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 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1797.M4 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021965417 
 
HENRY HARLAN D DEAD, 
 
 Author of "The Cai-dlnal's Snuff Box" 
 
 Was 44 Years Old. \Qf\<" 
 
 London Times— New York Times I 
 Special Cable. Copyright, 1805. 
 LONDON, Deo. 21.— A dispatch from 
 San Remo announces the death there ' 
 of Henry Harland, the noVelist.V' 
 
 Aside from any question of the ultimate 
 value of his work, the career of Henry 
 Harland affords one of the most remark- 
 able puzzles In ' the history of letters. 
 There have been a few cases of " double 
 personality ". among authors— of men who 
 have had two distinct styles or have given 
 up one style to achieve a reputation with 
 another. But Harland, after making a 
 reputation in one kind of work, made an- 
 other reputation along entirely different 
 lines, and then ijinderwent another trans- 
 formation and gained hi!} chief success 
 with work absolutely different from any 
 he had hitherto'-donB. . ' A 
 
 He began by Writing clever stories of 
 Jfcwish life— stories in "which the local 
 color was so exact and the sympathy with 
 the Jews was so keen that it was taken 
 for granted everywhere that "Sidney 
 liuska " was a Jew, which he was not. 
 Then he went to London and became 
 editor of The Yellow Book. Under the 
 pseudonym of " The Yellow- Dwarf " he 
 wrote a number of critical essays on con- 
 temporary literature that gained more 
 than passing fame. And then, after It 
 all, he wrote "The Cardinal's Snuff-Box," 
 an idyl of Itali*n life that achieved an 
 instantaneous success, and that is still 
 read With delight. " The Cardinal's Snuff- 
 Box " was followed by other novels, all 
 of which obtained wide popularity and all 
 of which display a delicacy of workman- 
 flhip and a care for detail unusual in the 
 fiction of to-day— especially the successful 
 fiction. 
 
 Harland was an American, but was born 
 in St. Petersburg. HS was educated In 
 Rome and Paris, and at Harvard, and 
 from 1883 to 1888 he held a position in the 
 SurrosBtes' Office in this city. Then he 
 went to England, where most of his books 
 were written. During the greater part of 
 his time he lived in London, but he kept 
 up a residence in Norwich, Conn. His 
 last visit to America was paid a year ago, 
 and later, because of ill-health, he went 
 to Italy. 
 
 Mr. Harland was 44 years old. 
 
 A telegram was received in this city 
 yesterday stating that Mr. Harland had 
 died suddenly in San Remo the previous 
 day. No other details were given. 
 
MEA CULPA 
 
M EA CULPA 
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HARLAND 
 
 (SYDNEY LUSKa) 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'AS IT WAS WRITTEN," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPA]S[T 
 
 150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 
 

 Copyright, 1891, 
 
 BY 
 
 UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 
 
ME A CULPA: 
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 FATHER ANB DAUGHTER. 
 
TH. BENTZON: 
 
 IP IN THE PAGES THAT FOLLOW I HAVE FAILED TO 
 
 POINT A MORAL, MAY I AT LEAST MAKE 
 
 SURE OP ADOBNINQ A TALE BY 
 
 BEGINNING MINE WITH 
 
 TOUR BRILLIANT 
 
 NAME? 
 
I. 
 
 This narrative, which will be true in all its details, the 
 most incidental as well as the most intimate and essential 
 — true in letter as in spirit — reaches its catastrophe and 
 conclusion here in London in the summer of the year 
 1890. But it must begin in Paris in the month of March 
 seven years before. 
 
 We had Lived in Paris, my father and I, since 1879. 
 First, I will explain, very briefly, why we lived there ; 
 secondly, I will describe the manner of our life there. 
 
 My father, Paul Mikhaelovitch Banakin, had never as- 
 sociated himself, directly or indirectly, with the revolu- 
 tionary movement in Eussia. He was, indeed, a man of 
 liberal views ; a Kadical, even, in the sense that, despising 
 ready-made formulas and loving realities, he went to the 
 root of every question that he pretended to touch ; a 
 Eepublican, if you wish, in his political ideals ; and as 
 for religion, though he was neither an atheist nor an ag- 
 nostic, he had convictions of his own which prevented 
 him from finding the least spiritual satisfaction in the 
 ceremonial religion of the Russian Church. In so far, 
 then, he was perhaps of the same stuff as the active mem- 
 bers of the revolutionary party ; but in so far only. For 
 of the aims, the methods, and the cardinal principles of 
 the revolutionists he totally disapproved. " The revo- 
 lutionary programme," I have often heard him say, " has 
 been conceived in foUy, and must be executed, if at aU, 
 in crime. It is the production of brains that have been 
 but half baked. It illustrates what a dangerous thing a 
 
10 ME A CULPA. 
 
 little learning is. It authors are men who have rapidly 
 swallowed, without digesting, the most obvious and su- 
 perficial deductions of modern scientific thought, but ■ 
 have never even caught the aroma of its more occult 
 significance, its deeper tendencies, or its remoter corolla- 
 ries. They would endeavor to force at once, by violence, 
 changes which, in the nature of things, must come to pass 
 slowly, by a process of growth. For me, I am too much 
 of a philosopher, I have read my history too thoroughly, 
 to share their theories ; and with their practice how can 
 any civilized human being feel the slightest sympathy ? 
 To Tsar-murder, terrorism, dynamite — in one word, to 
 warfare by stealth — I pronoimce myself an unrelenting 
 foe." 
 
 Such, roughly, was my father's attitude toward the 
 revolutionary agitation in Russia. Yet in 1879 he had, 
 at a moment's notice, to fly from his country, like a thief 
 in the night, apd seek an asylum in France, lest he should 
 -be arrested and transported to Siberia as a political 
 offender. 
 
 Why? 
 
 Because one evening, in the early spring of that year, 
 we received a domiciliary visit from the police, at our 
 apartment in St. Petersburg ; and (my father being an 
 omnivorous reader) there, in plain evidence, upon the 
 table and in the shelves of our library, lay certain books, 
 pamphlets, and periodicals which it was forbidden for 
 Eussian subjects to have in their possession, as weU as 
 certain manuscripts in which my father had set down the 
 results of his speculations in various branches of political 
 science, theology, and metaphysics. All this compromis- 
 ing literature, printed and written, the police seized ; but, 
 since they did not at once deprive my father of his 
 liberty, he, the most optimistic and hopeful of men, be- 
 lieved that the matter would end there, and made light 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 of my anxiety lest something more serious might come 
 of it. 
 
 In this, however, as the event proved, he was mistaken. 
 
 Suddenly, one day, a week or so later, he received a 
 communication from a friend of his, a functionary of the 
 highest rank, and one who would surely know whereof he 
 spoke, warning him that his arrest and deportation to 
 Siberia had been determined upon, and urging him to 
 leave Russia without an hour's delay. " I enclose pass- 
 ports with false names for you and Monica Paulovna," his 
 friend concluded. . . . 
 
 So, with a few himdred rubles in his pocket, and such 
 clothing as could" hastily be thrown into a portmanteau, 
 my father — accompanied, of course, by me, his only child, 
 — took the first train for the frontier ; and a few days later 
 we were in the French capital. 
 
 That is why we lived in Paris. 
 
 The manner of our life there. . . . Ah, JDieu de 
 dieu, voila une histoire ! 
 
 At first we lived in sufficient comfort at one of the 
 hotels in the iieighborhood of the Op4ra ; for my father 
 did not so much as dream that his properties would be 
 put under the seal of the Government, and fully expected 
 to touch his income as regularly henceforth abroad as 
 formerly at home. But in this he was very soon un- 
 deceived. Writing to the manager of his estates to com- 
 mand remittances, he was informed by return of post that 
 his revenues had been stopped by the authorities, pending 
 his appearance in St. Petersburg to answer the charges 
 of political untrustworthiness there lying against him. 
 
 After that, the question of ways and means became for 
 us of the most pressing nature. 
 
 The little ready money that he had taken with him up- 
 on our flight had rapidly dwindled, until now less than a 
 thousand francs remained ; and where more was to come 
 
12 ME A CULPA. 
 
 from was a dubious and appalling problem. My father, a 
 Eussian noble of the old style, was the incarnation of the 
 unpractical ; intensely proud, sensitive to the point of 
 effeminacy, accustomed to every luxury, and as irrespon- 
 sible as a child in the handing of money ; a man who had 
 never earned, nor thought of earning, a kopeck, yet who 
 had never hesitated to throw away a hundred mbles ; a 
 man, in fact, who had done nothing all his life but dream, 
 read, talk, and spend ; than whom there could be no one 
 more amiable, more polished, or more inefficient. He 
 was gifted with a fine intellect, and in the face of an ab- 
 stract theory of any kind was all enlightenment and pene- 
 tration ; but the smallest concrete difficulty left him as 
 dismayed and as helpless as a baby. How was such a 
 man to provide food, clothing, and a home for himself and 
 his eighteen-year-old daughter ? . . . . This was an 
 enigma over which my father pondered much, about which 
 he discoursed much, but in relation to which he did — 
 nothing, except wring his hands and weep. 
 
 Gradually I came to realize that the duties of bread- 
 winner must necessarily devolve upon me. 
 
 What could I do? 
 
 I was a good pianist. I could teach music, if I could 
 find pupils. 
 
 I had had an English — or, rather, an American — gover- 
 ness from the time I was five till I was fifteen years old ; 
 therefore I could also teach English, or I could trans- 
 late. 
 
 I had finally a little talent for drawing and painting, 
 which might possibly be turned to some practical ac- 
 count. 
 
 That was what I felt I could do. But there was an- 
 other question for me to face, almost equally' grave : 
 What would my father allow me to do ? I knew that he 
 would object passionately to my doing any work at all for 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 pay. I knew that, upon my broaching the subject, he 
 would cry out, " I would rather starve ! " . . . I knew, 
 in one word, that we should have a struggle. 
 
 To cut a long story short, we had a struggle that lasted 
 several days ; for two of those days my father would not 
 speak to me, thinking in that way to make me feel his 
 displeasure and to break my will ; but in the end my 
 obstinacy proved to be of sterner stuff than his, and I 
 gained my point. At least, he said : " Do as you please, 
 do as you please." 
 
 Then I began to work. 
 
 I gave lessons in music and in English to the pupils 
 whom I was able to procure ; I translated sensation novels, 
 English and American, into French, receiving four hun- 
 dred francs for each volume from a publisher in the Palais 
 Royal ; and I colored photographs for a photographer in 
 the Bue de Eivoli. (Since my marriage, I may say in 
 passing, that publisher has caused to be printed upon the 
 title-pages of the novels I anonymously translated for 
 him, " Traduit de Vanglais par Madame la Princesse Leon- 
 ticheff: " whether to the greater annoyance of Prince 
 Leonticheff or myself it would be difficult to tell.) Thus I 
 contrived to gain a livelihood for my father and myself; but, 
 believe me, it was a most meagre, shabby, and precarious 
 livelihood. For my own part, however, I must own that I 
 was not altogether unhappy. It was my youth, no doubt, 
 which enabled me to adapt myself to our changed con- 
 ditions without too much discomfort. Besides, I was 
 thoroughly occupied ; I had no time, no strength, for dis- 
 content. Indeed, had it not been for the constant sense 
 of care and responsibility that I carried with me, I should 
 have had little to complain of. But my poor father ! For 
 him, as he often said, it was scarcely less than purga- 
 tory. Deprived of all that ease and largeness of existence 
 to which from his cradle he had been habituated, he suf- 
 
14 ME A CULPA. 
 
 fered keenly also from the humiliation of finding himself 
 dependent for his daily bread upon the exertions of his 
 daughter. His only solace lay in devising schemes by 
 ■which to re-establish the family fortune ... oh, but 
 schemes ! At last he put one of them in operation. After 
 the assassination of the Emperor he began to write a his- 
 tory of Eussia, from the earliest times to the present day. 
 Once completed, he was sure the publishers would vie 
 with each other to purchase his manuscript. At aU events, 
 it kept him busy, and so perhaps rendered him less con- 
 scious of the privations of his life than he would otherwise 
 have been. 
 
 In the matter of lodgings we had gone steadily from 
 bad to worse, until now, iu 1883, we had two communi- 
 cating rooms up four flights of winding stairs in the 
 Hotel du St. Esprit, a dingy maison garnie, inhabited 
 chiefly by students, in the Kue St. Jacques ; certainly, in 
 view of my sex, not the most desirable quarter of Paris, 
 but considering our requirements, the cheapest. Our 
 morning coffee and our mid-day breakfast I prepared over 
 a spirit-stove ; for our dinner we went to a restaurant in 
 the Boulevard St. Michel, where a table d'hote — of a merit 
 by no means extraordinary, it is true — was to be had for 
 one franc twenty-five. For the society of congenial human 
 beings, I confess, we pined. The French students by 
 whom we were surrounded we had no reason to love. 
 Almost our only friend was the composer Armidis, half 
 Greek, half English, an inspired musician, an exquisite 
 poet, and the handsomest, the shabbiest, the most im- 
 probable, whimsical, and entertaining man I had ever 
 known. He dwelt on the other side of the Seine, but he 
 came frequently to see us, and would often meet us at the 
 ordinary where we dined. The worst dinner, with Armi- 
 dis at the table, was always a merry and delightful affair. 
 He was in receipt of an excellent income, and had no one 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 but himself to spend it on ; yet one of his eccentricities 
 forbade his ever buying a suit of clothes. He always 
 wore the cast-off garments of his friends ! The effect was 
 generally fearful and wonderful. Seeing him from behind 
 you would have thought, " a beggar." But the moment 
 you beheld his face, with its snow-white hair and beard, 
 his fresh complexion, his fine, proud features, his large 
 eyes, full of color, daring, and intelligence, you would have 
 corrected yourself : " No ; a man of genius and distinction, 
 a poet, an artist, a prince among artists, in masquerade." 
 We were, it must be admitted, Bohemians ; but Bohe- 
 mians from necessity, not from choice. Even I, resigned 
 as I was to our circumstances, would have been surprised 
 if anybody had told me that I was happy. Yet now I 
 know that those were almost the happiest days of my life. 
 
II. 
 
 My father's duties as the historian of Kussia required 
 him to go a good deal to the public libraries, for the 
 purpose of consulting authorities. He would frequently 
 leave the Hotel du St. Esprit directly after his morning 
 coffee, and not return tiU toward the hour for dinner. 
 On these occasions he would take his second breakfast at 
 some cheap restaurant in the quarter where he was at 
 work. 
 
 One evening in the early part of March, 1883, when he 
 came home from a day spent abroad like this, I saw, the 
 instant he entered our rooms, that something had hap- 
 pened to disturb his tranquillity. He was manifestly in a 
 state of great nervous excitement, which he was doing his 
 utmost to conceal, but which anybody with the smallest 
 faculty for observation could not have failed to discover 
 at a single glance : excitement, moreover, which was 
 plainly of a sorrowful, not of a joyful nature. A spot of 
 scarlet burned in either cheek. He kept his eyes persis- 
 tently averted from mine ; but now and then I caught a 
 glimpse of them, in spite of him, and then I saw that 
 they were red and swollen, as if he had been weeping. 
 At dinner, though he tried hard to eat, it was evident 
 that he had no appetite ; his hands shook, that held his 
 knife and fork ; when he spoke, which he did but seldom 
 and briefly, though he was ordinarily a voluble talker, 
 his voice trembled, and it had a peculiar strained ring. 
 After dinner he sat for two hours or more motionless 
 before our fireplace, glaring at the coals, once in a while 
 breathing a prodigious sigh, but never uttering a syllable, 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 I was puzzled and frightened, yet something withheld me 
 from questioning him. I felt that it would be better to 
 wait until in his own time he should volunteer an expla- 
 nation ; which I did not doubt that he would sooner or 
 later do, for he was a man who craved sympathy in all his 
 emotions, sad or glad, as irresistibly as his body craved 
 food, drink, or sleep. ... At last, however, stiU. 
 without a word, he rose, put on his overcoat, and took his 
 hat and stick. 
 
 At that I could hold in no longer. 
 " You are going out? " I inquired. 
 " You see it, do you not ? " he answered, a little petu- 
 lantly. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " 
 
 "Where? What is that to you? Must I account to 
 you for all my movements ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. Only, I should like to know ; and I 
 had no reason to suppose that you would object to telling 
 me — that is all." ^ 
 
 " Well, I am going nowhere — anywhere — to walk." 
 "It is late. It is past eleven. You had better go to bed." 
 " Bed ! " he cried, in his strained, unnatural voice. 
 " And what for, pray? " 
 " To sleep, of course," said I. 
 
 My father could never bring himself to realize that I 
 was a grown-up woman ; he invariably treated me, and 
 doubtless thought of me, as a little silly girl in pina- 
 fores. . . . 
 
 " My child," he now replied, with an accent of profound 
 solemnity, "I shall never be able to sleep again. You, 
 who are young, you, who do not know what care and re- 
 sponsibility mean — you may sleep. For me, I have that 
 upon my mind which renders the very name of sleep 
 preposterous." 
 Also, at his moments of emotional disturbance, he was 
 
18 MEA CULPA. 
 
 prone to don, in approaching me, an armor of magnilo- 
 quence, to become oracular and rhetorical, if not eyen a 
 little theatrical. 
 
 " You had better tell me what it is," I urged. " You 
 had better share your trouble with me. Two pairs of 
 shoulders can bear it more easily than one." 
 
 He looked at me very hard for an instant ; his eyes 
 began to blink, his lips to pucker ; he burst into tears. 
 
 " What is it? What is it, father ? " I entreated. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and, with a despairing 
 gesture, cried out, " I am a ruined man, a ruined man ! 
 When you stopped me, do you know what I was going to 
 do ? " he asked. " I was going out to put an end to my 
 existence. Within a few minutes I shotdd have been lying 
 dead at the bottom of the Seine. To-morrow you would 
 have found my lifeless corpse upon the marbles of the 
 Morgue." 
 
 He sank into his old seat before the fire, and passively 
 allowed me to take his hat and stick. For some minutes 
 he wept silently without speaking. I knelt at his side, 
 and held his hand, and waited. 
 
 By and by, always with a certain magniloquence, and 
 employing the tone that one would naturally use in ex- 
 plaining the affairs of an adult to a little child — address- 
 ing me, that is to say, de haul en has — he proceeded to 
 make the following confession, in his studied, old-fashioned 
 French : 
 
 " I am, as I have already told you, a ruined man. The 
 story is of the shortest, the simplest, the most tragical. 
 Young as you are, I believe that you had better hear it, 
 so that you may understand the fatal combination of cir- 
 cumstances that drive your father to a premature and 
 ignominious grave." . . . 
 
 His voice died out, and for a breathing-space he was 
 silent. Then he went on : 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 " Figure to yourself that to-day, at noon, as I was leav- 
 ing the BibUotheque Nationale, to go to breakfast at a 
 neighboring table d'hote, I had no sooner set my foot in 
 the street than I ran almost into the arms of . . . 
 whom do you think ? My old friend Sagoskin, Serge 
 Petrovitch Sagoskin, the author of ' Russ and Finn,' 
 whom I had not seen for a matter of fire years. He 
 greeted me with the utmost effusiveness, inquired cordially 
 about you, and insisted upon my accompanying him to 
 
 his hotel, to meet the distinguished novelists Z and 
 
 X , whom he had invited to breakfast. I assented 
 
 with pleasure ; and we had a most delightful meal, diver- 
 sified by conversation as edifying as it was entertaining, 
 ajid in which, you will be glad to learn, your father did 
 not shine only as a listener." 
 
 "Yes? yes? " I prompted, as he paused again. 
 
 " Well, my child, as we were taking our coffee, Sagoskin 
 proposed a little turn at Zinkalinha — a proposition which 
 was generally received with acclamation, and to which I, 
 for one, agreed the more readily, because, invariably en- 
 joying good fortune at cards, I was confident that I should 
 lose nothing, and hopeful, my dear, of winning enough to 
 constitute an acceptable addition to our fund of ready 
 money — though, indeed, the game being undertaken for 
 amusement purely and simply, was projected upon so 
 small a scale that no one could win enough to talk about. 
 But see how things turn out ! From the beginning I lost ; 
 and contrary to every reasonable probability, I lost con- 
 stantly to the end. It was a complete deveine. Eeluctamt 
 to show the white feather to my antagonists, and ani- 
 mated by the conviction that the luck must infallibly 
 change, as well as by the desire to retrieve my losses, if 
 not to come away a gainer, I continued to play until I 
 found that I owed the bank, which was held by Sagoskin 
 himself, a matter of five hundred francs. Then, in de- 
 
20 MEA CULPA. 
 
 spair, I pleaded an appointment with you, and took my 
 leave. I explained to my host that I did not happen to 
 have five hundred francs upon my person, and gave him 
 my note-of-hand for the amount, promising to redeem it 
 to-morrow morning. . . . Such; in fine, is the di- 
 lemma in which I find myseK placed. Inspired by the 
 ambition, not ignoble, to contribute what I might to the 
 expenses of my family, and having every reason to believe 
 that Providence had put in my way an opportunity for 
 doing so, I am, by an entirely unprecedented and anom- 
 alous run of ill-luck, reduced to this desperate alternative : 
 either I must pay Sagoskin five hundred francs to-mor- 
 row, or I must avoid dishonor by taking my life." 
 
 He drew a long breath and flourished his hand, to in- 
 dicate that his narrative was finished. Clearly he did 
 not reproach himself; it was not for me to reproach 
 him. 
 
 Presently he added, in the tone of a man moralizing 
 upon a perfectly impersonal event : "It is one of those 
 incomprehensible examples of the apparently blind and 
 wanton brutality of Fate, which force certain thinkers to 
 accept the atheistic and pessimistic hypothesis of life, 
 that you should lose a father, that Russia should lose an 
 historian, and that I should be cut off in the very prime 
 of my career, all for a paltry consideration of five hundred 
 francs ! " 
 
 In a moment he demanded, " How much money have 
 you in hand ? " 
 
 " Less than two hundred francs," I answered ; " and 
 we shall need every penny of that to pay our way to the 
 end of the month." 
 
 " Have we any property that . . . that you could 
 exchange for money at the Mont de Pi6t6 ? " 
 
 " Alas, my father, I have already pledged everything that 
 we had of value in the world. Our jewellery is aU gone. 
 
FATHEB AND DAUOHTER. 21 
 
 Only our clothing is left ; and you know as well as I do 
 how much, or rather how little, that is worth." 
 
 "But your furs?" 
 
 " Sold as long ago as NoTember." 
 
 " Ell Men, it is then as I supposed. I must die." 
 
 I paid little heed to his talk of suicide, for I knew that 
 it was but a figure of speech. "If you should go to 
 Serge Petrovitch," I ventured, " and frankly explain to 
 him your circumstances, and ask. to be forgiven a debt 
 which is, after aU, only a card debt, and not one contracted 
 for an equivalent ? " 
 
 " Seigneur Dieu ! " he exclaimed. " Is my daughter, 
 then, devoid of the least sentiment of pride, of honor? 
 . . . Monica, I would rather die a hundred deaths ! " 
 
 "Well, then . . . ?" I questioned. 
 
 " It comes to this : we must borrow." 
 
 " Whom can we borrow from ? " 
 
 "Reflect a moment. You will see that there is but one 
 person in Paris to whom we can apply for a loan." 
 
 " Who is that ? I cannot think of any one." 
 
 " Why, Armidis, of course." 
 
 "Oh!" I cried. 
 
 " Yes ; we must borrow five hundred francs from 
 Armidis. He will gladly lend them, I am sure. He is 
 all good-nature." 
 
 "But how are we ever to repay him? " 
 
 My father shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Oh, we must somehow achieve the impossible. Or 
 perhaps something wiU turn. up. But that is a question 
 f Of the future. For the present our dilemma stands thus : 
 we must borrow five hundred francs from Armidis, or I 
 must take my life." 
 
 " Very good," I acquiesced, though with a heart by no 
 means light. "Then you must go to Armidis in the 
 morning and borrow the money." 
 
22 MEA CULPA. 
 
 "/?" my father almost screamed, starting half-way to 
 his feet. "/ go to him? . . . Are you mad? Or 
 is it that you have not the faintest comprehension of my 
 character ? Eather than ask Armidis to lend me a sou I 
 would cut out my tongue ! " 
 
 " But then-- ? " I faltered. 
 
 " No ; it is you, my child, you who are young, and who 
 do not feel these things as I feel them — it is you who 
 must go to Armidis. Go to him in the morning, raconte 
 lui quelque hisioire, and bring the money home to me. 
 . . . Do not refuse," he implored passionately. " I 
 exact it by right of my position as your parent," he added 
 with an accent of authority. 
 
 " If I go to Armidis for you," I returned, " I cannot tell 
 him a story. I must tell him the truth." 
 
 " In other words, you wiU sacrifice your father's honor ! " 
 he cried, wildly. 
 
 "I can't see how your honor will be involved. You 
 have done nothing dishonorable," said I. 
 
 " You are right," he agreed, his excitement suddenly 
 subsiding. "Armidis, though not a man of the world, 
 has sense and reason. He will imderstand. . . . 
 Then you will go ? " 
 
 " Yes, I wiU go." 
 
 "Ah-h-h ! " sighed my father, a long sigh of relief. 
 
 His relief presently intensified into a complete reaction 
 of spirits. He opened a bottle of wiae and demanded 
 something to eat. 
 
 " We wiU sup, mafille. We will forget our late annoy- 
 ances in a little feast. . . . Oh, you are a good girl " 
 — he took my chin in his hands and smiled into my eyes 
 — " yes, a very good little girl. I cannot complain of you. 
 You are, as the English say, a chip of the old block." 
 
 He was very merry and good-natured for the rest of the 
 night. 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 " If I had played a little longer," he declared, " the luck 
 would certainly have changed. It was bound to do so by 
 the immutable law of chances. Yes, I conclude that I was 
 foolish to withdraw from the game. If I had persevered 
 I might have brought you home. . . . who knows how 
 many hundreds, how many thousands of francs? " 
 
 After I kissed him good-night, and had reached the 
 threshold of his room, on the way to my own, he called 
 me back ; and holding his candle above his head, so that 
 it cleared my face and left his own ia shadow, " If — if you 
 should ask Armidis for a thousand, instead of five hun- 
 dred ? " he suggested. 
 
 I was perplexed. " But why ? What for ? " I queried. 
 
 " Why, then I could resume the game to-morrow, and 
 take my revenge." ^ 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 "WeU?" 
 
 " Oh, no, I cannot. It is oiit of the question." 
 
 " But be reasonable. It is the quickest way of repay- 
 ing him. I should expect to win twice, three times, as 
 much. By the law of chances I can prove to you that the 
 probabilities are as one million to one against my losing." 
 
 "No, no, no," I insisted. 
 
 He gave a gesture of impatience. Then he paused, and 
 seemed to meditate for a moment. In the end, " I wiU 
 speak to you again in the morning," he said. " Good- 
 night." 
 
ni. 
 
 He was as good as his word ; and in the morning, surely- 
 enough, he renewed his efforts to persuade me to ask 
 Armidis for double the amovmt of his indebtedness to 
 Sagoskin. He began by commanding me to do so, by 
 virtue of his position as my father. Failing in that, he 
 sought by argument to convince me that it would be vn.se 
 and right. Finally, he addressed his appeal to my love 
 for him, not to deny him what he so earnestly desired. 
 But I was firm in my refusal. 
 
 " Very well," he said at last. " I must submit to your 
 feminine unreasonableness and obstinacy. I must suffer, 
 though I should be hypocritical if I pretended to forgive, 
 your unfilial disobedience. Go, then, at once, and fetch 
 the money. I will wait for you here. You ought not to be 
 gone longer than a couple of hours at the furthest. . . . 
 Go. Why do you delay ? " 
 
 " My dearest father," I returned, speaking as gently as 
 I could, yet fearing that my words would provoke a storm, 
 " I implore you not to be angry with me ; but it is im- 
 possible ... let me explain . . . it is impossible 
 for me to go at once. This, as you know, is my busiest 
 day in all the week. I have lessons continuously till three 
 o'clock. If I disappoint my pupils, I not only lose the 
 price of their lessons — which we could iU afford at any time 
 — but I run the risk of being dismissed from their employ- 
 ment. That would be to fly in the face of Providence, 
 especially in view of our present difficulty. I cannot 
 reach Armidis's house before this afternoon." 
 
 " In that case," said he, with an effect of the calmness 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 of despair, " you need not go at all. Debts of this nature 
 must be liquidated within twenty-foirr hours, or the 
 debtor is forever dishonored. I must hand the money to 
 Sagoskin before five o'clock this evening, or I must die. 
 Since you deem your lessons to be of superior importance 
 to your father's honor, even to his life, go to them. That 
 is my last word, . . . except adieu." 
 
 " Au revoi?; mon cher petit pere," I said, kissing him on 
 the forehead, and stroking his fleecy thin white hair. " I 
 will have the money here by half-past four at the latest. 
 It will not take you more than half an hour to go to 
 Sagoskin's hotel, so that before five o'clock you and he 
 wiU be quits. Au revoir." 
 
 "Aurevoir, ma f,Ue," he responded, relapsing suddenly 
 into his simple, cheerful self. " I shall spend the day 
 quietly at home, arranging the notes I took at the library 
 yesterday morning." 
 
 I had never been at Armidis's lodgings, but I knew that 
 he Lived at No. 239, Avenue de la Grande Armee, away 
 out beyond the Arc de I'Etoile, near the Porte Maillot. 
 It was a quarter-past three when I inquired for him of the 
 concierge. 
 
 " Yes, madame ; Monsieur Armidis is at home," the 
 concierge informed me. "At the bottom of the court, 
 staircase A, foiurth story, at the left." 
 
 I crossed a damp and dirty courtyard, which reeked 
 dreadfully of the stables by which it was surrounded, and 
 ■ in which a stableman, who treated me to an inquisitive 
 stare, was busy washing a carriage ; passed through a nar- 
 row, dirty doorway, distinguished by a huge A in red 
 paint; climbed four flights of dark back stairs, that 
 smelled forcibly of cooking, whereof onions and cabbages 
 seemed to furnish the basis ; and pulled the bell-cord at 
 the left-hand side of the last landing. 
 
26 MEA CULPA. 
 
 My heart was beating strenuously. I felt that I had 
 come upon a very delicate and painful errand, and I prayed 
 mentally for strength and courage to perform it. Though 
 my poor dear father chose not to acknowledge it, I believe 
 that I was naturally as proud and as sensitive as himself, 
 and that I shrank as fearfully as he could have done from 
 the humiliation of asking Armidis to lend me money. I 
 tried to think how I had better word my request ; and the 
 possibility of a refusal, of a rebuff, was constantly present 
 to my imagination. It was also entirely possible that he 
 might not have five hundred francs to lend, in which case 
 . . . ! Several minutes passed, and the bell had not been 
 answered. I rang again. What if he should be absent, 
 after all? The concierge might easily have made a mis- 
 take. Again I waited several minutes, and stiU the door 
 remained closed in my face. A good deal disheartened, I 
 rang for a third time. 
 
 At last came the sound of footsteps from within. Then, 
 from behind the door, Armidis's lusty voice, with an 
 accent of plaintive remonstrance, called out in French, 
 " Yes, yes. I hear. I'm wake. No need to ring a thou- 
 sand times ! I'm not, upon my word, I'm not the Sleeping 
 Beauty. Now go away, and in ten minutes you may bring 
 me my coffee." 
 
 " Mr. Armidis," I said in English, " it is I — Monica 
 Banakin." 
 
 " Oh ! You don't say so ! Is it really ? Why, how 
 do you do ? I thought it was the concierge come to wake 
 me up. Ajid I was vexed with him for ringing so many 
 times. As if I were deaf ! It seemed so unfeeling- of 
 him. Oh, they're a bad lot, ces concierges. Outrageous ! 
 . . . You— you don't mind, do you? Say that you 
 don't mind." 
 
 "Mind! Mind what?" 
 
 " Why, my having thought it was the concierge. I 
 
FATHER AND JDAUGHTEB. 27 
 
 never would have thought it if I had known that it was 
 you. But, you see, I really couldn't know, could I ? I 
 was expecting him. I'm so sorry. I hope you don't feel 
 hurt about it." 
 
 " Oh, no, not in the least," I assured him, laughing. 
 
 " So good of you. I was sure you wouldn't. You've 
 got such a kind heart under your forbidding exterior. 
 You couldn't nurse resentment when no offence was in- 
 tended. But I thank you very much, all the same. And 
 it's really Monica Banakin — really ? You're not trying to 
 deceive me ? Of course, I'm helplessly at your mercy, 
 not being able to see through the door." 
 
 " It's really I," I said. 
 
 " Well, then, do you know, you've had an inspiration. 
 The arrival of a kindred spirit is just what I've been 
 longing for. Only I didn't dare to liope for it ; and now 
 is seems too good to be true. There ! I don't believe it 
 is you, after all." 
 
 " Who do you think it is, then ? " 
 
 " Ah, now I'm sure. Yes ; its your voice, your own 
 liquid accents. Oh, it's too delightful ! Do you know, I 
 was going over to your shop this evening, just on purpose 
 to see you. I was really." 
 
 "I hope you won't let that good resolution be shaken 
 by my coming here." 
 
 " Oh, how nice of you ! Very flattering ! Bocca, 
 bocca bella ! But I don't know. You see, it's this way. 
 I was up aU night composing a little melody, writing a 
 little verse ; and I wanted to try its effect on you. You'll 
 give me your honest opinion, won't you ? You must bind 
 yourseH to that beforehand. Let no false kindness tem- 
 per your expression. It's the best thing, by aU means 
 the best thing, I've ever done : a master-piece, in parvo, 
 destined to live tUl the trump of doom. That's what I 
 think to-day, mind. That's what one always thinks when 
 
28 MEA CULPA. 
 
 one's latest production is still warm. To-morrow it will 
 be cold. Then I shall probably recognize it as just one 
 failure more. Agony ! You shall anticipate my to-mor- 
 row's judgment for me, eh ? " 
 
 "Are you going to perform it at me from behind closed 
 doors? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, now, how unkind you are ! " he grieved. " So 
 heartless ! How can I open the door ? I — I've just got 
 out of bed. I'm not presentable. It wouldn't be proper. 
 It would compromise me so. Oh, dear, what shall I 
 do?" 
 
 In the face of a practical emergency, Armidis always 
 assumed the helplessness of a big child : partly, I think, 
 for the sake of the droUery of it, but partly because he 
 really was, when it came to practical matters, simply a 
 great, big, overgrown baby. 
 
 "You might go and dress," I suggested. "I'U wait 
 here on the landing." 
 
 " Oh, win you reaUy ? Oh, how good you are ! So 
 much obliged! Forgive what I said about your being 
 heartless ; it was said in the stress of passion ; I never 
 meant it. I'll not keep you five minutes. Seulemerd le 
 temps d'endosser une robe de cJiambre. Shall — shall I 
 throw you out something to read ? You could turn your 
 back, you know, and I could lay it out on the floor." 
 
 "No, thanks. I don't want anything to read. Now 
 
 go." 
 
 Presently the door was opened, and Armidis stood be- 
 fore me, all smiles, and held out both of his fat dimpled 
 hands in welcome — hands just like a baby's, only bigger. 
 From throat to foot his tall and robust figure was wrapped 
 in a flannel dressing-gown, of a soiled and faded, but still 
 sufficiently flamboyant scarlet. 
 
 " Come ! " he cried. " Oome in. Soyez la hienvenne. 
 I see you're admiring my costume. I look like a cardinal 
 
FATHER AND DAUaHTEB. 29 
 
 in it, don't I ? It was given me by Marvellac, the painter. 
 I always put it on when I compose sacred music. Not 
 that IVe been composing sacred music to-day, though; 
 tuW altro ; very profane. But I thought you'd enjoy the 
 color, and take it as a compliment. Oome — this way — in 
 here." 
 
 He showed no curiosity to learn the occasion of my 
 visit, but seemed to accept it as a thing quite in the 
 natural course of events. 
 
 "Ecco! This is my laboratory. It is here that the 
 immortal works are executed." 
 
