CHAPTER XVI
On the following day Marynia offered to stay at Pani Emilia’s till Litka should recover perfectly. Litka supported this offer, which Pani Emilia, after a short opposition, was forced to accept. In fact, she was dropping down from weariness; the health of the sick girl demanded unceasing and exceptional watchfulness, for a new attack might come at any instant. It was difficult to calculate or be sure that a servant, even the most faithful, would not doze at the very moment in which speedy assistance might save the child’s life; hence the presence of Marynia was a real aid to the anxious mother, and calmed her.
As to Plavitski, he preferred to eat at the restaurant, and made no trouble. Marynia, moreover, went in every day to inquire about his health and bring domestic accounts into order; then she returned to Pani Emilia to sit half the night by the little girl.
In this way Pan Stanislav, who passed at Pani Emilia’s all the time free from occupation, and received, or rather dismissed with thanks, those who came to inquire for Litka’s health, saw Marynia daily. And she in truth amazed him; Pani Emilia herself did not show more anxiety for the child, and could not nurse her more carefully. In a week Marynia’s face had grown pale from watching and alarm; there were dark lines beneath her eyes; but her strength and energy seemed to grow hourly. There was in her also so much sweetness and kindness, something so calm and delicate in the services which she rendered Litka, that the child, despite the resentment which she cherished in her little soul, began to be kind to her; and when she went for some hours to her father, Litka looked for her with yearning.
Finally the little girl’s health seemed to improve in the last hours. The doctor permitted her to walk in the chamber and sit in an armchair, which on sunny days was pushed to the door opening on the balcony, so that she might look at the street and amuse herself with the movement of people and carriages.
At such times Pan Stanislav, Pani Emilia, and Marynia stood near her frequently; their conversation related to what was passing on the street. Sometimes Litka was wearied, and, as it were, thoughtful; at other times, however, her child nature got the upper hand, and everything amused her, – hence the October sun, which covered the roofs, the walls, and the panes of the shop windows with a pale gold; the dresses of the passers-by; the calling of the hucksters. It seemed that those strong elements of life, pulsating in the whirl of the city, entered the child and enlivened her. At times wonderful thoughts came to her head; and once, when before the balcony a heavy wagon was pushing past which carried lemon-trees in tubs, and these, though tied with chains, moved with the motion of the wagon, she said, —
“Their hearts do not palpitate.” And then, raising her eyes to Pan Stanislav, she asked, —
“Pan Stas, do trees live long?”
“Very long; some of them live a thousand years.”
“Oh, I would like to be a tree. And which does mamma like best?”
“The birch.”
“Then I would like to be a little birch; and mamma would be a big birch, and we should grow together. And would Pan Stas like to be a birch?”
“If I could grow somewhere not far from the little birch.”
Litka looked at him shaking her head somewhat sadly, said, —
“Oh, no! I know all now; I know near what birch Pan Stas would like to grow.”
Marynia was confused, and dropped her eyes on her work; Pan Stanislav began to stroke lightly with his palm the little blond head, and said, —
“My dear little kitten, my dear, my – my – ”
Litka was silent; from under her long eyelids flowed two tears, and rolled down her cheeks. After a while, however, she raised her sweet face, radiant with a smile, —
“I love mamma very much,” said she, “and I love Pan Stas, and I love Marynia.”
CHAPTER XVII
Professor Vaskovski inquired every day about the health of the little one; and though most frequently they did not receive him, he sent her flowers. Pan Stanislav, meeting him somewhere at dinner, began thanking him in Pani Emilia’s name.
“Asters, only asters!” said Vaskovski. “How is she to-day?”
“To-day not ill, but, in general, not well; worse than in Reichenhall. Fear for each coming day seizes one; and at the thought that the child may be missing – ”
Here Pan Stanislav stopped, for further words failed him; at last he burst out, —
“What is the use in looking for mercy? There is nothing but logic, which says that whoso has a sick heart must die. And may thunderbolts split such existence!”
Now came Bukatski, who, when he had learned what the conversation was, attacked the professor; even he, as he loved Litka, rebelled in his soul at thought of that death which was threatening her.
“How is it possible to deceive oneself so many years, and proclaim principles which turn into nothing in view of blind predestination?”
But the old man answered mildly: “How, beloved friends, estimate with your own measure the wisdom of God and His mercy? A man under ground is surrounded by darkness, but he has no right to deny that above him are sky, sun, heat, and light.”
