"As a daughter she no longer exists for me.
Can't you understand? She simply doesn't ex-ist. Still, I cannot possibly leave her to the char-ity of strangers. I will arrange things so that she can live as she pleases, but I do not wish to hear of her. Who would ever have thought . . . the horror of it, the horror of it."
He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and raised his eyes. These words were spoken by Prince Michael Ivanovich to his brother Peter, who was governor of a province in Central Rus-sia. Prince Peter was a man of fifty, Michael's junior by ten years.
On discovering that his daughter, who had left his house a year before, had settled here with her child, the elder brother had come from St. Peters-burg to the provincial town, where the above con-versation took place.
Prince Michael Ivanovich was a tall, handsome, white-haired, fresh coloured man, proud and at-tractive in appearance and bearing. His family consisted of a vulgar, irritable wife, who wran-gled with him continually over every petty detail, a son, a ne'er-do-well, spendthrift and roue--yet a "gentleman," according to his father's code, two daughters, of whom the elder had married well, and was living in St. Petersburg; and the younger, Lisa--his favourite, who had disap-peared from home a year before. Only a short while ago he had found her with her child in this provincial town.
Prince Peter wanted to ask his brother how, and under what circumstances, Lisa had left home, and who could possibly be the father of her child. But he could not make up his mind to in-quire.
That very morning, when his wife had at-tempted to condole with her brother-in-law, Prince Peter had observed a look of pain on his brother's face. The look had at once been masked by an expression of unapproachable pride, and he had begun to question her about their flat, and the price she paid. At luncheon, before the family and guests, he had been witty and sarcastic as usual. Towards every one, excepting the chil-dren, whom he treated with almost reverent ten-derness, he adopted an attitude of distant hauteur.
And yet it was so natural to him that every one somehow acknowledged his right to be haughty.
In the evening his brother arranged a game of whist. When he retired to the room which had been made ready for him, and was just beginning to take out his artificial teeth, some one tapped lightly on the door with two fingers.
"Who is that?"
"C'est moi, Michael."
Prince Michael Ivanovich recognised the voice of his sister-in-law, frowned, replaced his teeth, and said to himself, "What does she want?"
Aloud he said, "Entrez."
His sister-in-law was a quiet, gentle creature, who bowed in submission to her husband's will.
But to many she seemed a crank, and some did not hesitate to call her a fool. She was pretty, but her hair was always carelessly dressed, and she herself was untidy and absent-minded. She had, also, the strangest, most unaristocratic ideas, by no means fitting in the wife of a high official. These ideas she would express most unexpectedly, to everybody's astonishment, her husband's no less than her friends'.
"Fous pouvez me renvoyer, mais je ne m'en irai pas, je vous le dis d'avance," she began, in her characteristic, indifferent way.
"Dieu preserve," answered her brother-in-law, with his usual somewhat exaggerated politeness, and brought forward a chair for her.
"Ca ne vous derange pas?" she asked, taking out a cigarette. "I'm not going to say anything unpleasant, Michael. I only wanted to say some-thing about Lisochka."
Michael Ivanovich sighed--the word pained him; but mastering himself at once, he answered with a tired smile. "Our conversation can only be on one subject, and that is the subject you wish to discuss " He spoke without looking at her, and avoided even naming the subject. But his plump, pretty little sister-in-law was unabashed.
She continued to regard him with the same gentle, imploring look in her blue eyes, sighing even more deeply.
"Michael, mon bon ami, have pity on her.
She is only human."
"I never doubted that," said Michael Ivano-vich with a bitter smile.
"She is your daughter."
"She was--but my dear Aline, why talk about this?"
"Michael, dear, won't you see her? I only wanted to say, that the one who is to blame--"
Prince Michael Ivanovich flushed; his face be-came cruel.
"For heaven's sake, let us stop. I have suf-fered enough. I have now but one desire, and that is to put her in such a position that she will be independent of others, and that she shall have no further need of communicating with me. Then she can live her own life, and my family and I need know nothing more about her. That is all I can do."
"Michael, you say nothing but 'I'! She, too, is 'I.'"
"No doubt; but, dear Aline, please let us drop the matter. I feel it too deeply."
Alexandra Dmitrievna remained silent for a few moments, shaking her head. "And Masha, your wife, thinks as you do?"
"Yes, quite."
Alexandra Dmitrievna made an inarticulate sound.
"Brisons la dessus et bonne nuit," said he.
But she did not go. She stood silent a moment.
Then,--"Peter tells me you intend to leave the money with the woman where she lives. Have you the address?"
"I have."
"Don't leave it with the woman, Michael!
Go yourself. Just see how she lives. If you don't want to see her, you need not. HE isn't there; there is no one there."
Michael Ivanovich shuddered violently.
"Why do you torture me so? It's a sin against hospitality!"
