The Mashkos visited the Polanyetskis in a week after their return. She, in a gray robe, trimmed with marabout feathers of the same color, looked better than ever before. Inflammation of the eyes, from which she had suffered formerly, had disappeared. Her face had its usual indifferent, almost dreamy mildness, but at present this only enhanced her artistic expression. The former Panna Kraslavski was about five years older than Marynia; and before marriage the lady looked still older, but now it seemed as if she had grown young. Her slender form, really very graceful, was outlined in a closely fitting dress as firmly as a child’s form. It was strange that Pan Stanislav, who did not like the lady, found in her something attractive, and whenever he looked at her said to himself, “But there is something in her.” Even her monotonous and somewhat childlike voice had a certain charm for him. At present he said to himself plainly that she looked exceptionally charming, and had improved more than Marynia.

Mashko, on his part, had unfolded like a sunflower. Distinction was just beaming from him; and at her side self-confidence and pride were softened by affability. It seemed impossible that he could visit all his lands within one day,—in a word, he pretended more than ever. But he did not pretend love for his wife, since it was evident from every look of his that he felt it really. In truth, it would have been difficult to find a woman who could answer better to his idea of refinement, good taste, and the elegance of high society. Her indifference, her, as it were, frozen manner with people, he considered as something simply unapproachable. She never lost this “distinction” at any time, even when she was alone with him. And he, as a genuine parvenu who had won a princess, loved her precisely because she seemed a princess, and because he possessed her.

Marynia inquired where they had passed the honeymoon. Pani Mashko answered on “my husband’s estate,” in such a tone as if that “husband’s estate” had been entailed during twenty generations; wherewith she added that they were not going abroad till next year, when her husband would finish certain affairs. Meanwhile they would go again to her “husband’s estate” for the summer months.

“Do you like the country?” inquired Marynia.

“Mamma likes the country,” answered Pani Mashko.

“And does Kremen please your mamma?”

“Yes. But the windows in the house are like those in a conservatory. So many panes!”

“That is somewhat needed,” said Marynia; “for when one of those panes is broken, any glazier of the place can put in a new one, but for large panes it would be necessary to send to Warsaw.”

“My husband says that he will build a new house.”

Marynia sighs in secret, and the conversation is changed. Now they talk of mutual acquaintances. It appears that Pani Mashko had taken lessons in dancing once, together with “Anetka” Osnovski and her young relative, Lineta Castelli; that they are well acquainted; that Lineta is more beautiful than Anetka, and, besides, paints, and has a whole album of her own poems. Pani Mashko has heard that Anetka has returned already and that Lineta is to live in the same villa till June together with her aunt Bronich, “and that will be very pleasant, for they are so nice.”

Pan Stanislav and Mashko make their way to the adjoining room, and talk over Panna Ploshovski’s will.

“I can inform thee that I have sailed out very nearly,” said Mashko. “I was almost over the precipice; but that action put me on my feet, by this alone, that I began it. For years there has not been such a one. The question is one of millions. Ploshovski himself was richer than his aunt; and before he shot himself, he willed his property to Pani Krovitski’s mother, and when she didn’t accept it, the whole fortune went to old Panna Ploshovski. Thou wilt understand now how much property the woman must have left.”

“Bigiel mentioned something like seven hundred thousand rubles.”

“Tell thy Bigiel, since he has such love for giving figures, that it is more than twice that amount. Well, in justice it should be said that I have strength to save myself, and that it is easier to throw me into water than to drown me. But I will tell thee something personal. Knowest thou whom I have to thank for this? Thy father-in-law. Once he mentioned the affair to me, but I waved my hand at it. Afterward I fell into the troubles of which I wrote thee. I had a knife at my throat. Well, three weeks since I chanced to meet Pan Plavitski, who mentioned among other persons Panna Ploshovski, and invented against her all that he could utter. Suddenly I slap my forehead. What have I to lose? Nothing. I ask Vyshynski, clerk of the court, to bring the will to me. I find informalities,—small ones, but they are there. In a week I have power of attorney from the heirs, and begin an action. And what shall I say? At a mere report of the fee which I am to get in case of success, confidence returns to people, patience returns to my creditors, credit returns to me, and I am firm. Dost remember? there was a moment when I was lowering my tone, when through my head were passing village ideas of living by an ant-like industry, of limiting my style of living. Folly! That is difficult, my dear. Thou hast reproached me because I pretend; but with us pretence is needful. To-day I must give myself out as a man who is as sure of his property as he is of victory.“

“Tell me sincerely, is this a good case?”

