Part 9 (1/2)
”To father.”
She pointed with her eyes to her mother's rooms.
”Is that--that man there?”
It was not to be discovered why she spoke in lowered tones, but Irene's voice sounded almost harsh when she inquired:
”What man?”
”Pan Kranitski.”
Now Cara's red, small lips, in the twinkle of an eye, formed a crooked line in spite of her; then, bending toward her sister, she said, almost in a whisper:
”Tell me, Ira, but tell the truth. Do you like that man--Kranitski?” Irene laughed aloud, freely, almost as she had never laughed.
”Ridiculous! Ah, what an amusing baby you are! Why should I not like him? He is our old and good acquaintance.” And returning to her usual formality, she added: ”Besides, you know that I do not like anyone very much.”
”Not me?” asked Cara, fondly touching with her red lips the pale cheeks of her sister.
”You? A little! But go away. You hinder my reading.”
”I will go. Come Puffie--come!” And with the dog on her arm she went off, but she stopped at the door, and turning to Irene, she bent forward a little, and said, in a low voice: ”But I do not like him--I do not know why this is. First I liked him, but for some time I cannot endure him--I do not know myself why.”
At the last words she turned away, capriciously, and went on.
”She does not know! does not know!” whispered Irene over her book. ”That is why she dances with the dog. What happiness in Arcadian life!”
The little one, going on, began to hum again, but near the door of her father's study she grew silent and stopped. The sound of a number of men's voices in conversation reached her. She dropped her hand, and whispered:
”Father has visitors! What shall we do now, Puffie? How shall we go in there?”
After a moment's thought and hesitation she stepped in very quietly under the drapery of the portiere, and in the twinkle of an eye was sitting on a small, low stool which stood behind a tall case of shelves filled with books, which, placed near the door, formed with two walls a narrow, triangular s.p.a.ce. That was an excellent corner, a real asylum which she could reach un.o.bserved, and which she had selected for herself earlier. The books on the shelves hid her perfectly, but left small cracks through which she could see everyone. Whenever there were guests with her father she entered directly from the door, with one silent little step she pushed in, waited longer than the guests, and when they were gone she could talk with her father.
At the round table, which was covered with books, maps, and pamphlets, in broad armchairs were sitting, hat in hand, men of various statures and ages. They had not come on business, but to make calls of longer or shorter duration. Some were giving place to others, who came unceasingly, or rather flowed in as wave follows wave. Some went, others came. The pressing of hands, bows more or less profound, polite and choice phrases, conversation, interrupted and begun again, conversation touching important and serious questions of European politics, local questions of the higher order, and problems of society, especially financial and economic.
Darvid's voice, low but metallic, filled the study, it was heard by all with an attention almost religious; in general, Darvid seemed to ride over that ever-changing throng of men, by his word, by his gestures, by his eyes, with their cold and penetrating gleam, from behind the gla.s.ses of his binocle. He was radiant with a certain kind of power, which made him what he was, and the world yielded to the charm of this power, for it created wealth, that object of most universal and pa.s.sionate desire. He himself felt all its might at that moment. When at the door of the study were heard, announced by the servant, names famous because they were ancient, others known for high office, or for the reputation which science and mental gifts confer, he experienced a feeling like that which a cat must feel when stroked along the back. He felt the hand of fate stroking him, and the delight caused by this became very pleasing. He was eloquent, he was gleaming with self-confidence, judgment, and ease of utterance. Not the least pride was to be observed in him, only the gleam of glory issuing from his smooth forehead, and the mysterious sensation of apotheosis, which pushed an invisible pedestal under the man, and made him seem loftier than he was in reality.
At a certain moment a number of men entered, they seemed almost sunk in humility, and at the same time filled with solemnity.
That was a delegation from a well-known philanthropic society in the city; they had come to Darvid with a request to take part in their work by a money contribution and by personal a.s.sistance. He began by the gift of a considerable sum, but refused personal a.s.sistance. He had not the time, he said, but even had he time, he was opposed in principle to all philanthropic activity.
”Philanthropy gives a beautiful witness touching those who engage in it, but it cannot prevent the misfortunes which torture the race; nay, it strengthens them needlessly, and offers premiums to sloth and incompetence. Only exertion of all forces in untiring and iron labor can save mankind from the cancer of poverty which tortures it. Were there no help behind any man's shoulders, no hands would drop down unoccupied; each man would exercise his own strength, and misery would vanish from this earth of ours.”
Among those present, a guarded and immensely polite opposition rose, however.
”The weak, the cripples, lonely old men and children?”
”Philanthropy,” answered Darvid, ”cannot stop the existence of these social castaways, it merely continues and establishes them.”
”But they have hungry stomachs, sad souls and hearts--like our own.”
”What is to be done,” inquired Darvid, with outspread palms which indicated regret. ”There must be victors and vanquished in the world, and the sooner the latter are swept from existence the better for them and for mankind.”