would like, God knows, to be
Jonah; but he did not say this aloud, thinking that were Svirski to take
him by the collar and throw him out of the lift, as he deserved for his
joke, he would fall too far.

In the garden he took leave of them at once, and went his way; but he
looked around and saw Pani Elzen lean on Svirski's arm and whisper
something in his ear.

"They are talking of the dessert after lunch," thought he.

But he was mistaken, for, turning her charming head to the artist, she
whispered,--

"Does Vyadrovski know?"

"He does not," answered Svirski. "I met him only at the train."

When he had said this he felt a certain fear at the thought that Pani
Elzen mentioned the betrothal as a fixed fact, and that he would have to
announce it to every one; but the proximity of Pani Elzen, her beauty
and her charms, so acted on him that he grew serene and took courage.

The lunch was eaten with Romulus, Remus, and Kresovich, who, during a
whole hour, said not one word. After black coffee, Pani Elzen permitted
her boys to go toward Rocca Brune under guidance of their tutor; then
she asked Svirski,--

"Which do you prefer, to ride or to walk?"

"If you are not tired, I would rather walk," answered he.

"Very well. I am not tired at all. But where shall we go? Would you look
at the pigeon-shooting?"

"Willingly, but we shall not be alone there. De Sinten and young Kladzki
will be sure to exercise after lunch."

"Yes; but they will not trouble us. When pigeons are the question, these
two young men grow deaf and blind to all else that happens around them.
For that matter, let them see me with my great man!"

And, turning her head, she looked with a smile into his eyes:--

"Doesn't the great man wish that himself?"

"Of course, let them see us!" answered Svirski, raising her hand to his
lips.

"Then we will go down; I like well enough to see the shooting."

"Let us go."

And after a while they were on the great steps leading to the shooting
gallery.

"How bright it is here! How pleasant and how happy I am!" said Pani
Elzen.

Then, though there was no one near them, she asked in a whisper, "But
you?"

"My light is with me!" answered he, pressing her arm to his breast.

And they began to descend. The day was uncommonly bright, the air golden
and azure; the sea was dark in the distance.

"We will stay here awhile," said Pani Elzen. "The cages are perfectly
visible from this spot."

Beneath them was a green half-circle covered with grass, extending far
into the sea. In this half-circle were placed, in a curving line on the
ground, cages containing pigeons. Moment after moment, some one of those
cages was opened suddenly, and a frightened bird rushed through the air;
then a shot was heard, and the pigeon fell to the ground, or even into
the sea, where boats were rocking with fishermen in them waiting for
their prey.

Sometimes it happened, however, that the shot missed. Then the pigeon
flew toward the sea, and afterward, moving in a circle, returned to
seek refuge in the cornice of the Casino.

"From here we do not see the marksmen, and do not know who fires," said
Pani Elzen, joyously, "so we will guess; if the first pigeon falls, we
will remain in Monte Carlo; if it escapes, we will go to Italy."

"Agreed. Let us look! Out it comes!"

A cage fell open that instant, but the bird, as if dazed, remained on
the spot. They frightened the pigeon by rolling a wooden ball toward it;
next a shot thundered. The bird did not fall at once, however; it made
straight for the sea, coming down gradually to the surface, as if
wounded; but at last it vanished completely in the brightness of the
sun.

"Maybe it fell, maybe it did not fall! The future is uncertain," said
Svirski, laughing.

"It is that unendurable De Sinten," said Pani Elzen, pouting like an
angry child. "I will bet that is he! Let us go down."

And they went farther down toward the shooting, among cactuses,
sunflowers, and goat grass clinging to the walls. Pani Elzen stopped at
every report of a gun, and in her white robe, on the great steps,
against the green background, she looked like a statue.

"There is nothing after all which drops into such splendid folds as
flannel," said Svirski.

"Oh, you artist!" exclaimed the young widow. And there was irony in her
voice, for she felt a little angered that Svirski at that moment was
thinking not of her, but of the folds into which various kinds of cloth
fall.

"Let us go."

A few minutes later they were under the roof of the shooting gallery. Of
acquaintances they found only De Sinten, who was shooting on a bet with
a Hungarian count. The two men were dressed in reddish English costume
with caps of the same material buttoned down on the visor, and barred
stockings, both very distinguished, both with witless faces. But, as
Pani Elzen had foreseen, De Sinten was so occupied with shooting that he
did not notice the widow and the artist at first, and only after a time
did he come and greet them.

"How are you succeeding?" inquired the lady.

"I am victorious! I am almost sure of a great winning." Here he turned
to Svirski. "But do you shoot?"

"Of course; but not to-day."

"And I," continued De Sinten, looking significantly at Pani Elzen, "am
to-day lucky in play."

They called him just then to the shooting.

"He wanted to say that he is unlucky in love," said Svirski.

"Imbecile! Could it be otherwise?"

But in spite of these words of blame, it was evident by the face of the
beautiful lady that she was not angry that testimony was given in
presence of Svirski of how enchanting she was, and how much desired by
all,--and that was not to be the last testimony of the day.

"I wanted to ask you about something," said the artist, after a moment
of silence; "but I could not ask during lunch in presence of the boys
and Kresovich. Kresovich told me on the way that he was leaving you, or,
at least, that he is the tutor of the boys for the last day. Is this
true, and why is it?"

"It is true. First of all, I am not sure of his health. A few days since
I sent him to the doctor. The doctor declared again that he is not
threatened with consumption, otherwise I should not have kept him an
hour; but in every case he looks worse and worse; he is peculiar,
excitable, often he is unendurable. That is the first reason. And, then,
do you know his opinions? They will not be accepted by Romulus and
Remus. The boys are reared in such fashion that those opinions cannot
take root in them. Besides, I do not wish them in childhood to know of
such things, to meet with such an erratic spirit, with such ill-will
toward that sphere of society to which my sons belong. You wished them
to speak with some one in their own language; that was sufficient for
me; that was for me a command. This is the kind of person that I am, and
such shall I remain. I understood, too, that they ought to know their
own language somewhat. At present great attention is given to this
subject, and I confess that people are right. But even in this regard
Kresovich is too erratic."

"I am sorry for him. There are certain wrinkles in the corners of his
eyes which show him to be a fanatic. His face is a strange one, and
really he is a curious man."

"Again art is speaking through you," said Pani Elzen, smiling. But after
a moment she grew serious, and on her face even anxiety appeared.

"I have another reason," said she. "It is difficult for one to speak of
it; but still I will tell you, for with whom am I to be outspoken if not
with my great man?--such a loved one, and so honest, who is able to
understand everything. You see I have noticed that Kresovich has lost
his head, and fallen in love with me to madness; under these conditions
he could not remain near--"

"How is that, and he too?"

"Yes," answered she, with downcast eyes.

And she struggled to pretend that the confession caused her pain; but
just as a moment before after the words of De Sinten, there flew across
her mouth a smile of flattered self-love and feminine vanity. Svirski
took note of that smile, and a bitter, angry feeling straitened his
heart.

"I have succumbed to the epidemic," said he.

She looked at him a moment, and asked in a low voice,--

"Was that said by a jealous man, or by an ungrateful one?"

"You are right," answered he, evasively. "If that be the position,
Kresovich should go."

"I will settle with him to-day, and that will be the end."

They ceased talking; nothing was heard save the shots of De Sinten and
the Hungarian. Svirski, however, could not forgive her that smile which
he had caught on the wing. He said to himself, it is true, that Pani
Elzen was obliged to act with Kresovich as she had acted, that there was
nothing over which to be angry--still he felt rising vexation in his
soul. On a time, at the beginning of his acquaintance with Pani Elzen,
he saw her riding; she was some yards ahead; after her hurried De
Sinten, young Kladzki, Prince Valerian, Wilkis Bey, and Waxford. On
Svirski, the group produced the fatal impression at the moment, that it
was a kind of chase after a woman. At present the picture stood in
memory before him so vividly and with such sharpness that his artistic
nature suffered really.

"It is absolutely true," said he to himself, "that all are running after
her, and if I had been thrown in clearing some obstacle, the next man
behind would have caught her."

But further meditation was stopped by Pani Elzen, who declared that she
was growing cold in the shade, and wished to warm herself a trifle in
the sun.

"Let us go to your rooms, and do you get a wrap," said Svirski, rising.

They set out for the upper terrace, but halfway on the steps she stopped
all at once and said,--

"You are dissatisfied with me. In what have I offended; have I not done
what was proper?"

Svirski, whose discontent had calmed somewhat on the way, and who was
touched by her alarm, said,--

"Pardon an old original; I beg you to do so."

Pani Elzen wanted absolutely to find out what had made him gloomy, but
in no way could she get an answer. Then, half jesting, half sad, she
fell to complaining of artists. How unendurable, how strange they are,
men whom any little thing offends, any little thing pains; they shut
themselves up at once in themselves and then run to their lonely
studios! To-day, for instance, she had noted three times, she said, how
the artist was in him. That was bad! Let this wicked artist as
punishment stay for dinner, then stay till evening.

But Svirski declared that he must return to his studio; then he confided
to her his anxieties of an artist, his trouble in finding a model for
"Sleep and Death," and finally the hope which he connected with that
picture.

"I see from all this," answered the young widow, smiling, "that I shall
have one terrible, permanent rival, art."

"That is not a rival," answered Svirski; "it is a divinity which you
will serve in my company."

At this the symmetrical brows of the beautiful lady frowned for an
instant; but meanwhile they reached the hotel. That day Svirski became
convinced that Paradise would open to him only by marriage. And on the
train he was thankful to Pani Elzen for that conviction.

CHAPTER IV.

Pani Elzen, before beginning her toilet for dinner, summoned Kresovich
so as to pay him. She summoned him with a certain curiosity in her soul
as to what their parting would be. During life, she had seen so many
people fashioned, as it were, by a single cutter on one common pattern,
that this young original had held her attention for some time; and now,
when he was to leave in a little while, and take a broken heart with
him, he occupied her still more. She felt sure that his passion would
betray itself in some way, and she had even a slightly concealed wish
that it should betray itself, promising, not altogether sincerely, that
she would restrain it by one look or one word, should it dream of
surpassing a certain measure.