“Here is consolation,” interrupted Pan Stanislav; “a fly couldn’t live on such doctrines. And what is a mother to do, whose only and beloved child is dying?”
But the blue eyes of the professor seemed to look beyond the world. For a time he gazed straightforward persistently; then he said, like a man who sees something, but is not sure that he sees it distinctly, “It appears to me that this child has fixed herself too deeply in people’s hearts to pass away simply, and disappear without a trace. There is something in this, – something was predestined to her; she must accomplish something, and before that she will not die.”
“Mysticism,” said Bukatski.
But Pan Stanislav interrupted: “Oh, that it were so, mysticism or no mysticism! Oh, that it were so! A man in misfortune grasps even at a shadow of hope. It never found place in my head that she had to die.”
But the professor added, “Who knows? she may survive all of us.”
Polanyetski was in that phase of scepticism in which a man recognizes certainty in nothing, but considers everything possible, especially that everything which at the given time his heart yearns for; he breathed therefore more easily, and received certain consolation.
“May God have mercy on her and Pani Emilia!” said he. “I would give money for a hundred Masses if I knew they would help her.”
“Give for one, if the intention be sincere.”
“I will, I will! As to the sincerity of intention, I could not be more sincere if the question involved my own life.”
Vaskovski smiled and said, “Thou art on the good road, for thou knowest how to love.”
And all left relieved in some way. Bukatski, if he was thinking of something opposed to what Vaskovski had said, did not dare mention it; for when people in presence of real misfortune seek salvation in faith, scepticism, even when thoroughly rooted, pulls its cap over its ears, and is not only cowardly, but seems weak and small.
Bigiel, who came in at that moment, saw more cheerful faces, and said, —
“I see by you that the little one is not worse.”
“No, no,” said Pan Stanislav; “and the professor told us such wholesome things that he might be applied to a wound.”
“Praise be to God! My wife gave money for a Mass to-day, and went then to Pani Emilia’s. I will dine with you, for I have leave; and, since Litka is better, I will tell you another glad news.”
“What is it?”
“Awhile ago I met Mashko, who, by the way, will be here soon; and when he comes, congratulate him, for he is going to marry.”
“Whom?” asked Pan Stanislav.
“My neighbor’s daughter.”
“Panna Kraslavski?”
“Yes.”
“I understand,” said Bukatski; “he crushed those ladies into dust with his grandeur, his birth, his property, and out of that dust he formed a wife and a mother-in-law for himself.”
“Tell me one thing,” said the professor; “Mashko is a religious man – ”
“As a conservative,” interrupted Bukatski, “for appearance’ sake.”
“And those ladies, too,” continued Vaskovski.
“From habit – ”
“Why do they never think of a future life?”
“Mashko, why dost thou never think of a future life?” cried Bukatski, turning to the advocate, who was coming in at that moment.
Mashko approached them and asked, “What dost thou say?”
“I will say Tu felix, Mashko, nube!” (Thou, Mashko, art fortunate in marriage!)
Then all began to offer congratulations, which he received with full weight of dignity; at the end he said, —
“My dear friends, I thank you from my whole heart; and, since ye all know my betrothed, I have no doubt of the sincerity of your wishes.”
“Do not permit thyself one,” said Bukatski.
“But Kremen came to thee in season,” interjected Pan Stanislav.
Indeed, Kremen had come to Mashko in season, for without it he might not have been accepted. But for that very cause the remark was not agreeable; hence he made a wry face, and answered, —
“Thou didst make that purchase easy; sometimes I am thankful to thee, and sometimes I curse thee.”
“Why so?”
“For thy dear Uncle Plavitski is the most annoying, the most unendurable figure on earth, omitting thy cousin, who is a charming young lady; but from morning till evening she rings changes on her never to be sufficiently regretted Kremen, through all the seven notes, adding at each one a tear. Thou art seldom at their house; but, believe me, to be there is uncommonly wearisome.”
Pan Stanislav looked into his eyes and answered, “Listen, Mashko: against my uncle I have said everything that could hit him; but it does not follow, therefore, that I am to listen patiently if another attacks Plavitski, especially a man who has made profit by him. As to Panna Marynia, she is sorry, I know, for Kremen; but this proves that she is not an empty puppet, or a manikin, but a woman with a heart; dost understand me?”