 He preceded me into the untidiest, the most disorderly 
 little room I had ever entered in my life. A vast table 
 occupied the middle of the floor, covered with a wild lit- 
 ter of books, manuscripts, ink-bottles, pens, tobacco-pipes, 
 soiled cups and dishes, crusts of bread, gloves, neck-ties 
 . . . in a word, all manner of related and unrelated 
 odds and ends. The rest of the room was nearly filled 
 up by a grand piano, over the top of which, as well as 
 over the seats of the chairs and every available inch of 
 the floor, were scattered loose sheets of music, peU-meU, 
 as if by the wind. The frame of the looking-glass above 
 the mantel was stuck all round with gaudily-colored 
 cards, which proved upon inspection to be advertisements 
 of the Bon Marche, the Petit St. Thomas, Vin de Bugeaud, 
 and various patent medicines, I inferred from its appear- 
 ance that the room had not been swept or dusted for 
 months and months. 
 
 He led me straight to the key-board of his piano. 
 
 " Sit down— is the chair high enough ? — shall I put a 
 book? — and play it over once, to familiarize yourself," he 
 said, laying some manuscript music upon the support. 
 " Then I'U sing to your accompaniment." 
 
 His manuscript was rather blind — indeed, it looked at 
 a rough glance simply like paper spattered over at ran- 
 
30 MEA CULPA. 
 
 dom with small dots of violet ink— and I blundered a 
 good deal in getting through it ; while he stood at the 
 other end of the piano, beating time, shouting out little 
 words of guidance— " Softly," "Faster," "Not so fast," 
 "AUons done, plus de feu 1 " — clapping his hands now and 
 then to encourage me, and when I committed a particu- 
 larly brutal error, groaning and writhing in an agony 
 which, though facetiously exaggerated, probably had a 
 core of reality. 
 
 "When I had stumbled to the end of it, " Oh, murder- 
 ess ! assassin ! " he cried. " To mangle the poor child of 
 my imagination under my very beard like that ! But, 
 now then ! Now, once more ! Da capo. Smoothly, 
 easily ; kindly, discreetly ; with confidence, with spirit ! 
 Bramble-bush ! You have scratched out my eyes ! Now, 
 scratch them in again ! " 
 
 I began, as he bade me, da capo ; and on this second 
 trial naturally I did better. He walked up and down the 
 room, nodding his head, waving his hand — in fact, mark- 
 ing time with his whole body — and keeping his eyes shut, 
 while an expression of beatitude shone upon his face. 
 
 " Brava ! Bravissima ! I forgive you everything. 
 You did it nobly. You have atoned. . . . WeU," he 
 declared, " it's not so good as I hoped, nor so bad as I 
 feared. You — you don't think it's altogether bad, do 
 you ? " he demanded, eagerly, becoming motionless, and 
 scanning my face as if his life hung upon my answer. 
 
 " On the contrary, I Uke it very much. I think it's 
 charming," I assured him. 
 
 " Charming ! Did you say charming ? Oh, how per- 
 functory, how banale ! Charming, quotha. How undis- 
 criminating ! Oh, that is the most unkind cut of all ! I 
 never would have thought you capable of calling it charm- 
 ing. What injury have I ever done to you to be snubbed 
 like that ? You cruel thing ! " 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 "I'm sorry if the word offends you. I think it is 
 delightful — full of color, passion, imagination. And the 
 harmonies are delicious, and very novel." 
 
 " Ah, that is better. Now you see it. The harmonies ! 
 Of course ! But wait, wait. I will sing it to you. It's 
 meant for a woman, but I'll attempt it all the same. 
 Tout artiste est un peu femme. Now ! Are you ready ! 
 One, two, three ; one, two, three ! Excellent ! " 
 
 He sang it to my accompaniment in his wonderful 
 sweet baritone, joining to the technique of a capital exec- 
 utant the fervor and the intelligence of the creative artist. 
 
 "And now, Sybil, wise woman, speak. Pronounce its 
 fate." 
 
 He appeared to be delighted with the admiration that 
 I expressed, dancing around the room, and insisting, 
 "Eeally? Eeally? You're not saying it to please me? 
 You really mean it ? " And when I had satisfied him of 
 my sincerity, "Very good! You shall take the conse- 
 quences of your words. I shall dedicate it to you," he 
 announced. " Dedicated to Monica Paulovna Banakin 
 by her ardent though aged admirer, the Perpetrator ! 
 Won't that be fine? Eomantic, eh? . . . Enfin, it 
 is settled. I throw it off my mind. And now you may 
 tell me, if you wish, to what I am indebted for the un- 
 precedented honor of this visit. I do not attribute it to 
 pure benevolence ; the desire to afford me the pleasure of 
 your society. Nothing wrong, I hope, with the Lily of 
 the Field?" 
 
 That was his nick-name for my father, who was very 
 punctilious about his dress, who was even, to be frank, a 
 good deal of a dandy ; and of whom Armidis — who could 
 never deny himself an opportimity to say a sharp thing, 
 or to do a kind one — had remarked, " He toils not, neither 
 does he spin; yet I'll bet a shilling »that Solomon in all 
 his glory couldn't have held a candle to him." 
 
32 MEA CULPA. 
 
 I summoned my courage, told him the story of my 
 father's encoimter with Sagoskin, and asked him to lend 
 me five hundred francs. 
 
 To my surprise, he took it as a great joke, laughing im- 
 moderately, and crying, " Oh, how sweet ! How ecstatic ! 
 Oh, that Paul Mikhaelovitch ! Wasn't it just like him? 
 You know, he solemnly thought he was doing a shrewd, a 
 prudent, even a noble thing. I'll wager he thinks so still. 
 Ah, you Russians are absolutely the most exquisite crea- 
 tions on the face of the earth. Children ! Why, for pure 
 juvenility you beat even the Italians. Oh, I wouldn't have 
 missed this for anything in the world. Thanks so very 
 much. Here . . . here is the money." ' 
 
 From the clutter upon his table he fished out a tin box 
 that had once held Egyptian cigarettes ; and from the in- 
 terior of that he took five one-hundred franc notes, and 
 handed them to me. 
 
 I began to stammer out some words of thanks, but he 
 cut me short. 
 
 " Come, come ; time is precious, and I want to show 
 you my smelting works," he cried. " See ! Here is a 
 crucible, the common or garden sort that you can buy of 
 any chemist for considerably less than a song. Here is a 
 spirit-stove. Here is a sheet of tinfoil. Now observe. 
 Watch." 
 
 He lighted the wick of the spirit-stove, and placed the 
 crucible, with the tinfoil in it, upon the support. In a 
 minute the tinfoil was melted. Then he poured the liquid 
 metal out into a goblet of water that stood near by, and 
 exhorted me to notice the beautifvil and grotesque shapes 
 that it took in hardening. 
 
 " Isn't it adorable ? Isn't it fairy-like ? " he pleaded. 
 " Have you ever seen anything so lovely ? I pick up and 
 treasure all the bits of tinfoil I can lay my hands on, 
 for the pure joy of doing this. Of course a Philistine 
 
FATHER AND DAUOHTEB. 33 
 
 wouldn't appreciate it. But you — I'm sure you do ; don't 
 you?" 
 
 " And yet you call my father a child ! " I laughed. 
 
 " Oh, don't, don't," he groaned. " Don't say you think 
 it childish. That would be more than I could bear. An- 
 other illusion shattered ! Let me retain my respect for 
 you, my faith in you. I have felt drawn toward you, I 
 have felt an affinity for you ; I have taken you to be a 
 pure idealist, strictly inconsequential, like myself. Don't 
 be logical, don't demand a reason for things ; I couldn't 
 bear it, really. Understand that if I had a reason for it, 
 I wouldn't do it ; the joy would be poisoned, the zest de- 
 stroyed. . . . But there ! You belie yourself. You 
 were dissembling. You were only making believe. Your 
 secret heart thrills with the rapture of it as keenly as mine 
 does. Enfin, I will see you this evening at the Concombre 
 Eiose. Good-by." 
 
 The Concombre Bose was the restaurant in the Boule- 
 vare St. Michel, where we dined. 
 
 I found that it was past four o'clock when I left Armi- 
 dis. To be punctual at home, therefore, and to spare my 
 father the anxiety of waiting for me, I committed the ex- 
 travagance of a cab. 
 
 "Ah, it is you," he said looking up from his writing- 
 table, as I entered the room. " Well, do not interrupt me 
 now. I am in the middle of a paragraph. I wiU speak 
 with you presently." 
 
 " But you wanted to put the money into Serge Petro- 
 vitch's hands before five o'clock. You wUl have barely 
 time to do so, if you start at once." 
 
 " Hush, hush ; you disturb my train of thought. An 
 hour later, more or less, will not matter." 
 
 Armidis kept his promise to meet us at the Concombre 
 Biose — which was rather surprising, for he could never be 
 3 
 
34 MEA CULPA. 
 
 counted upon to remember a promise of that nature — and 
 my father, who had seen Sagoskin, and paid his debt, 
 was in such high spirits that he insisted upon ordering a 
 bottle of champagne, in which to pledge the friend who, 
 he said, had come to the rescue of his honor. Afterward, 
 he invited us to go with him to the Od6on, where they 
 were playing Li Vie de Boheme. But Armidis was con- 
 siderate enough to decline ; so, instead, we went to our 
 rooms, and spsnt the evening over the piano. 
 
 After our guest had left us, when we were on the point 
 of separating for the night, " All, Monica," sighed my 
 father, " if you had only asked him for a thousand ! You 
 see, he thought nothing of it. He is so good-natured. 
 It is as well to get in debt for a sheep as for a lamb. And 
 with that capital to start with, who knows what I might 
 have won ? Sagoskin offered to give me my revenge to- 
 morrow. He even offered on the spot to throw the dice, 
 and make it double or quits. He could not conceal his 
 astonishment when I declined. I would rather die than 
 let him suspect that my true reason was poverty. You 
 see, you have made a mistake. After this, let me trust, 
 you will be guided by one who is older and wiser than 
 yourself. . . . Kiss me good-night." 
 
IV. 
 
 And now, of course, tlie question that I had to face was 
 this : How am I to pay our debt to Armidis ? By what 
 means shall I be able to save five hundred francs ? 
 
 Not an easy question to answer, because, in the first 
 place, our actual living expenses swallowed up every 
 penny that I could earn, and, in the second, we were 
 already living as economically as it seemed possible for 
 two people to do who desired at least a show of decency, 
 if not of comfort. I knew that Armidis would not be an 
 importunate creditor, that indeed he would be the most 
 lenient ; I was sure that he would give me plenty of time, 
 that he would let me pay him little by little, in instal- 
 ments ; but all the same, the fact remained that we owed 
 him five hundred francs, and that somehow, some time, 
 our scores must be cleared. It came to this : either I 
 must try to increase my earnings, or to diminish our ex- 
 penses, or I must do both. How to increase my earnings 
 I could not think. In what way, then, could we lessen 
 our expenses? 
 
 The first item in which it appeared to me that a reduc- 
 tion would be feasible was that of rent. As I have said, we 
 had two communicating rooms on the fourth story. For 
 the larger of the two, which my father used as a bedroom 
 and study, and which we used in common as a sitting- 
 room, we paid fifty francs a month. For the smaller of 
 the two, my bedroom, we paid thirty-five. It occurred to 
 me that I might be able to arrange with Madame Pam- 
 paragoux, our landlady, to let her give me a smaller room 
 
36 MEA CULPA. 
 
 still, perhaps up another flight of stairs, for a lower price. 
 Madame Pamparagoux was a warm-hearted Meridionals, 
 a brave and honest woman. She said at once that she 
 could let me have a little room on the top story, looking 
 into the court, for twenty francs a month. Thus a 
 monthly saving of fifteen francs could be efiected at a 
 single stroke — not a very big saving, certainly, but deci- 
 dedly better than nothing. Then I could give up the 
 piano, which — feeling that if I aspired to gain our liveli- 
 hood as a teacher of music, I must devote what time I 
 could to practising, and so keep myself efficient — I had 
 hired for ten francs a month. Finally, perhaps I could 
 spare from two to three francs weekly by walking to and 
 from my lessons, instead of taking the omnibus. But 
 altogether I could see no prospect of my being able to 
 put aside more than thirty or thirty-five francs a month ; 
 and at that rate, it woidd take me about a year and a half 
 to get quits with our friend. . . . 
 
 In truth, it was a dear experience, that little turn at 
 ZhikaUiihi, whereby my father had hoped to contribute 
 something to the support of his family. 
 
 I say that I despaired of managing to increase my earn- 
 ings ; and this was because already every hour of my day 
 was occupied, and I had not a moment of leisure in which 
 to imdertake additional work. You see, besides what I did 
 for remimeration, I had many duties of a domestic nature 
 to perform. For example, I had to mend my father's 
 clothes, and to make as well as mend my own. I had to 
 brew the coffee in the morning, to go to market, to cook 
 our mid-day breakfast, to wash the dishes, etc., etc. On 
 the whole, I was as busy as, with the natural limitations of 
 time and of human endurance, I could well be. 
 
 "When, however, I told my father of my determination 
 to change my room, and to give up my piano, he protested 
 that he would not hear of it. 
 
FATHER AND DAUQETEB. 37 
 
 " As for your piano, it is your tool, it is the implement 
 of your profession," lie urged, not without reason. " It is 
 senseless, your intention of doing without it. You would 
 kiU the goose that lays the golden eggs. And as for your 
 plan of moving upstairs — my child, you do not consider 
 the proprieties. Aside from the fact that I cannot con- 
 sent to let you maJio yourself so imcomfortable — by sleep- 
 ing, parbleu, in a room that is no bigger than a closet, and 
 which is as black as night even at high noon, looking as it 
 does into that narrow court — aside from all that, you must 
 remember that you are a young girl, and that it would be 
 imseemly to the last degree for you to go so far away from 
 me, your father and natural protector, especially in an 
 hStel meubU like this. No, we must not be separated, 
 above all at night. As for your indebtedness to Armidis 
 —it is a matter for the future." 
 
 " Yes. But I must prepare for the future in the present." 
 " O, piif ! You know perfectly well that he will not 
 press you ; on the contrary, he will give you all the time 
 that 'you can possibly desire. What is it? Five hun- 
 dred francs ? The merest bagatelle. It is a matter for the 
 future. As you are aware, I refuse to regard our present 
 straitened circumstances as other than purely temporary, 
 arising from an absurd misunderstanding on the part of 
 the authorities in Russia. I am in correspondence with 
 various influential friends of mine there, to the end of 
 causing a statement of my case to be laid before the 
 Emperor in person. Of course there are inevitable de- 
 lays, legal formalities, bureaucratic obstructions, and so 
 forth and so forth ; but eventually these will be termi- 
 nated, my affair will arrive, and I shall be reinstated in the 
 possession of my properties, if not in all my rights and 
 privileges as a loyal-member of the Nobility. Then I will 
 enable you to return this trifling sum to Armidis with in- 
 terest, if you please, at the rate of cent per cent" 
 
38 MEA CULPA. 
 
 "It is not interest that Ai-midis wants, my father ; and 
 for the rest, here are four years abeady that you have 
 been hopmg from day to day to see justice done you by 
 the Emperor. It may easily be four years more before 
 your hopes are realized. We must not keep Armidis 
 waiting for four years." 
 
 "Well, then, thiak of this. I hold a ticket of the value 
 of twenty francs in the Royal Italian Lottery. The draw- 
 ing takes place in a fortnight. I may be a winner to the 
 amount of a million francs." 
 
 " Yes, but by your law of chances, what is the likelihood 
 that you will ? " 
 
 " Ah, it is impossible to reason ^^ith you. At all 
 events, I hope you recognize that this difticulty is one of 
 your own creation. If you had obeyed your father, and 
 asked Armidis for a thousand, instead of that beggarly 
 five hundred, we should to-day be quits with him, and 
 have a comfortable sum in hand besides." 
 
 " "What is the use of going back to that ? " 
 
 " To impress the iU consequences of your disobedience 
 upon your mind, my child. But now enough. I will tell 
 you what I will do. Rather than allow you to carry out 
 the quixotic plans that you have in mind, I will humiliate 
 myself so far as to write to my cousin Ogareff, at Moscow, 
 and ask him to lend me the money." 
 
 " Bon-ow from Peter to pay Paul ! A quoi bon ? It is 
 simpler for me to move upstairs. I assure you I shall 
 not mind the change. The room up there is quite as 
 good as the one I have down here, only it is a little 
 smaller. And although it looks upon the court, it is so 
 high uj) that it gets plenty of light. Besides, I shall 
 never be in it, except to sleep. All the rest of the time, 
 when I am at home, I am here in this room with you." 
 
 My father took my chin between his hands, and looked 
 me curiously in the face. 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 " Where do you get your obstinacy, I should like to 
 know," he said. " Not from me, that is very certain. I 
 can be firm, firm as a rock ; but I cannot be obstinate. 
 When I discover in your face the expression that is there 
 at this moment, I recognize that to reason with you will be 
 futile. Very well, then, I submit — only, with this reser- 
 vation. It shall not be you who will move upstairs ; I will 
 do so. You will move in here ; I will move up there ; and 
 thus the affair will arrange itseU to our mutual satisfaction." 
 
 But there was one insurmountable objection to this 
 plan ; namely, my father had a predisposition to bronchial 
 trouble ; and the doctor had told him that he must always 
 sleep in a room that had the sun during the day ; and the 
 little room" upstairs, looking toward the north, had no sun ; 
 while the room downstairs, looking toward the south, had 
 the sun almost from the time it rose until it set. This 
 objection I at last persuaded my father to admit, and give 
 way before. 
 
 Accordingly, on the first of the next month, I took pos- 
 session of my new quarters ; and on the same day the men 
 came to remove our piano — which, I confess, I could not 
 see them do without a sinking of the heart. 
 
 A few evenings later Armidis called upon us. I hap- 
 pened at the moment of his arrivel to be alone. My 
 father had stepped out to buy some cigarettes. 
 
 Looking into my eyes with a smile that was at once 
 quizzical and reproachful, wagging his great white head 
 at me, and shaking his finger, our visitor began to drawl, 
 in his most plaintive accents, " Oh, you wicked creature ! 
 I've found you out. So fair, so guileless-seeming, yet al- 
 ready a past mistress in iniquity ! Oh, you whitened 
 sepulchre, you generation of vipers ! " 
 
 " Why, what have I done ? " I asked. 
 
 " All night long," he went on solemnly, without noticing 
 
40 MEA CULPA. 
 
 my question, "I lay awake thinking of your dreadful 
 wickedness. It's been a shocking blow to me. One more 
 illusion shattered. One more idol cast from its base. 
 Oh, you heartless thing ! You fair-spoken villain ! You 
 premature mass of sophistication ! " 
 
 " But, really, what have I done ? " I repeated. 
 
 " Oh, don't, don't," he expostulated, grievously. " Don't 
 add hypocrisy to your other vices. Don't look me in the 
 face, and pretend not to know. All night long I had you 
 on my conscience ; I couldn't close my eyes, for the 
 thought of how demoralized you were. At last I said, I 
 will go to her, I will speak to her, I will labor with her, 
 not in anger but in sorrow, and try to move her to repent- 
 ance and amendment. But the hard, cynical, burglarious 
 gleam in your eye disheartens me. I'm afraid you're past 
 regeneration. The way you brazen it out ! G-give me a 
 glass of can siicrev." 
 
 His voice broke in the travesty of a sob. 
 
 " I haven't the remotest idea of what you mean, you 
 know," I said, as I went about preparing him a glass of 
 eau fiuvree. His sweet tooth, by the way, was one of 
 Ai'midis's peculiarities. He always carried a box of 
 sweetmeats in his pocket, just as another man would carry 
 a packet of cigarettes. But for that matter, he carried 
 both. When he wasn't munching a caramel, or drinking 
 eau sucree, he would certainly be pouring voluminous 
 clouds of smoke from his nostrils. 
 
 Again he paid no heed to my protestation. "How 
 could you do it ? How ever could you do it ? " he ex- 
 claimed. "It's past my understanding. Only let me 
 tell you this, you cruel, heartless, conscienceless thing — 
 don't you ever try to come your grand airs of innocence 
 and benevolence over me any more. I've found you out, 
 I know you for what you are — a reg'lar bad 'im. You 
 shameless inhabitant of a fifth-floor back ! " 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 Then of course I knew what it was. 
 
 " Why, who told you ? " I cried. 
 
 He put on an inscrutable countenance ; and spoke in a 
 tone of profound mystery : " Never mind, never mind. 
 I'll say no more about it. But the next time that you 
 premeditate a crime, just remember this : remember that 
 the mo^t skilfully conducted murder will out, and that 
 there's no concealing anything from ME. That's all ; and 
 here comes your father, your poor, helpless, long-enduring 
 father. It's lucky for you I'm not your father. If I were, 
 . . . ! " A threatening frown and gesture completed 
 his sentence. 
 
PARTTL 
 
 JULIAN NORTH. 
 
I. 
 
 Theee came a day in that first week of April which so 
 fixed itself upon my memory that whenever I have thought 
 of it since it has returned to my mind as vividly and 
 freshly as if it had been yesterday, and yet which, at the 
 time, I had no reason to suspect would count for more in 
 my life than any of the days that had gone before it. 
 
 It was the first real spring day that we had had that 
 year. A wonderful soft breeze blew from the south, all 
 warmth and fragrance ; the sky was of a tender shimmer- 
 ing blue, while here and there clouds as white and pure 
 as pearls floated in it. The sunlight was like a vapor of 
 gold, in its rich, thick ardor almost palpable. The whole 
 world seemed to sing and quiver in an ecstasy of renewed 
 exuberant life. When you breathed, you were pierced to 
 the quick by an exquisite but indescribable sensation, as 
 if, instead of common air, it were some subtle, heady 
 ether that you inhaled; and your heart was stirred by a 
 multitude of sweet, indefinite regrets and longings, like 
 dim reminiscences or vague presentiments of something 
 very dear, you could not tell what. Joyous forces that 
 had been long asleep in your blood, seemed to awake and 
 go coxirsing through _your veins with turbulent vigor ; yet 
 all the while a delicious languor pervaded your senses, so 
 that you felt no desire to do anything but just bide still 
 and exist. It was one of those rare days of early spring 
 when everything, even the vulgarest or most familiar ob- 
 ject, becomes wrapped in a rose-colored glamour, when 
 the ordinary noises of the street fall upon your ears like 
 
46 MEA CULPA. 
 
 music, and the faces of the passers-by seem to glow with, 
 an inner poetic light. ^ 
 
 My last lesson that day was from two till three in the 
 Avenue Duquesne, near the Invalides ; and when, at a little 
 past three o'clock, I left my pupil, and started to walk 
 home, the day was at the very summit of its glory. The 
 magic of it penetrated and inthralled me. The shabby 
 Bue du Babylone, through which I took my way, seemed 
 like a street in fairy-land ; the ragged, dirty children who 
 played in the gutters were like little Loves and Cherubs 
 in disguise. I felt as if I walked on air ; my heart was 
 singing, and it was as much as I could do to keep from 
 joining it with my voice, and really singing aloud my- 
 self. 
 
 "How strange!" I thought. "It is as though some 
 great good fortune had befallen me, I am so happy ; yet 
 in reality nothing has happened ; everything is just as it 
 was yesterday, just as it will be to-morrow." 
 
 I felt surcharged, tingling to my finger-tips, with glad, 
 buoyant vitality, as if I had di-unken a deep draught at 
 the very fountain-head of life. 
 
 The scarred and blackened front of St. Sulpice glowed 
 all mellow in the sunshine ; and the shop-windows of the 
 cliasxibllers round about had somehow lost their accus- 
 tomed effect of garish tawdriness, and acquired a dignity 
 and richness of their own. Somewhere out of sight a 
 barrel-organ was monotonously grinding forth the aria of 
 Ai nostri .monti, from Trovatore ; even over that my illu- 
 sion extended itself, and it sounded like dreamy, tender 
 music. For more than a fortnight the buds of the trees 
 in the Luxembourg had been swelling and trying to 
 burst ; now, this afternoon, the whole garden looked as if 
 it had been sprinkled with a delicate green powder. 
 Through the prim alleys children in black pinafores were 
 chasing each other, and shouting in their delight. The 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 47 
 
 terraces, the water, the facade of the palace, the marble 
 Queens of France, bathing themselves in the sun, made a 
 picture that had an indescribable charm and sentiment, 
 like a scene from a poem. When I came out upon the 
 Boulevard St. Michel, all at once my heart gave a leap 
 and thrill, for the air smelt of the asphalte, and it was 
 like a sudden plunge into midsummer. Almost at the 
 same moment, the sun went behind a cloud ; a few drops 
 of warm rain pattered down — not enough to wet anybody, 
 but just enough to spice the air with a keen earthy 
 odor. 
 
 The " Boule-Miche " was thronged with people, whom 
 the fine weather had tempted out : soldiers, priests, chil- 
 dren with their bonnes, hatless shop-girls, and of course 
 the inevitable students and etudiantes. Everyone looked 
 happy and good-humored. The doors of the shops and 
 cafes were all open, and in many of them lounged the pro- 
 prietors or the proprietresses, enjoying the air. 
 
 As I entered the Hotel du St. Esprit, and was about to 
 go upstairs, Madame Pamparagoux darted out of her 
 little box of an office, on the ground-floor, and called af- 
 ter me, "Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" 
 
 " Yes," I responded, turning back. 
 
 " I have a piece of news to announce to you. Come in 
 and rest for a minute. . . . Ah ! quelle belle journee, 
 n'est-ce pas ? TJn vrai soleil du midi J " 
 
 She mixed a glass of water a^nd sirop de groseille, which 
 she insisted upon my drinking. 
 
 " And-what is your news ? "• I asked. 
 
 " I have let your room, your old room. A young gen- 
 tleman, a yoimg painter, very nice, very handsome, an 
 Englishman, named Norse, Monsieur Julien Norse. I 
 thought you would be glad to know." 
 
 " Yes, I am very glad indeed. I should have been 
 sorry if you had .lost by the change I made," 
 
48 MSA CULPA. 
 
 That is all. And yet that day was one of the red-letter 
 days of my life. 
 
 The next day brought a relapse into winter. The sky 
 was heavy with lowering slate-colored clouds, and a harsh 
 wind blew from the east, and there were occasional flur- 
 ries of snow. 
 
n. 
 
 I AM going to be absolutely frank in this confession : 
 to subdue my pride, overcome my reticence, and tell the 
 whole truth, as well as nothing but the truth. Otherwise 
 it would have no reason for being, it would defeat its own 
 purpose. Therefore I ^vill acknowledge at once what, if I 
 obeyed my woman's instinct, I should deny ; namely, that 
 the little piece of news which Madame Pamparagoux im- 
 parted to me that afternoon in her office inspired me with 
 a certain amount of curiosity concerning the young Eng- 
 lish painter who was the hero of it. . . . oh, but a 
 very tame, a very limited curiosity, indeed, bien entendu. 
 
 Of course I did not betray this to Madame Pampara- 
 goux. My feminine nature, perhaps my human nature, 
 prompted me to assume a perfect indifference, and with- 
 held me from asking a single question. Yet all the same, 
 I presently surprised myself speculating about him. 
 . . . though in a quite mild and passive way. 
 
 " Un jeune monsieur, un jeune peintre, tres gentil, ires 
 beau, un anglais, nomme Norse, Monsieur Julien Norse." 
 
 Such was the description she had given of him. I found 
 my imagination busy trying to construct a theory of him 
 from these meagre hints. What would he be like ? I re- 
 member I said to myself, " I shall probably see him some 
 day, on the stairs, or somewhere ; and then I shall know. 
 But Norse ? Julien Norse ? It doesn't sound like a very 
 English name." 
 
 Tha;t is honestly as far as my curiosity about him went 
 at first. 
 
 4 
 
50 ME A CULPA. 
 
 But my father was more eager and less reserved. 
 
 " Let us hope," said he, " that he is a possible person. 
 Our world is so narrow, any respectable man or woman 
 would be a welcome addition. I must avow, I suffer from 
 the monotony of our life. I ennuie myself profoundly. A 
 new face, a new voice, mind, point of view — it will give us 
 a new sensation, a new interest. He is an artist, and he 
 is an Englishman ; both of which facts are in -his favor. 
 I will leave my card upon him. Eh ? " 
 
 " I wouldn't if I were you," I said. 
 
 " And why not ? You are the one who always says, 
 ' No, don't let's.' " - 
 
 " Well, at all events, I would wait until we have seen 
 him, imtil we have formed some notion of his style. He 
 may be, you know, like our other neighbors, quite out of 
 the question." 
 
 " But Madame Pamparagoux describes him as . . ." 
 
 " Oh, Madame Pamparagoux ! Her standard is so dif- 
 ferent to ours." 
 
 " True, true. Ah, well, we will leave it to time, we will 
 leave it to Destiny ! Che sara sard." 
 
 Many days passed, however, and he still remained but 
 a name to us. My father would occasionally hear him, 
 early iq the morning or late at night, moving about his 
 room ; but for the rest, he did not manifest himself in 
 any manner. 
 
 " That young man in the next room to your father's, how 
 he works ! " cried Madame Pamparagoux, once when I 
 met her in the vestibule. " He has his coffee every morn- 
 ing at seven, and leaves the house before eight. He works 
 all day at Julien's, and never comes home before midnight. 
 He burns his candle at both ends. Some day he will be 
 sorry." 
 
 At another time, as I was passing through the hall, she 
 ran out of her little office and exclaimed, " Tenen, Made- 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 51 
 
 moiselle ! It appears that M'sieu' your father has made a 
 conquest. That young man in your old room, the young 
 English painter, Monsieur Norse, to day he asked me, 
 'Who is the superb old gentleman I have just passed 
 upon the stairs ? He has altogether the air of a grand 
 seigneur, with his noble carriage and magnificent head. I 
 should like to paint him. What a Bayard he would 
 make ! ' " 
 
 My father did not disguise his pleasure when I reported 
 this compliment to him. 
 
 " Something tells me that we shall like the young fel- 
 low," he said. 
 
 But he protested that he could not remember having 
 passed any young man upon the stairs. 
 
 Then for nearly a week my father was confined to the 
 house by an ugly cough, and every evening I went alone 
 to the Concombre Rose, and had our dinner packed up 
 in a basket, which I brought away, to be eaten in our 
 room. 
 
 One evening — I being rather later than usual — a young 
 man left the restaurant at the same moment with myself. 
 When I reached the Hotel du Esprit, behold . . . 
 the same young man entered it after me. I heard his 
 footstep behind me on the stairs. As I had my hand 
 upon the knob of my father's door, the young man passed 
 me, and went into the next room. 
 
 " So ! That is he. That is our young English painter," 
 I said to myself. 
 
 " Well, and what does he turn out to be like ? " de- 
 manded my father, when I had told him of our chance 
 encounter. 
 
 "He is sufficiently well-looking, though scarcely hand- 
 ■jome, as Madame said. He is tall and strongly built, 
 but he stoops a good deal. An intelligent face, nose 
 rather aquiline, deep-set eyes, whose color I could not 
 
52 ME A CULPA. 
 
 distinguish, though they had the effect of dark brown or 
 black, dark complexion, and dark brown hair, mustache, 
 and beard, the beard being trimmed to a point." 
 
 " S-s-s-s ! " my father hissed, impatiently. " You give 
 me a catalogue of material details which signify nothing, 
 being disorganized, unsynthesized. What do I care for 
 the color of his eyes, the shape of his beard? Does he 
 look pleasant? Does he look interesting? Does he look 
 possible ? Is he of our kind ? Or is he insipid, com- 
 monplace, vulgar, like the others?" 
 
 "Oh, no, he doesn't look insipid, and by no means 
 commonplace or vulgar. He looks interesting, yes ; and 
 refined. He has an air. He looks clever, and like . . . 
 well, a gentleman, in short." 
 
 " You are very unsatisfactory. I am surprised that, in- 
 heriting as you do excellent powers of observation from 
 me, you should be so little able to convey yoi^r im- 
 pressions to another mind. I do not obtain the faintest 
 conception of him from all that you have said. I despair 
 of doing so ; therefore you need make no fiirther attempt 
 to describe him, but tell me in one word whether he struck 
 you as a man it would be agreeable for us to make a friend 
 of?" 
 
 "He strack me as a promising person, a man who 
 would have something to say, yes." 
 
 We had naturally spoken to Armidis of our neighbor, 
 and he had joined in our conjectures anent him with a 
 vivacity that was characteristic of his fresh, childlike tem- 
 perament. 
 
 " But," he said, " the fun of it all is that he is just ten 
 times as curious about you as you can possibly be about 
 him. He's just dying to make jovi acquaintance, poor 
 young man, and he can't think how to set to work. Of 
 course Madame Pamparagoux has turned herself inside 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 53 
 
 out. A Bussian nobleman in exile, suspected of Nihilistic 
 affiliations, and a lovely Russian girl, his daughter. The 
 other feUow, the constaht visitor, with the peachy com- 
 plexion, the white hair, the bland smile, that is Armidis 
 — yes, Armidis the composer, whose songs you know and 
 admire. Is it romantic, at least ? Does it appeal to the 
 imagination ? Then he's been struck by your appearance, 
 remember. Who is the superb old man? A Bayard, 
 parbleu ! And the young woman, ah ! the young woman 
 with the eyes, 'and the skin, and the hair ! ..." 
 
 I tried here to interpolate a sarcasm to the effect that 
 these were very extraordinary possessions indeed ; but 
 Armidis hurried on without heeding me. . . . 
 
 " He's a painter, a painter mind you. Therefore he has 
 the artistic temperament, he has a soul for color. He would 
 give his right hand to know you. He is at his wits' ends 
 to find a method of attack. Why ? Why can't he come 
 up and scrape acquaintance with you without prelimi- 
 naries ? Oh, because this is such a horrid, self-conscious, 
 stupid, cut-and-dried, conventional world. We haven't 
 the courage of our instincts, of our natural spontaneous 
 impulses. We are the slaves of tradition ; we wear our 
 ceremonies like fetters. We daren't be ourselves. Ugh ! 
 It is heart-rending." 
 
 A few evenings later we had just established ourselves, 
 Armidis, my father, and I, in our regular places at the 
 Concombre Rose, when Mr. Julien Norse came into the 
 restaurant, and took a seat at a table at the opposite side 
 of the room. 
 
 " There he is," I announced in an undertone. " That 
 is he." 
 
 " Tiens ! " cried my father, looking over at him with all 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Oh, no, not really," protested Armidis. " How can 
 you seek so to practise on our ignorance ? " 
 
54 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " But it is, really," I insisted. 
 
 " Oh, but then, cruel ! What did you want to libel the 
 poor young creature for? You told us he was English." 
 
 " Why, but so he is." 
 
 " Oh, no, never, never. He's never a Briton. He may 
 be a Russian, or a Frenchman, Turk, or Prussian, but he's 
 not an Englishman. He hasn't the English cut at aU. 
 Not the English physiognomy, nor the English way of 
 moving, nor the English anything. Moi, je connais ga 
 comme ma poche, vous savez. Heartless wretch ! You 
 might as well tell us he's Chinese." 
 
 " But Madame Pampaxagoux . . ." 
 
 " Tut, tut ! Don't Madame Pamparagoux me ! How 
 dare you? 'S.ex e&ron\&ry, pardieu ! Madaine Pampara- 
 goux, indeed ! As if I don't know ! Intimidation ! . . . 
 However, the slander shall be nailed. I'm going over to 
 ask him. I shan't allow him to rest under any such im- 
 putation. At least I shall afford him an opportunity to 
 clear himself. Fair play ! At the same time I shall say, 
 'Look here, my fine fellow, you're dying to know the 
 Banakins, and the Banakins are dying to know you, espe- 
 cially Mademoiselle, who pines for an interesting man. 
 AUons, let us put an end to this strained and ridiculous, 
 not to say pathetic, situation. Let us emancipate our- 
 selves. Come with me. I will present you. You shall 
 finish your dinner at our table.' . . . He will want 
 to hug me." 
 
 He rose to his feet, as if to carry out his threat. 
 
 " If you do anything of the kind," I said between my 
 teeth, " I win kill you." 
 
 He flung me a defiant laugh from over his shoulder, and 
 to the unspeakable consternation of my father and myseH 
 off he went, with a comical mincing gait, straight across 
 the room to the table of the young man, where he boldly 
 sat down and began to talk. As he talked the young man 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 55 
 
 first looked puzzled, then he smiled, then laughed out- 
 right, finally got up, and next moment he and Armidis 
 were bearing down upon us, arm in arm. 
 