Kresovich, however, came in cool, with a face rather ominous than
loving. Pani Elzen, when she looked at him, thought that Svirski, as an
artist, could not help noting that head, for there was in it something
quite exceptional. Those features were as if of iron,--features in which
will surpassed intelligence, giving them an expression which to a
certain degree was dull, but also implacable. Svirski had divined long
before that Kresovich was one of those men who, once seized by a given
idea, have a faith which no breath of doubt can ever dim. Doubt never
undermines the capacity for action in men like him, for the reason that
a persistent and powerful character is joined to a certain narrowness
of thought. Fanaticism flourishes on this soil alone. Pani Elzen, in
spite of her society understanding, was too frivolous to grasp this.
Kresovich would have attracted her attention only had he been an
exceptionally handsome fellow; but since he was not, she met the man the
first time she saw him as she would a thing; and it was only Svirski's
unconscious teaching which brought her to turn attention to the student.
At present she received him politely, and, after paying what she owed,
in a voice cold, it is true, and indifferent as usual, but with words
which were very polite, expressed sorrow that her intended departure
from Monte Carlo, soon to take place, was a hindrance to further
relations between them. Kresovich, putting the money into his pocket
mechanically, answered,--

"I informed you yesterday that I could teach Romulus and Remus no
longer."

"It is just that which pleases me," answered she, raising her head.

Evidently she wished, at least at first, to keep the conversation in a
ceremonial tone, and impose that tone on Kresovich. But it was enough to
look at him to see that he had the unbending determination to say all
that he had resolved in his mind to say.

"You have paid me in genuine money," said he; "do not then give me
counterfeit coin for the road."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean this," said he, with emphasis; "that you do not part with me
because of your journey, nor have I thanked you for the service. There
is another cause, and what that is you know as well as I do."

"If I know, perhaps I do not wish to hear of it, nor to mention it,"
answered Pani Elzen, haughtily.

He approached one step toward her, putting his hands behind him, and
rearing his head almost threateningly.

"But it is unavoidable," said he: "first, because in a moment I shall go
away, and, second, for other reasons too, of which you will know
to-morrow."

Pani Elzen rose with frowning brow and somewhat with the theatrical
posture of an offended queen.

"What does this mean?"

He drew still nearer, so that his mouth was barely a few inches from her
face, and began to speak with concentrated energy.

"This means that I ought to have hated you and all your circle; but I
have fallen in love with you. This means that for your sake I have
degraded myself in my own conscience; for this cause I shall mete out my
own punishment to myself. But precisely for this reason I have nothing
to lose, and you must pay me for my iniquity, otherwise there will be a
catastrophe!"

Pani Elzen was not frightened, for in general she had no fear of men.
She did not fear Kresovich's consumption either, since the local
physician had quieted her perfectly on that point. Her astonishment
alone was real; anger and fear were merely apparent. Amazement sprang up
in her heart at once, "But he is a bird of prey, ready to tear me to
pieces." For her nature, wrapped up as it was in corruption and fond of
novelty, every adventure, especially when it flattered her female
vanity, had an unspeakable charm. For this cause her moral sense was
astonished at nothing. If Kresovich had implored her for one moment of
delight, for the right to kiss the hem of her garment with humility, and
on his knees, she would have given command to throw him out of doors.
But this man, terrible, almost wild, this representative of a sect of
whose tremendous energy fabulous tales were related in her social
circle, seemed demonic, so different from all men whom she had seen up
to that time that she was seized with ecstasy. Her nerves were greedy of
novelty. She thought, too, that in case of resistance, the adventure
might take on proportions altogether unforeseen, and turn into a
scandal; for that lunatic was really ready for anything.

But Kresovich continued, covering her face with his burning breath,--

"I love, and I have nothing to lose. I have lost health, I have
destroyed my future, and have demeaned myself!--I have nothing to lose!
Do you understand? To me it is all one whether at your call ten men run
in here or a hundred; for you it is not all one! Afterward I shall go;
and the secret will be lost--I swear!"

Pani Elzen cared only for preserving appearances, which the hypocritical
woman always tries to preserve and to deceive herself.

Turning her eyes, filled with feigned terror, to his face, which was
really like the face of a madman, she asked,--

"Do you want to kill me?"

"I want pay--not in money!" answered he, in a stifled voice. Then
growing paler yet, he seized her in his arms; and she began to defend
herself. But she did so like a fainting woman whom terror deprives of
strength and consciousness.

CHAPTER V.

Svirski, on arriving at Villa Franca, got out and went to the harbor;
for it occurred to him that he might return to Nice by boat. He found,
just at the edge of the harbor, a fisherman, an old acquaintance, who,
pleased at the sight of a liberal customer, undertook with usual
Ligurian boastfulness to take him "even to Corsica though the Sirocco
were to turn the sea bottom upward."

But the question was only of a short trip, all the easier because there
was not the slightest breeze. Svirski took his place at the stern, and
they moved over the smooth sea. After a time, when they had passed the
luxurious private yachts, they approached ironclads, whose calm, black
immensities were outlined firmly and distinctly in the afternoon
sunlight. The deck of the "Formidable" was garlanded already with lamps
of various colors, for the ball of the following evening, to which
Svirski was to receive an invitation. At the bulwarks were sailors, who,
seen from below, looked like pygmies when compared with the ship. The
iron walls of the vessel, the smoke-stacks, the masts, the rigging, were
reflected in the transparent water as in a mirror. From time to time
among the ironclads pushed a boat, which from a distance seemed a black
beetle, moving its row of legs symmetrically. Beyond the vessels began
empty space, in which the sea surface, as is usual when anything leaves
the harbor, rose and fell, though there was no wind, now raising, now
letting down Svirski's boat, with a movement at once broad and
agreeable. Soon they were approaching lofty cliffs, on the right side of
the harbor, along which extended a gray, dusty road; lower down was a
parade-ground, where soldiers were practising on trumpets. At last,
when they had turned the promontory, against which waves were rolling,
they sailed into deep water.

Beyond the harbor there is always some breeze, therefore the fisherman
hoisted his sails. Svirski, instead of steering toward Nice, turned to
the open sea.

They went straight ahead, rocked by the swell. The sun was lowering
toward evening. The rocky cliffs and the sea had grown purple;
everything round about was calm, quiet, and so immense that, in spite of
himself, Svirski thought how contemptible and petty life was in view of
those elements which surrounded him at that moment. Suddenly he felt as
if his own affairs, and those of other men, had gone somewhere very far
off. Pani Elzen, Romulus, Remus, and all his acquaintances along the
shore, all that swarm of people filled with fever, unrest, paltry
ambitions, and wretched desires, were belittled in his eyes. As a man
accustomed to analyze what happens within him, he was frightened at that
impression; for he considered that if he loved Pani Elzen really, her
portrait would not be covered by anything, would not be dimmed, would
not be decreased, would not disappear. Such had been the case with him
formerly. Svirski remembered that when a woman whom he loved got
married, he went on a journey. At that time he learned first to know
Italy, Rome, Sicily, and the sea, and the coast of Africa; and no
impression dimmed in his mind the memory of the beloved woman. In the
galleries of Florence and Rome, on the sea and in the desert, she was
with him; through her he received every impression, and everywhere he
said to her, as if present, "Look at this!" The difference between those
distant years and to-day filled him with sadness.

But the calm of the sea acted on him in a manner that was healing. They
had sailed out so far that the shores began to be concealed. Then the
sun went down; one star twinkled, and then another. The dolphins, which
in the evening twilight passed before the boat with the motion of waves,
disturbing the calm surface with their sharp backs, sank in the depth,
and from no point came an echo. The surface of the water had grown so
smooth that at moments the sails became limp. Finally, the moon rose
from beyond the mountains, pouring a greenish light over the sea and
illuminating it far off to the limit of the horizon.

A southern night began, as mild as it was silent. Svirski sheltered
himself in the coat lent him by the fisherman, and meditated: "All that
surrounds me is not only beauty, but truth as well. The life of man, if
it is to be normal, should be ingrafted on the trunk of nature, grow out
of it, as a branch grows out of a tree, and exist in virtue of those
same laws. Then it will be truthful and besides moral, for morality is
at bottom nothing else than the agreement of life with the universal law
of nature. For instance, simplicity and calm surrounds me; I understand
this, and I feel it is as an artist; but I haven't it in myself as a
man, for my life, and the life of these people among whom I live, has
departed from nature, it has ceased to fit itself to that law, to be its
result, and has made itself a lie. Everything in us is artificial, even
the feeling of natural laws has perished in us. Our relations are
founded on falsehood. Our senses are crooked; our souls and our impulses
sick. We deceive one another and even ourselves, till at last no man is
sure that he wishes really that toward which he is striving, or that he
will strive toward that which he wishes."

And there, in presence of that night, of that infinity of the sea, of
the stars, of all nature, of its calmness, its simplicity, its
immensity, he was seized by a feeling of the gigantic falsehood of the
relations between men. False seemed to him his love for Pani Elzen;
false her relation to him, to her children, to other men, to society;
false the life on that bright shore; false their present and false their
future. "I am encircled, as if by a net," thought he; "and I know not
how to tear myself out of it." And indeed that was true. For if all life
is a falsehood, what is to be done in face of that fact? Return to
nature? Begin some sort of life half savage, half peasant? Break with
people and become a reformer right away? Svirski felt too old for this,
and too sceptical. For such a course one needs to have the dogmatism of
Kresovich, and to feel evil as a spur to battle and reform, not as a
mere impression which may grow faint to-morrow! But another thought came
to Svirski's mind as a recompense. The man who does not feel in himself
power to reform the world, may flee from it, for a time, at least, and
draw breath. For instance, he could go to Marseilles the next day, and a
couple of days later somewhere else, out on the open ocean, hundreds of
miles from the shore, from sickly life, from lies and deceptions. In
this way all would be settled immediately, or rather cut off as if with
a knife.