“How a good case?”

“Simply will it not be needful to pull the matter too much by the ears against justice?”

“Thou must know that in every case there is something to be said in its favor, and the honor of an advocate consists just in saying this something. In the present case the special questions are, who are to inherit, and is the will so drawn as to stand in law; and it was not I who made the law.”

“Then thou hast hopes of gaining?”

“When it is a question of breaking a will, there are chances almost always, because generally the attack is conducted with a hundred times more energy than is the defence. Who will defend against me? Institutions; that is, bodies unwieldy by nature, of small self-help, whose representatives have no personal interest in the defence. They will find an advocate; well! but what will they give him, what can they give him? As much as is allowed by law; now that advocate will have more chances of profit in case I win, for that may depend on a personal bargain between him and me. In general, I tell thee that in legal actions, as in life, the side wins which has the greater wish to win.”

“But public opinion will grind thee into bran, if thou break such wills. My wife is interested a little, thou seest.”

“How a little?” interrupted Mashko. “I shall be a genuine benefactor to both of you.”

“Well, my wife is indignant, and opposed to the whole action.”

“Thy wife is an exception.”

“Not altogether; it is not to my taste either.”

“What’s this? Have they made thee a sentimentalist also?”

“My dear friend, we have known each other a long time; use that language with some other man.”

“Well, I will talk of opinions only. To begin with, I tell thee that a certain unpopularity for a man genuinely comme il faut rather helps than harms him; second, it is necessary to understand those matters. People would grind me into bran, as thou hast said, should I lose the case; but if I win, I shall be considered a strong head—and I shall win.”

After a while he continued, “And from an economical point of view, what is the question? The money will remain in the country; and, as God lives, I do not know that it will be put to worse use. By aid of it a number of sickly children might be reared to imbecility and help dwarf the race, or a number of seamstresses might get sewing-machines, or a number of tens of old men and women live a couple of years longer; not much good could come to the country of that. Those are objects quite unproductive. We should study political economy some time. Finally, I will say in brief, that I had the knife at my throat. My first duty is to secure life to myself, my wife, and my coming family. If thou art ever in such a position as I was, thou’lt understand me. I chose to sail out rather than drown; and such a right every man has. My wife, as I wrote thee, has a considerable income, but almost no property, or, at least, not much; besides, from that income she allows something to her father. I have increased the allowance, for he threatened to come here, and I didn’t want that.”

“So thou art sure, then, that Pan Kraslavski exists? Thou hast mentioned him, I remember.”

“I have; and for that very reason I make no secret of the matter now. Besides, I know that people talk to the prejudice of my father-in-law and my wife, that they relate God knows what; hence I prefer to tell thee, as a friend, how things are. Pan Kraslavski lives in Bordeaux. He was an agent in selling sardines, and was earning good money, but he lost the position, for he took to drinking, and drinks absinthe; besides, he has created an illegal family. Those ladies send him three thousand francs yearly; but that sum does not suffice him, and, between remittance and remittance, need pinches the man. Because of this he drinks more, and torments those poor women with letters, threatening to publish in newspapers how they maltreat him; and they treat him better than he deserves. He wrote to me, too, immediately after my marriage, begging me to increase his allowance a thousand francs. Of course he informs me that those women have ‘eaten him up;’ that he hasn’t had a copper’s worth of happiness in life; that their selfishness has gnawed him, and warns me against them.” Here Mashko laughed. “But the beast has a nobleman’s courage. Once, from want, he was going to sell handbills in the corridor of the theatre; but the authorities ordered him to don a kind of helmet, and he could not endure that. He wrote to me as follows: ‘All would have gone well, sir, but for the helmet; when they gave me that, I could not.’ He preferred death by hunger to wearing the helmet! My father-in-law pleases me! I was in Bordeaux on a time, but forget what manner of helmets are worn by the venders of handbills; but I should like to see such a helmet. Thou wilt understand, of course, that I preferred to add the thousand francs, if I could keep him far away, with his helmet and his absinthe. This is what pains me, however: people say that even here he was a sort of tipstaff, or notary; and that is a low fiction, for it is enough to open the first book on heraldry to see who the Kraslavskis were. Here connections are known; and the Kraslavskis are in no lack of them. The man fell; but the family was and is famous. Those ladies have dozens of relatives who are not so and so; and if I tell this whole story, I do so because I wish thee to know what the truth is.”