 I felt as if my cheeks were afire. 
 
 " Allow me, Mr. Banakin, Miss Banakin, to present Mr. 
 Julian North," said Armidis, with a grand flourish. " It's 
 been a chapter of sad misunderstandings, from the first. 
 And all because you would accept the testimony of an in- 
 competent witness. Let it be a lesson to you. Julien 
 Norse, forsooth ! Aad English into the bargain ! Oh ! 
 dear, what is the world coming to ? Mr. North is an Am- 
 erican, a free born American, and he is shameless enough 
 to glory in it. Madame Pamparagoux ! . . . Do you 
 know " — he addressed the young man, but he pointed to 
 me, shaking his fat forefinger — " Do you know, she tried 
 to bully and cower me into admitting that you were Eng- 
 lish. Fancy ! As if I couldn't teU ! Oh, she's capable 
 of anything, anything. Sit down. Here comes your 
 soup." 
 
 Poor Mr. North looked rather embarrassed, but he man- 
 aged to make a sufficiently graceful bow, and then to de- 
 posit himself in a chair. There was a moment of silence 
 — awkward enough. But Armidis terminated it by begin- 
 ning to laugh — his merry, musical, contagious laughter. 
 We aU laughed. We had almost &fou-rire. It was a good 
 thing. It cleared the air. 
 
 " We are very glad to know you, Mr. North," my father 
 said. "If you are from America, no doubt we have ac- 
 quaintances in common. Por ten years, I had an Ameri- 
 can instructress for my daughter, a most talented and 
 accomplished woman, one Miss Goodale — Miss Laura 
 Goodale. Perhaps you know her, or her family ? " 
 
 " No," returned Mr. North, taking the question, which 
 seemed to me rather far-fetched, with the most respect- 
 ful seriousness, and speaking with an air of deliberation. 
 
56 MEA CULPA. 
 
 "I cannot remember anybody of that name. But per- 
 haps — perhaps we come from different parts of the coun- 
 try." 
 
 He had a singularly sweet voice, and scarcely any Am- 
 erican accent ; but he spoke with a slight hesitation, not 
 quite a drawl, as if he might at one time have been troubled 
 with stammering, but had cured himself. 
 
 " She came from Boston," said my father. 
 
 " Ah, yes, I come from New York.'' 
 
 " Of which Boston is a suburb, no? " 
 
 " It would make a . . . well, then, a ... a 
 B . . . Bostonian feel very sad to hear me answer 
 yes," he replied. 
 
 The difficulty that he had with the B of Boston con- 
 firmed my impression that he stammered a little. 
 
 " Are you to be long in Paris ? " Armidis inquired. 
 
 " Six months or so. I have been here three years and 
 a half already, and I came to stay four." 
 
 " Oh, then you are an old Parisian ; and we thought 
 you had just arrived. Human error ! " 
 
 " I have just changed my lodgings, that's all. I was at 
 the Hotel de Carthage, Eue Gay-Lussac, but I had a mis- 
 understanding with the landlady, and had to move. I've 
 been dining here at the Concombre Rose these two years 
 on and off. I have often seen you here, and wish . . . 
 well, then, wish . . . well, then, wished that I might 
 know you." 
 
 When he hesitated in his speech, it was his habit to 
 help himself over the rough place by repeating "well, 
 then," until he could go on. I don't know why, but the 
 effect of his half-stammer was somehow pleasant. 
 
 " Oh, dear," sighed Armidis, " what a contrary world ! 
 Two years lost irrecoverably! Why — why didn't you 
 come up and speak to us ? " 
 
 " I never should have dared." 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 57 
 
 " De Vavdace, de Vavdace, et toujours de I'avdace ! " cried 
 Axmidis. " Consider me." 
 
 "Yes . . . but . . . pas trop d'audace," re- 
 joined Mr. North. 
 
 " Well, his impduence ! " exclaimed Armidis, drawing 
 himself up with mock resentment, and appealing to my 
 father and me. " I like that. Trop d'audace, indeed ! 
 To snub me in this public manner ! " 
 
 " I have, as you see," confessed Mr. North, " a great 
 talent for . , . well, as the French say, for putting 
 my foot in my plate." 
 
 This set us all off laughing again. When sobriety was 
 restored, my father took the word. 
 
 "You had in mind, no doubt, Mr. North, the inscrip- 
 tions over the three gates of Busyrane," he suggested. 
 
 " No. What were they ? " the young man wondered. 
 
 " They are quoted somewhere from Spenser by your 
 American writer Emerson. Over the first gate it was 
 written, Be bold. And over the second gate. Be bold, be 
 bold, and evermore be bold. But then, over the third 
 gate. Be not too bold ! " 
 
 My father made his little point with great gusto, and 
 in his stateliest, courtliest manner, punctuating it with a 
 bow. I could see that the young man looked at him with 
 admiring eyes, and listened to him with deference ; for all 
 which I liked him none the less. My father, perceiving 
 the same thing, was encouraged to continue. . . . 
 
 " In happier days, sir, when I found my dearest occu- 
 pation and distraction in my library, I was equally an 
 earnest lover and an industrious student of the works of 
 your immortal Emerson. I even translated some of his 
 poems, most inadequately, into the Russian language. 
 But nowadays, alas, I have little time for such pleasures. 
 My daughter and I are both, in our respective paths, 
 condemned to take part in the struggle for existence. 
 
58 M£!A CULPA. 
 
 You must know that we are unfortunate enough to be in 
 exile." 
 
 " Yes, I know that ; and I hope ..." He hesitated, 
 and colored up ..." I hope you will let me say 
 that I honor you for it. It seems to me that no decent 
 man could help being a Nihilist, if he lived in Bussia." 
 
 " Look out ! Where is your foot now ? " cried Armidis, 
 laughing. 
 
 "A Nihilist?" my father repeated, at the same time. 
 " Oh, no, let us hope not. I should like to explain to 
 you . . ." 
 
 And he seized the occasion to set forth in some detail 
 his differences with the Nihilists, or Revolutionists, and 
 to explain the causes of his o^ti residence abroad. 
 
 " All the same," said Mr. North, when he had done, 
 " if you A\-ill allow me to say so, I think I should be a 
 Nihilist, if I lived in Russia. I could not take a reason- 
 able or philosophic view of things, if I lived in Russia. I 
 had a friend here in Paris, a Russian, a sculptor — ^he's 
 dead now, poor fellow ; died of consumption — who prej- 
 udiced me a good deal. It was a long story, but the 
 point of it was this. When he was a lad, fifteen or sixteen 
 years old, his mother was . . . well, then . . . 
 his mother was . . . well, then . . . flogged to 
 death, by order of the Governor, or chief man, or what- 
 ever he is called, of the district where they lived. I'm 
 sure I should be a Nihilist, I should be for exterminatuig 
 the whole tree, root and branch, if I lived in a country 
 where they do things like that." 
 
 " Oh, how horrible, how horrible ! " I cried, involun- 
 tarily. 
 
 " My opinion sums itself up in three words," said my 
 father. " It is worse than futile to fight the Devil with 
 fire. You cannot overcome evil with evil. Things are 
 wrong in Russia ; that, unfortunately, must be admitted; 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 59 
 
 but dynamite, terrorism, anarchy, are equally wrong ; and 
 two wrongs do not make a right." 
 
 " Oh, goodness, gracious me ! " expostulated Armidis, 
 grievously, writhing in his chair. " When are you going 
 to finish ? I've stood it in silence just as long as I can. 
 So horrid ! Such a shocking subject ! "What have we 
 done to deserve it ? And at dinner, too ! Wl^en we ought 
 to forget that there are such things as pain and evil in 
 the world. Do let's talk of something else. Let's smoke : 
 smoke's a disinfectant. Here — here are cigarettes." 
 While he held out a paper of cigarettes with one hand, 
 he dropped five lumps of sugar into his cup of black coffee 
 with the other. " What shall we do to recover our 
 frivolity? Let's — let's go over to my rooms and have 
 some music." 
 
 To this proposition, after some little debate, we assented 
 unanimously ; and, as the evening was mild, we proceeded 
 to the Avenue de la Grande Armee on the roof of an 
 omnibus. Having seen us comfortably established in his 
 work-room, Armidis begged us to excuse him for a little, 
 alleging that he had to go out to make a few emplettes — it 
 was a favorite word of his ; I never knew him to use the 
 English, purchases. ' 
 
 "What a joy he is," said Mr. North, after he had gone. 
 " I don't know when I met anybody so ... so in- 
 vraisemhldble, or so fascinating." 
 
 " Invraisemblahle ! It is exactly the word for him," 
 cried my father. * 
 
 " Wliat's more, he's as good and kind as he is surpris- 
 ing and entertaining," said I. 
 
 " Oh, for that — pas mal," my father acquiesced. 
 
 " Of course," Mr. North went on, " I've known him by 
 reputation this long while. Everybody knows his music. 
 But the man himself is an experience. I had always sup- 
 posed he was French, or something. The name sounds 
 
60 MEA CULPA. 
 
 so — Victor Armidis. Yet he turns out to be an English- 
 man." 
 
 " Half English, half Greek," I explained. 
 
 " However, he is more English than anything else," 
 put in my father. "He was born in England, and 
 educated there. He has never lived in Greece ; I doubt 
 if he has ever even been there. Of late years he has 
 spent most of his time in France and Italy. But he is 
 really of no nation, of no class or variety. He is sid 
 generis. A freak of nature. What you call a sport, a 
 spontaneous variation. He prides himseK upon acknowl- 
 edging no fatherland, upon being a citizen of no country, 
 a subject of no throne. I remember once I quoted to 
 him in jest those lines of Sir Walter Scott — 
 
 ' Breathes there a man with soul so dead 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 This is my own, my native land ? ' 
 
 whereupon Armidis instantly responded, 'Yes, I am 
 that man.' " 
 
 " I'm sure I never can thank him enough for comiag 
 up and speaking to me this evening," said Mr. North. 
 
 "Oh, his sang-froid, his impudence, is imrivaUed," 
 observed my father. " And that was a fair specimen of 
 it. I should be curious to learn how he excused himself 
 to you." 
 
 "Why, that was just the beauty of it. He didn't 
 excuse himself at all. He simply sat down at my table, 
 and said quietly, as if it were the most natural thiag in 
 the world, ' Good-evening. Hadn't you better come and 
 sit with us? It's bad for the . . . bad for the 
 . . . well, then . . . the digestion to eat alone. 
 My companions — you know who they are, your neighbors. 
 As for me, my name is Armidis, Victor Armidis, if you 
 set any store by names. The Banakins will vouch for 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 61 
 
 my respectability, thougli appearances are against m© ; 
 or I can refer you to my banker. I see you're an Amer- 
 ican ..." Of course I was overjoyed." 
 
 At this juncture we were interrupted by the return of 
 our host. 
 
 "Well," he demanded, "is there anything left of my 
 charaoter? Or have you talked it all to shreds and 
 tatters? . . . Materials for a supper ; we'll be hungry 
 by and by," he added, referring to a basket that he 
 carried on his arm. " Now, you two men," he went on, 
 " are only here as chaperons. Monica Paulovna and I 
 are going to make a joyful noise, but you needn't feel 
 under the slightest obligation to listen. You may talk 
 together, if you like, or you may read. Here's literature," 
 and he threw an armful of books down upon the floor 
 between them. 
 
 Then he led me to the piano, and began to sing over 
 various of his recent songs to my accompaniment. After 
 that he sang several other songs, not of his own composi- 
 tion. Finally, at his request, I played a little. And so 
 we went on till past eleven o'clock. The two chaperons, 
 meantime, disdained the books that Armidis had offered 
 them, and formed a very attentive audience, giving us the 
 benefit of their comments and applause. 
 
 " Now let us sup," said our composer. 
 
 He cleared the litter from off his table, sweeping most 
 of it summarily upon the floor, and opening his basket, 
 proceeded to lay its contents out in a row. First came a 
 magnum of champagne ; then a paper of sweet cakes and 
 pastries ; then a cube of galantine, a loaf of bread, a pot 
 of pat6-de-f oies-gras, a box of marrons-glaces, and another 
 of assorted bonbons. 
 
 After which he left the room for a minute, and when he 
 came back he bore a big tray, covered with knives and 
 forks, dishes and glasses. 
 
62 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " Now, then, to the table," he cried. " And everyone to 
 his taste." 
 
 He popped the cork out of the magnum and filled our 
 glasses. . . 
 
 Oh, we had a merry supper. We sat over it, talking 
 and laughing, till almost one o'clock. Armidis consumed 
 an incredible quantity of sweets, smoked aii incredible 
 number of cigarettes, said an incredible number of amus- 
 ing things, and imbibed quite half the champagne — dis- 
 solving if you please, three or four lumps of sugar in every 
 glass, for which my father called him a heathen, while 
 he plaintively defended himself by saying, " Ingratitude ! 
 I go and get vin brut, sour enough to melt a Christian's 
 teeth, because I'm unselfish, and I know that the Histo- 
 rian of Bussia, being an ascetic, prefers it so ; and then he 
 makes faces and snubs me and calls me naughty names, 
 because I temper it to the shorn lamb. Viper ! " And 
 all the while his face, with its beautiful bright eyes, its 
 pink and white complexion, and its fleecy hair and 
 beard, glowed like an incarnation of happiness and good- 
 humor. 
 
 "I would as soon think of sugaring this galantine," said 
 my father. 
 
 " AVell, and v/hy not ? " retorted Armidis. " I assure 
 you it's very good with sugar." 
 
 " Good ! " gasped my father. " I believe there is no 
 length to which you would not go for the sake of a para- 
 dox. I— I defy you to try it." 
 
 " Needless to defy me. I was going to do it anyhow," 
 said Armidis, with perfect coolness. Whereupon he cut 
 off a generous slice of galantine, snowed it over v/ith soft 
 sugar, and deliberately ate it, with every sign of hearty 
 relish. 
 
 " It is too much, too much," sighed my father, rising. 
 " After that we must beat a retreat. Who can teU what 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 63 
 
 he may not do next? I cannot feel that we are safe in 
 his abode." 
 
 So we put on our things to go home. 
 
 " I'll escort you to your door," said Armidis. 
 
 And late as it was, he did so. He haUed a Victoria in 
 the street, and in that, whUe he and Mr. North occupied 
 the strapontin, we were whirled across the town to the 
 Eue St. Jacques. 
 
 At our door he asked Mr. North, " Are you in a hurry 
 to go to bed? If not, prithee come and take a walk with 
 me. I for my part, never go to bed till daylight. The 
 day is the best time to sleep ; and three or four in the 
 afternoon is the proper time for rising. Let us go for a 
 walk. We will talk over the Banakins." 
 
 So while my father and I were climbing upstairs toward 
 our bedrooms, he and Mr. North were walking off arm in 
 arm in the direction of the Boulevard. 
 
m. 
 
 Thencefobth we saw a gi-eat deal of Julian North. He 
 became, in fact, a member of our little circle. Almost 
 every evening he formed one of our party at the Con- 
 combre Bose ; then, after dinner, he would very likely go 
 with us for a stroU through the Luxembourg, in the soft 
 spring twilight, and when it got dark, perhaps he would 
 return with us to the Hotel du St. Esprit, to finish the 
 evening in my father's room. As the season advanced, 
 moreover, we would spend the fine Sundays that came in 
 the country somewhere — at Nogent-sur-Marne perhaps, 
 perhaps in the Bois de Meudon, sometimes as far away as 
 Fontainebleau, sometimes no farther than Suresnes — and 
 it was seldom that Mr. North did not accompany us. 
 
 On that first night of our acquaintance the ice between 
 him and myself had scarcely got broken. But only the 
 next afternoon, as I was leaving a house in the Boulevard 
 Haussmann, where I had given my last lesson for that 
 day, whom should I meet almost at the door but Mr. 
 North ! And after we had greeted each other, and ex- 
 claimed upon the coincidence that had brought us to- 
 gether, it turned out that we were both upon our way 
 home ; whereupon he said, laughing, " EeaUy, I don't see 
 but you will have to let me walk with you." 
 
 So we walked home together through the lovely spring 
 weather ; and as we walked we talked ; and somehow we 
 seemed to draw each other out, so that very soon we were 
 talking as eagerly and freely as if we had been old friends. 
 At first we talked of Armidis, and he told me how the 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 65 
 
 composer had kept him up, tramping the streets with 
 him, till four o'clock in the morning, entertaining him 
 with a flow of quaint paradox and whimsical drollery. 
 Then we talked of my father, for whom he professed an 
 enthusiastic admiration, saying that he was the most 
 beautiful old man he had erer seen. Then we talked of 
 Art, discovering upon that theme many ideas, ideals, 
 likes, and dishkes in common ; then of Paris, of the Pari- 
 sians, of France and the French, of oui- Latin Quarter, of 
 the Hotel du St. Esprit, the Concombre Eose, the mani- 
 fold pleasantnesses and unpleasantnesses of Bohemia ; at 
 last of ourselves. 
 
 I remember, while we were speaking of the French, I 
 said that I liked French women very much, but that 
 French men were odious to me. He answered to this, 
 " Oh, no, you are a little unjust. Frenchmen, if you bar 
 out their attitude toward women, are very good fellows. 
 But a Frenchman regards a woman as if she were a piece 
 of bread." 
 
 He paused, as if he had finished ; and I asked, " How 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, first he wants to butter her, and then eat her," 
 he said, which struck me as rather good. 
 
 At last we talked of ourselves. By iasensible degrees 
 we had drifted to the ground of personalities and confi- 
 dences ; and almost before I was aware of what I had done, 
 I had told him of my work as a teacher, of its difficulties 
 and anxieties, of its compensations, and of my secret as- 
 pirations as a musician ; while he told me of his work at 
 Juhen's, of the studio he shared with two friends in the 
 Boulevard de CHchy — " Whence I had just come when I 
 had the good fortune to meet you," he said — of the pict- 
 ure he had sent to the Salon, and how he hoped it would 
 be well hung, but supposed it wouldn't be, and how if 
 only somebody should be inspired to buy it, he could pro- 
 5 
 
66 MEA CULPA. 
 
 long his stay in Paris for a while, whereas, otherwise, he 
 would have to return to America in the autumn — " Because 
 then I shall have finished my four years as a Valentine 
 prizeman, and my allowance will come to a deadly stand- 
 still, and I must go home to join in the scramble for 
 bread and butter." A certain Mr. Valentine, he explained, 
 had died, and by his will had left a sum of money to estab- 
 lish the Valentine Prize Fund, the income of which was 
 to maintain perpetually four American art-students in 
 Paris, each receiving three thousand francs a year for 
 four years ; and every autumn one of the scholarships 
 fell vacant, and was thrown open to competition ; and ui 
 the competition of 1879 Mr. North had been the winner. 
 
 We did not walk very fast ; indeed, we sauntered along 
 in a most leisurely fashion, stopping every now and then 
 to look into a shop-window, or to admire some street 
 vista, or some effect of light and shadow, or to watch 
 some of the many tragedies and comedies that are always 
 to be witnessed on the Paris pavements ; and thus it took 
 us considerably more than an hour to reach the Eue St. 
 Jacques ; and by that time we had quite forgotten that we 
 were mere acquaintances, who had only met the day 
 before. 
 
 I remember that when I was alone in my room, after 
 that walk and talk, I felt wonderfully exhilarated and 
 elated, and that I could not help singing as I went about 
 the things I had to do. 
 
 We all agreed that our life was fuller and pleasanter 
 for his entrance into it. My father called him a precious 
 acquisition. " I cannot quite make him out," he added. 
 " He has perfectly the manners and the little traits and 
 habits of a man of our own world. In his dress, in his 
 carriage, in a thousand small ways which cannot be defined, 
 though they are unmistakable, as well as in the fine draw- 
 ing and modelling of his face, he reveals the gentleman, 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 67 
 
 the man not only with breeding and education, but with 
 a pedigree. You cannot make a gentleman in one, two, 
 no, not even in three generations, any more than you can 
 make a gentleman's park. Some centuries are required. 
 This young man is a gentleman in the old, the proper 
 sense of the word. Yet here he is living the life of noth- 
 ing more nor less than a poor Bohemian art-student ; 
 lodging in the Hotel du St. Esprit, dining at the Concom- 
 bre Bose, evincing his poverty by a hundred signs. Ca 
 m'intrigue. You know I am not romantic, my reason is 
 always paramount to my imagination; yet sometimes, 
 when I observe him, I say to myself, I wiU lay a wager 
 that this is some grand seigneur in disguise." 
 
 " They don't have grands seigneurs in America," said 
 Armidis ; " and as for your sage observations about gen- 
 tlemen and gentlemen's parks, it seems to me that some- 
 where in the course of my reading I have once or twice 
 before met with a like sentiment, similarly expressed. . * 
 But North is apparently a very respectable young person, 
 and certainly a good listener, .which is more important. 
 He's disgracefully roimd-shouldered, and he hasn't flesh 
 enough, and he's too enthusiastic, especially on the sub- 
 ject of Whistler's painting, and on that of Monica Paul- 
 ovna's hair. But his eyes are honest and intelligent, his 
 forehead is well shaped, he has a sweet mouth, and very 
 nice, nervous hands. His voice is pleasant, his sup- 
 pressed stammer adds a note of pathos, and his accent 
 is singularly decent for an American. He has a good 
 deal of humor, and keenly appreciates my best things. 
 "Whether he can paint or not, we'll know when the Salon 
 opens. Meantime, let's enjoy him." 
 
 To me, when my father was not present, Armidis 
 said, with a quizzical laugh, " For you, my dear, he'll be 
 a valuable, though probably in the long run a painful ex- 
 perience. Oh, I see how things are moving. Fie, fie ! 
 
68 MEA CULPA. 
 
 You pale women with the red hair are the very deuce and 
 all where men are concerned; and those melancholy, 
 artistic, grand-seigneurish fellows, with the pointed 
 beards, are terribly dangerous to female hearts. But I'll 
 thank you to remember that except for me he'd have re- 
 mained a stranger to you. Poor young thiag ! " 
 
 I paid no attention to Armidis's insinuations. That 
 they might have a soul of seriousness under their appear- 
 ance of levity, did not occur to me. I liked Mr. North 
 very much indeed. I found him extremely interesting. 
 His stammer, and a certain air of sadness that he had, 
 made me feel sorry for him. And I realized that, un- 
 til we knew him, there had been a great void in my 
 life, due to my ha^ang no friend or companion of any- 
 thing like my own age, but of which I had not been 
 clearly conscious until now that it was filled. It seemed 
 perfectly natui-al that in our little party of four he and I 
 should usually pair off together, leaving Armidis and my 
 father to each other. 
 
 Wlien the Salon opened we all went with him to see 
 his picture. 
 
 " It is on the Hue," he said, " which is better luck than 
 I ever dared to di-eam of. . . For the rest. . . ? " 
 
 He expressed the point of interrogation by a suspen- 
 sion of the voice, a shrug as of resignation, and a glance 
 as of questioning despair. 
 
 The title of his picture was Une Reverie; and it repre- 
 sented a woman, life-size, nude, lying at full length upon 
 a tiger skin, a wealth of black hair in disarray over her 
 shoulders and down her breast, a half emptied demi- 
 tasse of coffee at her elbow, a yeUow-covered novel laid 
 face downward on the floor at her side, with her right 
 hand resting on it, and between the pink fingers of her 
 other hand a light cigarette, while from her lips a deli- 
 cate stream of smoke wound upward, and her eyes fol- 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 69 
 
 lowed it with an expression of dreamy, sensuous languor. 
 It was painted in the most advanced realistic manner, 
 ■with a broad, free stroke, very vigorous, very effective ; 
 the drawing was faultless, the flesh full of life and blood, 
 the atmosphere so palpable, so warm and humid, that it 
 never suggested itself to you to think, " She would be 
 cold." 
 
 " Your technique deserves all praise," said my father. 
 " Drawing, modelling, coloring, textures, values, are irre- 
 proachable. But, if you will permit me to be frank, I do 
 not like your point of view. Mark that I find no fault 
 with your subject- -a nude woman, lazily enjoying her- 
 self with her novel and her cigarette, is a perfectly good 
 subject — only with the point of view from which you have 
 treated it. It is too material, too literal, it lacks that 
 spiritual note which should always be present in art. It 
 represents Ufe, but it offers no criticism upon it." 
 
 " Tut, tut ? " cried Armidis. " Heresy ! The point of 
 view is right. Criticism of life ! Philistine ! Bour- 
 geois ! . . . Kindred spirit, brother Pagan, accept the 
 hand of fellowship." 
 
 He shook the painter by the hand. 
 " I regret but one thing," he went on, " and that is 
 your title. Tour title is literary, it suggests a story, and 
 is therefore to be deplored. However, I forgive you that 
 offence, if you wiU never do so any more. The treatment, 
 if you vidll permit me to be frank, is very fresh and dis- 
 criminating, but a little, just a little, yoimg. It may re- 
 ceive an honorable mention ; you see they have hung it 
 with respect ; it could not be better hung. But if you 
 hope that it will find a purchaser, you are storing up a 
 disappointment for yourself. It is over the heads of the 
 people who buy pictures. They, too, are Philistines. 
 They, too, will demand a criticism of Ufa, a point of view. 
 I see you have French blood in your veins." 
 
70 MEA CULPA. 
 
 "Why, how can you tell that?" Mr. North queried, 
 in manifest surprise. 
 
 " Am I blind ? How can I teU that you have a nose on 
 your face ? " 
 
 " Why, do I look French ? I never knew that before.'' 
 
 " Look French indeed ! Hear him. Vanitevx ! No, 
 you look like a Yankee of the Yankees — tout ce qu'il y ade 
 plus Yankee. But you draw too well. The French twist 
 to your brush. And then no Yankee, no Anglo-Saxon, 
 could have been so inexorably true to his art, could so re- 
 lentlessly have left the sentimental element out of his pic- 
 tm-e, the criticism of life, the point of view. No Teuton, 
 in short. The painter of pure Teutonic race must always 
 either preach a sermom or teU a story. You have done 
 neither. You have assimilated the French idea too per- 
 fectly not to have a French ancestor somewhere up your 
 family tree." 
 
 " How do you account for the fact that the greatest hv- 
 ing painter, he who is most strictly and purely an Artist, 
 and nothing but an Artist, happens to be a Teuton, an 
 Anglo-Saxon, and a Yankee ? " 
 
 " If it were true, I should accoimt for it simply by say- 
 ing that no rules apply to great geniuses, that Genius by 
 its very nature is an exception to all rules, and a law unto 
 itself. But, my dear fellow, your premises are false; the 
 gentleman to whom you refer is not a Teuton, is not an 
 Anglo-Saxon. He may have a tithe of Anglo-Saxon blood 
 flowing remotely somewhere in his body, but all that goes 
 to his brain is Celtic, which he inherits from his ancestors 
 the McNeills. However, this is trifling. You evade my 
 question. Confess, are you not partially French ? " 
 
 "Half French," he confessed. "My mother was 
 French." 
 
 I thought, as he pronounced that word, mother, his 
 voice softened almost imperceptibly, and trembled a Uttle. 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 71 
 
 As we were walking home — my father and Axmidis 
 leading us by some little distance — he said to me, " I see 
 you didn't like it. I don't wonder. I shall never paint 
 anything in that vein again. Your father was right. It's 
 sordid, it's of the earth earthy. It has no spirit, no signifi- 
 cance, no point. You look at it just as you would listen 
 to an anecdote ; then you ask, ' Well, what of it ? What's 
 the point ? ' I meant to paint a woman ; I realize now 
 that I have painted simply an animal, the female of the 
 genus homo. But you see — I don't know whether you 
 will like what I am going to say, but it's the truth — you 
 see, I did it before . . . well, then, before . . . 
 before I knew you. Yes, that is it. Before I knew you. 
 My ideas have changed a good deal since then. I've had 
 some new light." 
 
 I made no reply to this speech of his. It embarrassed 
 me ; it filled me with a vague uneasiness ; yet neither the 
 embarrassment nor the uneasiness was though unpleas- 
 ant. It was as if he had touched an exquisitely sensitive 
 spot, that tingled at the touch, yet somehow craved to be 
 touched again. 
 
 "By Jove," he exclaimed suddenly, "when I tell my- 
 self the simple fact, that only a fortnight ago we didn't 
 know each other, had never even spoken to each other — 
 oh, it's preposterous, it's incredible. How mysterious it 
 is, the way years pass, and you live your life in a suffi- 
 ciently contented fashion, never realizing that there is 
 anything wanting to it, and then one day you meet some- 
 body, in a most casual manner, a lot of sheer accidents 
 having led up to it, and, the first thing you know, that 
 person has become a power in your life, perhaps the 
 power, the determining influence, in relation to whom all 
 the meaning and purpose of your life shape themselves ! 
 And then you can't realize that you had ever really lived 
 at aU before that day. Your former existence has sunken 
 
72 MEA CULPA. 
 
 away, into oblivion and indifference, like tlie months 
 before you were born. All your former ambitions seem 
 so trivial, your former pains and pleasures, hopes and 
 fears, so absurdly petty and insignificant. It's terrify- 
 ing ; because you can't help thinking, What — for ia- 
 stance — what if I hadn't just happened to hit on the 
 Hotel du St. Esprit, among all the hotels of the 
 Latin Quarter ? What if I had gone elsewhere than to 
 the Ooncombre Rose for my dinner that night a fortnight 
 or so ago ? It takes my breath away. How strange it 
 is ! I can't help half believing in destiny after all. Why, 
 it's too humiliating to believe that these very most decisive 
 crises in one's existence are the results of pure blind 
 chance, isn't it ? " 
 
 He said all this rather in the tone of a man solilo- 
 quizing, than in that of a man addressing an interlocutor, 
 so again I was spared the necessity of answering. But 
 his words sank into my mind, and many times afterward 
 came back to me, the subject of reflection and specula- 
 tion. 
 
 This much I may say with all truth : that I supposed 
 of course he meant by the pronoun " you " not me alone, 
 but our party, Axmidis and my father and myself. 
 
IV. 
 
 One evening, in the Jardin du Luxembourg, he told 
 me something of his life before he had come to Paris. 
 
 My father and Armidis were seated, smoking and 
 chatting, at one of the tables of the little cafe ; Mr. North 
 and I were walking up and down the terrace by the 
 fountain, within sight of them, but out of hearing. The 
 air was warm and still ; the distant, muffled murmur of 
 the town was like a soft under-tone, to which the occa- 
 sional liquid notes of the birds in the trees furnished a 
 pleasant desultory counterpoint; there was a dim pink 
 light in the sky above the house-tops, reflected from the 
 sunset. I had spoken of my mother, whom I could just 
 vaguely remember, a pale beautiful face smiling upon 
 me in my childhood. Then he-spoke to me of his. 
 
 She was French, he said ; not of France, but of New 
 Orleans, in America — a Creole. In 1858 she had mar- 
 ried his father, Eustace North, and left the South to go 
 and live in New York, where her husband was a bar- 
 rister. . . . 
 
 "It was the wildest sort of a love-match. She be- 
 longed to a family of the most devout Catholics, while 
 his people were of the sternest sect of New England 
 Puritans. They had to run away together, and it was 
 years before their parents relented, and then they did so 
 only in a half-hearted way. She was eighteen when she 
 married, and scarcely nineteen when I was bom. I never 
 felt that she was very much older than myself. She had 
 the gift of perpetual youth, of perpetual girlhood. She 
 
74 MEA CULPA. 
 
 died when slie was thirty-eight, and I was then almost a, 
 grown man." 
 
 He said she was not only the sweetest and the gentlest 
 woman he had known in aU his life, " With that gentle- 
 ness and sweetness that are almost peculiar to a certain 
 type of Frenchwoman," but she was also the most beau- 
 tiful and the most brilliant. . . . 
 
 " I used to sit still and look at her for hours at a stretch, 
 just revelling in her wonderful beauty ; and I have never 
 heard any < me, man or woman, talk as she could talk ; 
 with such wisdom, such wit, such lightness of touch, such 
 simplicity, and yet such warmth and color. She had 
 temperament and imagination. When I would read a 
 story or a fairy-tale, I always thought of the heroine as 
 being like my mother. I loved her not only with the 
 tenderness, the affection, that one naturally gives one's 
 mother, but with an intensity, an ardor, that amounted 
 to a passion, an adoration. She fascinated me, dazzled 
 me. She was like one of my fairy-princesses in flesh and 
 blood. And so kind with it all, so untiiingly kiad and 
 good to me ! . . . Well, then, as time went on, as I 
 grew older, I began to realize that my father, . . . 
 well, then, . . . well, then, hate, . . . well, then, 
 that my father hated me. He had always been very 
 stern and distant with me, and little by little, as I cut my 
 wisdom-teeth, it dawned upon me, it was borne in upon 
 me, that I was hateful to him. He was a very quiet, unde- 
 monstrative man, apparently very cold ; but it was really 
 a case of still waters running deep, of fire in ice. He 
 had an intensely passionate nature, and he worshipped 
 his wife like a lover, and he hated me as a lover might 
 hate a rival. I came gradually to understand this, and I 
 saw that she knew it too. If he was present, she would 
 hardly notice me, or would do so only a la d&robee, when 
 his back was turned, or he didn't happen to be looking. 
 
JULIAN NOBTH. 75 
 
 Then, when he was absent, she would take me to her, 
 and cover me with kisses, and tears, and caresses, as if 
 to make up to me for her neglect. Oh, I wasn't exuber- 
 antly happy." . . . 
 
 He interrupted himself long enough to roll a cigarette ; 
 but when he had finished it, instead of lighting it, he 
 suddenly crumpled it up in his hand, and threw it away. 
 Then he went on. . . . 
 
 " She had always been very frail and delicate ; and at 
 last she began to keep to the house, and then to her room, 
 and then to her bed. She was fading away little by little. 
 My father used to go about the house, speaking to no one, 
 wringing his hands, and staggering almost as though he 
 was drunk. Oh, it was frightful. Just before Christmas, 
 1878, she died. ... I didn't see my father for many 
 days, nearly a fortnight. He hid himself in his bedroom 
 all that time. Then one evening he sent word for me to 
 come to him in the library. He was very pale, and thin, 
 and old-looking ; and his eyes — oh, they were terrible, so 
 wild, so desperate. I went toward him, impulsively, 
 with my hands stretched out. But he stopped me. 
 " Only a word, only one word," he said. " I have only 
 one word to speak to you." I waited, and at last he went 
 on. This is what he said to me. He said, " Your 
 mother is dead. You have kiUed her. Yes, just as cer- 
 tainly as if you had stabbed her, as if you had poisoned 
 her. Why did you ever come into the world, to thrust 
 yourself between her and me, to rob me of her, first of 
 her love, and then of her life? You have killed her. 
 She never loved me after your birth as she had before it ; 
 and ever since, she has been failing, failing. She never 
 recovered from the pain you caused her — yes, you ! For 
 nineteen years, nineteen years, I, I who loved her, I have 
 had to watch her dying inch by inch — aU thanks to you. 
 And now she's dead. Only thirty-eight years old, in the 
 
76 MEA CULPA. 
 
 very prime of lier womanhood, and she is dead. Oh, you 
 may guess how I love you. . . . Now I want you to 
 go away. I can't bear to see you, to feel that you are in 
 the house. Go away. Wherever you please, only some- 
 where out of my sight, out of my hearing. I will make 
 you an allowance, as much as you please. Only go. Go, 
 and save me from the necessity of seeing you, of being 
 reminded of you. That is all. That is what I sent for 
 you to say." 
 