And in one moment he was seized by such a desire to turn that idea into
action that he gave command to return to Nice.

"The wild beast, which feels itself in a net," thought he, "tries first
of all to get out. That is its first right--and just that is in accord
with nature, hence it is moral. The net around me is not Pani Elzen
alone, but all things taken together. I feel perfectly that in marrying
her I shall marry a life of lies. That might happen even without her
fault, and through the necessity of things--from such a complication one
is always free to escape."

And now he pictured other scenes to himself,--scenes which he might see
in his flight: broad deserts with water and with sand, unknown lands and
people, the sincerity and truth of their primitive life, and finally the
variety of events, and all the difference between days to come and the
present.

"I ought to have done this long since," said he to himself.

Then a thought entered his mind which could come only to an artist, that
if he should leave his betrothed suddenly and go to Paris, for example,
the act would belong to "vile literature;" but should he shoot off
beyond the equator, to the land where pepper grows, the fact of leaving
her would be diminished in view of the distance, the affair would make
another impression, would appear more original, and, for that very
reason, in better taste.

"But I," thought he, "will go devilish far!"

Meanwhile from a distance Nice rose before him in the form of a bundle
of lights. In the middle of that bundle was the building called "Jetée
Promenade," which gleamed in the form of a gigantic lighthouse. As the
boat, urged by a strong breeze, approached the harbor, every one of
those lights changed, as it were, into a pillar of fire, which quivered
on the moving water near the shore. The sight of these gleams sobered
Svirski.

"The city!--and life!" thought he.

And at once his former plans began to fall apart like dream-visions born
of night and emptiness. That which a moment earlier he thought
justifiable, necessary, and easy of accomplishment, seemed a whim devoid
of the essence of reality, and in part dishonest. "With life, whatever
it be, one must reckon. Whoso has lived under its laws the years that I
have, must feel responsible to it. It is no great thing to say to one's
self: I used them as long as they were pleasant, but the moment they
were painful I went back to nature."

Then he fell to thinking more connectedly, not of general theories, but
of Pani Elzen.

"By what right could I leave her? If her life has been artificial and
false, if her past is not clear, I, who knew that, might have refrained
from proposing. At present I could have the right to break with her only
in case I discovered in her evil which she concealed, or if she
committed some fault touching me. But she has committed no fault of that
sort. She has been honest and sincere with me. Besides, there is
something in her which attracts me; if not, I should not have proposed.
At moments I feel that I love her; and because doubt comes at times on
me, must she be the sufferer? My flight would in every case be an
injustice to the woman, and who knows that it would not be a blow."

He understood now, that to think of flight and permit it are, for a
decent man, two opposite poles. He could only think of it. He could
appear before the eyes of Pani Elzen more easily, and ask her to return
his word to him; but to flee from danger was a thing directly opposed to
his personal nature and the character of his stock, which was thoroughly
civilized. Besides, at the very thought of doing injustice to a woman,
the heart quivered in him; and Pani Elzen grew nearer and dearer to him.

They had sailed almost into the harbor; and a moment later the boat
arrived. Svirski paid, and taking a seat in a carriage, gave directions
to drive to his studio. On the street, amid the glare of lamps, the
noise and the movement, he was carried away again by a yearning for that
quiet, that endless spread of water, that calmness, that boundless truth
of God, from which he had parted a moment before. At last, when he was
near the studio, the following idea came to his head: "It is a
marvellous thing that I, who feared women so much, and was so
distrustful of them, have in the end of ends chosen one capable of
rousing more fear than all the others."

There was in that a certain fatality, as it were; and Svirski would have
found beyond doubt in that concourse of things material for meditation
during a whole evening, had it not been that as he entered the servant
gave him two letters. In one, was an invitation to the ball of the
following day on board the "Formidable," the other was from Pani Lageat,
the owner of the house.

She informed him of her departure in a couple of days for Marseilles,
and at the same time told him that she had found a model who ought to
satisfy his most extravagant taste, and who would come the next morning.

CHAPTER VI.

The promised miracle came on the following morning at nine. Svirski was
dressed and waiting with impatience and nervousness; happily his fears
proved unfounded. The first glance satisfied him. The model was tall,
slender, very graceful; she had a small head, a delicate face, a
beautiful structure of forehead, long eyelashes, and great freshness of
complexion. But, beyond all, Svirski was charmed by this, that she had
"her own" style of face, and in her expression there was something
girl-like. "She has noble movements," thought he; "and if she is formed
as she seems, then 'Eureka!' I will engage her for a long time, and take
her with me."

He was struck also by her timidity and a look, as it were, of fright. He
knew, it is true, that models sometimes feign timidity. He admitted,
however, that this one did not.

"What is thy name, my child?" asked he.

"Maria Cervi."

"Art thou from Nice?"

"From Nice."

"Hast ever been a model?"

"No, sir."

"Trained models know what is needed; with new ones there is trouble.
Thou hast never been a model in thy life?"

"No, sir."

"How didst thou get the wish to be a model?"

She hesitated, and blushed somewhat.

"Pani Lageat told me that I should be able to earn something."

"True, but evidently thou art afraid. What dost thou fear? I will not
eat thee! How much dost thou ask for a sitting?"

"Pani Lageat told me that you would pay five francs."

"Pani Lageat was mistaken. I pay ten."

Joy gleamed in the girl's face, and her cheeks grew still redder.

"When must I begin?" asked she, with a somewhat trembling voice.

"To-day, immediately," answered Svirski, pointing to the picture already
begun. "There is the screen; go behind, undress to the waist only. Thou
wilt sit for the head, the bosom, and a part of the stomach."

She turned to him an astonished face; her hands dropped slowly along her
dress.

"How is that, sir?" asked she, looking at him with terrified eyes.

"My child," answered the artist, a little impatiently, "I understand
that it may be difficult the first time. But either thou art a model, or
thou art not. I need the head, the bosom, and a part of the stomach; I
need these absolutely; dost thou understand? And be sure, at the same
time, that there is nothing bad in me; but, first of all, think it
over--and quickly; for, if thou art not willing, I shall look for
another."

He spoke as a man somewhat vexed; for in his mind the point was that
just she should be the model, and that he should not have to look for
another. Meanwhile silence came. The model grew pale very evidently;
still, after a while, she went behind the screen.

Svirski fell to pushing the easel toward the window, with a noise,
thinking, meanwhile,--

"She will gain the habit, and in a week will laugh at her scruples."

Next, he arranged the sofa on which the model was to lie, took his
brush, and began to grow impatient.

"Well, how is it? Art thou ready?"

Silence.

"Well, make up thy mind. What jokes are these?"

Just then from behind the screen came a trembling, imploring voice, with
the prayer,--

"I have thought it over, sir. In our house there is poverty; but
still--I--cannot! If you would be kind and take the head--for three
francs, or even for two--if you would have the kindness."

And these words came with sobbing. Svirski turned toward the screen,
dropped his brush, and opened his mouth. Unparalleled astonishment
seized him, for the model was speaking in his own native tongue.

"Is the lady a Pole?" asked he at last, forgetting that a moment before
he had said _thou_ to her.

"Yes, sir. That is, my father was an Italian, but my grandfather is a
Pole."

A moment of silence ensued. Svirski recovered, and said,--

"Arrange your dress; I will take only your head."

But evidently she had not begun to undress, for she came from behind the
screen at once, confused, full of fear yet, and with traces of tears on
her cheeks.

"I thank you," said she. "You are--I beg your pardon; but--"

"Be at rest," said Svirski. "Here is the chair; have no fear. You will
pose for your head; I had no wish to offend you. You see that picture. I
wanted a model for this figure here. But since it is so painful to you,
the question is changed, especially as you are a Pole."

Tears began to flow over her cheeks again; but she looked at him through
her blue eyes with gratitude; he found a bottle of wine, poured out half
a glass, and, giving it to her, said,--

"Drink this. I have biscuits here somewhere, but deuce knows where they
are. I ask you to drink. There, it is all right. Your hand trembles; but
there is no danger here--I beg you to be calm."

And saying this he looked at her with the sympathy of his honest eyes,
and said after a while,--

"Poor child!"

Then he stepped aside, and put the easel in its old place, saying while
he did so,--

"There is no posing to-day. You are too much excited. To-morrow, we will
begin work early; to-day, we will talk a little. Who could guess that
Maria Cervi was a Pole! Your grandfather is a Pole then, is he not? Is
he alive?"

"Yes; but he has not walked for the last two years."

"What is his name?"

"Orysevich," answered she, speaking somewhat with a foreign accent.

"I know that name. Has he been long in this country?"

"Grandfather has been sixty-five years out of Poland. First, he was in
the Italian army, and then in the bank of Nice."

"How old is he?"

"Nearly ninety."

"Your father's name was Cervi?"

"Yes. My father was from Nice; but he served also in the Italian army."

"Then he is dead?"

"Five years."

"And your mother is alive?"

"She is. We live together in Old Nice."

"Very well. But now one more question. Does your mother know that you
want to become a model?"

To this the girl answered in a hesitating voice, "No, mamma does not
know. Pani Lageat told me that in this way I could earn five francs a
day; and as there is poverty in our house,--very great poverty,--I had
no other way."

Svirski took in the girl from head to foot with quick glance, and
understood that he was listening to truth. Everything testified to
poverty,--her hat, her dress, which was so worn, or rather consumed by
age, that every thread in it was visible, her gloves, darned and faded.

"Go home now," said he, "and tell your mother that there is an artist
named Svirski who wishes you to sit to him as a model for the head. Say
also that this artist will come, at recommendation of Pani Lageat, to
ask you to sit with your mother in his studio, for which he offers you
ten francs a day."