A moment of silence followed. Mashko understood perfectly whom Pan Stanislav had in mind when he mentioned the empty doll and manikin; hence the freckles on his face became brick-colored, and his lips began to quiver. But he restrained himself. He was in no sense a coward; but even the man who is most daring has usually some one with whom he has no wish to quarrel, and for Mashko Polanyetski was such a one. Therefore, shrugging his shoulders, he said, —
“Why art thou angry? If that is unpleasing to thee – ”
But Pan Stanislav interrupted, “I am not angry; but I advise thee to remember my words.” And he looked him in the eyes again.
Mashko thought, “If thou wilt have an adventure anyhow, thou canst have it.”
“Thy words,” said he, “I can remember; only do thou take counsel also from me. Permit not thyself to speak in that tone to me, else I might forget myself also, and call thee to reckoning.”
“What the deuce – ?” began Bukatski. “What is the matter with thee?”
But Pan Stanislav, in whom irritation against Mashko has been gathering for a long time, would beyond doubt have pushed matters to extremes had not Pani Emilia’s servant rushed into the room at that moment.
“I beg,” said he, with a panting voice; “the little lady is dying!”
Pan Stanislav grew pale, and, seizing his hat, sprang to the door. A long, dull silence followed, which Mashko interrupted at last.
“I forgot,” said he, “that everything should be forgiven him at present.”
Vaskovski, covering his eyes with his hands, began to pray. At length he raised his head and said, —
“God alone has bridled death, and has power to restrain it.”
A quarter of an hour later, Bigiel received a note from his wife with the words, “The attack has passed.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Pan Stanislav hurried to Pani Emilia’s, fearing that he would not find Litka living; for the servant told him on the way that the little lady was in convulsions, and dying. But when he arrived, Pani Emilia ran to meet him, and from the depth of her breast threw out in one breath the words, “Better! better!”
“Is the doctor here?”
“He is.”
“But the little one?”
“Is sleeping.”
On the face of Pani Emilia the remnants of fear were struggling with hope and joy. Pan Stanislav noticed that her lips were almost white, her eyes dry and red, her face in blotches; she was mortally wearied, for she had not slept for twenty-four hours. But the doctor, a young man, and energetic, looked on the danger as passed for the time. Pani Emilia was strengthened by what he told her in presence of Pan Stanislav, especially this: “We should not let it come to a second attack, and we will not.”
There was real consolation in these words, for evidently the doctor considered that they were able to ward off another attack; still there was a warning that another attack might be fatal. But Pani Emilia grasped at every hope, as a man falling over a precipice grasps at the branches of trees growing out on the edge of it.
“We will not; we will not!” repeated she, pressing the doctor’s hand feverishly.
Pan Stanislav looked into his eyes unobserved, wishing to read in them whether he said this to pacify the mother, or on the basis of medical conviction, and asked as a test, —
“You will not leave her to-day?”
“I do not see the least need of staying,” answered he. “The child is exhausted, and is like to sleep long and soundly. I will come to-morrow, but to-day I can go with perfect safety.” Then he turned to Pani Emilia, —
“You must rest, too. All danger has passed; the patient should not see on your face any suffering or alarm, for she might be disturbed, and she is too weak to endure that.”
“I could not fall asleep,” said Pani Emilia.
The doctor turned his pale blue eyes to her, and, gazing into her face with a certain intensity, said slowly, —
“In an hour you will lie down, and will fall asleep directly; you will sleep unbrokenly for six or eight hours, – let us say eight. To-morrow you will be strong and refreshed. And now good-night.”
“But drops to the little one, if she wakes?” asked Pani Emilia.
“Another will give the drops; you will sleep. Good-night.” And he took farewell.
Pan Stanislav wished to follow him to inquire alone about Litka, but he thought that a longer talk of that kind might alarm Pani Emilia; hence he preferred to omit it, promising himself that in the morning he would go to the doctor’s house and talk there with him. After a while, when he was alone with Pani Emilia, he said, —
“Do as the doctor directed; you need rest. I promise to go to Litka’s room now, and I will not leave her the whole night.”
But Pani Emilia’s thoughts were all with the little girl; so, instead of an answer, she said to him directly, —
“Do you know, after the attack, she asked several times for you before she fell asleep. And for Marynia too. She fell asleep with the question, ‘Where is Pan Stas?’”