 Mr. North paused for a moment ; then, abruptly, he 
 hurried on. " Of coui'se after that, after he had spoken to 
 me in that way, I had no idea of taking an allowance 
 from him. I had known for a long time that he wasn't 
 fond of me, but I had never dreamed that it was as bad 
 as that ; that he held me responsible for my mother's ill- 
 ness ; he had never spoken to me on the subject before, 
 and I had only felt in a general way that he disliked me. 
 Now, what he had said rankled. My pride got up, and I 
 was hot with resentment. ... I was within a year or so 
 of getting my degree at Columbia CoUege ; but I'd always 
 wanted to be a painter, and I dare say I had neglected 
 my classics a good deal to work in the studio of an old 
 Frenchman, Monsieur OudineUe, who was established in 
 New York. So, after that talk with my father, I left 
 college, and went in for painting in deadlier earnest than 
 ever. And in September I was lucky enough to win the 
 Valentine Prize. Meantime my father had written to me, 
 offering to settle an annuity upon me, and I had written 
 back, rather fiercely I am afraid, declining. My pride 
 was still up. Now I wrote him again, just three words, tell- 
 ing him that I was about to go abroad. That letter he never 
 answered. . . . After I'd been here about a year, I re- 
 ceived one day by post from New York a document, 
 sealed with a red seal, which proved to be what they call 
 a citation to attend the probate of his will. It was the 
 
JULIAN NORTH. Y7 
 
 first intimation I had had of his death. By his will he 
 left aU of his property to variotfe charities, all of it, noth- 
 ing to me. Though, after all, I can't say that I miaded 
 that especially ; I could have contested the wUl, you 
 know, and very possibly broken it; but my pride was 
 still up. The worst of it is, I've never been able to get it 
 out of my mind that perhaps what he said was true. I've 
 never been able to get that out of my mind. I see her 
 face, her beautiful, sad face, I see it white and worn with 
 suffering ; and then I think. Yes, very likely what he said 
 is true, and I was the cause of it all. My life has been 
 purchased at the price of her broken health and death," 
 
 He told me this as we paced backward and forward 
 through the gathering dusk along the terrace that borders 
 the basin of the great fountain iu the Luxembourg. It 
 did not occur to me to think it strange that he should be 
 telling it to me ; it seemed the most natural thing in the 
 world. After he had done we continued to walk up and 
 down, side by side, for a while, without speaking. He 
 had told his story with an attempt at coolness, even ia- 
 difference ; but it was plain to me that he was deeply 
 moved. My heart yearned out toward him with a strong 
 compassionate emotion,, that yet somehow was not alto- 
 gether sad. It was nearly dark ; only a thin streak of 
 dull red, low down in the west, was left of the gloaming. 
 Presently he stood still, and leaned over the stone balus- 
 trade that fences the terrace, and looked off across the 
 water. I could see, dark as it was, that he was very pale. 
 I waited at his side, not daring to speak, but longing in 
 some way to be of comfort to him. . . . 
 
 Suddenly, he put out his hand, and took mine, and held 
 it for a minute with a gentle pressure. I did not think 
 of drawing my hand away, or of resenting his taking it. 
 It seemed as though the pity for him, pent in my heart, 
 somehow passed out to him at this contact. He held my 
 
78 MEA CULPA. 
 
 hand, and pressed it ; and it was not till he had released 
 it, that all at once I felt « wild thrill and shock, and the 
 pulses in my temples began to beat so fast and hard, it 
 seemed as though all the strength in my body was drawn 
 to them, and as though I should faint for weakness. 
 
 " There ! You must forgive me for inflicting my stam- 
 mering confidences upon you," he said. " Only, perhaps 
 it is as well that you should know me for what I am — a 
 penniless adventurer." He gave a dry little laugh. " I 
 never regretted that money tiU just these last few 
 weeks. Perhaps you'U think me sordid and mercenary to 
 regret it at all. I suppose your father will be wondering 
 what has become of us. It's got so dark." 
 
 Mechanically I followed him back to where my father 
 and Armidis were stiU seated, at the cafe. Then all I 
 wanted was to be alone : a great eagerness to get away, 
 by myself, in my own room. Yet at the same time I felt 
 a strange reluctance to part with him, a strange joy in the 
 sense that he was present. 
 
 All that night I did not sleep. All night I kept feeling 
 that hand-pressure over and over again ; and little things 
 that he had said, and little inflections of his voice, kept 
 coming back to me ; and a hundred times I asked myself, 
 "What did he mean? Did he mean. . . .? Could 
 he have meant. . . . ? Oh, no, that isn't possible. 
 And yet. . . . !" 
 
 I was miserable, and frightened, and bewildered, and 
 ashamed, and happier — oh, happier than I had ever sup- 
 posed a woman could be. 
 
 A 
 
But the next morning brought a revulsion of spirits, a 
 reaction. AH my happiness was gone. Only the shame, 
 and the fright, and the misery were left — a horrible chiU 
 and faintness at the heart. 
 
 " What wiU he think of me ? Wlaat will he think of me ? " 
 That question kept ringing through my brain, over and 
 over again, an obsession, Mke some hateful tune that one 
 has heard, and cannot chase from one's memory. 
 
 " He did not mean anything at all. Or even if he 
 did . . . ? It makes no difference. But he didn't. It 
 was simply his desire for sympathy. If it had been any- 
 body else, he would have done the same thing. But you 
 . . . you . . . ! What you did . . . oh ! What 
 will he think of you? Oh, I wish I had, died, I would 
 rather have died." 
 
 When I remembered it — when I went over it in its 
 details, as I was constantly forcing myself to do — it 
 seemed as if at the same time I was freezing and biiming 
 up, and I felt as though I should like to sink into the 
 earth for shame. How I had not withdrawn my hand — 
 no, had not made the faintest effort to withdraw it — but 
 had allowed him to hold it just as long as he pleased — 
 until, of his own accord, he had dropped it ! 
 
 As the day dragged away, and the hour approached 
 nearer and nearer when I knew that I should have to meet 
 him — at the restaurant, at dinner — a great sense of dread 
 began to torment me. From the prospect of meeting him, 
 when I shaped it in my mind, I shrank unnerved and 
 weak, as from the prospect of physical pain. 
 
80 ME A CULPA. 
 
 "I will plead a headache, and stay in my room. I will 
 not go to dinner at all," I said. 
 
 And for a little while this plan afforded me a great deal 
 of relief. But then, suddenly, it struck me as of all plans 
 the most foolish. 
 
 "No, no! If you do that, it will be like a confession. 
 If you do that, he will know, he will know for certain ; 
 whereas now at most it can be only an inference with him, 
 a suspicion, which he cannot be sure is true. No ; you 
 must go and meet him, and behave just as though nothing 
 had happened. Tou — you must brazen it out, as Armidis 
 would say. Tou must meet him with such nonchalance, 
 you must treat him so naturally, in such an unembarrassed, 
 matter-of-fact, amiably indifferent way, that he wiU not 
 dare to imagine anything, but will realize that he was 
 mistaken, and that you didn't mean anything either, and 
 that it made no impression upon you, and that you simply 
 like him well enough as an ordinary acquaintance, and 
 nothing else at all." 
 
 But I felt very nervous, very nervous and ill at ease, as 
 six o'clock drew near. Usually at six o'clock he would 
 rap at my father's door; then we would go on to the Oon- 
 combre Kose together. Now, at every sound iu the pas- 
 sage outside our room, I started, and my heart began to 
 palpitate. "Tou must be self-possessed, perfectly self- 
 possessed," I kept thinking ; and I kept rehearsing ia my 
 imagination the manner in which I should accept and re- 
 turn his greeting, the tone in which I must say good-even- 
 ing, and the way I must let him shake hands with me, if 
 he offered to shake hands. 
 
 Five minutes to six . . . three minutes to six . . . 
 six o'clock . . . five minutes past six ... am eter- 
 nity to me, waiting from second to second to hear his 
 rap at the door. 
 
 "Well," said my father, " I don't believe Mr. North is 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 81 
 
 going to stop for us this evening. It's past six. I don't 
 think we had better wait any longer. We might lose our 
 table. Come." 
 
 Then it surprised me to find, much as I dreaded meet- 
 ing him, that I was decidedly disappointed, when it 
 occurred to me, " What if I should not see him at aU to- 
 night?" 
 
 We went to the restaurant, and took our seats at our 
 accustomed table. Axmidis was already there, lolling 
 back m his chair, smoking a cigarette, and reading an 
 evening paper. , 
 
 " Ah, better late than never," he cried. " For once in 
 my life I was punctual ; and it has taught me the truth 
 of my favorite adage, that punctuality is the thief of 
 time. I've lost five precious minutes waiting for you." 
 
 We began our dinner. I could not take my eyes off 
 the door. Every time it opened, my heart seemed to 
 stop beating and stand still, while I looked to see if the 
 new-comer would be he ; then, when I saw that it wasn't 
 he, my heart sank with deepened disappointment, as if 
 sick for hope deferred. 
 
 Armidis rallied me upon my silence. " Naughty ! 
 She jiist sits stiU and pouts. Furibonde! Because. . . . 
 Never mind. I wdn't betray you. But I know, I know. 
 Don't look at me with that stony affectation of indiffer- 
 ence, of ignorance. Trying to stare me down ! Brow- 
 beating ! Don't hope to hoodwink me." 
 
 Suddenly I ceased to hear Armidis's voice. My heart 
 had given a great bound, and now it was beating so vio- 
 lently, it seemed to suffocate me ; and I felt as if all the 
 blood in my body were burning in my cheeks. . . . 
 
 He had come in. He was making straight for us, 
 across the space between the door and our table. 
 
 I did not dare to look up, after my first glimpse of 
 him. I bent my eyes upon my plate ; my eyelids felt 
 6 
 
82 MEA CULPA. 
 
 thick and heavy and hot, like curtains of fiery lead. 
 " You must be self-possessed, self-possessed " — the phrase 
 repeated itself to the rhythm of my pulses. Yet I sup- 
 pose there never was a less self-possessed person in the 
 world. 
 
 " Good-evening," I heard him say. 
 
 "Good-evening," my father responded. "We had al- 
 most given you up." 
 
 " We were very dull," said Armidis. " We couldn't do 
 anything but just sit stiU and pout." 
 
 " I was detained at the studio," he explained, " and 
 then the busses were all full and I had to walk." 
 
 " If I don't notice him, or speak to him, what will he 
 think ? " I was saying to myself. " I must be nonchal- 
 ant and self-possessed. I must look up and speak." 
 
 So, with the intention of giving him a formal little re- 
 cognition, I looked up. But I had overestimated my 
 courage. His eyes, troubled and questioning, were fixed 
 upon my face. I could not bear them. I had to look 
 down again, forcing myself to murmur a faint good- 
 evening. 
 
 And yet I had determined to be unembarrassed, nat- 
 ural, matter-of-fact ! 
 
 Now I was furious — whether with him or with myself I 
 could not have told : perhaps with both. " Oh, I am a 
 fool, a fool," I groaned inwardly. " Now he idll think 
 . . . things." How to cover my confusion ? How to 
 retrieve that which I had already shown? All at once 
 something seemed to whisper to me, " Talk ! Talk to 
 Armidis. Ignore him, and talk to Armidis. About any- 
 thing, no matter what : only as if the thing you were 
 talking about were the only thing of interest to you in 
 the world." 
 
 Then I began to talk to Armidis. My tongue was as 
 if magically loosened, Armidis met me half-way. We 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 83 
 
 tossed the ball backward and forward between us, never 
 for an instant allowing it to rest. My father sat still and 
 listened, enjoying it as though it were a play. Now 
 and then Mr. North would put in a word, but I would 
 never pay the least attention to him. All the while I was 
 conscious that he was looking at me, with that troubled, 
 questioning expression in his eyes. I felt as if I were un- 
 der the influence of some exciting, stimulating drug — 
 black coffee raised to the tenth power. My cheeks burned, 
 my head whirled ; my voice sounded strange to me, in a 
 key higher than its natural one ; I was talking not only 
 with feverish volubility, but with feverish gayety, laughing 
 a good deal, with a laugh that seemed to me hollow and 
 artificial : yet I knew that I was talking coherently and 
 reasonably. And through it all, under it all, my heart 
 was full of a dull pain, as if something were gnawing ia it 
 to get out. 
 
 When we left the restaurant I took Armidis's arm, and 
 he and I walked on ahead, leaving my father and Mr. 
 North to come behind. We went into the Luxembourg. 
 
 Armidis said, " You must confess that I'm very nice, 
 the embodiment of complaisance, eh ? " 
 
 " Of course, you're always very nice. But I don't un- 
 derstand just what you mean by the embodiment of com- 
 plaisance." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you do. I hope you don't imagine that I'm 
 deceived. A mere instrument, a mere tool, a cat's-paw, in 
 your dexterous hands. The weapon of your revenge. I 
 see, I see. Not highly flatteriug ! To be made use of in 
 this way ! Another man might resent it. But I'm docile, 
 I'm long-suffering. Only, teU me, what has the poor 
 young creature done ? That's my due, I think. If I'm 
 to serve your purposes, as you're compelling me to do, I 
 thiak it's my due to be initiated into the why and where- 
 fore. I want to know whether it's a holy war. His sins 
 
84 MBA OULPA. 
 
 should be as red as scarlet to deserve sucli treatment as 
 you're dealing out to him. Or perhaps — you have so 
 many divine qualities — perhaps you make it a practice to 
 chasten those you love." 
 
 " You are horribly blasphemous, Mr. Armidis ; and I 
 haven't the least idea what you mean, or even what you're 
 talking about." 
 
 "Fie, fie ! " he cried. " Now you've gone too far. Now 
 I must pimish you for your shocking hypocrisy and un- 
 truthfvdness. Retribution! I'U be the avenging angel. 
 I'll teach you." 
 
 He halted and turned around. 
 
 " Banakui ! Banakia ! " he called out to my father. 
 Presently my father and Mr. North had come up with 
 us. "I want to talk to you, Banakin, about a little mat- 
 ter, before I forget if. Will you walk on with me ? Mr. 
 North can take charge of Monica Paulo vna." 
 
 Then he and my father went off together, and I was 
 left standing alone with Mr. North. 
 
 There was an interval of silence, awkward, painful. 
 
 Then, "Shall we walk ? " I heard him ask. 
 
 " I don't care," I answered. In reality my heart was 
 fluttering with fright and nervousness, but I noticed that 
 my voice sounded ill-natured and sullen. 
 
 We began to walk, very slowly. For awhile he did not 
 speak. 
 
 'At last he said, abruptly, "I see that you are angry with 
 me about something. Miss Banakia. I hope you will let 
 me ask what ? " 
 
 " Angry with you ? Oh, no, not in the least." 
 
 I forced the words out with an effort. My voice shook 
 perceptibly. 
 
 " Well, perhaps that was giving myself too much im- 
 portance. Anyhow, I've managed to displease you in 
 
JtFLIAN NORTH. 85 
 
 some way, that's very certain ; to get into your bad books. 
 I don't know, I can't think, what it can be. Whatever 
 it is, I wish you would believe that . . . well, then, 
 that . . . that I did it unconsciously. I wish you 
 would tell me what it is." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mr. North. 
 What right would I have to be displeased with you ? " 
 
 Again my voice sounded ill-natured, contemptuous,' 
 sulky ; yet again I was aware of no feeling, save fright 
 and nervousness. 
 
 " Why, I might easily have done something, without 
 knowing it, in my stupid way — I might have said some- 
 thing, without meaning to — that has annoyed you, or 
 given you offence. I told you the first evening we ever 
 spoke together that I had a talent for putting my foot in 
 my plate. You see, when a man stammers, he's always 
 saying the thing he didn't mean to. He starts out to say 
 something, but then as he approaches the necessary 
 words, and sees them looming up threateningly before 
 him, he very likely gets scared away^ and in order to 
 cover his embarrassment he seizes hold of the first easy 
 words he finds at hand, and the result is that he says 
 somethiQg quite different • to- wiat he started out to 
 say, something that he hadn't in the least premeditated, 
 and something that is sure to be malapropos, and very 
 possibly worse. . . . Well, at all events, it's certain 
 that you haven't treated me this evening with your usual 
 friencfliness and frankness." 
 
 "Oh, I assure you, you are entirely mistaken," I re- 
 plied. 
 
 " No — excuse me — I'm not mistaken, I can't be mis- 
 taken. You've hardly noticed me, hardly spoken to me 
 or looked at me, all the evening. I dare say I deserve it ; 
 of course, I must ; only, I . . . I'd . . . I'd like 
 to know, for the sake of my own conscience, what I've 
 
86 MEA CULPA. 
 
 done. Your good will and good opinion are Tery precious 
 to me. I can't bear to think that I have lost them. But 
 if I have, why, it would afford me some dismal satisfac- 
 tion to be told why and how. I should like an opportu- 
 nity to explain, to make amends. But of course I can't, 
 if I don't know what I've done." 
 
 " Shall — shall we walk a little faster, to catch up with 
 my father ? " I said. 
 
 "There!" he exclaimed. "You wouldn't speak to me 
 like that, when you see how anxious and unhappy I am, 
 imless you were angry with me, unless I had done some- 
 thing to disgrace myself with you." 
 
 "EeaUy, Mr. North, you seem to doubt my word. I 
 have told you that I am not angry with you, and that I 
 don't know what you mean. I should think that would 
 be enough." 
 
 " Well, but then, will you tell me one thing more ? If 
 you're not angry with me, why do you treat me in this 
 way?" 
 
 " I'm not treating you in any way," 
 
 He was silent for an instant. 
 
 " I should hate to believe that I haven't done . . . 
 that I haven't done . . . that I haven't done any- 
 thing to deserve it," he said at last ; " that you are making 
 me miserable in sheer ... in sheer . . . well, 
 then, in sheer wantonness." 
 
 " 3Ir. North . . . .'"I cried. 
 
 " Oh, there ! Now you are angry," he groaned. " I 
 forgot myself. I couldn't help it. I suppose it's useless 
 for me to ask your forgiveness for that." 
 
 I could not answer him. I felt that suddenly all my 
 strength had deserted me ; and I knew that if I tried to 
 speak, or did anything but just hold myseK in, I should 
 begin to cry. 
 
 " Won't you answer me ? " he pleaded, softly, earnestly. 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 87 
 
 " I was beside myself. I didn't realize what I was say- 
 ing." 
 
 " Oh, don't, don't," I cried. . . . Then, as I felt 
 myself trembling aU over, and knew that I couldn't keep 
 my tears back any longer, and that I was going to make a 
 ridiculous spectacle of myself, I was so humiliated and 
 enraged that I said, without really understanding what I 
 was saying, " Oh, I hate you, you make me hate you." 
 
 He started and stood stiU ; and though I was haK blind 
 with tears by this time, I could see that he winced, and 
 that his face grew pale, and that his eyes filled with pain 
 and terror, as if I had cut him with a knife. He looked 
 at me in a sort of blank anguish for a moment ; and then 
 he repeated, faltering, "You hate me? Good God! 
 What — what have I done to make you hate me ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no," I moaned, in sudden remorse and alarm. 
 " Don't look at me like that. No, no, I don't mean that. 
 I don't mean that I hate you. Only, why — ^why do you. 
 . . . Oh, can't you let me be ? " 
 
 " Oh, heavens, heavens ! " he cried, wildly. " What 
 have I done? You are crying. You are miserable. 
 What have I done? What have I said? I must have 
 done something dreadful, to make you cry." 
 
 " No, no, no," I sobbed. " You haven't done anything. 
 Only, I — I am such a — oh, I don't know." 
 
 I put out my hand, instinctively, to silence him, to 
 entreat him to let me alone. But he must have mis- 
 understood. He seized hold of it, and kept it in his. 
 
 " If you would only speak, if you would only teU me," 
 he said, and pressed my hand so hard that it hurt. 
 
 " Let go, let go," I begged, pulling it away. 
 
 "Is it — is it because of what I said, of what I did, last 
 night? " he asked, aJl at once. " Because, if it is, I can 
 teU you — of course I ought not to tell you, I have no 
 right to say it to you — only you had better know the 
 
88 MEA GULPA. 
 
 truth, rather than imagine things that are not true — 
 what I did last night I couldn't help doing, because— oh, 
 because for one moment I lost control of myself, and my 
 — my love for you, Monica, my love for you — do you 
 understand ? — my love for you got the better of me, and 
 I couldn't keep it in. Oh, my Love ! You know it now. 
 You know I love you. Love you! Oh, but you can 
 never know how much ! " 
 
 I thought my heart would burst, it swelled so fuU with 
 such a deep, unutterable, aching joy. 
 
 " Oh, Monica ! Monica ! Oh, my Love ! " His voice 
 was like a sigh, so low, so passionate. Then he took 
 hold of my hand again, and drew me toward him, very 
 gently, very slowly ; and then he put his arm around my 
 waist, and kissed me. It seemed as if all my life trembled 
 and thriUed in the breath I drew while I felt his lips 
 against mine. 
 
VI. 
 
 And now there began for me a season of happiness 
 greater than any that I had ever dreamed, a happiness as 
 rich and as complete as it was new : the happiness that 
 must come to every young girl, I suppose, into whose life 
 love has just entered for the first time. Spring was deepen- 
 ing into summer, the wonderful golden summer of France, 
 with its wealth of sunshine and color and fragrance. It 
 was as if somehow, the magic of the summer had got into 
 my heart, fiUing it with warmth and light, and making it 
 sing. 
 
 But, of course, I could not have been happy at all, if 
 he had not been happy too ; and I am sure that he was 
 happy, very happy, perhaps as happy as myself: only 
 . . . Only, his happiness, though it may have been as 
 great as mine, was not so unalloyed. For he could not do 
 what I could do : he could not forget or banish from his 
 mind certain cruel and relentless facts of our position ; 
 whereas to me they were, for a while at least, as insigni- 
 ficant as words written in water. He could not help 
 brooding upon them, and reasoning from them to their 
 hateful consequences ; whereas I had a blind confidence 
 that by some means or other we should be enabled to 
 triumph over them in due time — a confidence that was 
 simply bom of my desire. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon we had gone to Suresnes for 
 dinner, and after dinner we crossed the bridge to spend 
 the twilight in the Bois. My father and Ajrmidis were 
 walking so far ahead of us that we could talk together 
 
90 MEA CULPA. 
 
 without fear of being overheard. Julian, however, was 
 morose and monosyllabic ; it was easy to see that some- 
 thing was troubling him, that he had, as we say, some- 
 thing on his mind. 
 
 Then all at once he broke out with a sort of groan : 
 " It's all wrong, all wrong. I have no right to it. I feel 
 like a thief." 
 
 I did not know what he meant, and I was frightened. 
 
 " What is all wrong ? You have no right to what ? " I 
 asked. " I do not understand." 
 
 " Oh, it's simple enough. No right to anything — to all 
 this happiness, to your love. No more right to it than a 
 tliief has to his stolen goods." 
 
 " I don't see what you mean. No right ? Why haven't 
 you a right ? Or how is it a question of right ? You can't 
 help it, if I love you. One loves, just as one hves, willy- 
 nilly. You might as well say that you have no right to 
 life." 
 
 " Well, I'm not so sure that I have, if it comes to that. 
 But anyhow, the case is different. One can't help loving, 
 if you please; but one can help — How shall I say it? 
 One can't help f eeliag thirsty, for instance ; but one can 
 very well help going into a caf6, and ordering wine, and 
 drinking it, when one hasn't the money to pay for it. 
 Just as siu-ely as people give themselves up to the enjoy- 
 ment of anything that they haven't a right to, just so 
 surely must they pay for it some time in suffering. It's a 
 law of nature. I shouldn't mind paying, so far as I'm con- 
 cerned. I should consider any price cheap. But you 
 . . . ! I can't bear to think of the pain we're storing 
 up for you." 
 
 " I don't understand that," I said. 
 
 " Why, do you realize what I am ? A poor devil of a 
 fifth-rate painter, without a penny to his name." 
 
 "I dare say I'm very dense, but still I don't under- 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 91 
 
 stand: Is love a luxury, which one can only enjoy if 
 one is rich ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is, emphatically. But the point is that our 
 paradise is a fool's paradise. Here . . . We love 
 each other, don't we, Monica? That's given; that's our 
 starting-point. Isn't it ? But now look, consider. Un- 
 less two people who love each other can marry, their love 
 must sooner or later become just an immitigated curse. 
 As the world is constituted, if it is absolutely oat of the 
 question for them to get married, if there is no pros- 
 pect of their ever being _able to marry, their love is a 
 curse, an agony. Well, what am I ? A beggar, literally 
 a beggar, without a sou in the world, without even an 
 honest trade whereby to earn a sou." 
 
 " An honest trade indeed ! You have your Art." 
 
 " Art ? Unless a miracle should happen, it will be 
 years and years before I can even earn bread and cheese 
 by my art. Perhaps never. A painter ! Why, if I were 
 a house-painter, a sign-painter, our outlook would be 
 more hopeful. Anyhow, it reduces itseM to this : we love 
 each other, and there's no likelihood of our ever being 
 able to marry. Therefore, in letting you know that I love 
 you, in accepting your love, in allowing you to care any- 
 thing at all for me, I'm doing you an injustice of the 
 worst kind, a cowardly, dishonorable injustice. That's 
 the plain English of it." 
 
 " In the first place," I repUed, " you are just too con- 
 ceited. Allowing me to care for you indeed ! Thank you. 
 "And suppose you should forbid it ? That's very mannish. 
 And, in the second place, you say : Unless a miracle 
 should happen. WeU, and why shouldn't a miracle hap- 
 pen? Hasn't one miracle happened already? Wasn't it a 
 mira,cle that we ever came to know each other at all? 
 That among the millions and millions of people in the 
 world, we two should just have found each other out ? I 
 
92 MEA CULPA. 
 
 don't believe that after God has brought us together in 
 this way, He will let us be separated. I am sure that a 
 miracle luill happen, if it becomes necessary. But in the 
 third place, suppose we can't get married for the present? 
 Aren't we happy enough now ? Can't we wait ? Oh, I don't 
 see anything to worry about. Sufficient unto the day ! " 
 
 " Entre noits le passe ne valait pas le diahle, I'avenir sera 
 delectable, en attendant jouissons du present," he said, quot- 
 ing a favorite maxim of my father's. " That is all very 
 well. You have nothing on your conscience. You're 
 not to blame in anyway. But I — my case is dif . . . 
 different. It's my fault. I'm the criminal. And then, 
 look : the present is going to be so short. It's now June, 
 isn't it ? And in September, or October, at the latest, 
 . . . do you realize what's got to happen then ? I'll 
 have to pack my traps, and go back to America. Then 
 our fool's paradise will show up for what it is." 
 
 " I don't see why you wiU have to go back to Amer- 
 ica." 
 
 " Why, because I shall be dead-broke. That's slang, 
 and means that I shan't have any more money." 
 
 " But you wiU be no worse off with empty pockets here 
 in Paris, than you would be over there." 
 
 " Ah, but here I can't earn a penny, not a single penny. 
 Over there, with the prestige of my four years as a Valen- 
 tine Prizeman behind me, I can teach. I can probably 
 earn enough to keep body and soul together, it I'm not 
 particular about the quality of the bond. Why, I sup- 
 pose, if I have good luck, and am industrious, I can earn 
 almost as much as a day laborer — say a couple of thou- 
 sand francs a year. 
 
 " Nonsense ! With your talent, with your training ! 
 You'U earn a great deal more. Then you will be very 
 economical, you will save ; and when you've got a certain 
 amoimt put by, you will come back," 
 
JULIAN NORTH. ' 93 
 
 " All, that shows how little you understand the con- 
 ditions. Art is paid poorly enough the world over, and 
 held in slight enough esteem ; but in our great and glori- 
 ous Eepublic ... oh ! Barring a handful of mill- 
 ionaires, parvenus, ignoramuses, who have made their 
 money in pork or railways, and know as much about Art 
 as they know about Esoteric Buddhism, nobody thinks of 
 buying pictures iu our country; and ces messieurs will 
 buy nothiug that isn't signed with a world-renowned 
 name. In America the artist must teach, or he miist 
 starve ; and I have never heard of anyone building up a 
 fortune as a teacher. . . . But apart from that, tak- 
 ing it at its best, supposing that I can come back some 
 time, the separation will be pleasant, won't it ? To be 
 separated . . . who knows how long ? " 
 
 " Oh, it will be dreadful, horrible. But never mind. 
 I'U wait for you ... all my life, if necessary." 
 
 " Oh, what have I done to deserve such happiness ? " he 
 cried. But then his face darkened. " That's just the 
 point. There's just where the wrong comes in. I have 
 no right to make you wait, to let you wait. What right 
 have I to let you waste the very best years of your life 
 waiting for me, when, if you'd never had the misfortune 
 to know me — if your unlucky star hadn't sent me across 
 your path — you might have cared for somebody else, 
 somebody who would have been less impossible ? " 
 
 " It's outrageouts for you to talk like that. As though 
 love were simply a matter of chance," I cried. " As 
 though I could ever have cared for anyone but you. As 
 though I would have given my love to the first comer ! 
 I don't see how you can suggest such a thing." 
 
 " Oh, I didn't mean that. I only meant. . . But 
 there ! What's the use of discussing it? I'm going to 
 believe as you do. Sufficient unto the day is the evil 
 thereof. Something will happen. I may not have to go 
 
Oi MEA CULPA. 
 
 to America after all. Suppose I should sell my Salon 
 picture. Of course, I might as well say, Suppose the 
 moon should fall: but let's suppose it. En attendant 
 jouissons du present ! " 
 
 Armidis seemed to have divined everything. One day 
 he said to me, "If I were Julian North and Monica Bana- 
 kin, do you know what I would do ? " 
 
 "No. What?" I queried. 
 
 " I would throw prudence to the dogs." 
 
 "As usual, you speak in riddles." 
 
 " I do that as a tribute to your intelligence, it's so pene- 
 trating. Throw prudence to the dogs. There's nothing 
 so deadly harmful in this world as prudence. It causes 
 more unhappiness annually than scandal, small-pox, and 
 street-music piled together. I once knew a young man 
 — this was hundreds of years ago, before you had even 
 thought of being bom — a young man who loved a young 
 girl, and she loved him. Strange as it may seem, hard 
 as you may find it to believe, their love was just as strong 
 and eager, just as burning a reality in their hearts, as 
 Julian North's and Monica Banakin's is ; but they hadn't 
 the price of an old hat between them ; and they were pru- 
 dent. So, though it hurt a good deal to do it, they said 
 good-by to each other; and presently she married another 
 man, and died ; and he went off, and was miserable all 
 the rest of his days ; and he realized that he had ruined 
 his life and hers, and made a pitiful failure of everything, 
 all because he had been so prudent ; and though he was 
 never prudent again, it didn't do any good. That first 
 prudence was irrevocable ; its consequences followed him 
 always." 
 
 I was silent. Somehow, though he spoke in a jaunty, 
 half-jesting tone, what he said sent a pang into my heart. 
 
 " I speak to you out of the depths of my age and ex- 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 95 
 
 perience, Monica," he went on. " Give prudence the go- 
 by. 'Tis a strained quality. Itfalleth as the ruthless 
 hail from storm-clouds. It curses him that gives and Bim 
 that takes. Eschew it. It's for you to take the initiative. 
 You see, poor youth, he's Anglo-Saxon. Yes, in spite of 
 his Creole mother, he's an Anglo-Saxon, and a Yankee. 
 Therefore he is shackled with two ridiculous inheritances ; 
 English common sense, and Puritan conscience. He, ac- 
 cordingly, will be for prudence and morality. Copy-book 
 morality, shop-keepers' prudence. But you are Kussian ; 
 to you belongs thff glorious privilege of being bold and 
 inconsequential ; that is to say, moral in a broader and 
 more human sense, and if not prudent, wise. You may be 
 impulsive. It's just as comfortable, believe me, to starve 
 a deux, as it is to starve singly, separately. Go and get 
 married, since marriage is the fashion, and trust to Prov- 
 idence for the rest. The Lord will provide." 
 
 " Yes," I said, " but you forget that there is my father." 
 " No, I don't. I forget nothing. What of your father ? " 
 "Why, this. What you say about starving a detcx is 
 true enough ; but we're not two, we're three. My father 
 is the third person, and we have no right to leave him out 
 of our reckoning. If I were to get married, how would 
 he be provided for ? You see, I have no right to get 
 married, unless the man I marry will be able to support 
 my father as well as myself." 
 
 " Oh, dear me, what dreadful rubbish ! " grieved Armi- 
 dis, suddenly assuming his most plaintive manner. " As 
 if you couldn't go on doing your work, earning your share 
 of the provender, just as well after marriage as before it ! 
 As if, though a maid may toil, a wife must simply sit still 
 with folded hands while her husband does double labor ! 
 Such conventionality ? Such Philistinism ! EvU com- 
 munications corrupt good manners. I see, by constant 
 association with your Mr. North, you're becoming a thing 
 
96 MEA CULPA. 
 
 of prudence too. There's no telling where you'll end. If — 
 if you should tivcn Anglo-Saxon ! Horror ! You, whom 
 I have hitherto regarded as my one sure refuge, my one 
 kindred spirit, to whom I could always look for under- 
 standing, for sympathy, in my f oUies ! Rock of ages, cleft 
 for me ! " 
 
 " Thank you," I cried, laughing. Then I added in all 
 gravity, " We are in no hurry to get married, Mr. Armidis. 
 We are very happy as things are at present. We are 
 content to wait and hope. We are young ; we have the 
 future. You know my father's maxftn : Between our- 
 selves the past wasn't worth a button, the future will be 
 delightful, meanwhile let's enjoy the present. We have 
 adopted it. For my part, there's only one thing that 
 troubles me." 
 
 "And that is?" 
 
 " That we have to keep it all a secret from my father. 
 The feeling that we are deceiving him, and the fear lest 
 he may discover it." 
 
 " Well, but what if he should discover it ? What have 
 you to fear?" 
 
 " Oh, he would never approve of it. He would forbid 
 our meeting, or seeing each other, or having anything to 
 do with each other." 
 
 Armidis stood stiU before me, eying me with his quiz- 
 zical, searching gaze. 
 
 " And do you mean to say," he demanded, slowly, 
 bearing upon each word, " do you mean to tell me that 
 if your father forbade your meeting, you would even 
 dream of obeying him ? . . . Look me in the eye, 
 and answer me that." 
 
 " What else would there be to do ? " I answered. " We 
 have to live together, my father and I. It would be in- 
 supportable if we had to live together in a state of dis- 
 cprd. He has very old-fashioned ideas jibout the pbedi- 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 97 
 
 ence that children, and especially daughters, owe their 
 parents, you know. Besides which, he is very firm. 
 When he takes a stand of any kind, you could no more 
 move him than you could move a mountain. If I should 
 refuse to obey him in any matter of serious importance, 
 he would never rest, he would never let me rest, until I 
 had given in to him." 
 
 " Enough ! Enough ! " cried Armidis. " ^a, c'est le 
 comble. You are determined to be wretched ; and you 
 too are firm; and your determinations are not to be 
 shaken." 
 
 " But I am not wretched, I am very happy." 
 
 "WeU, have it so if you wish. But a few months 
 hence ? And then for all the rest of your life ! Oh, 
 dear, oh, dear ! Ah, if I were you, and Paul Mikhaelo- 
 vitch Banakin were my father, and I were in love with a 
 young man, and the yoimg man returned the compliment, 
 and Paul Mikhaelovitch tried to interfere — do you know 
 what I'd do ? I'd bring him to reason quickly enough. 
 I'd starve him out. I'd strike. I'd say, ' Yery good, my 
 father : we will bow to your august desires. But I feel 
 the need of a vacation. I'm not going to give any more 
 music lessons, or translate any more sensation novels, or 
 color any more photographs, for some time to come. 
 You may pitch in and earn our living for a while.' . . . 
 That's what I'd say to him ; and just as soon as the boot 
 began to pinch a little, he'd come round. Obedience, in- 
 deed ! It's the member of the firm who foots the little 
 bills who's entitled to demand obedience. There! I've 
 said my say." 
 
 " Yes. But I'm not up to such heroic treatment. My 
 father is my father, and I love him. Besides, I trust in 
 the future. I am sure it will aU come right in the end. 
 I don't want to spoil everything by any rash action now." 
 
 " Well, I wash my hands of you. I've done my best, 
 7 
 
98 MEA CULPA. 
 
 and failed. Now I disclaim all responsibility. Under- 
 stand that ; and don't come and reproach me for the 
 sorrows you are sowing the seeds of now, when they 
 blossom in the time to be. I don't want to croak, but 
 blossom they wUl, and blossom they must. And some fine 
 day, after your father has succeeded in separating you 
 from the man of your choice, and in uniting you to the 
 man of his, then you will remember the advice I've lav- 
 ished upon you to-day ; and oh, me ! how you wiU. repent 
 having spumed it ! That's all." 
 
 But I should convey an altogether false idea of the 
 situation if I allowed it to be imagined that this some- 
 what dismal aspect of our affair was constantly before oiu: 
 minds. On the contrary, for the most part we were able 
 to forget it, and to give ourselves up unreservedly to the 
 happiness of the moment. 
 