Panna Cervi began to thank him, without knowing how to find speech,
weeping and confusing her words, with a voice full both of tears and
delight. He saw what was happening within her, and said,--

"Very well. I shall come in an hour. You seem to me a very honest girl.
Have confidence in me. I am something of a bear, but I understand more
things than one. We shall arrange this affair, and the trouble will
pass. Ah! yes, one point more. I do not wish to give you money at once,
for you would have to explain the matter; but in an hour I will bring
all that is needed on account. I too had troubles formerly, and know
what prompt aid means. You have nothing to give thanks for, a trifle!
Till we meet again--in an hour."

So, after he had asked again for her address, he conducted the girl to
the steps; and, when an hour had passed, he took his seat in a carriage
and gave directions to drive to Old Nice.

All that had happened seemed to him so peculiar that he could think of
nothing else. He felt too the delight which every honest man feels when
he has acted as he ought, and when he may become a providence to some
person.

"If that is not an honest and a good girl," thought he of Panna Cervi,
"I am the dullest mule in Liguria."

But he did not admit that anything similar could happen. On the
contrary, he felt that he had struck a very honest woman's soul, and at
the same time he was delighted that that soul was enclosed in such a
young and beautiful body.

The carriage stopped at last in front of an old and battered house near
the harbor. The woman at the gate pointed contemptuously enough to Pani
Cervi's apartments.

"Poverty indeed!" thought the artist, as he went up the sloping steps.
After a while he knocked at the door.

"Come in!" answered a voice.

Svirski entered. A woman about forty years of age received him; she was
dressed in black; a brunette, sad, thin, evidently broken by life: but
she had nothing common about her. At her side stood Panna Maria.

"I know all, and I thank you from my soul and heart!" said Pani Cervi;
"may God reward and bless you."

Thus speaking, she caught his hand and bent her head as if to kiss it;
but he withdrew the hand quickly; anxious to drive away ceremony at the
earliest, and break the ice of first acquaintance, he turned to Panna
Maria, and, shaking his finger at her, said, with the freedom of an old
acquaintance,--

"Ah, this little girl has let out the secret!"

Panna Maria smiled at him in answer, a little sadly, a little perplexed.
She seemed to him fair, more beautiful than in the studio. He noticed
also that she had around her neck a narrow, lily-colored ribbon which
she had not worn before; and this touched him still more as a proof that
evidently she did not consider him an old grandfather, since she had
dressed for him. Then Pani Cervi said,--

"Yes, Maria told everything. God watched over her, and over us, so that
she met such a man as you."

"Panna Maria told me of the difficult circumstances in which you are
living," answered Svirski; "but, believe me, that even in those
circumstances it is happiness to have such a daughter."

"Yes," said Pani Cervi, calmly.

"Meanwhile I owe gratitude to you; for I was looking, and looking in
vain, till at last a head fell from heaven to me. Now I am sure of my
picture. I must only make sure that my model does not run away!"

Meanwhile, he drew out three hundred francs and forced Pani Cervi to
take them, assuring her that he would make a great profit, for he would
receive much money, thanks to Panna Maria; and then he declared that he
would like to make the acquaintance of the "grandfather," for he had
always had a weakness for old soldiers.

Hearing this, Panna Maria ran to the adjoining chamber; soon the noise
of a wheeled chair was heard, and the grandfather was rolled into the
room. Evidently the old man had been prepared to receive the guest, for
he was in uniform, with all his orders acquired in Italy. Svirski saw
before him an old man whose face had grown small and wrinkled; his
moustaches and hair were white as milk; his blue eyes opened widely, and
looked something like the eyes of an infant.

"Grandfather," said Maria, bending over him in such fashion that the old
man could see her lips, and speaking not in a loud voice, but slowly and
precisely, "this is Pan Svirski, a fellow-countryman and an artist."

The old man turned his blue eyes toward the visitor, and looked at him
persistently, meanwhile blinking as if summoning his mind.

"A fellow-countryman?" repeated he. "Yes!--a fellow-countryman."

Then he smiled, looked at his daughter, his granddaughter, and again at
Svirski; he sought words for a time, and asked at last, with an aged,
trembling voice,--

"And what will there be in spring?"

Evidently there remained to him some single thought, which had outlived
all the others, but which he had not been able to express. So, after a
while, he leaned his trembling head against the back of the chair, and
began to look at the window, smiling, however, at that thought, and
repeating,--

"Yes, yes! It will be!"

"Grandfather always acts that way," said Maria.

Svirski looked at him for a time with emotion; then Pani Cervi began to
speak of her father and her husband. Both had taken part in the wars
against Austria for Italian independence. They had lived some time in
Florence; and only after the occupation of Rome did they return to Nice,
where Cervi's family originated. There Orysevich gave his daughter to
his young comrade in arms. Both men found places in the bank, thanks to
relatives in Nice. All succeeded well till Cervi was killed in a
railroad accident, a few years before, and Orysevich lost his place
through old age. From that time their trouble began, for the only
capital which the three persons had to support them was sixty lires,
which the Italian government gave the old man. That was enough to keep
them from dying, but not enough to give them life. The two women earned
a little by sewing or teaching; but during summer, when life died away
in Nice, when it was impossible to earn anything, their slender supplies
were swallowed up. Two years before the old soldier had lost the use of
his legs altogether; he was frequently sick, and had to be cared for;
through this their condition grew worse and worse.

Svirski, while listening to this narrative, made note of two things.
First, that Pani Cervi did not speak as good Polish as her daughter.
Evidently the old man, in the years of his campaigning, could not devote
himself to the education of his daughter in the same degree as he had
afterward to the education of his granddaughter. But the second thing
was more important for Svirski. "This granddaughter," thought he, "being
such a beautiful girl, might, especially in Nice, on that shore where
idlers squander millions every year, keep carriages, servants, and have
a drawing-room finished in satin. But she wears a threadbare dress, and
her only ornament is a faded lily-colored ribbon. There must be some
strength which has kept her from evil. For this," said he to himself,
"two things are requisite,--pure nature and honorable traditions; there
is no doubt that I have found both."

And he began to have a pleasant feeling among those people. He noticed
also that poverty had not destroyed in the two women traces of
good-breeding, a certain elegance which comes from within and seems
inborn. Both mother and daughter had received him as a providence; but
in their words and manners one could notice more delight at making the
acquaintance of an honest man, than at the aid which he brought them. It
might be that the three hundred francs which he left with the mother
saved the family from many cares and humiliations, but still he felt
that mother and daughter were more thankful to him because he had acted
in the studio like a man of true and tender heart, who understood the
girl's pain, her modesty, and sacrifice. But to him the greatest
pleasure came from noting that in Panna Maria's timidity, and in her
charming glances, there was an anxiety which a young girl might
experience before a man to whom she feels obliged with her whole soul,
but who at the same time, according to Svirski's expression, "is not out
of the current yet." He was forty-five years of age, but, in spite of a
young heart, he began at moments to doubt himself, so that the
lily-colored ribbon and this observation caused him real pleasure.
Finally, he talked to them with the same respect and attention as with
women of the best society, and, seeing that he entertained them more and
more by this means, he felt satisfied. At parting, he pressed the hands
of both; and when Panna Maria returned the pressure, with drooping
eyelashes, but with all the strength of her warm young hand, he went out
a little dazed, and with a head so full of the fair model that the
driver of the carriage in which he took a seat had to ask him twice
where he wished to go.

On the road he thought that it would not do to put the head of "Panna
Maria" on a body naked to the waist, and he began to persuade himself
that even for the picture it would be better to cast some light drapery
over the bosom of the sleeping maiden.

"When I get back, I will bring in the first model I find, and work the
picture over, so that to-morrow the thing will be ready," said he to
himself.

Then it occurred to him that still he would not be able to hire such a
model as Panna Cervi permanently and take her with him; at this thought
he was sorry.

Meanwhile the carriage stopped at the studio. Svirski paid, and stepped
out.

"A despatch for you," said the concierge.

The artist was roused as if from sleep.

"Ah! Very well, give it here!" And taking the despatch, he opened it
impatiently.

But he had scarcely cast his eyes on it, when astonishment and terror
were reflected on his face, for the telegram was as follows:--

     Kresovich shot himself an hour ago. Come.

                                              HELENA.

CHAPTER VII.

Pani Elzen met Svirski with a troubled and excited face; her eyes were
dry, but reddened, as if from fever, and full of impatience.

"Have you received no letter?" inquired she, hurriedly.

"No. I have received nothing but your telegram. What a misfortune!"

"I thought that perhaps he had written to you."

"No. When did it happen?"

"This morning a shot was heard in his chamber. A servant ran in and
found him lifeless."

"Was it here in the hotel?"

"No. Fortunately he moved to Condamine yesterday."

"What was the cause?"

"How am I to know?" answered she, impatiently.

"So far as I have heard he was not given to play."

"No. They found money on his person."

"You relieved him of his duties yesterday?"

"Yes; but at his own request."

"Did he take the dismissal to heart?"

"I cannot tell," answered she, feverishly. "If he had wished, he might
have gone sooner. But he was a madman, and this explains everything. Why
did he not go sooner?"

Svirski looked at her very attentively.

"Calm yourself," said he.

But she, mistaken as to the meaning of his words, answered,--

"There is so much that for me is disagreeable in this, and there may be
so much trouble. Who knows but I shall have to give some explanation,
some evidence--can I tell what? Oh, a fatal history!--besides there will
be people's gossip. First, Vyadrovski's-- But I wanted to beg you to
tell among acquaintances, that that unfortunate lost at play, that he
lost even some of my money, and that that was the cause of his act.
Should it come to testifying before a court, it would be better not to
say this, for it might be proved untrue; but before people, it is
necessary to talk so. If he had gone even to Mentone, or to Nice!
Besides, God only knows whether he has not written something before his
death purposely to take revenge on me! Only let a letter of that sort
reach the papers after his death! From such persons everything may be
expected. As it was, I wished to leave here; but now I must--"

Svirski looked more and more attentively at her angry face, at her
compressed lips, and said at last,--

"An unheard of thing!"

"Really unheard of! But would it not increase gossip were we to go from
here to-morrow?"

"I do not think it would," said Svirski.