“My poor beloved child, I should have come anyhow right after dinner. I flew here barely alive. When did the attack begin?”
“In the forenoon. From the morning she was gloomy, as if foreboding something. You know that in my presence she says always that she is well; but she must have felt ill, for before the attack she sat near me and begged me to hold her hand. Yesterday, I forgot to tell you that she put such strange questions to me: ‘Is it true,’ inquired she, ‘that if a sick child asks for a thing it is never refused?’ I answered that it is not refused unless the child asks for something impossible. Some idea was passing through her head evidently, for in the evening, when Marynia ran in for a moment, she put like questions to us. She went to sleep in good humor, but this morning early she complained of stifling. It is lucky that I sent for the doctor before the attack, and that he came promptly.”
“It is the greatest luck that he went away with such certainty that the attack would not be repeated. I am perfectly sure that that is his conviction,” answered Pan Stanislav.
Pani Emilia raised her eyes: “The Lord God is so merciful, so good, that – ”
In spite of all her efforts, she began to sob, for repressed alarm and despair were changed to joy in her, and she found relief in tears. In that noble and spiritualized nature, innate exaltation disturbed calm thought; by reason of this, Pani Emilia never gave an account to herself of the real state of affairs; now, for example, she had not the least doubt that Litka’s illness had ended once for all with this recent attack, and that thenceforth a time of perfect health would begin for the child.
Pan Stanislav had neither the wish nor the heart to show her a middle road between delight and despair; his heart rose with great pity for her, and there came to him one of those moments in which he felt more clearly than usually how deeply, though disinterestedly, he was attached to that enthusiastic and idealistic woman. If she had been his sister, he would have embraced her and pressed her to his bosom; as it was, he kissed her delicate, thin hands, and said, —
“Praise be to God; praise be to God! Let the dear lady think now of herself, and I will go to the little one and not stir till she wakes.” And he went.
In Litka’s chamber there was darkness, for the window-blinds were closed, and the sun was going down. Only through the slats did some reddish rays force their way; these lighted the chamber imperfectly and vanished soon, for the sky began to grow cloudy. Litka was sleeping soundly. Pan Stanislav, sitting near her, looked on her sleeping face, and at the first moment his heart was oppressed painfully. She was lying with her face toward the ceiling; her thin little hands were placed on the coverlid; her eyes were closed, and under them was a deep shadow from the lashes. Her pallor, which seemed waxen in that reddish half-gloom, and her open mouth, finally, the deep sleep, – gave, her face the seeming of such rest as the faces of the dead have. But the movement of the ruffles on her nightdress showed that she was living and breathing. Her respiration was even calm and very regular. Pan Stanislav looked for a long time at that sick face, and felt again, with full force, what he had felt often, when he thought of himself, – namely, that nature had made him to be a father; that, besides the woman of his choice, children might be the immense love of his life, the chief object and reason of his existence. He understood this, through the pity and love which he felt at that moment for Litka, who, a stranger to him by birth, was as dear to him then as would have been his own child.
“If she had been given to me,” thought he; “if she lacked a mother, – I would take her forever, and consider that I had something to live for.”
And he felt also that were it possible to make a bargain with death, he would have given himself without hesitation to redeem that little “kitten,” over whom death seemed then to be floating like a bird of prey over a dove. Such tenderness seized him as he had not felt till that hour; and that man, of a character rather quick and harsh, was ready to kiss the hands and head of that child, with a tenderness of which not even every woman’s heart is capable.
Meanwhile it had grown dark. Soon Pani Emilia came in, shading with her hand a blue night-lamp.
“She is sleeping?” asked she, in a low voice, placing the lamp on the table beyond Litka’s head.
“She is,” answered Pan Stanislav, in an equally low voice.
Pani Emilia looked long at the sleeping child.
“See,” whispered Pan Stanislav, “how regularly and calmly she breathes. To-morrow she will be healthier and stronger.”
“Yes,” answered the mother, with a smile.
“Now it is your turn. Sleep, sleep! otherwise I shall begin to command without pity.”
Her eyes continued to smile at him thankfully. In the mild blue light of the night-lamp she seemed like an apparition. She had a perfectly angelic face; and Pan Stanislav thought in spite of himself that she and Litka looked really like forms from beyond the earth, which by pure chance had wandered into this world.