 We saw each other every day. As the summer ad- 
 vanced, a good many of my pupils left town. Then the 
 time that I had formerly spent teaching at their houses, I 
 would spend at home, working at my translations. To- 
 ward five o'clock in the afternoon I would put aside my 
 manuscripts, and Julian would come for us, and we would 
 dedicate the remaining hours of the day and evening to 
 the gods of pleasure. It was enough for him and me that 
 we were together ; what we did made very little difference 
 to us. We never tired of our small daily routine; it 
 never seemed humdrum or monotonous to us ; the Lux- 
 embourg, the Concombre Rose, a cafe in the Boulevard St. 
 Michel, then the Hotel du St. Esprit, and good-night. 
 . . . Sometimes, though, we would vary it a little, 
 by dining on the other side of the Seine, and thence be- 
 taking ourselves to Ai-midis's rooms, where we would have 
 music and supper. Then, as I have already said, we 
 would devote our Sundays and holidays to little excur- 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 99 
 
 sions into the country. We would carry our breakfast 
 with us in a basket, and picnic in the open air. This was 
 primarily for the sake of economy, though, I suspect, we 
 enjoyed it far better in this way, than we should have 
 done if we had taken it at a restaurant. . . . But it 
 did not matter what we did, or where we went ; so long 
 as we were together, within sight and hearing of each 
 other, we were happy. Mere existence in each other's 
 presence was a deep sweet ecstacy. Our hearts were 
 overflowiag with the joy of life, the joy of life and youth 
 and love. The whole outer world was transfigured for 
 us ; the simplest things, the most trivial happenings, were 
 invested with a sort of celestial glamour ; so that when 
 I shut my eyes, and imagine myself back in that time 
 now, a delicious warmth seems to pervade my senses, the 
 air becomes sweet with a perfume like that of roses, I seem 
 to hear vague soft music, and my heart trembles with an 
 exquisite, unreasoning delight^all this with the sunny 
 streets of Paris, or the green banks of the Seine, or the 
 shadowy avenues of the Bois de Meudon, for a background. 
 Our dissipations were always necessarily of an inex- 
 pensive kind, and therefore they were apt to be, as my 
 father complained, plebeian, and to smack of Bohemia. 
 On the night of the' 14th July, for instance, Armidis in- 
 sisted upon our accompanying him to an open-air ball 
 that was in progress at the Place d'ltalie. My father 
 very strenuously objected, but Armidis would not hear 
 him. 
 
 "Very good. If you're above it, Banakin, Monica and 
 I, who aren't proud, will go without you, and Mr. North 
 shall come to chaperone us. By-bye ! " 
 
 " It will be low, and very likely improper," my father 
 urged. 
 
 " Sich be our tastes," retorted Armidis. " Allez. Put 
 on your hat, and let us be off." 
 
100 MBA CULPA. 
 
 My father ended by obeying Mm. 
 
 It was great fun, and entirely harmless. There were 
 booths at which sweetmeats and cheap ribbons and toys 
 were sold ; and there were merry-go-rounds, with painted 
 wooden elephants and horses, camels, and tigers, all of 
 one size, where you could take a circular ride for a penny ; 
 and there were mysterious-looking tents, into which vol- 
 uble Merry- Andrews, in paint and motley, eloquently ex- 
 horted you to enter, and hear your fortune told for a 
 consideration of fifty centimes. Of course there were 
 Punch and Judy shows, and of course no end of httle 
 soldiers and people were dancing on the pavement to the 
 music of barrel-organs. 
 
 The best fun of all, however, was Armidis himself, who 
 enjoyed it like a child, and whose pink and white face 
 beamed with one perpetual broad smile of beatitude. He 
 bought four tin trumpets at one of the booths — which 
 made a trumpet apiece for each of us — and a pocketful of 
 sweets at another; and then he went about blowing his 
 trumpet and mimching his sweets, and was in the seventh 
 heaven. He led us all into one of the tents, and had our 
 fortunes told ; he engaged a chariot on one of the merry- 
 go-rounds — oh, but a chariot ! of gold and ivory, if you 
 please, and drawn by four terrific griffins — and kept us 
 driving round and round till we were giddy. Finally he 
 bimdled us into a cab, and took us to the Foyot for a 
 supper. . . . And from first to last he had seized 
 every opportimity to pair off with my father, so that 
 Julian and I could be alone together ; for which kindness 
 he had paid himself by shooting at us every now and 
 then a knowing, confidential smile, and beginning to sing, 
 softly, as if in absence of mind, "Gather ye rose-buds 
 while ye may ! " 
 
 Oh, how happy we were, how happy ! Indescribably 
 happy; impossibly happy, it seems now. When, from 
 
JULIAN NOBTH. 101 
 
 thinking of those days, and forgetting the years that have 
 passed since they were here, I come back to the present, 
 and realize that they are gone, gone forever, gone as 
 utterly as if they had never been . . . oh, my God, 
 my God ! how can I live and bear it? 
 
vn. 
 
 One morning in the first week of September a commis- 
 sionaire brought us a note from Armidis, which read as 
 follows : 
 
 " My hated rival X . . . has sent me a box for 
 this evening at the Opera Comique, where they are per- 
 forming his latest atrocity. I invite you three compan- 
 ions of the St. Esprit to go and endure it with me. Moral 
 support ! Put on the full panoply of your abiii neri e 
 decorazioni, and expect me between seven and eight. I'm 
 
 afraid I shan't be able to meet you at the Concombre 
 
 y 
 Kose. Bien a uous — . ." 
 
 That was the rubric with which he always signed his 
 notes — a V superimposed upon an A, giving the effect of 
 an elongated X. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we will go, we will go," said my father. 
 " But what a droll fellow he is, to be sure, this Armidis ! 
 He bids us put on our evening costume, which would go 
 without saying, inasmuch as we are to occupy a box, 
 whereas he himseK — in what array will he appear, I 
 should like to know ? He who, I will wager, has not a 
 dress-suit to his name. I tremble with apprehension. 
 They will not admit him, if he presents himself in his 
 customary rags, as he is entirely capable of doing ; but 
 what else does he possess to put on? " 
 
 "Yes, I wonder what he will wear," I responded, rather 
 absently, for I had the question of my own toilette to pre- 
 occupy me. 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 103 
 
 "I only hope," pursued my father, "that he will not 
 contrive to cast ridicule or odium upon our whole party." 
 
 " Oh, that will be all right," said Julian, when my 
 father had confided his trepidation to him. "Dress- 
 suits can be hired; He'U hire one for the occasion." 
 
 After dinner we assembled in our room, to wait for him. 
 
 " Oh, how beautiful you are looking ! What a pretty 
 gown ! " Julian had whispered to me, thereby causing me 
 a flutter of pleasure and excitement. " I never saw you 
 in anything so becoming before." 
 
 It was the best gown I had, one that I had made my- 
 self from materials purchased at the Petit St. Thomas at 
 a bargain ; but it was nothing very dazzling, I can assure 
 you. He had committed the extravagance of buying me 
 a big bunch of roses. 
 
 Presently there came a sharp, imperative rap-rap-rap 
 at our door, which we recognized at once for Armidis's. 
 
 " Entrez, entrez" my father and I called out in a breath. 
 
 The door opened, and Armidis advanced into the 
 room. . . . 
 
 At sight of hinj, we three others first started back and 
 gasped ; then for an instant we stared at him in helpless 
 silence, as if petrified ; at last we broke into an uncon- 
 trollable fit of laughter. 
 
 He was arrayed m the uniform of a captain of the 
 French army. 
 
 We were overcome by a fou-rire. We laughed and 
 laughed, till it seemed as if we could never stop. He 
 stood still and gazed at us with a frown of injury and 
 bewilderment, as who should say, " What in the world 
 has happened to you ? Have you all gone mad ? " 
 
 The uniform was rather worn and threadbare ; the jacket 
 was whitish along the seams ; the golden shoulder-cords 
 were tarnished ; here and there a button was missing ; 
 and the whole affair was two or three sizes too small for 
 
104 ME A CULPA. 
 
 him, so tliat he looked painfully compressed and squeezed 
 in ; and you were irresistibly reminded of a corpulent 
 sausage crowded into a skin far, far too tight, and you 
 could not help fearing that at any moment the skin 
 might burst. The effect of his big feet and fat red hands 
 protruding from the short, snug sleeves and trousers, was 
 ludicrous enough ; but I can imagine nothing more ab- 
 surdly funny than the incongruity between his pink, 
 mild, infantile face, as fresh and chubby and pacific as a 
 cherub's, softened by the vast mane and beard of snow- 
 white hair that surrounded it, and his martial make-up. 
 And then the air of blank incomprehension, and of hurt 
 and resentment, with which he waited for us to recover 
 our sobriety ! 
 
 "Well, really," he began, with a certain querulous 
 jauntiness, by and by, "when you are quite ready, I 
 should be glad to learn what the joke is." 
 
 "Since when have you received your commission?" 
 gasped my father. 
 
 "I'm sure, if you're laughing at my uniform, you're 
 very foolish," the composer said, with an accent of non- 
 chalant sviperiority. "You can't be so ignorant of the 
 usages of Society as not to know that an officer's uniform 
 is the equivalent of a civilian's dress-suit. I don't happen 
 to have a dress-suit, so I wear this instead. There's 
 nothing to laugh at." 
 
 " True enough, true enough. But where did you get 
 it ? How did you come by it ? " my father pursued. 
 
 "Oh, I came by it honestly. A friend of mine, a 
 captain, had outgrown it, had got too stout for if, if you 
 must know the fact, and he gave it to me. I've only had 
 it about a fortnight, and this is the first time I've worn it 
 in public. I think it's exceedingly becoming, though 
 perhaps it might fit a little better. But the color of the 
 trousers ! A perfect feast for the eye ! " 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 105 
 
 " Oh, as for the fit," laughed Julian, " it fits you like 
 your skin." 
 
 "Yes, but I assure you it's too small, painfully too 
 small. II faut souffrir pour Sire beau; and it pinches 
 me cruelly. But I don't dare to sigh, lest it should 
 burst." 
 
 " Well, I don't know, I'm not a lawyer," said my father. 
 " But I'd be willing to wager a good deal that, you're 
 violating some section of the penal code by wearing it. 
 If you should be arrested . . . ? " 
 
 " Oh, bird of ill omen ! Don't, don't ! " pleaded Armi- 
 dis, becoming plaintive. " How can you be so unfeeling ? 
 To suggest such a thing! Oh, you don't really think 
 there's any danger, do you? Not really? Say you don't. 
 I came from the house in & fiacre, so that nobody saw me. 
 I don't want to be arrested. What shall I do? " 
 
 " Oh, now that you've gone so far, you may as well go 
 to the end," my father answered. " Brazen it out. Put 
 on your grand air, and carry it off. Of course you must 
 take your chances. At the worst, it's not a capital offence ; 
 only a few years' retirement from the world." 
 
 "Oh, I see! You're only teasing. Cruel! At first I 
 thought you might be m earnest, and I was frightened 
 . . . Well, shall we start ? . . . Mercy upon me ! 
 How fine we are, with our silks and flowers and furbelows ! 
 Quite killing ! " he concluded, addressing me. 
 
 We set out to walk to the Place St. Michel, where we 
 were to take the omnibus . . . Almost the first 
 persons we encountered, as we turned into the Boulevard, 
 were three little soldiers, who, directly they beheld Armi- 
 dis, brought their hands to their caps, in salute. 
 
 " Oh, misery, misery ! " he began to grieve, as soon as 
 they had passed. " What am I to do ? If all the soldiers 
 we chance to meet are going to salute me ! Surely I'll 
 betray myself, my imposture will be unmasked, and per- 
 
106 EA CULPA. 
 
 haps they'll send me to jail. How absurd of them, how 
 indelicate ! To touch their caps to a man who doesn't 
 know them, who doesn't want to know them. It's very 
 pushing and presumptuous of them, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Oh, extremely so," said Julian, sympatheticallj\ 
 
 "But what shall I do?" he pursued, with eagerness. 
 "It's a complication that I never dreamed of, and I 
 haven't the remotest notion what to do. You, Monica, 
 you who are practical and ready-witted and far-seeiag 
 and everything, tell me." 
 
 "Why not return their salute? " I suggested. 
 
 "Oh, to be sure! Return their salute! Why, of 
 com-se I Oh, thank you so very much. Strange that I 
 shouldn't have thought of it myseH, but I am so stupid 
 and inefficient. Yes, yes, I'll return their salute." 
 
 We passed a good many more soldiers before the even- 
 ing was over, whose cap-touching Armidis graciously 
 acknowledged not only by touching his, but by adding to 
 that gesture a most affable smile and nod. 
 
 After the performance he begged us to go home with 
 him for supper ; but my father, who seemed to be in a 
 bad humor about something, rather impatiently declined. 
 
 On our way to the Hotel du St. Esprit my father 
 scarcely spoke. This caused me a vague anxiety and dis- 
 quiet, and I kept wondering what could have gone wrong 
 with him. When we had said good-night to Julian, and 
 were alone together in our room, I asked him. 
 
 " I see that something is troubling you," I began. 
 " Will you tell me what it is ? " 
 
 " What it is ? " he repeated, looking at me with cold, 
 ominous eyes. " You ask me that ? Well, it is that my 
 faith in human nature has this evening recieved a blow 
 from which it will not soon recover. Do you understand? 
 Or must I be more specific ? . . . Ah, you blush, 
 you turn pale. I do not wonder. This evening, at one 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 107 
 
 and the same instant, I learn that my daughter has been 
 deceiving me, and that a yoxmg man whom I have mis- 
 taken for a gentleman, and regarded as a friend, and 
 trusted accordingly, has been abusing my confidence in 
 the most shameful and cowardly manner. Is that enough ? 
 To be exact, in the box in the theatre, I chanced to over- 
 hear something that Mr. North had the impertinence to 
 whisper in your ear ; and I observed that, so far from 
 resenting it, you even welcomed it with a smile. I was 
 as much outraged as I was astonished." 
 
 He paused; but, though every word that he had spoken 
 had stung me like a lash, I could not answer. A thou- 
 sand different ideas, fears, hopes, impulses, resolutions, 
 went whirling through my brain in wild confusion. In a 
 little while he contiuued. . . . 
 
 " Owing to the exigencies of our position, I have been 
 compelled to accord to you a degree of personal freedom 
 to which young unmarried women of your class are not 
 accustomed. I relied upon your own appreciation of the 
 circumstances, upon your honor, your self-respect, as well 
 as upon your common-sense, not to take aflvantage of my 
 enforced indulgence. But what do I find ? I find that, 
 forgetting what was due to yourself, your father, your 
 sex, your position, you have, like any common girl of the 
 people, formed a disreputable, an impossible connection 
 with a young man. A young man ? A young beggar ! 
 An individual who has neither rank, nor fortune, nor 
 prospects ; a Bohemian, a vagabond, an adventurer. And 
 this, not only without the sanction of your father, but 
 without his knowledge, secretly, covertly, d la deroiee. 
 His conduct in thus clandestinely paying you his ad- 
 dresses, I do not need to stigmatize ; it speaks for itself. 
 Of yours in accepting them, I wiU only say that it has 
 destroyed the security and the happiness of my domestic 
 lite. My daughter has deceived me once in one thing : 
 
108 MEA CULPA. 
 
 how can I avoid the inference that she has deceived me 
 often in many things ? Heaven knows how far you may 
 have gone ! " 
 
 At this I found my tongue. 
 
 "We have gone no farther than to confess our love to 
 each other. We could not help loving each other. I 
 have not meant to deceive you. I have simply held my 
 tongue. There was nothing to tell, except that we loved 
 each other. It woidd only have troubled you, and brought 
 misery to us. I do not see why the happiness or the se- 
 curity of your life should be affected." 
 
 " Never mind, never mind. I do not care to discuss it 
 with you, or to listen to your evasions and excuses. You 
 may hold your opinion, I may hold mine. It is not a 
 matter for discussion, it is a matter for action. Mr. 
 North is in no position to marry. Even if he were, I 
 might still have my objections to make to an alliance be- 
 tween the daughter of one of the most illustrious houses 
 in the noblesse of Kussia, and a nameless American. But 
 he is not, and that is final. It is therefore incumbent 
 upon me, as your father, to forbid you to have anything 
 further to do with him. You must from this time forth 
 treat him as a stranger. I demand from you a promise of 
 obedience. If you refuse to promise, I shall take meas- 
 ures accordingly. That is aU." 
 
 " Of course I refuse to promise," I cried. " You have 
 no right to treat me like this — to try to deprive me of the 
 only real happiness that has ever come into my life. Do 
 you wish me to be nothing but a slave, a machine ? Am 
 I entitled to none of the ordinary experiences of life ? 
 Why should you begrudge me my one little joy? Isn't 
 my life gloomy enough, narrow enough, hard enough al- 
 ready ? Don't I do my duty by you to the best of my 
 powers ? Oh, it is too unjust, too cruel ! " 
 
 I was beside myself with pain and anger; therefore I 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 109 
 
 Spoke not very coherently, and I said things that I ought 
 never to have said to my father. 
 
 " I will have your obedience in this matter, whatever 
 it may cost me," he retorted, hotly. " You are of full age ; 
 so I cannot shut you up in a convent, as I might do if 
 you were still a minor. But there are moral measures of 
 restraint that I can take, which will be effectual enough. 
 This is a case where the ends will justify the means. 
 She would betroth herself to a pauper, pardieu ! No, no ; 
 pa ne se fait pas dans noire famille. . . . The only 
 real happiness that has ever come into your life, do you 
 say? It is intolerable, your saying such a thing to me, 
 your father, a man who has lived for nothing but your 
 happiness ever since you were bom. It is your true, 
 your ultimate happiness which I am trying to assure to 
 you now, but which you, in the blindness of this impos- 
 sible infatuation, would destroy. . . . Now you may 
 leave me. I have nothing more to say to you. Go to 
 bed." 
 
 But when, next morning, after a most miserable, sleep- 
 less night, I came down-stairs to his room, I was sur- 
 prised to be greeted by him with as much kindness and 
 affection as if we had parted on the best of terms. 
 
 " Good-morning, my dear," he said. " Come and kiss 
 me. There ! You have been crying. Your eyes are all 
 red and swollen. You have lain awake all night? So 
 have I. I have been thinking it over, thinking it over ; 
 and I have concluded that I was hasty in the attitude I 
 took last evening. You see, the discovery had been so 
 sudden ; I hadn't had leisure in which to get over the shock 
 it caused me. And I was hurt at the thought that you 
 had concealed it from me. It woimded me to think that 
 you had not been more frank and open with me. . . . 
 However, no more of that. Let bygones be bygones, 
 
110 MBA CULPA. 
 
 I've had plenty of time to consider it during tlie night, 
 and I have determined to make the best of it. I am will- 
 ing to concede as much as with any sort of propriety I 
 can, provided that you and he, on your side, wiU. agree to 
 behave lite reasonable and mature human beings, and not 
 like children. But first of all I want you to examine 
 yourseH, and tell me whether you are entirely sure of 
 your own mind. At your age one is very apt to mistake 
 a passing caprice or fancy for a genuine passion. For in- 
 stance, suppose that there were no impediments of any 
 kind to a marriage between you, are you quite sure that 
 you would be willing to become his wife ? " 
 
 A\Tiat I answered to all this I do not need to repeat. 
 My father had suddenly lifted me out of the deepest quag- 
 mire of the Slough of Despond into the seventh circle of 
 delight. I was not chary of my expressions of gratitude 
 and affection; I felt as though I could never make due 
 amends for my injurious speeches of the night before. 
 He kept protesting, with an air of embarrassment, 
 " There, there ! That will do. Let bygones be bygones. 
 Say no more about it." At last he rang the bell, and 
 when the gargon had responded to it, "WiU you rap at 
 the door of IMr. North," my father asked, "and if he be 
 in, convey to him my compliments, and the request that 
 he will favor me with a visit before he leaves the house ? " 
 
 A minute or two later Julian entered the room. 
 
 My father made him his most ceremonious bow, and 
 begged him to be seated. 
 
 Then, " Since I saw you last evening, Mr. North," he 
 said, " my daughter has confided to me the fact that you 
 and she have formed an attachment for each other. You 
 are a very young man, and I am getting to be very old. I 
 hope, therefore, you will not take it amiss if I say to you, 
 without rancor, as a father might speak to a son — en bon 
 papa, in fine — that I should have been better pleased if 
 
JULIAN NORTH. Ill 
 
 you had followed the usages of the world a little more 
 closely, and opened your mind to me, before opening your 
 heart to her. I will not deny that I have felt a little hurt 
 at yoiir lack of frankness." 
 
 " The reason for my not speaking to you, Mr. Banakin," 
 Julian rejoined, " was simply that I had nothing to say. 
 There was no use telling you that I loved your daughter, 
 unless I could ask you to consent to our marrying, or, at 
 least, becoming engaged. But that I couldn't do, because, 
 as you know, I'm disgustingly poor. I had never meant 
 to tell her that I loved her, either. I realized perfectly 
 weU that I had no manner of right to do so. I ought to 
 have gone away — cleared out, and taken my secret with 
 me. But I hadn't the — weU, then — the — the grit. One 
 evening we were talking together, and it came out before 
 I knew it. I admit that it was all ^Tong." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; I don't know that I should judge 
 it quite so harshly as that," my father said. "It was un- 
 fortunate, certainly, that in the actual state of our circum- 
 stances, yours and mine, she and you should have come to 
 care for each other ; but I do not know that you can be 
 blamed especially for making a clean breast of it, when 
 once the mischief was done. Human nature must be 
 allowed for ; and we all know that secrets of that sort are 
 hard to keep. However, we will not dwell on that aspect 
 of the affair. Let bygones be bygones. "What we ought 
 to consider now, in a spirit of mutual friendliness, are the 
 practical difficulties, the material obstacles, that it pre- 
 sents. You and Monica love each other, but you are in 
 no position to get married. What, then, is to be done ? " 
 
 " It is very good of you to take it in this way. What is 
 to be done ? Of course there's only one thing for me to 
 do — pack up and leave. Go home to America. That's 
 not very pleasant, but it can't be helped. It's been the 
 only thing for me to do, the inevitable thing, from the be- 
 
112 MEA CULPA. 
 
 ginning. My four years are up ; my money is all spent ; I 
 have barely enough left now to pay my passage to New York 
 It's pretty hard to admit, but it's desperately certain — I 
 must leave Paris, and go to America. When I get there 
 I'll . . . I'll seek my fortune. I'll set to work, and 
 try to haul myself out of my hole. I'U try to make a po- 
 sition and an income for myseK. If I succeed, I'll come 
 back here, and if she stiU cares for me, ask you for Monica's 
 hand with a clear conscience. If I fail . , , well, 
 God have mercy on me." 
 
 My father rose, and held out his hand to Julian. 
 
 " You speak like a man of sense, courage, and honesty," 
 he said. " Of your own accord you have suggested pre- 
 cisely the course that I v/as going to propose to you. . . 
 I trust that you, my daughter, perceive with us that this 
 is the only wise and promising step that can be taken." 
 
 " Oh, I suppose it's ivise," I assented. And it seemed 
 as if I could hardly pronounce the words, for the great 
 aching lump that filled my throat. " Yes, I suppose it's 
 wise, but that does not make it any less terrible, any 
 easier to bear." 
 
 " Hard to bear you wiU unquestionably find it, both of 
 you," my father went on. " But life is made up for the 
 most part of things that are hard to bear. We may none 
 of us hope to escape them ; the most we can do is to 
 make the best of them, accepting them, resignedly, rever- 
 ently, as a part of the mysterious discipline that an in- 
 scrutable Providence has imposed upon us. But hard as 
 it seems, it is the only means possible to your eventual 
 happiness. The longer Mr. North lingers here in Paris, 
 the longer must his ultimate success be delayed. The 
 sooner he leaves and begins his career, the sooner wiU he 
 be able to come back. . . . Yes, I will permit you to 
 write to each other, with certain stipulations. You must 
 not write oftener than once a month, and the letters must 
 
JULIAN NORTH. 113 
 
 all be of a tone simply friendly, such as I may read. Un- 
 til you are actually betrothed, which will not be, of course, 
 until your circumstances are more flourishing than at 
 present, I cannot sanction a correspondence of a more in- 
 timate character. . . . Now that is all settled. There 
 is nothiag further to determine, except the date of your 
 departure." 
 
 " Oh, if the wrench has got to come, there's no use put- 
 ting it off, I suppose," said Julian, in a dull, dry voice. 
 " It will hurt just as much at one time as at another, I'll 
 . . . I'U sail . . . next Saturday." 
 
 I shall never forget the face he turned upon me as he 
 spoke those words; it is before me now as vividly as it 
 was then ; so pale, so pale, with lips drawn in the ghost 
 of a smile, and eyes that burned with anguish, and hope- 
 lessness, and a sort of dumb appeal. For me, the cold- 
 ness of death entered into my heart. It was as if a skele- 
 ton hand gripped it, so that each pulsation sent a wave of 
 pain throughout my body. 
 
 He left me on Friday, taking the train for Eotterdam, 
 whence he was to sail. 
 8 
 
PART III. 
 
 PBINGE LtONTIOHEFF. 
 
I. 
 
 One morning in June, 1885, my father looked up from 
 a newspaper that he had been reading, and said to me, 
 "You remember my old friend Leonticheff, Gregory 
 iTanovitch Leonticheff, do you not, Monica ? " 
 
 "Prince Leonticheff? Oh, yes, I remember him," I 
 answered, listlessly. 
 
 " You were quite a child when he died. That was in 
 seventy-four. You were about thirteen years old. . . . 
 And his son, Gabriel, do you remember him ? " 
 
 To this I said No ; I could not remember Prince 
 Leonticheff's son. 
 
 " Gregory Ivanovitch, himself a prince of the Empire, 
 and one of the richest noblemen in Europe, made what his 
 friends considered rather a misalliance. He married an 
 Englishwoman, a sister of Sir Alfonso Luckstone, an im- 
 mensely wealthy banker, reputed to be of Jewish extrac- 
 tion, but a convert to Christianity. She was a vulgar, 
 loud-voiced creature, whom, for my part, I could never 
 endure. Their son, Gabriel Gregoreivitch, was educated 
 in England, at Eton, and then at Oxford. It is pos- 
 sible that you never saw him, though he used to come 
 home for his holidays. He is a few years your senior, 
 perhaps now eight or nine and twenty. Yet already he 
 has contrived to win distinction in two countries; in 
 England as the author of several clever novels, and in 
 Eussia as one of the few subjects honored by the per- 
 sonal friendship of the Emperor. He is moreover enor- 
 mously rich. For, besides the vast estates that came to 
 him in Eussia from his father, his mother left a very 
 
118 MEA CULPA. 
 
 large personal fortune in the English funds. He owns 
 one of the handsomest mansions ia London, Salchester 
 House, in Park Lane, described as nothing less than a 
 palace; and he has a fine country-seat, not far from 
 London, on the banks of the Thames, called Argelby 
 Court. ... I am reminded of aU this by a paragraph in 
 Figaro, from which I learn that he is in Paris at the 
 Grand Hotel. I thiak I will caU upon him. It is of 
 course a slender chance, but if I could interest him in 
 my affair, it would be to gain it. A word from him to 
 the Emperor would be invaluable. He cannot have for- 
 gotten the close intimacy that existed between me and 
 his lamented father. Perhaps for the sake of that he 
 will wish to serve me." 
 
 So in the afternoon, having dressed himself with even 
 more scrupulous care than usual, my father went off, to 
 leave his card upon the young Prince L^onticheff, at the 
 Grand Hotel. 
 
 While he was away, Armidis came. 
 
 The friendship between Armidis and myself had deep- 
 ened and ripened a good deal during the last year and a 
 half, and it had gained a good deal in seriousness. That 
 year and a half had been desolate and dreary enough for 
 me ; but it must have been drearier and more desolate 
 still, except for Armidis's constant gentle sympathy and 
 comradeship. Especially during the last five months! 
 For more than five months I had not a line or word from 
 Julian. In the alternating terror and despair that his 
 silence caused me, I believe I should have gone mad, if 
 it had not been for Armidis. Not that he did anything 
 or said anything to make the silence less cruel or less 
 ominous ; nobody save Julian himself could have said or 
 done anything to that effect ; but somehow I felt less 
 utterly cast down and forsaken, because of the tender 
 
PRINCE LEONTICHEFF. 119 
 
 friendship and affection that Axmidis in his whole bear- 
 ing toward me implied, rather than expressed by word 
 of mouth. 
 
 Was my lover dead ? Or— had he forgotten me ? 
 
 " Ah, alone ? Alone ? " cried Armidis, gayly, as he en- 
 tered the room ; and I saw that he was in one of his 
 jaunty debonnaire moods to-day. " Where is the Lily ? 
 Wherefore has he deserted you ? " 
 
 I explained the reason of my father's absence. 
 
 " Soho ! A prince ! Gracious goodness me ! How 
 swell we are, leaving our cards on Anglo-Eussian princes ! 
 And Prince Leonticheff at that ! Oh, yes, I've read one 
 or two of his novels. Yes, they're unquestionably clever. 
 But prince or peasant, it's the same to me. When I'm in 
 England, I'm a howling snob. In England one can't 
 afford to be anything else. But when I leave England 
 for the Continent, I leave my grovelling worship for 
 rank, wealth, and titles behind me. Prince or peasant, 
 I'm equally thankful for the opportimity I owe him of 
 finding you alone. I'll not disguise it from you, Monica 
 Paulovna, from day to day the society of your venerable 
 parent becomes more and more insupportable to me. If 
 I tolerate him at all, it is simply because he is an inevit- 
 able concomitant to you. Every rose has its thorn. 
 From day to day he shrinks visibly further into his 
 •armor of selfishness. If it weren't for you, I'd just 
 lavish upon him one solid thundering piece of my mind, 
 and forever after cut him dead. Ouf ! " 
 
 " Hush ! " I protested. " I cannot allow you to talk 
 like that about my father. You are utterly unjust, as 
 weU as unkind ; and besides, I am his daughter." 
 
 " You're right, quite right. Not in calling me unjust, 
 but in declaring yourself to be his daughter. Incredible 
 as it may seem, you are his daughter ; and it's all wrong 
 and indelicate and in bad taste and everything for me to 
 
120 MEA CULPA. 
 
 abuse him in your presence. But then I'm not Uke other 
 people, you know, and you must make allowances for the 
 idiosyncrasies of genius. I take it all back, except the 
 point. I am glad to find you alone." 
 
 He sat down beside me, and took my hand, and looked 
 into my eyes with a smile so bright, so sweet, so touch- 
 ing in its determined cheerfulness, that aU at once my 
 heart seemed to melt and go out to him ; and then, in- 
 volimtarily, before I knew what I was doing, I began to 
 cry. 
 
 He patted my cheek and stroked my hair with his 
 hand; and very softly he said, "That is right, dear. 
 Cry, cry. ... It will do you good." 
 
 " Oh, he's dead," I sobbed, wildly. "I'm sure he's dead. 
 Or else he has forgotten all about me. Oh, I can't bear 
 it, I can't bear it. Oh, what shall I do ? " 
 
 " There — there — there," Armidis murmured, as one 
 does to soothe a child. " No, no, he isn't dead, and he 
 hasn't forgotten you. You pale women with the red hair 
 . . . oh, well, not red, if that offends you ; we'U call 
 it golden . . . you pale women with the eyes and the 
 hair aren't the sort that men forget. You may feel easy 
 in your mind so far as that's concerned. In the whole 
 length and breadth of his horrid old American continent 
 you need fear no rival I don't mean that you're so 
 handsome, you know ; don't delude yourself ; but you're 
 so peculiar-looking. Unkind but honest; I was ever 
 thus, a plain, blunt man." 
 
 He paused and laughed, and then he went on. ... 
 
 " The trouble isn't that he's dead or oblivious ; no, no. 
 If you were not the daughter of Paul Mikhaelovitch Bana- 
 kin — oh, why do you Eussians have such tiresome names ? 
 — if you were not the daughter of your father, and if 
 therefore it would not be improper to the last degree for 
 me to. do so, I should tell you that I have a private suspi- 
 
PRINCE LiONTICHEFF. 121 
 
 cion in the secret places of my own consciousness to the 
 effect that he, the said P. M. B., is at the bottom of the 
 whole mystery. I should say that I powerfully suspect 
 him of ha\dng intercepted Mr. North's letters. He found 
 that the affair between you two young people was pro- 
 longing itself far, far beyond anything that he had fore- 
 seen when he bundled Mr. North off to his native land ; 
 and he said to himself that the time had come for him to 
 step in and stop it. Then, like the practical spirit that he 
 is, he proceeded to put his resolution in operation by 
 pocketing Mr. North's epistles. I should say all this to 
 you, if the gentleman in question were not your father. 
 But by an unfortunate combination of circumstances 
 over which I have no control, he is your father. There- 
 fore I say nothing of the kind ; but I will call your at- 
 tention to another theory that perhaps interprets the 
 event equally well." 
 
 He paused again, this time to light a cigarette. After 
 he had sent several voluminous clouds of smoke curling 
 up toward the ceiling, he resumed. . . . 
 
 " No, our friend Julian is neither dead nor oblivious, 
 my dear ; but — he is foolish and conscientious. He 
 doesn't get on so rapidly as in the ardor and ignorance of 
 his youth he had hoped to do. He iinds that what our 
 French neighbors call the strig-for-lif isn't the playful 
 little pastime that he had supposed it would be, but on 
 the contrary a singularly slow, up-hill, serious piece of 
 business. He begins to see that instead of weeks and 
 months, it's likely to be years and years before he can 
 come back, a capitalist, to claim your hand . . . just 
 what your dear delightful papa saw from the outset, and 
 which accounted for his sudden and excessive amiability 
 in getting North shipped for the wilderness. Finally the 
 foolish and conscientio'us young fellow has said to him- 
 self, 'What right have I, who am I, to keep that girl 
 
122 MEA CULPA. 
 
 with the eyes and the hair waiting and pining for me all 
 these years, and wasting her youth over my memory ? It 
 isn't fair. No, no. I must put a period to it. I mustn't 
 write to her any more, or remind her of my existence any 
 more. I must efface myself, and give her a chance to for- 
 get me. Then if I ever do succeed, then I can go back, 
 and, if the field is still free, try to win her once again.' 
 . . . That is what he says to himself, and that's the 
 reason for his present silence — ^always assuming that he 
 really is silent, and that no wicked fairy is purloining his 
 letters. I understand all this, because once upon a time I 
 was Anglo-Saxon myself. By and by he'U realize how 
 foolish he is. He'U realize that it's perfectly preposter- 
 ous to put things off till he's in receipt of a regular in- 
 come. Then one fine day, he'U turn up here in Paris, and 
 we'U have a Slavo- Yankee wedding, and we'll aU be happy 
 — except possibly Paul M. Banakin, and he'U have to 
 make the best of it." 
 
 Oh, no, no, no ! I had thought of all this myself. 
 There was no possible explanation of Julian's silence that 
 I had not thought of. In the long miserable days and 
 weeks of waiting, fearing, hoping, brooding, I had had 
 ample time to think, and I had thought of little else. 
 Every imaginable conjecture, every imaginable suspicion, 
 had passed through my mind. But by degrees I had lost 
 my hold upon aU of them, save these two : that he had 
 died, or that he did not love me any more. I was sure my 
 father had not purloined his letters ; he would be incap- 
 able of such cruelty, and doubly incapable of stooping to 
 a conspiracy with the servants of the hotel, which would 
 be essential to the success of any such design. Yet, 
 even that suspicion, unworthy as it was, had occurred to 
 . . . No, all that Armidis could say was powerless to 
 comfort me, or to give me any hew ground for hope : 
 but the deep sweet kindness that shone from his eyes, 
 
PRINCE LiiONTIGHEFF. 123 
 
 and Yibrated in his Toice, made my heart grow big with 
 gratitude and affection. 
 
 "Meantime," he continued, after a little while, "we are 
 getting a good deal of experience. We are learning how 
 true it is that hope deferred maketh the heart sick, and 
 we are asking ourselves that old, old question, Cui bono ? 
 What's the use ? It's all very bitter and discouraging ; 
 but it's the sort of experience that sooner or later, in one 
 form or another, must come to every man and woman. If 
 it comes to us a little sooner, instead of a little later — 
 why, so we'll get to the other end of it sooner, and come 
 out again at the bright side. It's one of the dismal tun- 
 nels through which the way of life is laid. No one can 
 hope to avoid it. . . . When I was a young man, in 
 England, years and years ago, I knew a young girl. . . . 
 But there! Details are nothing to the point. I'll not 
 tire you with the' story. Some time, though, when you 
 are at my shop, remind me of it, and I will show you 
 something." 
 