But the truth touching the Kraslavskis concerned Pan Stanislav little; so he returned to the ladies, and all the more readily that Zavilovski had just come. Pan Stanislav had invited the young man to after-dinner tea, so as to show him photographs brought from Italy. In fact, piles of them were laid out on the table; but Zavilovski was holding in his hand the frame containing the photograph of Litka’s head, and was so enchanted that immediately after they made him acquainted with Mashko, he looked again at the portrait, and continued to speak of it.

“I should have thought it the idea of an artist rather than a portrait of a living child. What a wonderful head! What an expression! Is this your sister?”

“No,” answered Marynia; “that is a child no longer living.”

In the eyes of Zavilovski, as a poet, that tragic shadow increased his sympathy and admiration for that truly angelic face. He looked at the photograph for some time in silence, now holding it away from his eyes, and now drawing it nearer.

“I asked if it was your sister,” said he, “because there is something in the features, in the eyes rather; indeed, there is something.”

Zavilovski seemed to speak sincerely; but Pan Stanislav had such a respect for the dead child, a respect almost religious, that, in spite of his recognition of Marynia’s beauty, the comparison seemed to him a kind of profanation. Hence, taking the photograph from Zavilovski’s hands, he put it back on the table, and began to speak with a certain harsh animation,—

“Not the least; not the least! There is not one trait in common. How is it possible to compare them! Not one trait in common.”

This animation touched Marynia somewhat.

“I am of that opinion, too,” said she.

But her opinion was not enough for him.

“Did you know Litka?” asked he, turning to Pani Mashko.

“I did.”

“True; you saw her at the Bigiels’.”

“I did.”

“Well, there wasn’t a trace of likeness, was there?”

“No.”

Zavilovski, who adored Marynia, looked at Pan Stanislav with a certain astonishment; then he glanced at the tall form of Pani Mashko, outlined through the gray robe, and thought,—

“How elegant she is!”

After a while the Mashkos rose to take farewell. Mashko, when kissing Marynia’s hand at parting, said,— “Perhaps I shall go to St. Petersburg soon; at that time remember my wife a little.”

During tea Marynia reminded Zavilovski of his promise to bring at his first visit, and read to her, the variant of “On the Threshold;” he had grown so attached to the Polanyetskis already that he gave not only the variant, but another poem, which he had written earlier. It was evident that he was amazed himself at his own self-confidence and readiness; so that when he had finished reading, and heard the praises, which were really sincere, he said,—

“I declare truly that with you, after the third meeting, it seems as though we were acquainted from of old. So true is this that I am astonished.”

Pan Stanislav remembered that once he had said something similar to Marynia in Kremen; but he received this now as if it included him also.

But Zavilovski had her only in mind; she simply delighted him with her straightforward kindness, and her face.

“That beast is really capable,” said Pan Stanislav, when Zavilovski had gone. “Hast thou noticed that he is changed a little in the face?”

“He has cut his hair,” answered Marynia.

“Ah, ha! and his chin sticks out a trifle more.”

Thus speaking, Pan Stanislav rose and began to put away the photographs on the shelves above the table; finally, he took Litka’s portrait, and said,—

“I will take this to my study.”

“But thou hast that one there with the birches, colored.”

“True; but I do not want this here so much in view. Every one makes remarks, and sometimes that angers me. Wilt thou permit?”

“Very well, my Stas,” answered Marynia.