“Yes,” answered she; “I will rest now. Marynia has come, and Professor Vaskovski. Marynia wishes absolutely to remain.”
“So much the better. She manages so well near the little girl. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Pan Stanislav was alone again, and began to think of Marynia. At the very intelligence that he would see her soon he could not think of aught else; and now he put the question to himself: “In what lies this wonderful secret of nature in virtue of which I, for example, did not fall in love with Pani Emilia, decidedly more beautiful than Marynia, likely better, sweeter, more capable of loving, – but with that girl whom I know incomparably less, and, justly or unjustly, honor less?” Still with every approach of his to Marynia there rose in him immediately all those impulses which a man may feel at sight of a chosen woman, while a real womanly form, like that of Pani Emilia, made no other impression on him than if she had been a painting or a carving. Why is this, and why, the more culture a man has, the more his nerves become subtile, and his sensitiveness keener, the greater difference does he make between woman and woman? Pan Stanislav had no answer to this save the one which that doctor in love with Panna Kraslavski had given him: “I estimate her coolly, but I cannot tear my soul from her.” That was rather the description of a phenomenon than an answer, for which, moreover, he had not the time, since Marynia came in at that moment.
They nodded in salutation; he raised a chair then, and put it down softly at Litka’s bed, letting Marynia know by a sign that she was to sit there. She began to speak first, or rather, to whisper.
“Go to tea now. Professor Vaskovski is here.”
“And Pani Emilia?”
“She could not sit up. She said that it was a wonder to her, but she must sleep.”
“I know why: the doctor hypnotized her, and he did well. The little girl is indeed better.”
Marynia gazed into his eyes; but he repeated, —
“She is really better – if the attack will not return, and there is hope that it will not.”
“Ah! praise be to God! But go now and drink tea.”
He preferred, however, to whisper to her near by and confidentially, so he said, —
“I will, I will; but later. Let us arrange meanwhile so that you may rest. I have heard that your father is ill. Of course you have been watching over him.”
“Father is well now, and I wish to take Emilia’s place absolutely. She told me that the servants had not slept either all last night, for the child’s condition was alarming before the attack. It is needful now that some one be on the watch always. I should wish, therefore, so to arrange that we – that is, I, you, and Emilka – should follow in turn.”
“Very well; but to-day I will remain. If not here, I shall be at call in the next chamber. When did you hear of the attack?”
“I did not hear of it. I came as I do usually in the evening to learn what was to be heard.”
“Pani Emilia’s servant hurried to me while I was dining. You can imagine easily how I flew hither. I was not sure of finding her alive. What wonder, since during dinner I talked almost all the time of Litka with Bukatski and Vaskovski, till Mashko came with the announcement of his marriage.”
“Is Mashko going to marry?”
“Yes. The news has not gone around yet; but he announced it himself. He marries Panna Kraslavski; you remember her?”
“She who was at the Bigiels that evening. She is a good match for Mashko, Panna Kraslavski.”
There was silence for a moment. Marynia, who, not loving Mashko, had rejected his hand, but who more than once had reproached herself for her conduct with regard to him, thinking that she had exposed him to deception and suffering, could find only comfort in the news that the young advocate had borne the blow so easily. Still the news astonished her for the time, and also wounded her. Women, when they sympathize with some one, wish first that some one to be really unhappy, and, secondly, they wish to alleviate the misfortune themselves; when it turns out that another is able to do that, they undergo a certain disillusion. Marynia’s self-love was wounded also doubly. She had not thought that it would be so easy to forget her; hence she had to confess that her idea of Mashko as an exceptional man had no basis. He had been for her hitherto a kind of ace in the game against Pan Stanislav; now he had ceased to be that. She felt, therefore, let matters be as they might, somewhat conquered. This did not prevent her, it is true, from informing Pan Stanislav, with a certain accent of truth, that his news caused her sincere and deep joy, but at bottom she felt in some sort offended by him because he had told her.
For a certain time Pan Stanislav had acted with her very reservedly, and in nothing had he betrayed what was happening within him. He did not feign to be too cool, for they had to meet; therefore, in meeting her he maintained even a certain kindly freedom, but for this very reason she judged that he had ceased to love her, and such is human nature, that though the old offence was existing yet, and had even increased in the soul of the young woman, though her first disillusion had changed as it were into a spring, giving forth new bitterness continually, still the thought that her repugnance was indifferent to him irritated Marynia. Now it seemed to her that Pan Stanislav must even triumph over her mistake as to Mashko; and at this, that in every case she, who shortly before had the choice between Mashko and him, has that choice no longer, and will fall, as it were, into a kind of neglect somewhat humiliating.