 " The story won't tire me, I promise you. TeU it to 
 me," I pleaded. "Tell me now." 
 
 "Unless my ears deceive me," he returned, "I hear the 
 step of Paul the son of Michael on the stairs. Yes, and 
 his voice. He's not alone. There's some one with him. 
 Who ? Not, surely not, his Anglo-Kussian Prince. Fancy 
 a prince in the Hotel du St. Esprit ! But who then ? 
 Who*else?" 
 
 Suddenly, and without any sort of reason, my heart 
 began to palpitate ' . . . Oould it be . . . ? Oh, 
 no, there was no earthly chance of that : and yet the mere 
 fancy, absurd, impossible, as it was, taking shape in my 
 imagination, made my body tremble, and I could hardly 
 get my breath. I put out my hand, and grasped Armi- 
 dis's arm. 
 
 " Why, mercy upon me, we're all in a tremor ! " he ex- 
 
124 MBA CULPA. 
 
 claimed. " Oh, you mustn't let yourself hope impossible 
 things, you know." 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't hope anything," I said. "I know it's 
 quite impossible. It's only because I am so weak." 
 
 Then my father came into the room. A single glance 
 sufficed to show me that he was in a state of great excite- 
 ment, of elation. He was accompanied by a young 
 man. . . . 
 
 "Monica, my daughter," he began, summoning me.- 
 Then, "Prince, permit me, permit me ... I have 
 the honor to present to your Serene Highness my daugh- 
 ter, Monica Paulovna Banakin." 
 
 After which, perceiving Armidis, " Also, if you will 
 allow me, I beg to present our friend Monsieur Victor 
 Armidis, the composer." 
 
II. 
 
 I MUST endeaTor to erase from my mind all that I have 
 since learned of the character of Prince Leonticheff, to- 
 gether with all that long habit has since taught me to see 
 in his appearance, and to set down here, as faithfully as 
 possible, the first impression that I obtained of him. 
 
 I beheld, then, in the person to whom my father, with 
 so much nervous deference, presented me, a tall and rather 
 fat young man, of slouching carriage, and very loosely 
 built, so that his limbs seemed to hang upon him with a 
 certain flabby insecurity, and the effect of his body was 
 gelatinous. He was dressed with striking and elaborate 
 carelessness — in a velvet jacket and waistcoat, and a dove- 
 colored flannel shirt, while his necktie was of a flame-red 
 India silk, fastened in a sailor's knot. His dusty brown 
 hair, thin on the crown of his head to the verge of bald- 
 ness, was cropped as close as a soldier's or a convict's, so 
 that everywhere the bluish white of his scalp was visible. 
 His skin was florid and coarse-grained, as if it had been 
 exposed a good deal to the weather. His face was fleshy, 
 and the lower part of it heavy, merging into a short fat 
 neck through the medium of an incipient double chin. 
 His mouth, shaded by a copious mustache, was undiily 
 long, the lips being thick and loose ; his nose was short, 
 square, and slightly turned up at the end. Thus far he 
 was undeniably vulgar-looking and uncouth ; but his fore- 
 head was broad and white and finely modelled, and his 
 eyes, though set too far in, and not very big, were blue 
 and pellucid, and full of good-nature and intelligence. 
 
12G ME A CULPA. 
 
 The general effect of tlie young man was remote from 
 princely. " A Eussian bear," I thought to myself. . . 
 " An indolent, easy-going, contented fellow, the son or the 
 grandson. of peasants, a little slow, not a little rough per- 
 haps, but by no means a fool, and above aU things good- 
 natured," is probably the guess one would have made of 
 him. ... I must not forget to mention his hands, 
 which, of all his attributes, were perhaps the most mi- 
 princely, being short, blunt-fingered, hirsute, and fieiy red, 
 like the hands of a commis-voyageur. 
 
 One of these hands he closed upon one of mine ; and said 
 in a voice that was imresonant and throaty, but soft, caress- 
 ing, almost fatherly — speaking slowly, languidly, with an 
 exceedingly friendly, soothing, ingratiatii^ inflexion, smil- 
 ing into my eyes, and keeping possession of my hand un- 
 til the end of his speech — " I am very glad to meet you 
 again," he said in English, pronouncing that language not 
 in the least like a foreigner, nor yet like an Englishman, 
 but with an accent quite peculiar to himself, whereby he 
 seemed to fatten and round out the sounds. " You don't 
 remember me, but I have never forgotten you. I used to 
 catch a glimpse of yoii now and then when you were a little 
 mite of a girl, and I was a great, gawky boy home from 
 school. You wore the prettiest little girl I knew, and 
 you made a wonderful impression on me. I think we are 
 going to be friends. We must carry on the tradition of 
 our families. Our fathers were friends, and so were our 
 grandfathers. To teU you the truth, I begin to like you 
 already." 
 
 His bearing, as he said all this, was one of exceeding 
 good nature, of pleasant satisfaction with himself and 
 everybody else, and of a comfortable, homely frankness, 
 which, though comical, was not unprepossessing. 
 
 With his last word he gave my hand a squeeze, re- 
 leased it, and proffered his own to Armidis, remarking, in 
 
PRINCE LAoNTIOHBFF. 127 
 
 the same slow, caressing drawl, " Well ! This is an unex- 
 pected pleasure. I've heard about you, Mr. Victor Ar- 
 midis, and wanted to know you, any time these ten 
 years. I suppose, between ourselves, that I'm one of 
 the two or three most intelligent and most enthusiastic 
 admirers that you can number. In my opinion you've 
 done some of the prettiest little things in the way of lyric 
 music that this century can show. Why, some of your 
 songs I wouldn't hesitate to compare to Schubert's. I'm 
 glad to press your hand. I believe we are going to like 
 each other." 
 
 "Oh, thank you so much," returned Armidis, airily. 
 "Tou quite cheer me. I'm so pleased to learn that my 
 little things have met with your approval." 
 
 Armidis's querulous irony was plain to see, but the 
 Prince apparently took what he said at the foot of the 
 letter. 
 
 " Yes, I'm one of your enthusiastic admirers," he reit- 
 erated. " And I've given you a puff in " Hilary's Eosary " 
 that wiU make your fortune for you. You've seen it, of 
 course. No? You haven't? What! Why, it's run- 
 ning as a serial through Macnaffen's Magazine. I've 
 quoted a verse from a song of yours, and I've described 
 the melody as one of the nicest and most original little 
 things in modem music. You must get it. It wiU make 
 you the talk of the day wherever English is read. 
 "Hilary's Rosary ! " Why, it's one of the two or three" — 
 he dropped his voice to a key of confidential intimacy, 
 and spoke more slowly than ever, bearing impressively 
 upon each word — " it's one of the two or three first-rate 
 novels that have been done in the English language. 
 It deals with Irish patriotism ; and apart from its interest 
 as fiction, it contains more authentic information about 
 Ireland than any other dozen books put together. And 
 then, the plot ! You never saw anything prettier. And 
 
128 MEA CULPA. 
 
 the characters. . . . ! And the workmanship, the style 
 . . . ! Why, my friend " — he patted Armidis gently 
 upon the shoulder, to lend emphasis to his words — " my 
 friend, when the serial publication of " Hilary's Eosary " 
 is finished, and the book comes out in three Yolumes, the 
 people, the People are going to rise up and greet it as 
 the best thing since Harry Fielding.'' 
 
 He made this surprising statement with perfect gravity, 
 and not a touch of embarrassment or misplaced humUity. 
 He recommended his own novel with the same serene, 
 impersonal earnestness, the same quiet, confidential as- 
 surance, that he might have employed in advising us 
 to read one of the acknowledged masterpieces of Tolstoi 
 or Turgueneff. 
 
 This struck me as strange at the time; his speech 
 lacked verisimilitude, and I almost mistrusted my ears ; 
 but before long I came to understand it. Prince Leon- 
 ticlieff was a clever, in some respects even an able man ; 
 upon certain subjects — for example, Irish history 'and 
 Anglo-Irish politics — he was really profoundly well-in- 
 formed ; he could write novels that enjoyed a great vogue 
 in England, were pirated in America, and translated into 
 three or four foreign tongues ; he was a high contracting 
 party in the world of finance, being the power behind the 
 sign in the great international banking-house of Luck- 
 stone Brothers ; and with all the rest he had somehow 
 known how to acquire the personal friendship and confi- 
 dence of the most suspicious monarch in Europe ; surely 
 he must have been a man of remarkable abilities. Yet, 
 as I soon came to realize, he had not one sciatilla of the 
 sense of humor! Not the first meagre rudiment of it. 
 In consequence, he was enabled to give himseK up with 
 unreserve to that tendency innate in every individual con- 
 sciousness (which a sense of humor — that is to say, a 
 sense of proportion and of congruity-^ean alone correct), 
 
PRINCE LEONTTOHEFF. 129 
 
 to regard itself as the centre of the Universe, and as the 
 biggest, the most vital, the most important Fact. The 
 results of this absence of humor upon Prince Leonticheff s 
 speech and conduct were often queer; sometimes they 
 were appalling. 
 
 " Now," he went on, turning to me, "I have come over 
 here with your good father, to take you off to dinner with 
 me. First we go for a drive, a little spin about the Bois, 
 and that sort of thing, to whet our appetites; then we 
 dine at the Ambassadeurs, where I have engaged a priv- 
 ate room with a balcony. Your father tells me that you've 
 lived five or six years here in Paris, without once dining 
 at the Ambassadeurs. He thought it wouldn't be proper. 
 Why, bless your soul, you just lower your veil as you pass 
 in and out ; and who's the wiser ? I've — this is between 
 ourselves — I've dined some of the first ladies of Europe 
 
 at the Ambassadeurs ; yes, the Princess , and the 
 
 Countess of , and Lady ; and they've come away 
 
 delighted. Now go put on your hat. My trap is waiting 
 at the door ... Of course, you are with us," he added, 
 nodding to Armidis. " I want to hear you talk. People 
 have described you to me as one of the wittiest men of 
 your generation. I want to see for myself whether you 
 deserve your reputation." 
 
 " Oh, really ? Do people speak so kindly of me ? Oh, 
 how nice ? " murmured Armidis, with a smile that was not 
 devoid of malice. " Oh, yes, thank you, I'm with you. 
 People have never described you to me at all, but al- 
 ready I begin to perceive that you are immensely im- 
 usual and curious. I shall be quite charmed." 
 
 The trap that we found waiting at the door, in charge 
 
 of two gigantic powdered footmen, gorgeously liveried in 
 
 bu£f and gold and scarlet, was an odd affair. The Prince 
 
 directed our attention to its peculiarities, explaining, " It's 
 
 9 
 
130 MEA CULPA. 
 
 a little thing of my own invention. One of the most re- 
 markable facts about me is that I have a strongly devel- 
 oped genius for mechanics. I made the model for it with 
 my own ten fingers, and then had it built under my su- 
 pervision." 
 
 Its peculiarity consisted in its having only one seat 
 .which, however, was ample to accommodate five people, 
 being curved like a horse-shoe." 
 
 " It is the application of the amphitheatrical idea to a 
 carriage," said the inventor. " It's like the stem-sheets of 
 a boat. You see I sit here in the middle, where the skip- 
 per of the boat would sit, only, instead of a tiller I hold 
 the reins. Then my guests distribute themselves to my 
 right and left. The advantage is that we all face one an- 
 other, and can talk together, and yet no one has to sit 
 with his back to the horses." 
 
 The body of the vehicle was painted black, with an im- 
 mense, flamboyant coat-of-arms and coronet emblazoned on 
 it ; the wheels were crimson. It was drawn by three su- 
 perb white horses, one leader, and two wheelers abreast ; 
 and there was a foot-boai-d behind for the flunkies. A 
 decidedly conspicuous equipage; and numberless were 
 the people who turned to stare at us, as we went dashing 
 through the Boulevard St. Germain, across the Pont and 
 Place de la Concorde, and up the Avenue des Champs 
 £lys6es. 
 
 Though his horses were spirited, and demanded a good 
 deal of management, the Prince, who seemed to be a skil- 
 ful driver, talked incessantly. He talked exclusively 
 about himself, and always in his slow, simple, good- 
 natured way. 
 
 "I came here to Paris incog.," he informed us. "I've 
 got a nice little house of my own in the Avenue Malakoff, 
 as I suppose you know ; biit I went to the Grand Hotel, 
 and gave my name as George Lyons. It was no go, 
 
PRINCE L^ONTlbHBFF. 131 
 
 though. Somebody there recognized me, and betrayed 
 me to the newspapers. I was a good deal annoyed at 
 that, because the business that brings me here is of a 
 very secret nature, and I can't afford to let it be known 
 that I'm in it. Just between ourselves, I'll say that there's 
 an important newspaper for sale, and that I'm thinking of 
 buying it. Not in my own name, no, no. But I wanted 
 to look into its affairs, and if I concluded it was worth 
 while, I'd buy it through a dummy. To say nothing of 
 its usefulness, I know few things more amusing than to " 
 control a newspaper. I suppose you know who owns the 
 London Beacon? Prince Gigi, my friends." 
 
 " Gigi . . . ? " repeated my fatl^er, interrogatively. 
 
 " Yes. Didn't you know? That's my nick-name : 
 Gigi — G. G. — Gabriel Gregoreivitch. Good, isn't it? 
 . . . But as I was saying, when you interrupted me, 
 there's a law of compensations; and when I knew the 
 murder was out, I made up my mind to stay, and to go 
 in for some fun. Oh, I know how to amuse myseK in' 
 Paris. . . . Besides, if it hadn't been for those annoy- 
 ing little paragraphs iu the newspapers, I shouldn't have 
 had the pleasure of meeting you. You only got hold of 
 it in this morning's Figaro; but the first of the series 
 appeared in the Petit Journal more than a week ago. 
 . . . I passed the winter at St. Petersburg, which 
 was very cold and gay. Then at Easter I went on to 
 London, where I've been stopping ever since. I suppose 
 you know I own the nicest house in London, Salchester 
 House, in Park Lane. I bought it about five years ago, 
 after the death of the last of the Lords Salchester. It's 
 big, and yet it's pretty and comfortable, and I like it. 
 But there's nothing under the sun that bores me like 
 a London season ; the people are so methodical, and 
 business-like, and conscientious in their dissipations. 
 A.nd yet in one way it amuses me a good deal. I do 
 
132 ME A CULPA. 
 
 enjoy seeing your steady-going English prigs, who in 
 their secret hearts regard me very much as if I were the 
 devil himself ; I do enjoy seeing them swallow their pru- 
 dery and pocket their scruples, and pay homage to my 
 rank and wealth. Of course there's the fast set ; but that's 
 different; they imitate me; but I'm speaking of your 
 
 steady-going, highly moral people, like the S s, and 
 
 the D s. They never got over the shock my famous 
 
 little escapade at Oxford caused them; and they don't 
 like my attitude toward the Irish Question; and they 
 think, because I'm bluff and hearty and condescending in 
 my manners, that I'm vulgar and lacking in dignity ; and 
 my reputation as a gambler sends cold shivers down their 
 spines. Yet I'm a Serene Highness, you know, and a 
 Prince of the Eussian Empire, and so they throw their 
 houses open to me, and their daughters at my head. It's 
 interesting. The only people I really Hke in London are 
 those ^^'hom I call la haute Boheme; theatrical people, 
 Irish Members, journalists, and that sort. And the only 
 
 club I care for is the X . I like that club because 
 
 the men you meet there are men, masculine, virile, not 
 
 effete, like the members of the Y and Z , and 
 
 not afraid of a good story, or a song, or a bottle of wine. 
 Speaking of my attitude toward the Irish Question, 
 that's a funny thing about me, and a good many peo- 
 ple can't vmderstand it : how, whereas in Eussia I'm 
 the most intense sort of a Eeactionary, in England I do 
 all I can in a quiet way to help on the cause of Irish 
 Home Eule. Well, it's the simplest and the most natural 
 thing in the world. The Irish people and the Eussian 
 people are as different as dogs and horses; and what's 
 meat for one would be poison for the other. But it puz- 
 zles the general public, and makes talk, and affords me a 
 great deal of amusement. I suppose you follow my lead- 
 ers in the Beacon ? No ? Oh, you must, you must. One 
 
PRINCE L&ONTICHEPF. 133 
 
 appears every Wednesday and every Saturday, when Par- 
 liament is sitting, and they're by all means the strongest 
 things on the Irish Question that are printed nowadays — ■ 
 though, of course, it isn't officially known that I write 
 them ; that wouldn't do ; might lead to international com- 
 plications. I suppose I know more about the history of 
 Ireland and the actual needs and conditions of the Irish, 
 than any other living man. . . . Well, that brings 
 me back to what I was saying of my reputation as a 
 gambler. The truth of the matter is simply this. I'm a 
 thoroughbred Eussian ; and so there's nothing that fasci- 
 nates me like a game of chance ; roulette, dice, black-and- 
 red, it doesn't matter which. And I'm rich enough to 
 afford to lose, and therefore I play. And I'd just be 
 glad to hear anybody prove that it's immoral. I'm rich 
 enough to lose without grumbling, and I do lose almost 
 invariably. Why, I suppose my average annual losses 
 would foot up something like four or five thousand 
 pounds. And I know of no other way in which the same 
 amount of money could buy me the same amount of pleas- 
 ure. Therefore I want to know why I shouldn't play? 
 Are you acquainted with the beautiful little American in- 
 stitution called draw-poker? Well, at poker alone, last 
 month, I lost between six and seven hundred. With that 
 bad luck at cards, you say, unless there's no truth in the 
 proverb, I ought to be an extraordinarily fortunate young 
 man in love. Well, perhaps I am. Ho-ho-ho ! " 
 
 And the Prince suspended his discourse, to indulge in 
 a long, loud, boisterous laugh. 
 
 At the Oafe des Ambassadeurs he said, " One of the 
 funny things about me is my capacity for champagne. 
 It's practically boundless. I can drink enough cham- 
 pagne at one sitting to put any other three men under 
 the table, and never know it then or the next day. But 
 the remarkable part of it is this ; if I touch any other 
 
134 MEA CULPA. 
 
 wine, or any spirits, I'm done for quicker than powder 
 and shot." 
 
 He also appeared to have a considerable capacity for 
 food ; and between the courses of the dinner he smoked 
 numberless fat cigarettes. 
 
 When the coffee was served, he looked at his watch. 
 
 " Hello! " he cried. •" Half-past ten. And I've got an 
 engagement for eleven which I can't possibly neglect. 
 I'll have barely time now to run into my hotel, put on my 
 dress-suit, and keep it. So I'm afraid we'U have to break 
 up. Bijt we must meet again to-morrow. There are lots 
 of things I want to say to you, and lots of questions I 
 want to ask you. Besides, I want to get thoroughly well 
 acquainted with you. I like you — • all of you. But 
 you " — nodding to Armidis — ■" you've disappointed me. 
 You've scarcely opened your mouth once since I met you, 
 and the reason I invited you to join us was ttat I wanted 
 to hear you talk. Perhaps we'll get on better to-morrow. 
 You" — addressiag my father — "you come and break- 
 fast with me to-morrow at noon. We will talk things 
 over, and make some arrangement for the evening. I 
 think I'd like to dine at some little Bohemian restaurant 
 in your Latin Quarter ; and afterward perhaps we'U go 
 to the play. . . . Good-night, good-night." 
 
 " Well, is he not refreshing ? " demanded my father, 
 when we had parted from him. " So simple, so natural, 
 so unspoilt, so — there is but one word for it — so primi- 
 tive. So unlike your conventional child of the century. 
 What frankness, what bonhomie ! I feel ten years younger 
 for the hours I have passed in his company. And so 
 friendly ! He has promised to read the manuscript of 
 my History of Eussia, and I coimt upon him to find me a 
 publisher. I have not yet spoken to him of my appeal to 
 the Emperor ; but I am sure he will interest himself in it. 
 
PRINCE LkONTIGHEFF. 135 
 
 Oh, he is the most refreshing personality I have encoun- 
 tered for many a long year." 
 
 " He is a very surprising character, with his barbarism, 
 his clumsiness, his incredible vanity, his boundless admi- 
 ration for himself. His bragging was funny at first, but 
 it grew rather tiresome toward the end. I think I never 
 saw anybody so absolutely deficient in tact. But he's 
 apparently harmless and good-natured enough," said I. 
 
 " Oh, dear, oh, dear ! " complained Armidis. " How 
 can people show so little penetration ? He's a great big 
 lump of cheap vulgarity and piggish selfishness. A 
 prince, forsooth ! A lout, a boor, a bully, a cad ! Sim- 
 ple, natural, primitive ? So is a wild bear. Good-nat- 
 ured ? Oh, wow-wow ! Say satisfied, complacent, if you 
 please. So is any other animal, when its appetites are 
 gratified and the weather's fine. But don't say good- 
 natured. Why, consider his jaw and chin. He's a great 
 big monster of dogged, sordid, sodden egotism, as brutal 
 as a rhinoceros, as cruel and remorseless as aU beasts are 
 in a state of nature. Why, the Pachyderm ! He's not 
 really conscious that anything or any person exists out- 
 side of his own thick hide. Egotism ! The concentrated 
 essence of egotism. A monumental bulk of egotism, 
 slow-moving, ponderous, certain to crush every lighter 
 body that may come between it and its objective point. 
 Ugh ! I never saw a more repulsive brute. How can — 
 how can you tolerate him ? The Turk ! " 
 
 " Mercy on me, what a tirade," said my father. " You 
 are angry with him because he snubbed you." 
 
 And I must confess that I myself thought Armidis un- 
 charitable and unjust. 
 
m. 
 
 " Hebe," said Prince Leonticheff, addressing me, when, 
 escorted by my father, he entered our room the next 
 afternoon ; and he offered me a brown paper parcel, in 
 size and shajje resembling an octavo book. " This good 
 friend "—laying his hand upon my father's shoulder — 
 " tells me that you translate novels into French. Well, 
 then, I'm just the man you want to talk with. I've got a 
 novel here that's going to make a sensation throughout the 
 civilized world. This is my manuscript in English. It's 
 a thiag I've been at work on for upward of ten years ; 
 ever since I was a boy ; not steadily, of course, but from 
 time to time, as the inspiration seized me. I finished it 
 about a month ago. It's short, simple, unpretentious, 
 and I suppose the most poetical thing in English prose. 
 Yes, or German, either, for the matter of that. When I 
 tell you that its better than " Undine," you'U get some idea 
 of how tremendously good it is. The central thought, 
 the theme, is one that Goethe would have given all he 
 ever wrote to have got hold of . . . . Open the parcel, 
 and look at the title-page." 
 
 He took the parcel from my hand, and opened it. 
 
 " You've never seen my manuscript before," he said. 
 " Isn't it pretty? I suppose I write at once the daintiest 
 and the most characteristic hand of any living author." 
 
 The manuscript was indeed pretty, and his hand was 
 indeed dainty and full of individuality, being almost mi- 
 crosopically small, yet as clear and as regular as print. 
 
 " A good many people think it's like Thackeray's," he 
 
FRINGE LEONTIGHEFF. 137 
 
 went on. " But if you'll take the trouble to compare the 
 two, you'll see that mine is «aore legible and more ele- 
 gant. I write very rapidly, yet there's never a blot, an 
 erasure, or an illegibility, on a single page. Isn't my 
 title stunning ? Eead it out. Read it aloud. I want to 
 hear you read it aloud." 
 
 I obediently read from his title-page : " Drachensnest : 
 the Bishop and the Witch : being the True History of 
 Zillah, Wife of Barzillai-Ben-Ascher, called the Witch of 
 Drachensnest, and of Alvin, Bishop of Drachensnest : now 
 first set forth in English by Prince Leonticheff." 
 
 " Splendid, splendid ! " he cried, clapping his hands. 
 " Why, that title is a little masterpiece. And you read 
 it beautifully, perfectly. . . . Well, now, I'm going to 
 leave this manuscript with you. Take good care of it, 
 for it's worth considerably more than its weight in gold. 
 I'm going to leave it with you, and I want you to study 
 it. You couldn't get the full flavor of it by a single 
 reading. You must read it straight through at least three 
 times. Then you'll know it, you'll feel it, you'll catch 
 the enthusiasm of it. After that, when you're thoroughly 
 imbued with it, I want you to translate it. I want you 
 to translate it from my manuscript under my supervision. 
 Then I'll publish it simultaneously in French and Eng- 
 lish ; and instead of your getting a beggarly little four 
 hundred francs for a translation, you'll get half of what I 
 receive for the original French work. I shall take it to 
 Calmann Levy, and sell it to him as an original work, 
 which it will be in point of fact, not having previously 
 appeared in any other language, and I'll give you half of all 
 that he pays me. I translated my last novel myself, and 
 it was published simultaneously here and in London ; you'd 
 be amazed if I should tell you what Levy gave me for the 
 French rights. . . . Now you take it, and study it, 
 and let me know whether you think you'll be able to do it 
 
138 MEA CULPA 
 
 justice. Of course you must translate it con amove, or it 
 won't do. I could put in the^ne touclies for you, and tliat 
 sort of thing, but I'd need a good basis of nice literature to 
 work on. The ordinary hack translation would answer 
 well enough for an ordinary novel, but not for a httle 
 chef-d'ceuvre like this." 
 
 I replied that I should be glad to read it, but that I 
 feared I should not be able to make the sort of translation 
 that he desired, for I could write none but an unpolished 
 and unUterary French, a French that would pass muster 
 well enough in an ordinary hack translation, but would 
 never answer the demands for style which the French 
 public would make upon am original work. I said this 
 first because it was the truth ; and secondly because I 
 suspected that Prince Leonticheff, with his high opinion 
 of his own production, would be a difficult man for even a 
 master of French style to satisfy. . . . 
 
 I was, accordingly, a good deal relieved, when he re- 
 turned, " Well, in that case, of course, you'd better not 
 attempt it. I'm sorry, because I was glad of the chance 
 to give you an opportmiity to make some money. How- 
 ever, I'll leave the manuscript with you, anyhow ; only do 
 take great care of it. You'll enjoy reading it, as you 
 probably haven't enjoyed a work of fiction for a long while. 
 I can see that you've got taste, and can tell a good thing 
 when you find it. Oh, it's a little jewel, a little pearl ! I'll 
 try to arrange to come here say to-morrow afternoon, and 
 then you can read it aloud to me." 
 
 I dare say it looks like exaggeration, but I pledge my 
 word that it is literally true. If I have not exactly re- 
 peated his speech, letter for letter, I have mitigated 
 rather than accentuated it. And I am sure that I have 
 faithfuUy rendered the spirit of it : that third-personal, 
 objective delight in his own creation, and admiration of 
 it, which his singular temperament enabled him to enjoy. 
 
PRINCE LEONTICREFF. 139 
 
 " But I say," he demanded, sweeping our room and our 
 faces witli an inquiring glance, " where's your eccentric 
 friend Armidis ? I expected to find him here. Isn't he 
 the most ridiculous looking creature that was ever allowed 
 at large ? A peripatetic ragbag ! I should like to give 
 him a decent suit of clothes. But I don't suppose its 
 want of money that causes him to make such a guy of 
 himself ; it's more probably vanity, a desire to be pecul- 
 iar, conspicuous, to attract attention. Pity he's got that 
 small weakness, because he really is a man of capital 
 talent. I want to see more of him. I've been told that 
 he's a great character, very amusing, a good talker, but a 
 little cracked in the upper story. I may find him use- 
 ful some time, when I need an eccentric personage for a 
 novel. Aren't you expecting him to turn up here for 
 dinner? I thought I made it clear last night that I 
 wanted you aU to dine with me again to-day." 
 
 " I don't know," said my father. " He may come. But 
 he is not a person whom one can feel at all sure of. He 
 always does the thing you least expect. He may come, 
 he may not. It's an even chance." 
 
 The Prince's face flushed red, and his voice grew loud 
 and harsh. . . . "But didn't he understand that I 
 wanted him ? Didn't I make that plain enough ? I don't 
 like to be treated in this cavalier manner." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure he could never intend to treat your 
 Serene Highness cavalierly," put in my father, hastening 
 to appease the Prince's wrath. " It is most likely that he 
 did not understand himself to be included in your invita- 
 tion." 
 
 " WeU, then, he must be pretty obtuse," said the Prince. 
 
 " He is not obtuse," said I, rather bluntly. " He is the 
 least obtuse of men. But he is extremely independent 
 and unusual. Tou must take him as he is, or not at all." 
 
 " "Well, anyhow, I want him," said the Prince ; " and I'U 
 
140 MEA CULPA. 
 
 tell you what. Where does he live ? I'll go and fetch 
 him. There's plenty of time. It isn't six o'clock yet and 
 we shan't want to dine before eight. Give me his ad- 
 dress." 
 
 My father mentioned Armidis's address, but added, 
 " I'm afraid it is a very slim chance that you wUl find 
 him at home." 
 
 " Never mind," the Prince rejoined, now again all good- 
 nature. " I'll try the experiment. You stay here, and if 
 he comes while I'm gone, keep him. You" — nodding to 
 me — " you come with me. Your father won't object ; will 
 you, Banakin? I want to have a talk with you. Nobody 
 wiU know who you are. And the drive wiU do you good. 
 Go, put on your bonnet." 
 
 Prince L^onticheff, at that moment, struck me as the 
 most tiresome person I had ever known, and I shrank 
 from the notion of a drive with him. I looked for rescue 
 to my father. That he, a most punctilious stickler for the 
 proprieties, would sanction the Prince's proposition, I 
 never so much as dreamed. For me, an immarried woman, 
 to go about the streets of Paris alone in a carriage with a 
 young man ! 
 
 But to my surprise, and equally to my regret, my father 
 demanded sharply, " Well ! Well ! Have you not heard? 
 Go put on your bonnet." 
 
 There was no help for it. Prince L(5onticheff was a 
 man whom, for my father's sake, I must not offend. And 
 now that my father had said yes, I could not very gra- 
 ciously say no. 
 
 A simple Victoria, drawn by a single horse, and driven 
 by a coachman in plain black livery, stood in front of the 
 Hotel du St. Esprit. 
 
 " It is sometimes a relief," said the Prince, when he had 
 helped me into this vehicle, " to put aside the pomp and 
 
PRINCE LEONTIOHEFF. 141 
 
 splendor by which. I am usually surrounded, and to go in 
 for a little quiet, unostentatious comfort. On the whole, 
 I thoroughly enjoy being a prince and a millionaire. I 
 enjoy the romance of it, the celebrity, the luxury, and the 
 power. Some very rich or very illustrious men are always 
 tormented by the suspicion that nobody really likes them 
 for themselves, and that the people who are pleasant and 
 cordial to them axe all toadies, and have ulterior designs 
 — axes to grind, as the saying is. But I consider that 
 morbid and unreasonable. No such fancy ever disturbs 
 me. I know I'm a nice, good-natured fellow, a good talk- 
 er, a hearty companion, and I don't see why people 
 shouldn't like me for myself, just as well as they would if 
 I were a pauper or a nonentity. Of course there are a 
 certain number of people whom I can single out instantly 
 as mere favor-hunters and sycophants ; I have very del- 
 icate instincts and intuitions ; but when all is said, they're 
 an insignificant minority. The great mass of the people 
 who make themselves agreeable to me, do so because they 
 like me. I know that to be a fact, because I've gone 
 around a good deal incog., and I've been just as well 
 treated then, as when I've sailed under my true colors. 
 Understand ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said, " I understand." 
 
 " "Well, that's the long and the short of the matter ; I 
 enjoy my wealth and my rank immensely, but only on 
 the condition that I can step down and become a common 
 every-day man among men whenever the whim seizes me. 
 Now to-day, you see, I've quite put aside all pomp and 
 circumstance, and am driving about in a one-horse Vic- 
 toria, like any bourgeois. I suppose the people that see 
 us pass, think I'm some prosperous shop-keeper, or a 
 notary, or something, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, very likely," I said, feeling that he expected me 
 to say something. 
 
142 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " You know," he went on, " it's generally believed that 
 a really extraordinary man is always extraordinary in 
 more ways than one. Well, look at me. I'm extraordi- 
 nary first as one of the two or three richest and most emi- 
 nent noblemen in Europe ; then, if you please, as one of 
 the shrewdest and most influential financiers ; then as one 
 of the most extravagant and reckless viveurs ; finally as 
 perhaps the ablest living novehst, and certainly the ablest 
 writing in English. The consequence is that wherever I 
 go, I'm pointed out : here as his Serene Highness Prince 
 Leonticheff ; there as the chief of the great house of Luck- 
 stone Brothers ; elsewhere as the author of " The Weird 
 Sovereign ; " elsewhere still as Prince Gigi, the dare-devil 
 man of the world. It's great fun, and I don't know why 
 I should pretend not to enjoy it. If there's anything 
 that I hate and abominate, it is false modesty and affec- 
 tation." 
 
 "They are indeed abominable qualities," I admitted. 
 " I don't think you can ever be accused of them." 
 
 " I should hope not. . . . But now don't let's talk 
 any more about me ; I want to talk to you about 
 yourself and your father. The poor old man has been 
 teUing me to-day the whole story of his misfortunes ; of 
 how you had to take French leave of your home in St. 
 Petersburg, of the sort of life that you've been living here 
 in Paris, and of the efforts that he's been making to bring 
 his case and his wrongs to the notice of the Emperor. 
 He's a great talker, as you know ; and I've let him talk 
 away to his heart's content all the afternoon. Among 
 other things he told me of the unfortunate attachment 
 you had formed for that young American painter. . . 
 what's his name. . . ." 
 
 "Prince Leonticheff!" I cried. My heart was potmd- 
 ing, and my cheeks felt on fixe. " Oh, how could my 
 father have been so . . . ! " 
 
PRINOE LEONTICHEFF. 143 
 
 " So what ? Why, your father was all right. He told 
 it to me in the natural course of conversation, and I was 
 very glad he did so, because ..." 
 
 " I must beg you," I interrupted, trying to control my 
 pain and my excitement, and to speak calmly and with 
 dignity, " whatever my father may have said to you, I 
 must beg you in the name of decency and delicacy, not to 
 speak of it to me. I cannot listen to another word." 
 
 " Oh, come, now ! Don't be angry. You must under- 
 stand that I'm a good many years older than you, and be- 
 sides that, I'm probably the best friend you and your 
 father have got in the world. I think you're a little 
 heroine, and I like you "and respect you. Wliat's more, 
 I'm going to help you. The sort of life that you're lead- 
 ing here is all wrong, and wicked, and wasteful. You 
 weren't bom to spend your days giving music lessons, or 
 translating fifth-rate novels. You'll never be young but 
 once, and youth is too precious a thing to be allowed to 
 slip away unused. I'm your true friend and your father's ; 
 and I'm going to help you. But first you must let me 
 speak my mind freely and frankly, or else we can't reach 
 any common ground of understanding. Now, then, to 
 return to what I was going to say about your attachment 
 for the young American painter. . . . " 
 
 My feelings of resentment, of outrage, of confusion, 
 were so intense, I could hardly command my voice. It 
 cost me a great effort to say, "I have asked you. Prince 
 Leonticheff, not to speak to me of that. I do not know 
 how I can prevent you, if you choose to take advantage of 
 my helplessness to defy my wishes. I can't jump out of 
 your carriage ; I can't make myself deaf. But it does not 
 seem to me exactly — I will not say gentlemanlilie — but 
 manly, on your part. I thought no one but a coward 
 would take advantage of a woman's helplessness. " 
 
 " Why, but look here. I'm not taking any advantage 
 
144 MMA CULPA. 
 
 of you. What I want to say won't hurt you. On the 
 contrary, it's something that will be entirely to your bene- 
 fit to hear. It's of the highest possible importance that I 
 should say it to you, for your father's sake. He asked 
 me to say it to you. I said it to him, and he said he 
 wished I would say the same thing to you. You ..." 
 
 " Anything I need to hear for my father's sake, I pre- 
 fer to hear from my father's lips. I must remind you 
 that you are a stranger to me. I cannot allow you to 
 speak to me about my private affairs." 
 