Then he inquired about the hotel in which Kresovich had shot himself,
and declared that he would go there, get information from the servants,
and occupy himself with the dead man.

She tried to stop him with uncommon stubborness; till at last he said,--

"Madame, he is not a dog, but a man; and it is necessary in every case
to bury him."

"Somebody will bury him anyhow," answered she.

But Svirski took leave of her and went out. On the steps of the hotel he
drew his hand across his forehead, then covered his head with his hat
and said,--

"An unheard of thing!"

He knew from experience to what degree human selfishness may go; he knew
also that women in selfishness, as well as in devotion, surpass the
common measure of men; he remembered that during life he had met typical
persons in whom, under an external crust of polish, was hidden an animal
selfishness in which all moral sense ended exactly where personal
interest began; still, Pani Elzen had been able to astonish him.

"Yes," said he to himself, "that unfortunate was the tutor of her
children; he lived under the same roof with her; and he was in love with
her. And she? Not even one word of pity, of sympathy, of interest--
Nothing and nothing! She is angry at him for causing her trouble, for
not having gone farther away, for having spoiled her season, for
exposing her to the possibility of appearing in court and of being
subjected to the gossip of people; but the question of what took place
with that man has not entered her head; or why he killed himself, and if
it were not for her sake. And in her vexation she forgot even this, that
she was betraying herself before me; and if not for her heart's sake,
for her reason's sake, she ought to have appeared before me differently.
But what spiritual barbarism! Appearances, appearances, and under that
French bodice and accent, absence of soul and a primitive African
nature,--a genuine daughter of Ham. Civilization stuck onto the skin,
like powder! And this same woman asks me to report around that he played
away her money. Tfu! May a thunderbolt split her!"

With such thoughts and imprecations he reached Condamine, where he
found easily the little hotel in which the event had taken place. There
was a doctor in Kresovich's room, also an official of the tribunal, who
rejoiced at the artist's arrival, hoping that he would be able to give
some items concerning the dead man.

"The suicide," said the official, "left a letter directing to bury him
in a common ditch so as to send the money on his person to Zürich, to a
given address. Moreover, he has burned all papers, as is shown by traces
in the chimney."

Svirski looked at Kresovich, who was lying on the bed with open,
terrified eyes, and with lips pursed together, as if to whistle.

"The dead man considered himself an incurable," said the artist; "he
mentioned that himself to me, and took his life very likely for that
reason. He never entered the Casino."

Then he told all that he knew concerning Kresovich, and afterward left
the money needed for a separate grave, and went out.

Along the road he recalled what Kresovich had said to him in Nice about
microbes, as well as his answer to Vyadrovski, that he would enroll
himself in the party of the "silent;" and he reached the conviction that
the young student had really occupied himself for a long time with the
project of taking his own life, and that the main cause of his act was
the conviction that he was condemned to death in every case.

But he understood that there might be collateral causes, and among them
his unhappy love for Pani Elzen, and the parting with her. These
thoughts filled him with sadness. The corpse of Kresovich, with lips
fixed as if for whistling, and with the terror before death in his eyes,
did not leave the artist's mind. But he thought that no one would sink
into that terrible night without dread, and that all life, in view of
the inevitableness of death, is one immense, tragic absurdity; and he
returned to Pani Elzen in great depression of spirit.

She drew a deep breath of relief when she learned that Kresovich had
left no papers. She declared that she would send as much money as might
be needed for his funeral; and only then did she speak of him with a
certain regret. She strove in vain, however, to detain Svirski for a
couple of hours. He answered that he was not himself that day, and must
return home.

"Then we shall meet in the evening," said she, giving him her hand at
parting. "I intended even to drop in at Nice and go with you."

"Where?" asked Svirski, with astonishment.

"Have you forgotten? To the 'Formidable.'"

"Ah! Are you going to that ball?"

"If you knew how weighed down I am, especially after such a sad event,
you would weep over me. I am sorry, too, for that poor fellow; but it is
necessary--it is necessary even for this reason, that people should not
make suppositions."

"Is it? Till we meet again!" said Svirski.

And a moment later, while sitting in the train, he said to himself,--

"If I go with you to the 'Formidable,' or any other place, I am a dead
crab!"

CHAPTER VIII.

But next morning, he received Pani Cervi and Panna Maria with a gladder
heart. At sight of the fair, fresh face of the girl even delight seized
him.

Everything had been prepared in the studio; the easel was in its place;
the sofa for the model pushed forward and covered properly. Pani Lageat
had received the strictest command not to admit any one, not even "Queen
Victoria herself," should she come. Svirski now opened and now closed
the curtains which hid the window of the skylight; but while drawing the
cords he looked unceasingly at his charming model.

Meanwhile the ladies removed their hats, and Panna Maria inquired,--

"What must I do now?"

"First of all, it is necessary to let down your hair," said Svirski.

He approached her, and she raised both hands to her head. It was clear
that this confused her somewhat, and seemed strange, but also nice.
Svirski gazed at her confused face, at her drooping eyelashes, at her
form bent backward, at her exquisite outline of hips, and said to
himself that, in that great dust heap of Nice, he had discovered a
genuine double pearl.

The hair fell, after a moment, on her shoulders. Panna Maria shook her
head, wishing to spread her hair, which then covered her completely.

"Corpo Dio!" exclaimed Svirski.

Then came the turn for a more difficult task,--placing the model.

Svirski saw plainly that her heart was beating with more life in the
maiden, that her breast was moving more quickly, that her cheeks were
flushed, that she had to conquer herself and overcome an instinctive
resistance, which she herself could not define, and at the same time she
was yielding with a certain alarm which resembled an unknown delight.

"No! this is no common model," said Svirski to himself; "this is
something else; and I am not looking on her merely as an artist." In
fact, he also felt troubled, and his fingers trembled a little while he
was placing her head on the pillow; but, wishing to save her and himself
from embarrassment, he spoke to her jestingly, feigning temper.

"Lie quietly, in that way! Besides, we must do something for art. Oh,
the position is perfect now! In this way the profile comes out
beautifully on the red background. If you could see it! But that cannot
be. You must not laugh! You must sleep. Now I will paint."

And he began to paint; but while painting he chatted, as his custom was,
told stories, and asked Pani Cervi of past times. He learned from her
that "Maria" had held a good position the year before as reader for a
Polish countess, the daughter of a great manufacturer of Lodz, Atrament
by name; but the position lasted only till the countess learned that
Maria's father and grandfather had served in the Italian army. This was
a great disappointment, for the dream of mother and daughter had been
that Maria should hold such a place with some lady who passed every
winter in Nice; for in that case they would have no need to separate.

The artist was roused in Svirski meanwhile. He wrinkled his brows,
concentrated his mind, looked across the handle of the brush, and
painted persistently. From time to time he laid down the pallet,
approached the model, and, taking her lightly by the temples, corrected
the position of her head. At such movements he bent toward her more
nearly perhaps than was required by the interest of art; and, when the
warmth from her youthful body struck him, when he looked at her long
eyelashes and her lips slightly parted, a quiver went through his
bones, his fingers began to tremble nervously, and in spirit he called
to himself,--

"Hold up, old man! What the deuce is this? hold up!"

She simply pleased him with his whole soul. Her confusion, her blushes,
her timid glances, which still were not devoid of maiden coquettishness,
made him happy beyond expression. All this proved to Svirski that she
did not look on him as too old. He felt that he pleased her also. The
grandfather in his time must have told her wonderful things about his
countrymen; he had roused her imagination, perhaps; and now at last one
of them had come in her way--not some common man, but one honorable and
famous, who, besides, had appeared as in a fairy tale, at the moment of
direst need, with assistance and an honest heart. How could she help
feeling sympathy for him and looking at him with interest and gratitude?

All this caused the time to pass for Svirski till midday in such a
manner that he did not even notice it. But at midday Panna Maria was the
first to declare that she must return, for her grandfather was alone,
and it was time to think of lunch for him. Svirski then begged the
ladies to come in the afternoon. If they could not leave the old man
alone, perhaps they had an acquaintance who would consent to stay with
him for two hours. Maybe the gatekeeper, or her husband, or some one
else of the family would do so? It was a question of the picture. Two
sittings a day would be an excellent thing! After that there might be
some new work; meanwhile, two sittings a day would be useful for both
sides. If there should be expense in finding some one to care for the
old man, he, Svirski, would consider it a favor if he were permitted to
bear it, for first of all he was anxious about the picture.

Two sittings were really too profitable to be refused by Pani Cervi in
view of poverty at home. It was agreed, therefore, that they would come
at two in the afternoon. Meanwhile the fortunate Svirski resolved to
conduct them home. At the gate they were met by his hostess, who gave
Svirski a bunch of moss roses, saying that they were brought by two
handsome boys attended by a wonderfully dressed servant. The boys wanted
absolutely to enter the studio; but she, remembering his command, did
not permit them.

Svirski answered that she had done well, then, taking the roses, he gave
them all to Panna Maria. After a while they were on the Promenade des
Anglais. To Svirski, Nice seemed beautiful and animated in a way that he
had never seen before. The variety and bustle on the "Promenade," which
had angered him at other times, began now to amuse him. On the way he
saw Vyadrovski and De Sinten, who halted at sight of him. Svirski bowed
and went on, but in passing he noted how De Sinten put a monocle to his
eye to look at Panna Cervi, and heard his "Prristi!"[15] full of
astonishment. Both even followed them awhile, but opposite the "Jetée
Promenade" Svirski called a carriage and took the ladies home.

[15] For the French _Sapristi_.