But he was far from such thoughts. He was glad, it is true, that Marynia should know that, by exalting Mashko above him, she had been mistaken fundamentally; but he had not dreamed even of taking pleasure in this or triumphing because of her isolation, for at every moment and at that time more than any other he was ready to open his arms to her, press her to his bosom, and love her. He was working, it is true, continually and even with stubbornness to break in himself those feelings; but he did this only because he saw no hope before him, and considered it an offence against his dignity as a man to put all the powers of his soul and heart into a feeling which was not returned. To use his own expression, he wished to avoid surrender, and he did avoid surrender, to the best of his power; but he understood perfectly that such a struggle exhausts, and that even if it ends with victory it brings a void, instead of happiness. Besides, he was far yet from victory. After all his efforts he had arrived at this only, – that his feeling was mingled with bitterness. Such a ferment dissolves love, it is true, for the simple reason that it poisons it; and in time this bitterness might have dissolved love in Pan Stanislav’s heart. But what an empty result! Sitting then near Marynia and looking at her face and head, shone on by the light of the lamp, he said to himself, “If only she wished!” That thought made him angry; but since he wanted to be sincere with himself, he had to confess that if only she wished he would bend to her feet with the greatest readiness. What an empty result, then, and what a position without escape! For he felt that the misunderstanding between them had increased so much that even if Marynia desired a return of those moments passed in Kremen, self-love and fear of self-contradiction would close her lips. Their relations had become so entangled that they might fall in love more easily a second time than come to an understanding.
After a short conversation there was silence between them, interrupted only by the breathing of the sick child and the slight, but mournful, sounds of the window-panes, on which fine rain was striking. Outside, the night had grown wet; it was autumnal, bringing with it oppression, gloom, pessimism, and discontent. Equally gloomy seemed that chamber, in whose dark corners death appeared to be lurking. Hour followed hour more slowly. All at once forebodings seized Pan Stanislav. He looked at Litka on a sudden, and it seemed to him madness to suppose that she could recover. Vain was watching! vain were hopes and illusions! That child must die! she must all the more surely, the dearer she was. Pani Emilia will follow her; and then there will be a desert really hopeless. What a life! See, he, Polanyetski, has those two, the only beings in the world who love him, – beings for whom he is something; therefore it is clear that he must lose them. With them there would be something in life to which he could adhere; without them there will be only nothingness and a certain kind of future, blind, deaf, unreasoning, with the face of an idiot.
The most energetic man needs some one to love him. Otherwise he feels death within, and his energy turns against life. A moment like that had come now to Pan Stanislav. “I do not know absolutely why I should not fire into my forehead,” thought he, “not from despair at losing them, but because of the nothing without them. If life must be senseless, there is no reason to permit this senselessness, unless through curiosity to learn how far it can go.” But this thought did not appear in him as a plan; it was rather the effort of a man writhing at the chain of misfortune, a burst of anger in a man seeking some one against whom to turn. In Pan Stanislav this anger turned suddenly on Marynia. He did not know himself why; but it seemed to him at once that all the evil which had happened, had happened through her. She had brought into their circle a dislike not there before, suffering not there before, and had thrown, as it were, some stone into their smooth water; and now the wave, which was spreading more and more widely, covered not only him, but Pani Emilia and Litka. As a man governing himself by judgment, not by nerves, he understood how vain were reproaches of this sort; still he could not put down the remembrance that before Marynia came it was better in every way, and so much better even, that he might consider that as a happy period of his life. He loved then only Litka, with that untroubled, fatherly feeling, which did not and could not bring bitterness for a moment. Who knows, besides, if in time he might not have been able to love Pani Emilia? She, it is true, had not for him other feelings than those of friendship, but perhaps only because he did not desire other feelings. High-minded women frequently refuse themselves feelings which go beyond the boundary of friendship, so as not to render difficult and involved the life of some one who might, but does not wish to become dear. Meanwhile in the depth of the soul lies a calm secret melancholy; they find sweetness and consolation in the tenderness permitted by friendship.