 " Oh, I say. Miss Banakin ! You mustn't think of me 
 as a stranger. I've known you ever since your childhood, 
 and I'm your devoted friend. I am more anxious than I 
 can tell you to be of use to you, to help your father to be 
 reinstated in his rights as a Bussian noble. But to that 
 end there are certain things which it is absolutely neces- 
 sary should be said. And I think it's weak and unworthy 
 and unwomanly on your part to refuse to hear them, be- 
 cause they happen to be a little disagreeable. You teU 
 me you'd rather hear them from your father. That's all 
 very well, but, as he and I agreed this afternoon, you 
 woiddn't believe them if your father said them to you. 
 You'd doubt whether he knew what he was talking about ; 
 you'd think he was influenced in his opinions by his 
 personal feelings. But you know that I have no personal 
 feelings in the matter, and fm-thermore, that I can speak 
 with authority, as one who knows. What I want to say 
 won't hurt you. It's my duty as your friend to say it. 
 Can't you sink your own little individual feelings for a 
 moment, and look upon me as a sort of elder brother, and 
 let me advise you ? The amount of it is, I can't be of any 
 earthly assistance to your father if I'm not to be allowed 
 to say my say to you." 
 
 I bit my lips, and kept silence. 
 
 " You don't imagine, I hope," he went on, " that I am 
 
PRINCE LEONTICHEFF. 145 
 
 actuated by any other motive than a desire to serve 
 you ? It's delicate ground ; and if it is painful for you 
 to hear me, can't you understand that it isn't altogether 
 delightful for me to have to say it? . . . Come, I 
 want you to teU me what selfish motive I could possibly 
 have." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose your motives are weU enough," I 
 answered, sullenly. " But there are some things that no 
 motives can justify." 
 
 " Quite so. There are. And now do you want me to 
 tell you one thing that no motive can justify ? It's for a 
 young girl, just for the sake of her small personal pleasure, 
 to refuse to listen to a man who has matters of the highest 
 importance to discuss with her." 
 
 I made no further resistance. Detestable as it would 
 be for me to hear him, perhaps I had better do so. It 
 was true, in a way, that I had no right to let my personal 
 pleasure or displeasure stand between Priace L^onticheff 
 and his willingness or his ability to serve my father. I 
 was hot with hurt and shame and anger ; but I sat 
 motionless and speechless, keeping my eyes turned away 
 from him, and tried to console myself by thinking that 
 words break no bones. 
 
 " Now, then," he said, " I wiU be short and direct. I 
 say of your attachment for the young American — I can't 
 recall his name ; something like West — I say its an un- 
 fortunate attachment ; and so it is, for more reasons than 
 one. It's unfortunate, first and foremost, because it can't 
 possibly come to anything, the young man being penni- 
 less, and you being in a position where you can't afford to 
 marry a poor man. It's furthermore unfortunate because, 
 imless all signs fail, the young man has been inconstant ; 
 anyhow, he has stopped writing to you, and is allowing 
 you to break your heart for him in solitude. But finally 
 and chiefly, and if for no other reason, it's unfortunate, 
 10 
 
14:6 MEA CULPA. 
 
 because tlie most effective step that you could take to 
 damn eternally your father's cause in Bussia would be to 
 form an alliance with an American." 
 
 He paused a moment, as if to give this announcement 
 time to sink into my brain. Then he continued. . . . 
 
 " You see, it's this way. Of course, what you and your 
 father want to do more than anything else just now is to 
 give the impression at Court, that in spite of the harsh 
 and unjust treatment that you've received, you remain 
 true and loyal subjects. Therefore you couldn't marry a 
 foreigner without asking the Emperor's permission ; and 
 I can assure you of this — the Emperor would never sanc- 
 tion a marriage between your father's daughter and a 
 citizen of the United States. If your father had kept his 
 mouth shut, and refrained from committing his thoughts 
 on the subject of republicanism to paper, it would be an 
 entirely different matter. But among the manuscripts 
 that were found in his possession when your house was 
 searched, was a lucubration in which he declared a re- 
 public to be the only rational form of human government ; 
 and it was that which did as much as anything else to 
 determine his condemnation to Siberia as an untrust- 
 worthy person. Well, now, if he applied for leave to 
 marry his daughter to an American citizen, a repubUcan 
 par excellence, you may imagine the impression that 
 would be made in Eussia. No, no ; you must give up 
 thinking of your young American, you must cure your- 
 self of your interest in him. You can do it, if you'll try. 
 I know by experience that it's a possible, almost easy 
 thing, to cure one's self of an affection that is inimical to 
 one's welfare ; and you must do it. . . . Via, that's 
 all I had to say on the subject of your love affair. You 
 see it wasn't anything very terrible, and you've sm:- 
 vived it." 
 
 He seemed to expect me to say something by way of 
 
PRINCE LEONTIGHEFF. 147 
 
 rejoinder or acknowledgment, but as I held my tongue, 
 he presently resumed. . . . 
 
 "For the rest, I may tell you in three words that I am 
 going to cause you and Paul Mikhselovitch to be rein- 
 stated in all your rights and privileges at home. It's 
 going to be a difficult, and no doubt a lengthy, undertak- 
 ing. But I was never known to fail in anything I seri- 
 ously attempted, and I don't mean to fail in this. If we 
 don't succeed at once, we'll succeed later ; and if one 
 method fails us, we'll try another. But we'U win in the 
 end. You were never bom to be a poor miserable music- 
 teacher on the wrong side of the Seine ; you're too high- 
 bom and too high-bred, you're^ too pretty and too nice. 
 You were bom to shine in the great world, and to adorn 
 a noble home. You see I'm blunt and bluff, and I don't 
 mince matters or construct fine phrases. I speak out my 
 mind in the first and the simplest words that come to me. 
 But I want you to believe, Miss Banakin, that my heart 
 is in the right place, and that I've conceived a deep and 
 genuine fondness for you and your father, and that you 
 may count upon me as your firm and devoted friend. I 
 want to hear you say that you believe me." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I believe you," I said, awkwardly, and not too 
 cordially, 
 
 " Good. Well, then, as I've told you, I'm going to put 
 "an end to the sort of life that circumstances are compel- 
 ling you to lead at present. But first — and this is another 
 point of supreme importance — first I've got to persuade 
 you to join me in influencing your poor dear father to 
 sacrifice something that's as precious to him as your 
 yoimg American painter was to you. You know what I 
 mean?" 
 
 "No, I do not," I said. 
 
 " Why, this so-caEed History of Eussia that he's been 
 wasting his time over for I don't know how many years. 
 
l-iS MEA CULPA. 
 
 In the first place, there's only one man living -A^ho knows 
 enough of it to write a History of Eussia, and that man's 
 not your father. But, in the second place, this thing 
 that he has written would give mortal offence in the very 
 quarter where he most needs to curry favor — I mean in 
 the Imperial palace. Of course it's not likely that he 
 could ever find a publisher insane enough to undertake 
 the expense of printing it; but if he should, his last 
 chance of pardon from the throne would be knocked from 
 under him. He's been reading me scraps of it this after- 
 noon, and explaining his point of view, and developing 
 his little theories. I told him plainly that I thought he 
 was mad. . . . Well, what I want you to do is to 
 join me in urging him to bum it. When you've given up 
 your young American painter, and your father has bmned 
 his so-called History of Bussia, the rest will be, comparer 
 tively speaking, plain sailing." 
 
 My American painter ! There was little need for me to 
 give him up. It was he who had already given me up. 
 Yet one by one the words that Prince Leonticheff spoke 
 seemed to sink into my heart like drops of molten iron, 
 burning out the last shred of hope that was left there, 
 fiUing it with a deathly pain and despair. 
 
 Oh, Julian ! Oh, God help me ! 
 
 We foimd Armidis, and brought him away. Then we 
 stopped at the Hotel du St. Esprit for my father, and 
 went to dine at the Restaurant Foyot. Somehow it 
 seemed to me that I had never in all my life before been 
 so imhappy as I was to-night. I could not have told 
 why, perhaps, but it was so. Something cold and heavy, 
 like a ball of ice, weighed in my breast and made it ache. 
 It was as if I had received through some sixth sense a 
 vague, occult warning of danger at hand, of approaching 
 
PEINOE LtONTIOHEVF. 149 
 
 sorrow greater than any that I had known as yet. Armi- 
 dis talked a vast deal to-night, but I could not interest 
 myseK in what he said, nor smile at his pleasantries. I 
 remember, though, this little passage at arms between 
 him and Prince Leonticheff. 
 
 The Prince cried out, " By Jove, you are the most amus- 
 ing character I've ever met. I'm going to write a novel, 
 just for the sake of putting you in." 
 
 "Your Serene Highness had better not attempt it," 
 Armidis retorted. " It's been tried a great many times, 
 but it can't be done. I am the rock upon which so many 
 of my novel-writiag friends have made sliipwreck. I'm 
 quite innaisissahle." 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that, my friend," said the Prince. 
 " One of the remarkable facts about me — and you mustn't 
 allow yourself to forget it — is that what I succeed in, most 
 men have tried and failed in." 
 
 I believed Prince Leonticheff to be, for all his vulgar- 
 ity, his self-conceit, his ponderosity, his lack of tact and 
 humor, an honest, kind-hearted, well-meaning man, and a 
 true friend and valuable ally of my father's. But to-night 
 the sight of his fat face and burly figure, the sound of 
 his unctuous, husky voice, were infinitely distasteful, even 
 hateful, to me. I dare say it was not his fault, however. 
 The light and the savor had gone out of the world. 
 Everything was bitter or insipid to my palate. In my 
 dull, sick languor the only thing I wished for — but for 
 that I wished intensely — was to get away, home, in my 
 own room, alone, alone with my dreary thoughts, my dead 
 hopes, my bruised, bleeding love. It was, I suppose, the 
 instinct of the sick animal to sUnk off and suffer its dull 
 misery in hiding. 
 
 At last we rose from the table. Armidis and the 
 Prince walked with us to the door of our hotel. There 
 they bade us good-night, and went away together. 
 
150 MBA CULPA. 
 
 " Eh Men, my daughter, I consider my cause gained," 
 said my father. " For only a little while longer shall we 
 be forced to lead this wretched Bohemian existence. The 
 Prince has come to our rescue, like the gallant nobleman 
 he is. In a few weeks this shabby lodging-house wiU see 
 the last of us. We shall be speeding toward St. Peters- 
 burg, in a train de liixe, there to resume our proper station 
 in the world." 
 
 At these words, somehow, the grief that was pent up 
 in me seemed to find an outlet. I burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, father, father," I sobbed, " why should we mate 
 a change? Are we not well enough here? We have 
 lived here so long, we are so accustomed to our way of 
 living. We have plenty ; we are not uncomfortable. The 
 thought of breaking up, and going away, and making a 
 change for the unknown — oh, it terrifies me. Let us be 
 contented, and go on living our quiet, simple life. Oh, I 
 wish Prince Leonticheff had never come to us. I wish 
 we had never seen him. Let him go away, and leave us 
 as he found us." 
 
 My father stood as still as a statue, and looked at me 
 with amazement, with stupefaction, in his eyes. 
 
 At last he gave his head a toss, and cried, "What is 
 this I hear ? Is it that you do not know what you are 
 saying ? Is it that you are mad? " 
 
 " Oh, no, I am not mad. I know what I say, and I 
 mean it. I can't bear the thought of this complete break- 
 ing up and changing of our life. It frightens me. I don't 
 like Prince Leonticheff. I don't like to thiok of him 
 entering into our private affairs, and determining them 
 for us. It all makes me feel uneasy and full of terror. 
 He may be a very good man in his way, but he is not of 
 our kind. Oh, don't let us put ourselves imder such an 
 obligation to him. Oh, if he would only go away, if we 
 only might never see him any more ! " 
 
FRINGE LAoNTIOHEFF. 151 
 
 "Well, if you are not mad," said my father, "then you 
 are selfish to a degree that seems incredible. You, who 
 are young and strong, you have adapted yourself to this 
 that you call our quiet simple life ; but which I call our 
 mean, shabby, precarious life : a hand-to-mouth existence 
 humbler than that of the smallest bourgeois. You have 
 adapted yourself to it, you have even come, it appears, to 
 like it, to enjoy it. But I . . . ? Can you not con- 
 sider me a little? Just Heaven! Has my daughter 
 sunken so low? And does she desire to bind me, to chain 
 me, to her own low level ? " 
 
 He ceased speaking for a few seconds, and marched 
 backward and forward once or twice through the room. 
 I sat still in my place, weepiug silently. All at once he 
 began again. . . . 
 
 " I must do you the justice of assuming that you have 
 not thought, that you have not considered, that you have 
 spoken upon the blind impulse of the moment. You are 
 young and strong. But I . . . ? I am old, I am 
 far from well. I grow appreciably older, I grow appreci- 
 ably feebler, from day to day. My powers of resistance 
 become daily less. From my cradle until I am fifty, I am 
 habituated to every luxury that our Nineteenth Century 
 civilization can procure : I have wealth, leisure, position, 
 consideration ; all the pleasantness of large fortune and 
 high station are mine. Well and good. Then, suddenly, 
 presto ! I am deprived of all this. I find myself stripped, 
 as it were, and sent naked into the world. For one, two, 
 three, five, six years, I am constrained to live the life of 
 an outlaw, an exile, a pauper, a Bohemian, a social non- 
 entity. But do you imagine that I resign myself to the 
 change ? No, indeed, far from it. I support it as best I 
 may, with patience, with dignity, uncomplainingly but 
 never with resignation, until my hopes of regaining my 
 rights become realizable, and I see then, so to speak, I 
 
152 MEA CULPA. 
 
 see reinstatement and restoration, within arm's reach. 
 I see myself returned to my own country, my own house, 
 my home, my books, my properties; I see myseH re- 
 established in my natural position among men, sur- 
 roimded again by my friends, waited on by my servants, 
 universally honored and respected ; I see all this within 
 arm's reach ; but . . . ? What then ? Lo ! I find 
 myself brought face to face with a new obstacle, the ob- 
 stacle I had least foreseen : nothing less than the opposi- 
 tion of my daughter, of my own flesh and hlooA, parbleu I 
 She would have me throw my opportunity out of the 
 window, and voluntarily continue this dog's life. The 
 viper that I have warmed in my bosom turns and stings 
 me. Thoughtless, ungrateful child ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, you are quite right," I confessed, between 
 my sobs. " I did not realize what I said. You forgive 
 me? Oh, you must forgive me. I would never really 
 oppose myself to anything that was for your good. It 
 was just the feeling of the moment. The idea of a com- 
 plete alteration in our life frightened me. And Prince 
 Leonticheff . . . there is something about him that 
 frightens me too, and makes me feel uncomfortable. 
 But of course, you are right, and I was altogether wrong. 
 Say that you forgive me. Won't you say it ? Oh, if you 
 are going to be angry with me, and not love me, what 
 shall I do ? You are all I have in the world. Oh, I am 
 so lonesome, so unhappy ! " 
 
 " Why, I believe you are hysterical," said my father. 
 "There! Stop your crying. Dry your eyes. Love you? 
 What a question to ask me ! I should think you would 
 know that my love for you is the ruling passion of my 
 life. There, there, my dear ! You see it is telling upon 
 you, as well as upon me, this life of hardship and priva- 
 tion. It is consuming away your youth, it is wearing 
 you out. It is ageing you before your time. You have 
 
PRINCE LEONTIOEEFF. 153 
 
 not been yourself for these many weeks. You are losing 
 your color, your freshness, your vivacity. The new life, 
 the life of ease and luxury, that is about to open before 
 us, will be as much to your benefit as to mine. Now go 
 to bed, and sleep. Good-night." 
 
IV. 
 
 My conception of the character of Prince Leonticheif 
 was a good deal complicated and confused by my reading 
 of the manuscript novel that he had left with me. I 
 could not quite agree with him in regarding it as the 
 most poetical thing in English prose, " or in German, 
 either ; " nor could I share his belief that Goethe 
 would have given all he ever wrote for the central idea or 
 theme. But, nevertheless, it struck me as an exceedingly 
 pretty story, extremely well -mrought out. It was grace- 
 ful and delicate in form, tender and refined in feeling, 
 original in plan, and thoroughly interesting. It seemed 
 to me to reveal a fine imagination, a peculiarly genuine 
 insight into human nature, and a point of view that was 
 at once lofty and enlightened. That absence of himior 
 which was so grotesquely distinctive of the author's per- 
 sonality, I did not feel in his work : perhaps because the 
 story he had to tell — a tragical romance of the middle 
 ages — was not one that called for humorous treatment. 
 
 How Prince L^onticheff could ever have written it was 
 the problem that baffled me. Suppose I had discovered a 
 cabbage-stalk bearing lilies of the valley ? Before I had 
 read his novel, I should have said, if anybody had asked 
 me to describe him, " He is, for aU his noble pedigree, a 
 big, lazy, heavy Eussian mouzhik. He is well informed 
 upon certain subjects, he is shrewd, he has plenty of 
 rough and ready mother- wit ; but he is vulgar, vain, and 
 boastful to a degree that would seem to indicate some 
 congenital weakness in his brain ; he is intolerably weari- 
 
PRINCE LtONTlOHEFP. 155 
 
 some ; and he is absolutely deficient in imagination, in 
 sensibility, in tact and delicacy, in all those faculties and 
 instincts which are called aesthetic. He is the bull in the 
 china-shop, but a good-natured bull, it must be con- 
 fessed." 
 
 What, however, could I say of him now ? 
 
 It was as if the bull had suddenly displayed an ability 
 to sing like a nightingale. All my calculations were up- 
 set. 
 
 My father said, " The rough cloak has a silken lining." 
 
 " Bah-bah ! " cried Armidis. " He hires some poor 
 devil of a clever fellow to write for him ; then he signs 
 the product with his princely name, and reaps the glory 
 of it. Don't tell me .' " 
 
 Armidis, I thought, was perversely unjust to the 
 Prince. He had made up his mind to see nothing good 
 in him, to believe nothing but evil of him. 
 
 I accepted my father's metaphor, and said with him, 
 " The rough cloak has a silken lining." 
 
 We saw the Prince every day. He was always calling 
 upon us at our hotel, having us to lunch with him, to 
 dine with him, taking us to drive, sending us handsomely 
 bound copies of his works, sending us wines, fruits, and 
 big baskets of flowers that looked queer and out of place 
 in our small dingy quarters. If he had sent us cut flowers, 
 it would have been different ; but the vast, stiff, conven- 
 tional baskets that he did send, made my father's little 
 room resemble the loge of a prima-donna. 
 
 For my part, I found his constant and profuse atten- 
 tions inexplicable as well as embarrassing. Why should 
 he neglect all the other people he knew in Paris, to devote 
 himself exclusively to us ? And not to speak of the larger 
 service that he had undertaken to render my father, here 
 he was daily overwhelming us with smaller favors for 
 which we were in no position to render an equivalent. I 
 
156 MEA CULPA. 
 
 could not understand it; it troubled me, and made me 
 feel uncomfortable and ill at ease. 
 
 One day Armidis said to me— my father had gone with 
 his Serene Highness to some races at Longchamps ; and 
 the composer had taken me to dine with him on the other 
 side of the river — he said, " I am goiag to talk very seri- 
 ously to you for a few minutes, Monica Paulovna. To 
 begin with, answer me this : don't you thiak I am really 
 the most forbeariag and long-suffering friend that ever 
 was?" 
 
 "I think you are the best and dearest friend," I re- 
 sponded. " But what do you mean by long-suffering and 
 forbearing ? " 
 
 " Wliy, the way I stick to you through — or rather, in 
 spite of — thick and thin." 
 
 " Through thick and thin, indeed. But how in spite 
 of ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! You literal thing ! So dense, and so 
 unkind ! To make a man explain his little metaphors ! 
 . . . Your father's thin, isn't he ? And heaven knows, 
 your Prince is thick." 
 
 I could not help smiling, though I tried to speak with 
 great severity, when I said, " I have told you before, and 
 I wish you would remember it, that I cannot allow you to 
 abuse my father. As for the Prince, I am no partisan of 
 his, but you are utterly unjust to him. He is a very harm- 
 less person ; uncouth, uncivilized, if you please, and dread- 
 fully tedious ; but thoroughly well-meaniag and kind^ 
 hearted. And though he says stupid and vulgar things, 
 he writes very well indeed. You have taken a dislike to 
 him, a prejudice against him ; and you are determined to 
 believe nothiag but evil of him. It's unworthy of you." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! What a crusher ! I feel quite blasted. 
 You pitiless, unfeeling creature ! . . . However, I 
 have a duty to discharge, and I'll discharge it, no matter 
 
FRINGE L6ONTICHEFF. 157 
 
 what it costs me. Only, please don't stare at me in quite 
 such a stony way. It disconcerts me, and saps my courage. 
 . . . Let me see. . . . Where shall I begin ? " 
 
 He paused for an instant, and looked at me with one 
 of his bright, irresistible smiles : a smile like that of 
 a naughty but charmiug child, eager to be taken back 
 into your good graces, but not by any means willing to 
 promise to sin no more : a smile against which no rancor 
 could be proof. He looked at me thus, until he saw that 
 my own face was melting, whether I would or not ; and 
 then he went on. . . . 
 
 " There ! That is better, and so much more becoming. 
 Now, what I am in duty bound to say to you is this : If I 
 did not know you to be entirely iucapable of such a thing 
 I shotild accuse you of carrying on the most desperate 
 sort of a flirtation with Prince Leonticheff." 
 
 " Mr. Armidis ! " I cried in anger and amazement. 
 
 " Oh, don't. Don't Mr. Armidis me. I haven't done 
 anything to deserve it. I tell you in my very first breath 
 that I know you to be incapable of such a things I was 
 only warning you of what I might say if I knew you less 
 well, of what a stranger, witnessing your attitude toward 
 the Prince, might say, of what, in fine, the Prince him- 
 self very likely thinks. I know you're not flirting with 
 him ; but he, I'U bet my head, believes you are. Now 
 wait a moment. Don't fling out at me. Contain your- 
 self, and let me explain. The Prince, in one word, is mak- 
 ing desperate love to you ; and you are suffering him to 
 do so unrebuked. The real reason is, you're so innocent 
 and unsophisticated that you've never suspected what he 
 was up to. But he doesn't know that, and he naturally 
 thinks you like it." 
 
 " The Prince making love to me ! What an absurd 
 idea ! " I cried. 
 
 " Yes ; isn't it ? Entirely absurd ; quite so ; prepos- 
 
158 MEA CULPA. 
 
 terous. We're altogether of one mind concerning that, 
 I'm rejoiced to learn. But absurd as it is, it's so. Now 
 listen to me. You're a woman, a young — comparatively 
 speaking, a young — unmarried woman. You've had 
 scarcely any experience of the world, and none of men. 
 "What men have you ever known ? Your father, Julian 
 North, and poor old Armidis, the composer. Well, my 
 dear, they don't any of them count. Each is an exception 
 to the rules. But your horrid old Leonticheff ! There's 
 an average man, a typical man ..." 
 
 "Prince Leonticheff a typical man ! " I coiild not help 
 interrupting. " If there ever was an exception, it seems 
 to me he is one." 
 
 "Oh, for that, yes," assented Armidis. "^Also an ex- 
 ception in certain little superficial ways ; but on the whole 
 and under his skin, a fair average specimen of brute beast 
 called man for short. An average specimen ia that he has 
 the average passions, appetites, weaknesses, and code of 
 morals. Weil and good. You don't know the species ; I 
 do. You are at a loss how to construe its actions ; to me 
 they speak louder than words. Now when I see an in- 
 dividual of the stripe of Prince Leonticheff devoting him- 
 self to a young and pretty woman as he's devoting him- 
 self to Miss Banakin, I know that his designs are not 
 platonic. I know that he is making love to her with mal- 
 ice aforethought. And, what is more, I know that, seeing 
 that she doesn't resent his advances, or snub him, or put 
 him back in his place, he believes that she likes it and is 
 encouragiag him, leading him on, and meeting him half 
 way ..." 
 
 "But he is not devotiag himself to me," I protested. 
 
 " Oh, he's not devoting himself to you ? No? Eeally ? 
 Oh, then I crave a thousand pardons. I thought he was. 
 I thought he came to see you every day, and took you 
 driving nearly every day, and sent you flowers and books 
 
PRINCE LtONTICEEFF. 169 
 
 and things every other day, and was never content unless 
 you were dining or lunching with him, and that sort of 
 thing. Somehow I had acqmred that impression ..." 
 
 " It is my father. He comes to see my father," I be- 
 gan .. . 
 
 "Your father? Oh, wow-wow! Your father's very 
 nice, perhaps ; it's a matter of taste, and perhaps he's very- 
 nice. Yes, as a famous statesman used to say, I've no 
 doubt that for the people who like that sort of man, he'd 
 be just about the sort of man they'd like. But somehow 
 as the world is constituted, young men don't conceive such 
 insatiable passions for fathers; no, generally daughters. 
 And then consider ! He scarcely speaks to your father. 
 He has no eyes, nor ears, nor tongue for anyone but 'you. 
 He glues himself to you like a tame rhinoceros. Oh, be- 
 lieve me, I know the type. The Prince is wooing you. 
 And he flatters himseK that you encoiirage him. I can't 
 altogether blame him. You pale women with the red 
 hair are the devil and aU where men's hearts are concerned. 
 But I do blame you a little. You ought to pour some 
 cold water down his patrician back. You ought not to 
 let him fancy that he's made an impression. If you don't 
 look sharp, he'll marry you. There ! I have spoken." 
 
 "No, no, you are talking nonsense," I rejoined. 
 "Prince L^onticheff has never said or done or hinted 
 anything in the least degree sentimental. If he seems 
 devoted, it's only his way ; it doesn't mean anything at 
 all. I will confess to you that I do not relish his atten- 
 tions. They embarrass me horribly, and make me feel 
 uncomfortable and disagreeable. The books, the flowers, 
 the dinners, the drives, the constant visits, his general 
 eagerness to please us, to serve us, they make me squirm ; 
 I wish he would stop. But what can I do ? I mustn't 
 offend him. For my father's sake, I mustn't offend him. 
 "What can I do ? What would you have me do ? " 
 
160 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " Well, I don't know, I'm sure. I'm not a woman. I 
 can warn you, I can put you on your guard ; but I can't 
 tell you how to defend yourself. That's a woman's busi- 
 ness. I thought I had read somewhere, or heard a rumor, 
 to the effect that women generally know without being 
 taught how to assert their dignity, and put a too pre- 
 suming suitor back into his place. I thought women 
 knew how to do this by a sort of instinct. I thought they 
 had a method all their own by which, quietly, gracefully, 
 with an air of unconsciousness, to wrap round a man 
 a beautiful, filmy, delicate, but very cold wet blanket. 
 Search within thyself. All I can say is that your horrid 
 old Russian Prince has designs upon you. If they are 
 not honorable designs, which is entirely possible, je me'en 
 ficlie ! In that case, I know he is in no wise to be 
 feared. Only I should like to see you shrivel him up with 
 your scorn. But if his designs are honorable, which 
 somehow seems most likely — why, then, I tremble. 
 Your dear delightful papa's little ambition will be real- 
 ized ; and heaven pity Monica Paulovna." 
 
 " My father's ambition ? "What do you mean? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing to speak of. Your father's ambition is 
 simple, natural, and unpretentious. He aspires to marry 
 you to the Prince." 
 
 " Oh, that is too absurd ! " 
 
 " All the same, it is the fact." 
 
 "Never, never. My father's not a fool. He knows in 
 the first place that I will never marry anyone. In the 
 second place, he can see with his eyes shut that no two 
 people could possibly be more unsuited to each other than 
 Prince Leonticheff and I. And in the third place, he 
 knows that a Prince of the Empire isn't likely to ask me to 
 be his wife. He can pretend to the highest." 
 
 " Even so ! Your father's not a fool. Therefore he 
 sees, as I do, that your Prince is tremendously smitten by 
 
PRINCE Li:ONTlCIIEPF. 161 
 
 your charms ; he realizes that from a worldly point of 
 view such a marriage would be immensely brilliant and 
 advantageous : wealth, rank, a title, position, power, 
 everything that a worldling's heart can desire, at one fell 
 swoop ! And if you were not related to him, I should tell 
 you that your dear papa is very far from being above 
 worldly considerations. Nothing this side of Paradise 
 could give him such joyous satisfaction as an alliance 
 between his daughter and the Prince Leonticheif. As 
 for Julian, poor lad, whom I fancy you had in mind when 
 you said you wouldn't marry anyone, your father regards 
 him as quite out of the running. Indeed, he never re- 
 garded him as in it ; and if he was suave and amiable in 
 dealing with him, it was only to get rid of him the more 
 easily. Nothing that your father ever did increased my 
 appreciation of the solid diplomatic worth that lies under 
 the surface of his guileless-seeming character, as did the 
 adroit and noiseless manner in which he sent Julian 
 North packing off into the wilderness. Let the Prince 
 once declare his intentions, and then watch Paul the son 
 of Michael. The worst of it is, I am afraid you will be 
 weak and obedient." 
 
 " You needn't be afraid of that, it it ever comes to the 
 point. I did not know you had so poor an opinion of me." 
 
 " Well, we'll see, we'll see. Don't boast ; it brings bad 
 luck. Your father has charms to move the filial breast. 
 He's not a man to stick at a trifle, and neither is your 
 Prince. If they conspire together to make a bride of you 
 — beware, beware ! I wish to speak moderately, without 
 passion, without prejudice, and therefore I will say noth- 
 ing more disparaging of Prince Leonticheff than that he is 
 the most colossal mass of swinish selfishness that I could 
 ever have imagined, possible in my worst nightmares. So 
 long as his appetites are satisfied, he smiles and is content. 
 But heaven help the man, woman, or child, that stands 
 11 
 
162 ME A CULPA. 
 
 between liim and the object his mouth waters for! You 
 might as reasonably look for mercy from a hungry tiger, 
 courtesy from an anaconda, compunction from an escaped 
 locomotive." 
 
 " Prince Leonticheff is not one hundredth part so black 
 as you paint him. I am not by any means his champion 
 or admirer, but I can't understand why you should be so 
 persistently unjust to him." 
 
 " Unjust, say you? Now, look you, Monica Banakin, I 
 will endure well-nigh anything from you, because I love 
 you. But I will not endure to hear you call me unjust on 
 the score of your Eussian Prince. Anything but that. I 
 have had opportunities of judging him which have been 
 denied to you. I have spent several unhappy hours quite 
 alone with him, en tete-a-tcfe, listening to his free and 
 guileless prattle. I have heard him deliver his mind on 
 various themes, human and otherwise, with a degree of 
 candor and unreserve which even he could scarcely em- 
 ploy in the presence of a young unmarried woman. Now, 
 then, I maintain that I am not merely just, but that I 
 temper justice with mercy, when I call Prince Leonticheff 
 the most appalling monster of gross egotism that I have 
 ever encoimtered. I maintain that I speak with gratui- 
 tous temperance when I allude to him as the most odious 
 cad that has ever entered my horizon. Far be it from me 
 to blacken his fair fame ; therefore I will say nothing fur- 
 ther, except that in his conversation, and, by his own ac- 
 counts, in his life as well, he is an indecent beast. K 
 you ask me to classify him zoologically, I will add that he 
 seems to me a cross between a boa-constrictor and a pig. 
 You see, I hold myself within bounds. There is no vil- 
 lainy, no cruelty, no bestiality of which he would be in- 
 capable, if it suited his desire. . . . Now, my dear, I 
 want you to snub him. Do it gentle, do it discreetly, but 
 ^0 it firmly. Put him back in his place, and let him stay 
 
PRINCE LEONTIGHEFP. 163 
 
 there. That's all. I have said my little say. Now let's 
 banisli him from our thoughts. He takes away my ap- 
 petite, and his name in my mouth tastes bitter." 
 
 AVas Prince Leonticheff so bad as Armidis pretended? 
 I could not believe it. The very excess of superlatives 
 with which Armidis loaded him, shook my confidence in 
 the speaker's judgment. 
 
 As for his suggestion that the Prince wanted to marry 
 me, it was too utterly absurd to deserve a second thought. 
 
It was too utterly absurd to deserve a second thought ; 
 and yet . . . 
 
 And yet, within a six-month, I became the Princess 
 Leonticheff. 
 
 I must explain, if I can, how step by step I was brought 
 to do so. I say, " If I can," because, when I think of it 
 now, it seems so inexplicable to me, so contrary to all 
 naturalness and verisimilitude, that I should declare it to 
 be impossible, the shadow of a bad dream, if I did not, 
 unhappily, know it to be a most substantial fact. 
 
 Armidis had said, " If you don't look sharp, he'll marry 
 you." 
 
 To which I had responded, " Nonsense ! He has never 
 said or done or hinted anything in the least degree senti- 
 mental." 
 
 The next day he asked me to be his wife. 
 
 Toward five o'clock in the afternoon he called upon us, 
 and announced that he had come to take me off for a 
 drive. 
 
 "Your father permits. I want to talk to you about 
 something important. Go make ready." 
 
 I would much rather have stayed at home. In the first 
 place, the prospect of a long tete-or-tete with him looked 
 wearisome and uninviting. In the second place, though 
 ,1 did not believe that Armidis's assertions of yesterday 
 rested upon the slightest foundation of truth, they had 
 had, nevertheless, the effect of making me feel conscious 
 and ill at ease in Prince L6onticheff's presence, and I did 
 
PRINCE L&ONTICEEFF. 165 
 
 not care to be alone witli him. Yet, on tlie other hand, 
 if I should refuse to go, he might take it amiss ; whereas, 
 for my father's sake, I must avoid unnecessarily offending 
 him. And then, perhaps, the " something important " 
 concerning which he wished to speak with me, was some 
 aspect of my father's affair which he could not mention 
 in my father's presence. 
 
 This last consideration played the chief part in deter- 
 mining me. I went to my room, and put on my hat and 
 gloves. 
 
 The Prince's Victoria was in waiting in the street. 
 
 " Well," said the Prince, as soon as we were fairly off, 
 " I've had news from Russia." 
 
 He paused. I did not speak, but waited expectantly 
 for his next word. 
 
 " Do you mind my smoking a cigarette ? Thank you 
 . . . Yes, I've had news from Russia ; and, not to beat 
 about the bush, bad news at that." 
 
 He paused again ; and I, feeling that some response 
 was expected from me, repeated, " Bad news . . . ?" 
 with a suspension of the voice that meant, " Yes. Go on. 
 TeU me, quick." 
 
 " I thought," he went on, " that I would confide it to 
 you in the first place, and then afterward break it to 
 your father. Poor old chap, he's worked himself up to 
 such a pitch of hopeful excitement, a set-back now might 
 play the devil with him." 
 
 " Yes. That was very considerate of you." 
 
 " Oh, not at all. You see, I felt that it might make him 
 downright iU. Besides, after you and I have had a talk 
 together, perhaps the whole complexion of the news may 
 be changed. We may be able between us to extract the 
 venom from it." 
 
 Would he never come to his point ? " The news 
 is . . . ? " I questioned. 
 
166 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " Well, here ... I don't remember whether I told 
 you that I had written to a friend of mine at St. Peters- 
 burg — a man who stands wonderfully near the throne — 
 that I had written to him to find out whether or not the 
 Emperor had any personal feeling against your father. It 
 was of the highest importance for me to be informed as 
 to that. It would determine, so to speak, my method of 
 attack. If he had no knowledge of the affair, or feeling 
 in regard to it, except oificially, then I would go to work 
 in one way. If, on the other hand, he felt in any degree 
 personally aggrieved against the old boy — why, then, 
 naturally, my tactics would be entirely different." 
 