On the way, he was seized by a desire to invite the whole family to
lunch; but he thought that there would be trouble with the old man, and
that, in view of their short acquaintance, Pani Cervi might be surprised
at such a sudden invitation. But he promised himself that when the
grandfather had some person to care for him he would, under pretext of
saving time, arrange a lunch in the studio. Taking leave of the mother
and daughter at the gate, he hurried into the first hotel he found and
ordered lunch. He swallowed a few kinds of food, without knowing
himself what he was, eating. Pani Elzen, Romulus, and Remus, with the
moss roses, shot through his mind repeatedly, but in a way which was
really ghost-like. A few days before the beautiful widow and their
relations were questions of prime importance for him, over which he had
tortured his head not a little. He recalled also that internal struggle
through which he had passed on the sea while returning to Villa Franca.
Now he said to himself, "This has ceased to exist for me, and I will not
think again of it." So he felt not the least alarm, not the least
compunction. On the contrary, it seemed to him that a kind of oppressive
burden had dropped from his shoulders, and all his thoughts ran to Panna
Cervi. His eyes and his head were full of her; by the power of
imagination he saw her again, with dishevelled hair and closed eyelids;
and when he thought that in an hour he would touch her temples with his
fingers, that he would bend over her again and feel the warmth radiating
from her, he felt elated, as if by wine, and for the second time asked
himself,--

"Hei, old man, what is happening thee?"

When he reached home, he found a telegram from Pani Elzen, "I expect you
to dinner at six." Svirski crushed the paper and put it in his pocket;
when Pani Cervi and her daughter arrived, he had forgotten it
altogether, so that when his work was done at five he began to think
where to dine, and was angry that he had nothing to do with himself that
evening.

CHAPTER IX.

Next day when Pani Lageat brought a lunch for three persons to the
studio, she stated that an hour before the same two handsome boys had
come, this time, however, not with a strangely dressed servant, but with
a youthful and beautiful lady.

"The lady wanted absolutely to see you; but I told her that you had gone
to Antibes."

"To Toulon! to Toulon!" cried the artist, joyously.

Next morning there was no one to whom Pani Lageat could give that
answer, for only a letter came. Svirski did not read it. That day it
happened that while trying to correct Panna Cervi's "position," he put
his hand under her shoulder, and raised her so that their bosoms almost
met, and her breath struck his face. Meanwhile her face changed from
emotion, and he said to himself that if such a moment lasted longer, it
would be worth while to give life for it.

That evening he talked to himself as follows: "The senses are playing in
thee, but not as at other times; now thy soul rushes forth after them,
and rushes forth because this is a child who in this 'pudridero' of Nice
has remained as pure as a tear. This is not even her merit, but her
nature; where could such another be found? This time I am not deceiving
myself, and I am not talking anything into myself, for reality is
speaking."

And it seemed to him that a sweet dream was taking hold of him.
Unfortunately, after sleep comes waking. To Svirski, it came two days
later in the form of one more telegram, which, shoved in through an
opening in the door intended for letters and newspapers, fell on the
floor in presence of both women.

Panna Maria, while preparing to let down her hair, saw the telegram
first, and, raising the envelope, handed it to Svirski.

He opened it unwillingly, looked; and confusion was evident on his face.

"Pardon me, ladies," said he, after a while. "I have received such news
that I must go at once."

"I hope at least that it is nothing bad," said Panna Maria, with alarm.

"No, no! But perhaps I shall not be able to return to the afternoon
sitting. In every case work is over for to-day; but to-morrow I shall be
calm."

Then he took leave of them somewhat feverishly, but with exceeding
cordiality, and next moment he was in a carriage which, at his command,
was to go straight to Monte Carlo.

When he had passed the "Jetée Promenade," he took out the telegram and
read it again. It was as follows:--

     I expect you this afternoon; if you do not come by the four
     o'clock train, I shall know what to think, and how to act.

     MORPHINE.

Svirski was simply frightened at the signature, especially as he was
under the recent impression of the event with Kresovich. "Who knows,"
said he in his mind, "to what a woman may be brought, not by genuine
love, but by wounded vanity? I should not have acted as I have. It was
easy to answer her first letter--and break with her. It is not proper to
trifle with any one, whether good or bad. At present I must break with
her decisively; but I must go without waiting for the four o'clock
train."

And he urged on the driver. At moments he strengthened himself with the
hope that Pani Elzen would not, in any case, attempt her own life. That
seemed utterly unlike her. But at moments he was possessed by doubt. If
that monstrous egotism of hers is turned into a feeling of offence,
would it not urge her to some insane act?

He remembered that there was a certain stubbornness in her character, a
certain decision, and no little courage. Regard for her children, it is
true, ought to restrain her; but did she really care for those children?
And at thought of what might happen, the hair rose on his head.
Conscience moved in him again, and a profound internal struggle began.
The picture of Panna Cervi passed before his eyes every moment, rousing
bitter and immense regret. He repeated to himself, it is true, that he
was going to break with Pani Elzen; that he would break with her
decisively; at the bottom of his soul, however, he felt a great fear.
What would happen if that woman, vain and malicious, as well as
determined, should say to him, "Thee, or morphine"? And meanwhile, with
the alarm and uncertainty, there was born in his mind a disgust; for it
seemed to him that the question could be put that way only by some
counterfeit heroine belonging to "vile literature." But still what would
happen if she should put it so? In society, especially in the society of
Nice, there are many women who belong to "vile literature."

In the midst of these thoughts, and in a cloud of gray dust, he arrived
finally at Monte Carlo, and ordered the driver to stop in front of the
Hôtel de Paris. But before he had time to alight he descried Romulus and
Remus on the turf with netted clubs in their hands; throwing up balls
under the care of a Cossack whom Pani Lageat had called the strangely
dressed servant. They, when they saw him, ran up.

"Good-day, sir!"

"Good-day."

"Good-day! Is mamma upstairs?"

"No. Mamma has gone bicycling with M. de Sinten."

Silence followed.

"Ah! mamma has gone bicycling with De Sinten?" repeated Svirski. "Well!"

And after a while he added,--

"True! she expected me only at four o'clock."

Then he began to laugh.

"The tragedy ends in a farce. But this, however, is the Riviera! Still
what an ass I am!"

"Will you wait for mamma?" asked Romulus.

"No. Listen, my boys. Tell your mamma that I came to say good-bye to
her, and that I am sorry not to find her, because I am going on a
journey to-day."

Then he gave directions to return to Nice. That evening he received one
telegram more, in which there was the single word, "Scoundrel!"

After reading it he fell into excellent humor, for the telegram was not
signed this time, "Morphine."

CHAPTER X.

Two weeks later the picture "Sleep and Death" was finished. Svirski
began another which he intended to call "Euterpe." But his work did not
advance. He said that the light was too sharp; and for whole sittings,
instead of painting, he was looking at the bright face of Panna Cervi.
He seemed to be seeking the proper expression for Euterpe. He gazed so
persistently that the lady grew red under the influence of his eyes; he
felt in his breast an increasing disquiet. At last, on a certain
morning, he said suddenly, in a kind of strange, altered voice,--

"I notice that you ladies love Italy immensely."

"We and grandfather," answered Panna Cervi.

"I, too. Half my life passes in Rome and in Florence. There the light is
not so sharp at present, and it would be possible to paint whole days.
Oh, yes! Who could help loving Italy! And do you know what I think
sometimes?"

Panna Maria lowered her head, and, opening her lips somewhat, began to
look at him carefully, as she always did when listening to him.

"I think that every man has two fatherlands: one his own, the nearer,
and the other Italy. Only think, all culture, all art, all science,
everything came from there. Let us take, for instance, the
Renaissance.... Really, all are, if not the children, at least the
grandchildren of Italy."

"True," answered Panna Maria.

"I do not know whether I mentioned that I have a studio in the Via
Margutta in Rome, and that when the light becomes too sharp in this
studio I am yearning for that one. Here it is--if we should all go to
Rome--that would be perfect! Afterward we could go to Warsaw."

"There is no way to carry out that plan," answered Panna Maria, with a
sad smile.

But he approached her quickly, and, taking her two hands, began to
speak, looking at her with the greatest tenderness in his eyes.

"There is a way, dear lady, there is a way! Do you not divine it?"

And when she grew pale from happiness, he pressed both her palms to his
breast, and added,--

"Give me thyself and thine--"

THAT THIRD WOMAN.

CHAPTER I.

The rent for that studio in which Antek Svyatetski and I lived and
painted, was unpaid, first, because we had about five rubles joint
capital, and, second, because we felt a sincere repugnance to paying
house-rent.

People call us artists squanderers; as for me, I would rather drink away
my money than waste it in paying a house-owner.

Our house-owner was not a bad fellow though, and, moreover, we found
means of defence against him.

When he came to dun us, which was usually in the morning, Antek, who
slept on a straw bed on the floor, and covered himself with a Turkish
curtain used by us as a background for portraits, would rise to a
sitting posture, and say in sepulchral tones,--

"It is well that I see you, for I dreamed that you were dead."

The house-owner, who was superstitious, and dreaded death evidently, was
confused at once and beyond measure. Antek would throw himself back on
the straw bed, stretch his legs, fold his hands across his breast, and
continue,--

"You were just like this; you had white gloves on your hands, the
fingers were too long; on your feet patent-leather boots; for the rest,
you were not changed much."

Then I would add, "Sometimes those dreams come true."

It seems that this "sometimes" brought the man to despair. At last he
would fall into a rage, slam the door after him; and we could hear him
rush downstairs four steps at a time, swearing by what the world stands
on. Still the honest soul did not like to send the house-bailiff to us.
In truth, there was not much to take; and he had calculated that were he
to bring other artists to that studio, and the kitchen adjoining, the
story would be the same, or still worse.

Our sharp method grew dull in time, however. The house-owner became
accustomed to the thought of death. Antek had the idea to finish three
pictures in the style of Würtz, "Death," "Burial," and "Waking from
Lethargy." Naturally our man was to figure in all of them.

Such funereal subjects became a specialty for Antek, who, as he says
himself, paints "corpses big, medium, and small size." This is the
reason, of course, why no one buys his pictures; for, subjects aside, he
has talent. He has sent to the Paris Salon two "corpses," and as I also
sent my "Jews on the Vistula," which in the catalogue of the Salon are
christened "Jews on the Babylon," we were both waiting impatiently for
the decision of the _jury_.

