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Updated: June 19, 2025
"I know from report," said Darvid, to the young artist, "that sculptors must spend considerable sums before they begin a given work. Here is an advance. Do not hesitate. Money should be at the service of talent." The sculptor was astonished. He had imagined the millionaire as entirely different. "Money should be at the service of talent!" repeated he.
Darvid had not paid attention to music; he had never had time to learn and to love it; but he felt that those tones were passing into his vitals, moving the secret strata of his being, and bringing them into movements unknown to him till that moment.
Neither sorrow nor despair, commonly roused by death in the living, but something still greater and beyond that was depicted in the look and the posture of Darvid. His eyes, usually so clear, so positive, so like glittering steel, had in them now an abyss of thought at the bottom of which terror was secreted, while the form of the man seemed shrunk and crushed down.
Darvid, looking firmly into his face, said in a low voice, slowly, but the ice of his tones seemed at moments to break from the boiling of passion confined beneath them. "Yes, but you, sir, have demoralized my son. Of himself he would never have gone to such a degree of corruption and idleness.
Darvid did not greet those who entered; and, for the first time in life, perhaps, failed to meet the demands of society; they also, respecting a frame of mind which they divined in him, troubled the man in no way. He remained resting against the wall, and, from a distance, resembled a silhouette outlined on it darkly, as on a background.
"This ball," interrupted Darvid, "is necessary to me for various reasons, and will take place in our house after a few weeks." "Oh, my father," said Irene, with a nervous, dry laugh, "je vous adresse ma sommation respectueuse, that it should not take place!
He was wounded to his innermost heart by the last conversation which he had had with his father. It was brief, but decisive; he had told it to Kranitski. From the narrative it was possible to divine that Darvid had shown at first an inclination to milden the demands on his son, but afterward despotic habits and practical views had won the victory.
At that moment the servant announced from the antechamber, through the open door: "Prince Zeno Skirgello." Delight burst forth on Darvid's face. Cara sprang up from her knees, and looking around, called: "Puff! Puff! Come, let us be off! doggy." "Where is the prince?" asked Darvid, hurriedly. "Is he here, or in the carriage?" "In the carriage," answered the servant.
Irene, who had turned her face toward the rustle, or knocking, thought some of the countless papers in the room had dropped from the furniture, or that some book had fallen. Darvid, who also had heard the knocking, or rustle, forgot it while looking at his watch. "I shall be late," said he. "You have told me things over which I must meditate.
Darkness had begun to fall on the fresh green of the trees, and the urns, columns, and statues standing thickly between them, as Darvid drove away from the cemetery. "When church-bells sound, as this has, people pray," thought he. "Do they think that God hears them? Does God exist? Perhaps he does. It is even likely that he does, but that he occupies himself with men and their entreaties!
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