Of course Antek foresaw that the worst would happen, that the _jury_
would be made up of perfect idiots, and even if not made up of idiots, I
am an idiot, he is an idiot, our pictures are idiotic, and reward for
them would be the summit of idiocy!

How much blood that monkey has spoiled in me during the two years that
we have lived in one studio, I cannot tell.

Antek's whole ambition is to pass for a moral "corpse." In company he
poses as a drunkard, which he is not. He will pour down two or three
tiny glasses of vodka, and turn to see if we are looking; if not sure
that we are, he will punch one of us with his elbow frown and say, in
subterranean tones,--

"Yes, how low I have fallen, that far! Is it possible?"

We answer that he is a fool. He falls into a rage then; nothing can
bring him into worse humor than to show disbelief in his moral fall.
Still, he is an honest fellow to the marrow of his bones.

Once he and I went astray in the mountains of Salzkammergut, near Zell
am See. Since night had come it was easy to break one's neck.

"Dost hear," said Antek to me, "thou hast more talent than I, therefore
life is a greater loss to thee. I will go ahead. If I fall, thou wilt
stay on the spot till morning, and in the morning thou canst save
thyself somehow."

"Thou wilt not go ahead; I will go, because I can see better."

"If I don't break my neck to-day," said Antek, "I'll finish in the
canal--it's all one to me."

We fall to disputing. Meanwhile it has become as dark as in a cellar. In
the end of ends we conclude to go at hazard. We advance cautiously.

The place is wide enough at first, but afterward narrower and narrower.
As far as we can see, on the right and left are abysses, probably
bottomless.

The ridge grows still narrower, and, what is more, pieces of stone,
loosened by the wind, fall away from under our feet.

"I will go on my hands and knees; 'tis impossible to go any other way!"
said Antek.

In truth, 'tis impossible to go any other way, so we go on our hands and
knees, advancing like two chimpanzees.

But soon it appears that that too is impossible. The back of the cliff
becomes as narrow as a horse's back. Antek sits astride of it, I also,
and leaning on our hands put down before us we pushed forward with
uncommon damage to our clothing. After a certain time I hear the voice
of my comrade,--

"Vladek?"

"What is it?"

"The ridge has come to an end."

"And what is there beyond?"

"Emptiness--there must be a precipice."

"Take a stone and throw it, we will listen to hear if it is a long time
falling."

In the darkness I hear Antek feeling to find a fragment of crumbling
rock.

"I am throwing," said he, "listen."

I open both ears.

Silence!

"Haven't you heard anything?"

"No!"

"We have ended up nicely! The place must be a hundred fathoms deep."

"Throw once more."

Antek finds a larger stone, throws it.

No sound!

"What does this mean, no bottom, or what?" asked Antek.

"Hard to help it! We will sit here till morning."

We are sitting there. Antek throws a couple of stones more; all in
vain. An hour passes, a second, at last I hear my friend's voice,--

"Vladek, but don't go to sleep--hast a cigarette?"

It appears that I have cigarettes, but we have used up our matches.
Despair! The hour may be one in the morning, or not even so late. Very
fine rain begins to fall. Around us, darkness impenetrable. I come to
the conclusion that people who live in towns or in villages have no idea
of what silence is,--silence like that which surrounds us, silence which
rings in our ears. I almost hear the blood coursing in my veins; I hear
the beating of my own heart perfectly. At first the position interests
me. To sit in the midst of the silent night on the back of a cliff, as
on a horse, and right over a bottomless abyss, that could not be done by
some shopkeeper of the city; but soon the air becomes cold, and, to
crown everything, Antek begins to philosophize,--

"What is life? Life is just swinishness. People talk about art! art! May
I and art be ----. Art is pure monkeying with nature, and meanness
besides. Twice I have seen the Salon. Painters sent in so many pictures
that one might have made canvas beds of them for all the Jews living;
and what were these pictures? The lowest possible pandering to
shopkeepers' tastes, painted for money, or the stuffing of stomachs. A
chaos of art, nothing more! Were that art, I would that paralysis had
struck it; luckily there is no real art upon earth--there is only
nature. Maybe nature is swinishness also. The best would be to jump down
here--and end everything quickly. I would do so if I had vodka; but as I
have no vodka, I will not, for I have made a vow not to die sober."

I was used to this gabbling of Antek's; still, in that silence and
bewilderment, in cold, in darkness, at the edge of a precipice, his
words made even me gloomy. Fortunately he talked himself out and
stopped. He threw a couple of stones more, repeated a couple of times
more, "Not a sound," and then for three hours we were silent.

It seemed to me that daybreak would come before long, when suddenly we
heard a calling and the sound of wings.

It was dark yet, and I could see nothing; I was certain, however, that
eagles were beginning to circle over the precipice. "Kra! kra!" was
heard with greater force above and in the darkness. It astonished me to
hear such a multitude of voices, just as if whole legions of eagles were
passing. But, happen what might, they were heralding daylight.

After a while, I saw my hands resting on the rocky edge; then Antek's
shoulders were outlined in front of me, precisely like a dark object on
a ground somewhat less dark. That ground grew paler each instant. Then a
rich, light silver tone began to shine in on the rocks and on Antek's
shoulders. This color filled the darkness more and more, just as if into
that darkness some one were pouring a silver liquid which permeated it,
mixed with it, and from black made it gray, from gray pearl-color. There
was also a certain severity and dampness about us; not only the cliff
but the air too seemed moist.

Now more light comes every moment. I am looking, trying to fix in my
mind those changes in tone, and am painting a little in my soul, when
all at once Antek's cry interrupts me,--

"Tfu! idiots!"

And his shoulders vanish from my eyes.

"Antek!" I cry, "what are thou doing?"

"Don't howl! look here!"

I bend over, look--what appears? I am sitting on a rocky cliff which
slopes down to a meadow, lying perhaps a yard and a half below me. The
moss deadened the sound of the stones, for the meadow is very level; at
a distance the road is visible, and on it crows, which I took for
eagles. To walk home with the greatest comfort it was merely necessary
to take our legs off the rock.

Meanwhile, we had been sitting on that rock, our teeth chattering,
through the whole of God's night.

I know not why, but while waiting in the studio with Antek for the
house-owner, that adventure of a year and a half before came to my mind,
as if it had happened the previous day. That recollection gave me great
solace; therefore I said at once,--

"Dost remember, Antek, how we thought ourselves sitting on the edge of a
precipice, and it turned out that there was a level road right before
us? It may be the same to-day. We are as poor as church mice, as thou
knowest; the house-owner wants to turn us out of the studio; meanwhile
all things may change. Let some sluice of glory and money open out to
us."

Antek was sitting just then on the straw bed, pulling on his boots,
grumbling the while that life was made up of pulling boots on in the
morning and pulling them off at night; that only the man had sense who
had courage to hang himself, which, if he, Antek, had not done hitherto,
it was simply because he was not only a supreme fool, but a low coward
besides.

My outburst of optimism interrupted his meditation; so he raised his
fishy eyes and said,--

"Thou, beyond all men, hast something to rejoice at; the other day
Suslovski drove thee from his house and the heart of his daughter;
to-day the house-owner will drive thee from the studio."

Alas! Antek told the truth. Three days before I was the betrothed of
Kazia Suslovski, but on Tuesday morning--yes, on Tuesday, I received
from her father the following letter:--

     DEAR SIR,--Our daughter, yielding to the persuasion of her
     parents, has consented to break the tie which for her would
     have been a misfortune. She may find a refuge at all times on
     the bosom of her mother and under the roof of her father; but
     it pertains specially to us, her parents, to avoid this
     extremity. Not only your material position, but your frivolous
     character, which, in spite of every effort, you are unable to
     conceal, inclines us and our daughter to return you your word,
     and to break with you further relations, which, however, does
     not change our good will toward you.

     With esteem,

     HELIODOR SUSLOVSKI.

Such was the letter; I agree more or less with this, that out of my
material position dog's boots might be made; but what that pathetic
gorilla knows of my character I, in truth, do not understand.

Kazia's head brings to mind types from the time of the Directory; and it
would be finer if she would dress her hair, not in the fashion of
to-day, but of that time. I tried even to beg her to do so, but in vain,
since she has no mind for such things. But she has a complexion as warm
as if Fortuni had painted it.

For that very reason I loved her sincerely; and the first day, after
receiving the letter from her father, I went about as if poisoned. Only
on the second day, and that in the evening, did I feel a little easier,
and say to myself, "If not, then not." It helped me most to bear the
blow that I had my head filled with the Salon and with my "Jews." I was
convinced that the picture was a good one, though Antek predicted that
it would be thrown, not only out of the Salon, but out of the
antechamber. I began the picture the year before in this way: It is
evening. I am walking alone for amusement by the Vistula. I look; I see
a basket of apples lost in the river; street Arabs are fishing the
apples out of the water; and on the bank are sitting a whole Jewish
family in such despair that they are not even lamenting, they are
clasping their hands, and looking into the water, as dumb as statues.
There is an old Jew there, a patriarch, a poor devil; an old Jewess; a
young Jew, a colossal creature as big as Judas Maccabæus; a maiden,
freckled somewhat, but with immense character in the outline of her nose
and mouth; finally two little Jews. Twilight is coming; the river has a
bronze reflection which is simply miraculous. The trees on Saxon Island
are all in the light of evening; beyond the island is water, widely
spread, tones purple, ultra-marine, tones almost steel, then again tones
passing into purple and violet. The aërial perspective, splendid! The
transition from some tones to others so subtile and marvellous that the
soul just pipes in a man; round about it is quiet, bright calm.
Melancholy over all things so that there is a wish to weep; and that
group in mourning, sitting as if each person in it had been posing in
studios.

In a moment the thought flashed into my head: That is my picture!

I had my portfolio with me, and colors, for I never go walking without
them; I begin to sketch on the spot, but I say to the Jews,--

"Sit as you are, don't move!--a ruble to each one at dark."

My Jews see the point, in a twinkle, and, as it were, grow to the
ground. I sketch and sketch. The street Arabs crawl out of the water,
and soon I hear behind me,--

"Painter! painter! When a man steals a thing, he says that he found it."

But I answer them in their jargon, and win them at once; they even stop
throwing chips at the Jews, so as not to injure my work. But, as an
offset, my group fall unexpectedly into good humor.

"Jews," cry I, "be sorrowful;" but the old woman answers,--

"With permission, Pan artist, how can we be sorrowful when you promise
us each one a ruble? Let him be sad who has no profit."

I have to threaten them that I will not pay.

I sketched for two evenings; then they posed for me two months in the
studio. Let Antek say what he pleases, the picture is good, for there is
nothing cold in it; it has pure truth and a tremendous lot of nature. I
left even the freckles on the young Jewess. The faces might be more
beautiful; but they could not be truer or have greater character.

I thought so much of this picture that I bore the loss of Kazia more
easily. When Antek reminded me of her, the subject seemed one of long
ago. Meanwhile, my comrade pulled on his other boot, and I heated the
samovar. Old Antonia came with cakes; Antek had been persuading this
woman in vain for a year to hang herself. We sat down to tea.

"Why art thou so glad?" asked Antek, peevishly.

"Because I know that thou wilt see something of uncommon interest
to-day."

At this moment we hear steps approaching the studio.

"Thy house-owner! There is thy 'something uncommon'!"

Saying this, Antek gulps down his tea, which is so hot that tears fill
his eyes. Up he springs; and since our little kitchen is in the passage,
he hides in the studio behind the costumes, and from his hiding-place
cries, with a panting voice,--

"Thou! he loves thee immensely, talk thou to him."

"He is dying for thee!" answer I, flying to the costumes, "talk thou to
him!"

Meanwhile the door opens, and who comes in? Not the house-owner, but the
watchman of the house in which the Suslovskis are living.

We rush out from behind the costumes.

"I have a letter for you," says the watchman.

I take the letter. By Hermes! it is from Kazia! I tear open the
envelope, and read as follows,--

     I am certain that my parents will forgive us. Come at once;
     never mind the early hour. We have just returned from the
     waters in the garden.                          KAZIA.

I have no idea what the parents really have to forgive me, but neither
have I time to think of it, for I am losing my head from amazement. Only
after a while do I give the letter to Antek, and say to the watchman,--

"Friend, tell the young lady that I will come right away--wait, I have
no small money, but here are three rubles [all I have] change the bill,
take a ruble for yourself, and bring me the rest."

Speaking in parenthesis, the monster took the three rubles, and did not
show himself again. He knew, the abortion, that I would not raise a
scandal at Suslovski's, and took advantage of the position most
dishonorably. But at the time I didn't even notice it.

"Well, Antek, what?" ask I.

"Nothing! Every calf will find its butcher."

The haste with which I was dressing did not permit me to find an answer
befitting this insult from Antek.

CHAPTER II.

A quarter of an hour later I ring at Suslovski's. Kazia herself opens
the door. She is comely; she has about her yet the warmth of sleep, and
also the freshness of morning, which she brought from the garden in the
folds of her muslin robe, which is pale blue in color. Her hat, just
removed, has dishevelled her hair somewhat. Her face is smiling; her
eyes are smiling; her moist lips are smiling,--she is just like the
morning. I seize her hands, kiss them, and kiss her arms to the elbows.
She bends to my ear and inquires,--

"But who loves better?"

Then she leads me by the hand to the presence of her parents. Old
Suslovski has the mien of a Roman who is sacrificing _pro patria_ the
life of his only child; the mother is dropping tears into her coffee,
for both are at coffee. But they rise at sight of us, and Papa Suslovski
speaks,--

"Reason and duty would command me to answer, no! but the heart of a
parent has its rights--if this is weakness, let God judge me!"

Here he raises his eyes in proof that he will be ready to answer, if the
tribunal of Heaven begins to write a protocol that moment. I had never
seen anything more Roman in my life, unless macaroni sold on the Corso.
The moment is so impressive that a hippopotamus might burst from
emotion. The solemnity is increased by Pani Suslovski, who crosses her
hands, and says in a tearful voice,--

"My children, should you have trouble in the world at any time take
refuge here--here!"

While saying this, she pointed to her bosom.

She could not fool me! I was not to be taken for preservation
there--there! If Kazia had offered me a similar refuge, it would have
been different. Still I am amazed at the honesty of the Suslovskis, and
my heart is filled with gratitude. I drink so many glasses of coffee
from emotion that the Suslovskis begin to cast anxious glances at the
coffee-pot and the cream. Kazia fills my cup continually; I try at the
same time to press her foot under the table. But she draws it back
always, shaking her head meanwhile, and smiling so roguishly that I know
not how I escaped jumping out of my skin.

I sit an hour and a half; but at last I must go, for in the studio Bobus
is waiting for me,--Bobus who takes drawing-lessons, and leaves me a
note each time, with a coat of arms on it, but I lose those notes
generally. Kazia and her mother conduct me to the entrance; I am angry
at that, for I want Kazia alone to conduct me. What a mouth she has!

My road leads through the city garden. It is full of people coming from
the waters. On the way I notice that all halt at sight of me. I hear
whispers, "Magorski! Magorski! that's he--" Young ladies, dressed in
muslin of every shade under which their forms are outlined wonderfully,
cast glances at me which seem as if wishing to say, "Enter! the dwelling
is ready!" What the devil, am I so famous, or what? I fail to
understand.

I go on--always the same thing. At the entrance of the studio, I come
against the house-owner, as a ship against a rock. Oh, the rent!

But the man approaches me and says,--

"My dear sir, though I have annoyed you sometimes, believe me, I have so
much--just permit me simply--"

With that he seizes me around the neck and hugs me. Ha! I understand,
Antek must have told him that I am going to marry; and he thinks that in
future I shall pay my rent regularly. Let him think so.

I thunder upstairs. On the way I hear a noise in our quarters. I rush
in. The studio is dark from smoke. There I find Yulek Rysinski, Wah
Poterkevich, Franek Tsepkovski, old Sludetski, Karminski, Voytek
Mihalak,--all amusing themselves by driving the elegant Bobus around on
a string; but seeing me, they let him go, barely alive, in the middle of
the studio; then they raise an unearthly uproar.

"We congratulate! congratulate! congratulate!"

"Up with him!"

In one moment I am in their arms, and for a certain time they hurl me
up, howling meanwhile in a way befitting a pack of wolves; at last I
find myself on the floor. I thank them as best I can, and declare that
they must all be at my wedding, especially Antek, whom I engage in
advance as my best man.

Antek raises his hands and says,--

"That soap thinks that we are congratulating him on his marriage."

"But on what are you congratulating me?"

"How is that, don't you know?" asked every voice.

"I know nothing; what the hangman do you want?"

"Give him the morning number of 'The Kite,'" cries Poterkevich.

They give me the morning number of "The Kite," shouting, one
interrupting the other, "Look among the despatches!"

I look at the despatches, and read the following,--

"Special telegram to the 'The Kite.' Magorski's picture, 'The Jews on
the river of Babylon,' received the great gold medal of the Salon of the
present year. The critics cannot find words to describe the genius of
the master. Albert Wolff has called the picture a revelation. Baron
Hirsch offers fifteen thousand francs for it."

I am fainting! Help! I have lost my senses to that degree that I cannot
utter a word. I knew that my picture was a success, but of such a
success I had not even dreamed. The number of "The Kite" falls from my
hand. They raise it and read to me among current comments the following
notes on the despatch,--

"Note I. We learn from the lips of the master himself that he
intends to exhibit his picture in our garden of sirens.

"Note II. In answer to a question put by the vice-president of
the Society of Fine Arts to our master, whether he intends to
exhibit his masterpiece in Warsaw, he answered: 'I would rather
not sell it in Paris than not exhibit it in Warsaw.' We hope
that those words will be read by our posterity (God grant
remote) on the monument to the master.

"Note III. The mother of our master, on receiving the despatch
from Paris, fell seriously ill from emotion.

"Note IV. We learn at the moment of going to press, that the
mother of our master is improving.

"Note V. Our master has received invitations to exhibit his
picture in all the European capitals."

Under the excess of these monstrous lies, I return to my senses a
little. Ostrynski, the editor of "The Kite," and at the same time an
ex-suitor of Kazia's, must have gone mad, for this passes every measure.
It is natural that I should exhibit the picture in Warsaw; but, I. I
have not mentioned that matter to any one; II. the vice-president of the
Society of Fine Arts has made no inquiry of me touching anything; III. I
have given him no answer; IV. my mother died nine years ago; V. I have
not received an invitation from any quarter to exhibit my picture.

Worse than all, it comes to my mind in one moment that if the despatch
is as truthful as the five notes, then farewell to everything.
Ostrynski, who half a year since, in spite of the fact that her parents
were for him, received a basket[16] from Kazia, wished perhaps purposely
to make a fool of me; if that is the case "he will pay me with his head,
or something else," as says the libretto of a certain opera. My
colleagues pacify me, however, by saying that Ostrynski might fabricate
the notes, but the despatch must be genuine.

[16] Refusal.

At the same time Stah Klosovich comes with a morning number of "The
Courier." The despatch is in "The Courier." I recover breath.

Now congratulations in detail begin. Old Sludetski, false to the core,
but in manner sweet as syrup, shakes my hand and says,--

"Beloved God! I have always believed in the genius of my colleague, and
I have always defended him [I know that he used to call me an ass];
but--Beloved God, perhaps my colleague does not wish that such a
_fa-presto_ as I should call my colleague, colleague; in that event let
my colleague forgive an old habit, Beloved God!"

In my soul I wish him hanged; but I cannot answer, for at that moment
Karminski draws me aside and tells me in an undertone, but so that all
hear him,--

"Maybe my colleague needs money, if he does, let him say the word, and
then--"

Karminski is known among us for his professed willingness to oblige.
Time after time he says to some of us, "If my colleague needs aid, let
him say the word; and then--till we meet again!" In truth, he has money.
I answer that if I do not find it elsewhere, I will apply to him.