 " Yes, I remember, you told me you had written. And 
 now you have had an answer from your friend ? " 
 
 " Exactly. I got a letter from him this morning. And 
 to cut a long story short, he says that, as ill luck will have 
 it, the Emperor bears the strongest sense of personal 
 injury. It appears that, when, soon after his accession, 
 your father's partisans brought his case to the Emperor's 
 notice, and began to plead with him for a pardon, he, like 
 the sensible man he is, asked to see the documents bearing 
 upon the matter; and the manuscripts found in your 
 father's possession were handed to him ; and he read 
 them. Now, I don't want to cast any reflection upon 
 your father. I like him, and I esteem him as a man with 
 a certain sort of intelligence. But you must allow me to 
 say that in some respects he's little better than a fool. 
 Fancy, if you please, that among these manuscripts there 
 was one, written — as, for the matter of that, they all were, 
 at a time when Alexander III. was still the Tsarevitoii, 
 which consisted of a series of not very flattering predic- 
 tions as to what policy he would probably pursue upon 
 coming to the throne ; and his Majesty read that, and it 
 didn't please him. What under God's heaven ever in- 
 duced your father to write it, is more than I can teU. It 
 
FRINGE LEONTIGHEFF. 167 
 
 was as needless and as purposeless as it was dangerous 
 and idiotic. But there it lay ia black and white, all nicely 
 dated, and signed with your father's name. His Majesty 
 read it, and he didn't like it. And, weary of the im- 
 portunities of your father's friends, he dropped a hint that 
 he would make it uncommonly disagreeable for any person 
 who might thereafter mention Paul Mikhaelovitch Bana- 
 kin's name in his presence. ' I must live up to the rep- 
 utation he has given me,' was his imperial little mot. 
 And my correspondent adds that it would be highly im- 
 prudent even for me to seek to approach him on the 
 subject ; that I would run a considerable risk of getting 
 iato his bad books, and losing my standing and favor at 
 the Court." 
 
 The Prince turned his broad red face full upon me, and 
 closed one eye, and smiled. 
 
 " Then," said I — and I was conscious of a strange and 
 altogether unjustifiable sense of relief — "then it is a hope- 
 less case ? My father's affairs will have to remain as they 
 are?" • 
 
 "Not so fast, not so fast," returned the Prince. "I 
 didn't say it was a hopeless case. What can't be done by 
 hook, can perhaps be done by crook. In fact, to put the 
 long and the short of the matter iu five words, from this 
 moment the success or failure of the whole enterprise de- 
 pends solely upon you." 
 
 "Upon me?" 
 
 " Quite so. Upon you." 
 
 " But how ? I don't see how. What can I do ? " 
 
 "That's just what I am going to tell you. It was to 
 tell you that, that I asked you out to drive with me. 
 WeU, it's this way. If I approach the Emperor on the 
 subject of your father's wrongs, says my friend, I run the 
 risk of angering him, and of losing my standing and favor 
 at Ooujt. Well, that's a pretty big, a pretty serious risk 
 
168 MEA CULPA. 
 
 to run, isn't it? Eather, you say. And if you know 
 anything about human nature, you know that a man in 
 his senses isn't Kkely to run a risk of that sort, unless 
 there's a prize at the other end of it. A sane man isn't 
 going to run a risk like that out of pure benevolence. 
 Now, I'm a wonderfully good-natured fellow, as you must 
 have seen ; and I'd do a good deal, and risk a good deal, 
 just from sheer kindness of heart. But not my standing 
 and favor with the Father of his People. I stop just 
 short of that. That is too precious to me. Considerably 
 more than haK my influence and usefulness in this world 
 springs from that. I can't risk it, except for the chance 
 of a big reward. Now, then, my dear Mademoiselle, it's 
 for you to guarantee me my reward." 
 
 For me to guarantee him his reward ! 
 
 Suddenly I grew cold to the very marrow of my bones ; 
 and a tfemor of fear and nervousness seized upon me. I 
 turned my face from the Prince, and looked into the street 
 from the other side of the carriage. Oh, if I could only 
 escape, and get away from him, out of his sight, beyond 
 the sound of his voice, alone, anywhere, to avoid what I 
 doubted not was coming ! That was the only thought or 
 feeling that would take shape in my mind. 
 
 " You see what I mean," he went on. " You must 
 promise to marry me. I consider that an adequate quid 
 pro quo. You betroth yourself to me. Then I make a 
 little rim into Eussia, and obtain an audience of the Em- 
 peror, and brave his wrath, and plead your father's cause. 
 I believe I shall not plead in vain. It may be hard work, 
 a pull against the tide, and all that. But I think I can 
 assure you that I will not come away tiU I have got an 
 imperial pardon for the old boy in my pocket. At the 
 same time I will crave his Majesty's sanction for our 
 marriage. I dare say I have told you that I make it 
 a practice never to fail in anything that I seriously un- 
 
PRINCE LliONTWHBFF. 1G9 
 
 dertake. There, now ; I expect you to consider yourself 
 from this hour my fiancee . . . What have you to 
 answer ? " 
 
 What had I to answer ! My thoughts were in such 
 turmoil and confusion, I could not find words for my 
 answer, the only answer that I had to make. And even 
 if the words had come to me, my heart was beating so 
 hard, I doubt if I could have spoken them. All at once a 
 fierce hatred of the Prince had seemed to grow big, and 
 burn within me; a hot, savage anger. Oh, if I could 
 only jump from the carriage, and run away, and never see 
 his face, nor hear his voice, again so long as I lived ! I 
 kept my back turned toward him, and bit my lips, and 
 was speechless. I remembered what Armidis had said, 
 that women generally knew by instinct how to silence an 
 unwelcome suitor ; and I wondered bitterly why that in- 
 stinct was denied to me. 
 
 " Yes," the Prince continued, in his fat, complacent 
 manner, "you and I must become engaged. You say 
 you don't love me. I know you say that, though you 
 don't open your lips, because you're a yoimg girl, and all 
 young girls have romantic and sentimental ideas about 
 love and marriage. You say you don't love me ; but the 
 important question is. What do I say? I say, Never 
 mind. I say also that it is only a question of time 
 when you will love me. I never yet knew — this is 
 strictly between ourselves — I never yet knew a woman 
 who could help loving me, if I seriously tried to make 
 her. And — again between you and me —I suppose I've 
 made love to, and been loved by, something like two 
 hundred women in the last ten years. Yes, two hun- 
 dred would be a moderate estimate, a very moderate 
 estimate indeed. All sorts and conditions of women, too, 
 mind you ; from all ranks of life ; of all ages between 
 eighteen and thirty -five; of pretty nearly all nationali- 
 
170 MEA CULPA. 
 
 »^ 
 ties — French and English, Russian and German, Italian 
 
 and Spanish, even Turkish women, Greeks, and Jew- 
 esses. Oh, but not with a view to matrimony ; no, no, 
 no. You're the one single woman on the face of this 
 planet whom I have looked at with the idea of inviting 
 her to become my wife. You say you don't love me ; and 
 I say never mind, for the present. Love isn't necessary 
 to begin a marriage with. The necessary capital to begin 
 with is respect and liking. Now, I'm quite sure that you 
 respect me and like me. You can't help doing so, be- 
 cause you're a fair-minded, sensible woman, and I'm a 
 thoroughly likeable man, and thoroughly worthy of re- 
 spect. Very good ; you marry me with your respect 
 and liking as a basis. If I'm satisfied, I don't see that 
 anybody else is called upon to complain. As for love, 
 that will come ; you may safely leave that to me. For 
 my own part, I not only respect and like you, but I am 
 free to say that I've conceived for you the most violent 
 passion that I have ever felt for any woman in my life. 
 And from the first day I saw you here in Paris, a few 
 weeks ago, I confess, I've realized that you were the woman 
 designed by heaven to be my wife. My wife has got to be, 
 first of all, a Russian ; and you're a Russian. Then she's 
 got to be noble, and you belong to one of the oldest 
 noble families in the Empire. You might expect me to 
 say that she's got to be rich, too ; but I'm rich enough 
 myself to dispense with a d(jf from my bride, if I choose. 
 Then she's got to be pretty ; and to say no more, your 
 appearance and style suit me better than those* of any 
 other woman I've ever seen. Finally she's got to be 
 clever and intellectual ; and you're that, beyond any sort 
 of question. So ! I've thought it all over carefully and 
 from every point of view ; and I've decided to make you 
 the Princess L^onticheff. You may take that as a great 
 tribute to your charms, in more ways than one. Not to 
 
PRINCE LEONTIGHEFF. 171 
 
 mention tlie magnificent rank to which I offer to raise 
 you, you must understand that I'm a very diificult and 
 critical man, extremely hard to please. What's more, until 
 I saw you, I had always said I shouldn't even think of 
 marriage till I was past forty. But directly I did see you, 
 it was all up with me. You took me captive at once. . . 
 I'm going to speak to your father about it as soon as we 
 return from this drive. I tell you, you will wear your 
 new dignity like one to the manner born ! I can just see 
 you — Madame la Princesse, ruling it over Salchester 
 House, wearing the Leonticheff jewels, surrounded by ad- 
 miring people, a very Queen, by Jove ! You were born 
 for luxury, and I'm going to give it to you. You can't 
 imagine how proud of you I'll be ! What with your own 
 natural beauty, and the sumptuous setting I'll provide 
 for it, the people will turn and stare at you wherever you 
 go ; and how they'll envy me ! " 
 
 Was ever woman in this humor wooed ? 
 
 At last I found my voice, though it was a weak voice 
 and tremulous, I am afraid. 
 
 " I assure you. Prince Leonticheff," I said, " that I can 
 never under any circumstances become your wife. Will 
 you — will you be good enough to tell your coachman to 
 drive home ? " 
 
 " Of course," he rejoined, composedly, " it strikes you 
 as unlikely, even as impossible, at a first glance. But 
 when you come to think it over, you'll conclude that it's 
 not only possible, it's inevitable. I myself, I don't mind 
 owning, when the idea first occurred to me, I scouted it 
 as absurd. 'Pshaw!' I said. 'You don't want to get 
 married, my good fellow. You don't want to sacrifice all 
 the independence and irresponsibility of bachelorhood, 
 just for the sake of calling a pretty woman by your name. 
 Nonsense ! ' But gradually the idea grew upon me, grew 
 upon me; and hj and by I woke up to recognisse it as a 
 
172 ME A CULPA. 
 
 case of willy-nilly. You've inspired me with a passion so 
 deep and violent that I shan't know any sort of peace till 
 I've made yon my own ; and I've got too much respect 
 both for you and your father to look at you with any idea 
 in my head save that of honorable matrimony. You've 
 taken such a hold upon my heart and upon my imagina- 
 tion that I can't think or dream of anything else. It sur- 
 prises you, perhaps ; but it can't begin to surprise you as 
 it surprises me. I never would have believed that I was 
 capable of such a terribly serious attachment. I've had 
 so many little immeaning fancies and amourettes, that I 
 had rather come to regard myself as proof against any- 
 thing more fatal. But here I am, completely undone and 
 knocked under by your loveliness. You see, there's no 
 escaping it. We'll have to get married. I'll make a 
 formal demand for your hand of your father when we 
 return to the Hotel du St. Esprit. Now, if you like, 
 we may change the subject." 
 
 " I wish to tell you, Prince L^onticheff," I said, " al- 
 though you do not appear to pay any attention to what I 
 tell you, that I will never become your wife. Nothing 
 that you can say or do, nothing that anybody can say or 
 do, nothing that can possibly happen, can ever induce me 
 to become your wife. Nothing. I beg of you to accept 
 that as my final answer. I must also beg you never to 
 speak to me of this again, and not to speak of it to my 
 father. It will do no good for you to speak of it to him ; 
 it will only bring trouble to him and me, without at all 
 altering my resolution; it will only bring trouble and 
 struggle. You have spoken to me to-day in a very un- 
 usual way; you have said things to me that most women 
 would find intolerably offensive and insulting. But in 
 spite of all that, I still believe you to be a man of kind 
 natural feelings, and that you are only lacking in tact and 
 imagination. If you do not wish me to think worse of 
 
FRINGE LkONTlGEEFF. 173 
 
 you, you will obey my wishes in this respect, without my 
 saying anything more." 
 
 " That illustrates perfectly the point that I was mak- 
 ing. It will take you some time to accustom yourself to 
 the idea. At first it seems impossible to you; and it 
 frets you, it disturbs you. As for my being a man of 
 kind feelings, of course I am. I am the kindest man you 
 know, and the best friend you've got in the world. You 
 can see for yourself how anxious I am to serve you, you 
 and your father. And if you consider it insulting for me 
 to speak of a quid pro quo — why, look here. You can't 
 expect a man to put his head into the lion's mouth, so to 
 speak, for mere acquaintance' sake, can you? You can 
 hardly expect me to run the risk of disgracing myself at 
 Court out of pure abstract altruism. But for my future 
 wife, and my future father-in-law — ah, that's a very dif- 
 ferent matter. You see, I hate cant, and I talk to you 
 with a degree of honesty that may seem brutal, but which 
 is natural and proper. For the rest, I leave you to per- 
 ceive unaided how in every way this offer of marriage 
 from me to you is to your advantage. I am a modest 
 man, and I shan't dwell on that. Anyhow, it's too 
 obvious ; to do so would be to insult your intelligence. 
 I will only say that there is no unmarried woman in 
 Europe, under the blood-royal, who wouldn't jump at a 
 chance to become the Princess Leontichefi^, and I may add 
 that an alliance with royalty itself wouldn't be too high 
 a thing for me to look to, if I cared for it. I'm no mere 
 ptmy Eussian Prince, you must remember ; I'm a Prince 
 of the Empire. I'm' one of the richest men in Europe, at 
 the same time, and one of the ablest writers. Why, if I 
 ask a woman to marry me, she ought to go about all the 
 rest of her mortal days thanking her stars for her luck. 
 It isn't conceivable that any woman in cold blood should 
 refuse me. Why, if I told you the names of some of the 
 
174 ME A CULPA. 
 
 families in Russia, in England, in Prussia, in France,, 
 that have flung their daughters at my head, you'd be 
 amazed, you could hardly credit it. I'm his Serene 
 Highness Prince Leonticheff; don't allow yourself to 
 forget that. ... It may not be so clear to you how 
 the union I propose wiU be equally to my advantage, but 
 that's only because you don't understand yet how fond I 
 am of you. My heart is set upon you, and when my 
 heart is set upon a thing I must have it. Yes, the thing 
 is inevitable, it's bound to be. You must make up your 
 mind to it. You must think it over, and try to realize 
 the grand good fortune that has happened to you. All 
 unmarried Europe will envy you. But apart from that, 
 you're not going to set yourself up as the single obstacle 
 between your father and his chances of restoration to his 
 rights in Russia ; you couldn't find it in you to do that. 
 And I — I'm not going to let you, the prettiest and the 
 sweetest woman I've ever known, and the woman I've 
 fallen desperately in love with, I'm not going to let you 
 continue to slave your youth away as a music-teaching 
 drudge here in Paris. It isn't right ; it must be stopped ; 
 it's gone on six years too long already. Your father tells 
 me, and I'm able to see for myself, that it's gradually 
 wearing you out. Your strength is failing you. Why, 
 he says, you've grown visibly thin and pallid even during 
 the last few months. He's very seriously alarmed about 
 you ; and if you were wise, you'd be alarmed about your- 
 self. Suppose yoiu" health shoidd give out? Here you 
 are, so to speak, the sole prop your poor old father has 
 to lean upon, his breadwinner, his nurse, his comforter. 
 Well, suppose your health should break down ? Eh ? 
 Where would he be ? And if you have to go on drudg- 
 ing and worrying very much longer, your health loill break 
 down, and then there'll be the devil to pay. No ; what 
 you must do is written upon the waUs ; marry Princq 
 
PRINCE L6ONTICHEFF. 175 
 
 Gigi. Then your father will be re-established in the pos- 
 session of his own properties ; and you'll have a rich hus- 
 band to take care of you, and protect you from all harm. 
 That's my last word for the present. It is understood 
 that you and I are engaged." 
 
 " Prince Leonticheff, will you be so good as to teU your 
 coachman to drive home ? " I demanded. 
 
 " Stonehouse ! " he called out. " Back to the Rue St. 
 Jacques." 
 
 We finished our drive in silence. To me it seemed to 
 last hours and hours. "When it was over I went straight 
 to my room, leaving Prince L6onticheff to join my father 
 in his. 
 
VI. 
 
 I WENT straight to my room, and locked my door be- 
 hind me. 
 
 Exhausted, unnerved, unstrung, I flung myself upon my 
 bed, and closed my eyes. In my weakness, I could not 
 shake off a feeling like terror, as if I were in some im- 
 mediate, imminent peril. I could not shake it off, though 
 I knew perfectly weU that it was unreasonable and ground- 
 less ; and it afforded me a sense of security and relief to 
 think that my door was locked. 
 
 Never to see Prince Leonticheff again ! Never again 
 to hear his voice, feel his presence ! I was surfeited with 
 him. The mere thought of him filled me with sickening 
 disgust. I remember I said to myseK, " I will not leave 
 this room until I can do so without the slightest risk of 
 having to meet him. No, not until I know that he has 
 gone away from Paris." It did not occur to me how dif- 
 ficult, how impossible, of performance this vow might 
 prove to be. It struck me as the simplest, the easiest, 
 thing in the world, just to shut myself up in my room, and 
 refuse to open my door, until I was persuaded that Prince 
 Leonticheff had gone away from Paris. 
 
 And then — my father ! I was oppressed by a great 
 weary dread of the struggle which I knew I should pres- 
 ently have to undertake and carry on with my father. I 
 had told the Prince that I would never become his wife, 
 that nothing conceivable coidd ever induce me to become 
 his wife ; and it had been, comparatively speaking, easy 
 for me to say that to him. But I knew that I should pres- 
 ently have to repeat it to my father, to repeat it and 
 
PlilJSGE LEONTICHEFF. 177 
 
 maintain it, and from that prospect I shrank fatigued be- 
 forehand, as from a labor far beyond my strength. 
 
 I did not see my father again that evening. He came 
 to my door, it is true, and rapped, and said it was time to 
 go to dinner. 
 
 " We have been waiting for you. Why do you delay ? 
 Malce haste." 
 
 But I answered that I had a headache, and was tired, 
 and did not want any dinner ; and rather to my surprise, 
 and very much to my relief, he went away without insisting. 
 
 In the morning, however, I said to myself, " What 
 must be must be. I have got to have it out with him 
 sooner or later. Nothing can be gained by putting it oif. 
 On the contrary, it is best to nip the thing in its bud. 
 They can't make me marry him by main force. This no- 
 tion of staying in my room is quite impracticable ; I have 
 things to do. Besides, it would give the affair too much 
 importance ; it would be a confession of weakness and of 
 fear of them. I must put on a bold front, I must seem 
 absolutely determined, and absolutely confident of my 
 own strength. Come ! " 
 
 So I plucked up my courage, and went down to my 
 father's room. My teeth were set, and my fingers were 
 clenched, but my heart was beating so hard that it 
 pained me. 
 
 My father greeted me kindly, and with a certain air of 
 gay raillery. 
 
 " Ah, ma fille ! " he cried, patting my cheek, and 
 laughing into my eyes. " Our headache is better ? We 
 have slept it off? AUons ! Pas de mauvaise lionte ! 
 Confess ! It was but a little ruse, a little innocent trans- 
 parent ruse, whereby to hide our blushes ? Eh ? Eh ? " 
 
 He paused, and looked at me with a face all smiles. 
 Then he made a bow, and said, " But I forget my duties. 
 Princess, receive my felicitations." 
 12 
 
178 ME A CULPA. 
 
 I stood still, and summoned all my self-command, and 
 asked, " Prince Leonticheff hag told you what he said to 
 me yesterday ? " But my voice trembled, and betrayed 
 my nervousness. 
 
 " Naturally ! He could scarcely have done less. And 
 why otherwise sKould I offer you my felicitations ? . . . 
 Ah,*Monica, in my wildest dreams I have never dared 
 to hope for you anything approaching in brilliancy this 
 destiny that has actually laid itself at your feet. You 
 are indeed a charming girl, and now your charms have 
 made your fortune for you, and mine for me. And 
 wasn't it a lucky day for us when I read Leonticheff's 
 name in Figaro ? Madame la Princesse ! Indeed, you 
 deserve it, my dear, you are in every way worthy of it. 
 It is heaven's compensation to you, to us, for all that we 
 have been called upon to suffer during the last six years." 
 
 "But I should suppose that he must also have told you 
 of the answer that I gave him," I said, coldly. 
 
 " Oldld, I That doesn't matter. Piff-paff ! Whatever 
 you may have answered on the spur of the moment, in 
 the flush of your emotion and surprise, is of no con- 
 sequence. To an offer such as his there is of course but 
 one final answer. A Princess of the Empire ! It simply 
 overwhelms me. I know not how to express my joy and 
 my gratitude." 
 
 " Well, father, I only wish to repeat to you what I said 
 to the Prince. The answer I made on the spur of the 
 moment will be my final answer. I will never marry 
 him, never. Nothing in the world can ever bring me to 
 marry him. Absolutely nothing. There is no man liv- 
 ing whom I would not rather marry, if I had to marry at 
 all. I wish to say this to you now, at the very beginning, 
 so that you may understand it, and not get your heart set 
 on the impossible, and so store up a disappointment for 
 yourself. I will never under any conceivable circum- 
 
PRINCE LEONTIOHEFF. 179 
 
 stances marry him. It will be absolutely useless for you 
 to try to persuade me. There is nothing imaginable that 
 I would not rather do. I would far rather, far rather, 
 die. If there were no other way of escaping him, I 
 would kill myself without a moment's hesitation. But 
 there is no danger of its coming to that. I simply will 
 never consent to be his wife ; and even if he could drag 
 me by force to the altar, no priest will marry a woman 
 without her consent. That is all. I feel that it is my 
 duty to warn you of that at the very outset." 
 
 My father looked at me with a tolerant, incredulous 
 smile ; such a smile as one might wear in listening to the 
 boasting of some silly child. In the end he gave a gentle 
 little laugh. 
 
 " Poh, poh, poh ! " he cried, cheerfully, with a jaunty 
 shrug and gesture. " Say what you please, my dear ; I 
 aUow you complete freedom of speech, so long as you 
 don't let it affect your behavior. Say what you please ; 
 but you are not an imbecile, and I am quite sure you will 
 do the proper thing. You have very good brains in your 
 little head, and a very good heart in your little bosom, 
 though sometimes you make very foolish and very 
 naughty speeches." 
 
 " Well, I have said all I had to say," I repeated. " I 
 wiU never marry Prince Leonticheff. I have given you fair 
 warning. It is for you to accept it in your own good time." 
 
 " No, you are neither an imbecile, nor — nor a little self- 
 ish cat. It would be the part of an imbecile to let pass 
 this most dazzling opportunity. But it would be the part 
 of a black-hearted, cold-blooded egoist to stand between 
 her father and the realization of his most cherished wish 
 — to constitute herself the sole obstacle to his receiving 
 his rights at the hands of justice. Leonticheff is one of 
 the richest, one of the most illustrious, and one of the 
 most powerful members of the noblesse of Europe; at 
 
ISO 3fEA CULPA. 
 
 the same time he is a man of the kindest and most chiv- 
 abx>ns nature, a man of intellect, and a man precisely 
 siiited to you in point of years. You are not such a fool 
 as to throw away a chance to unite yourself in marriage 
 to a man like that. It is the sort of chance that comes 
 but to one woman in a million once in a geneiaticRi. But, 
 what is more, you are awai-e that my hopes of restoration 
 to my rights in Bussia all depend upon y.:*nr betrothing 
 yourself to him. Ton, my daughter, my own fksk and 
 blood, are not going to set yourself up as tht 5«;*e impedi- 
 ment to my success ? Tou are not s^ ab;.i_;ijj3iy ^Itish 
 and ungrateful as that." 
 
 "Yes, I know that the Piinee wc^LJ^Mt ne to be the 
 price of his sendees to you He wat ^ra rfr -suci^i to tell 
 me so. He said that he would ecstsiia^ me in adequate 
 quid pro quo. I appreciate the cfNuplimeK.^ : :-r thank 
 you, no ! " 
 
 " TVhat an lui worthy Speech I So to misrepresent 
 the motives and intentions of a most honorable gentle- 
 man ! Can't you see that it was a piece of gratuitous deli- 
 cacy on his part, knowing that the marri:\ge he proposed 
 was one that would be entirely to our adTantage, to put 
 it as if it woidd be his reward for services rendered to 
 me ■? And, at all events, what claims have we upon him ? 
 What right have we to expect him to render us so great 
 a service, at the risk of what is more precious to him 
 than his fortune, without the promise of a rewaitl ? The 
 Prince, as you say, was frank, where other men would 
 have been hypocritical. All the more to his ci-edit is it." 
 
 " Very good. I do not wish to discuss it with you. I 
 may be both an imbecile and an egoist ; but one thing is 
 very certain : I will never marry Prince L^onticheff. A 
 gentleman, indeed ! It will be utterly vain for you to 
 talk to me about it. You can't shake my resolution. 
 You can only tire yourself and me. That is all." 
 
YEI. 
 
 That was late in June. In September we were for- 
 mally affianced. In December we were married. 
 
 Meanwhile . . . 
 
 Armidis said to me, " I can't bear a man who crows, 
 you know. It's so indelicate and vulgar — in a word, 
 Leonticheffian. But really now, am I not quite remarka- 
 ble as an amateur prophet ? " 
 
 "Yes," I admitted, laughing. "If it gives you any 
 satisfaction to think so, you are really quite remarkable 
 as an amateur prophet." 
 
 " And you own now that my estimate of the Prince's 
 character erred, if it erred at all, on the side of kindness ? 
 It's quite wonderful, my insight into human nature. I 
 don't know whether I ought to congratulate myself upon 
 it or not. It is often a source of pain to be too clear- 
 sighted." 
 
 " Oh, no, I don't think the Prince is altogether the 
 abandoned ruffian that you would make him out. I am 
 not going to marry him, and I don't like him. I am sick 
 of him, his voice, his face, his vast loose figure, his 
 fatuous, unctuous manner, his boastfulness, his indelicacy 
 and indiscretion — everything — they irk me and irritate 
 me, and make me squirm ; I am satiated with them. But 
 that is no reason why I should be unjust to him. I think, 
 with all his faults, he is well-meaning and honest accord- 
 ing to his light. I think he is far more a fool than a 
 knave. I don't believe he would ever do anything if he 
 thought it wrong. I believe the whole trouble with him 
 
182 . MEA CULPA. 
 
 is a lack of humor. He has no perspective, no sense of 
 congruity. That accoimts for his grossest solecisms, his 
 enormous self-conceit, his brutality and obstinacy, all his 
 unpleasant traits. But I am sure that he is really, down 
 deep, kind-hearted and well-meaning. A thoroughly bad 
 man never could have written 'Drachensnest.' " 
 
 " Oh, dear ! What a dangerous state of mind ! Oh, if 
 you go on believing that there is a siagle microscopical 
 particle of good, in him, they'U have you married to him 
 yet. Oh, for my sake, won't you please thiok that he is 
 just the most hopelessly immoral scoundrel that was ever 
 created, and the most egregious cad, and the most fatuous 
 idiot? You might think that, to oblige a friend." 
 
 "I should be glad to oblige you ; but I don't see how I 
 can force myself to think what isn't so." 
 
 " Then I tremble for you. Beware, beware ! " 
 
 My father, at first, would not pay the least attention to 
 my refusal, would not take it with any degree of serious- 
 ness. 
 
 " I do not scold you, I do not reason with you, nor 
 plead with you," he said. " Why ? Are you curious to 
 learn why ? Well, simply because I consider you already 
 betrothed to the Prince. Remember, you are his 
 promised bride." 
 
 The Prince himself pretended to assume the same atti- 
 tude. "We are engaged to be married, you know," he 
 would remind me from time to time. 
 
 I, for the most part, kept silence. 
 
 My father demanded, "How long do you iatend to pout 
 and sulk, like a silly child? How long before you are 
 going to behave reasonably, like a full-grown woman? 
 How long before you wiU accept the good fortune that 
 heaven has sent you, and be thankful for it ? " 
 
 I did not answer ; but I wondered, " How long before 
 they will realize the utter futility of their conduct? " 
 
PBmOE LEONTIGHEFF. 183 
 
 One day — the Prince having repeated for perhaps the 
 fiftieth time, "We are engaged, you know "■ — I asked him, 
 " If that is so, why do you loiter here in Paris ? Why 
 don't you keep your promise, perform your part of the 
 agreement, go to Eussia, and obtain a pardon for my 
 father from your friend the Tsar ? " 
 
 " Ah, but . . . ! " he cried. 
 
 "Am I to consider that a sufficient answer? " I in- 
 quired. 
 
 "But, don't you see, it's this way. I fancy I would 
 prefer to wait about doing that until our engagement is 
 sealed and ratified by your own word of assent. It's only 
 a formality, of course, like the Queen's signature to a law 
 in England; yet I thtak I wiU wait tiU it is complied 
 with. I'm a wonderfully patient man." 
 
 " Oh, then," said I, " I suspect that our engagement is 
 not such an absolutely certain thing after all." 
 
 " On the contrary, quite certain, positively certain," he 
 retorted. ".Only I am Like these Parisian cabbies, ^e de- 
 mande des arrhes ! " 
 
 Armidis told me one day that he had had " such a pa- 
 thetic little confidence " from my father. 
 
 " Such a pathetic little confidence, poor dear man ! 
 He complains that you do nothing but pout and sulk. 
 He can't get a word from you ; nothing but just pout- 
 ing, sulking silence. He wouldn't mind it so much, 
 he says, except that he fears it may end by antagon- 
 izing the Prince. He's afraid his Serene Highness will 
 get tired and go away ... A word to the wise, my 
 dear ! Continue to pout and sulk and hold your pretty 
 tongue." 
 
 Presently my father began to lose patience. He began 
 to argue with me. He reminded me that it was the inva- 
 riable custom among people of our class and nation for 
 young girls to marry, the husbands whom their parents, 
 
184 ME A CULPA. 
 
 from the vantage ground of greater age, experience, and 
 wisdom, picked out for them. 
 
 " We are not Americans," he said. " We are not Gyp- 
 sies or Bohemians. We are Bussians, and we are noble, 
 of the superior nobility. Has any woman of your family, 
 or of your class, ever dreamed of contracting a marriage 
 except at the will of her parents ? Or ever dreamed of 
 rejecting the man of her parents' selection ? Why should 
 you, by what right do you, expect to be an exception to 
 the rule ? The trouble is that, owing to the irregular, 
 happy-go-lucky mode of life that we have been compelled 
 to lead during the last five or six years, you have got out 
 of the tradition of your class. You have assimilated a lot 
 of cheap, modern, revolutionary ideas. Armidis, with his 
 preposterous unconventionality, is to blame. I curse the 
 day when we first met him." 
 
 Then he dwelt upon the manifold and manifest virtues 
 of the Prince ; his wealth, his rank, his celebrity, his good 
 nature. But finally and chiefly he appealed to my right 
 feeling, my sense of duty, as his daughter, not to set my- 
 self up as the sole obstacle to the consummation of his 
 hojjss in Eussia. Ajid when I showed myseK deaf and 
 insensible even to this last appeal, he denounced me as 
 a monster of selfishness and ingratitude. 
 
 " Look at this miserable closet, this hole in the wall, 
 called a room, in Which I, at my age, with my tastes and 
 habits, am constrained to live and move and have my 
 being !...!, who was bom in the lap of luxury ; 
 who from my cradle until a few years ago was accustomed 
 to every phase of ease and pleasantness that ingenuity 
 could invent, and money purchase; I, an old man, a 
 failing man ! It is shortening my life, it is hurrying me 
 to my grave ! I have endured it as long as I can. Every 
 day it becomes more and more humiliating, more and 
 more insupportable, to me. This precarious, restricted. 
 
PRINCE L^ONTIGHEFF. 185 
 
 mean, ignoble manner of existence ! A perpetual alter- 
 nation between privation and hardship on the one hand, 
 and ignominy and mortification on the other. AnA then 
 to think that but for my daughter, but for my own flesh 
 and blood, I might be relieved of all this to-morrow ! I 
 might to-morrow be reinstated in the enjoyment of my 
 own fortune and my own position in my own coimtry ! 
 To think that it is due to my own flesh and blood that I 
 must pass my declining years in poverty and exile ! It is 
 too much. In very deed, it is sharper than a serpent's 
 tooth to have a thankless child." 
 
 " I suppose I am a monster of selfishness," I began to 
 think. " Here, at any rate, it is certain that I have it in 
 my power to procure my father all that he most desires. 
 Yet I refuse to do so. Why ? For no better reason, after 
 all, than that it suits me better. In other words, I refuse 
 to sacrifice my own will and pleasure for his. That is 
 what is generally called selfishness. It is true that if I 
 would marry Prince Leonticheff, my father's dearest 
 dreams could be fulfilled." 
 
 This thought began to prey upon me, to haunt me and 
 torment me ; that it was my fault, my fault alone, that 
 my father had, as he said, to pass his declining years in 
 poverty and exile. If I would, I could rescue him from 
 them. I had but to speak one word, and honor and 
 riches awaited him. Surely, I thought, it is selfish of 
 me to refuse to speak that word. And yet I felt that I 
 could not speak it ; that it was a difficxilty of power, more 
 than one of will, that I could never bring myself to speak 
 it ; that my lips would refuse to shape it, my tongue to 
 utter it. 
 
 " Bemember, it is shortening my life. You are short- 
 ening my life," my father said. 
 
 " Oh, father, I can't do it, I can't do it," I groaned. 
 " I would do it, if I could ; yes, if I could, I believe I 
 
186 MEA CULPA. 
 
 would ; but I can't. It is beyond my power. Don't look 
 at me and treat me and think of me as if I were wantonly 
 injuring you. I would do anything, anything but that. 
 But when I think of Prince Leonticheff in that way, my 
 whole nature recoils ; I loathe him and hate him, and I 
 hate myself. It is not my fault. I can't do it, I can't. 
 Oh, I wish you could understand." 
 
 " Oh, I understand, I quite imderstand ; I assure you 
 it is not difficult to understand. Go on. Continue. 
 Sacrifice everything to your selfish weakness," returned 
 my father, contemptuously ; and for three weeks after 
 that he would not speak to me. 
 
 Then one day Prince Leonticheff announced to us that 
 he was going to leave Paris. My heart leapt as if a great 
 weight had been removed from it. 
 
 " I have an old engagement to take some English 
 friends of mine off for a cruise on my yacht. We're 
 bound for Norway, and we shall be gone all of August. 
 I'll let you hear from me now and then. Early in Sep- 
 tember you may expect to see me again. Good-by." 
 
 "There," said my father to me, after he had gone; 
 " you have done it at last. You have done what I feared. 
 You have tired him out. There was a limit to his for- 
 bearance. Now he has gone. Farewell my hopes. Pict- 
 ure to yourself what I have to thank you for. He will 
 not come back. You may congratulate yourself upon a 
 pretty stroke of business." 
 
 I said nothing, but in my heart I thought, " Alas, I 
 am afraid he ivill come back." 
 
 That was the first word my father had spoken to me 
 for three weeks. All through the month of August he 
 scarcely spoke to me again. 
 
 Sometimes I would think, " After aU, what is the use ? 
 If it is a question of my happiness, am I not already as 
 
PRINCE LAONTIGHEFF. 187 
 
 unhappy as unhappy can be ? The only thing I really 
 care about, I can never have. Already life is nothing to 
 me except a constant weary pain. Nothing that could 
 happen could make the pain any greater. No, not even 
 marriage with the Prince. It would only be to change 
 the form of my misery ; it would not add to it. And — it 
 would lift my father into the seventh heaven of delight. 
 As it is, I am of no use or value to any living human 
 being, not even to myself. By consenting to marry the 
 Prince, I should become of value to my father. Perhaps 
 I had better do it." 
 
 But then a vision of the Prince would shape itself be- 
 fore my imagination ; his burly form, his hulking car- 
 riage, his fat, florid face, his complacent, ingratiating 
 smile, his coarse red hands, all the hateful details of his 
 person and his manner; I would hear his monotonous, 
 satisfied voice, husky and oily in the same breath ; and I 
 would shrink from the thought of him with an overmas- 
 tering, physical disgust, like a child whom people are 
 urging to drink some nauseous medicine. 
 
 But even yet I did not believe him to be a vicious man. 
 On the contrary, I still believed him to be at the core 
 kind and well-meaning, though infinitely crude and un- 
 lovely on the surface, and imiitterably tedious. 
 
 Though my father would not speak to me, he talked 
 very freely to Armidis ; and Armidis sometimes repeated 
 what he said to me. 
 
 " He describes himself as quite frantic," Armidis told 
 me. " Here," he says, " is a marriage offering itself, far 
 more advantageous than any he could have hoped for 
 you, even if you had retained your position in Eussia ; 
 of course ten thousand times more brilliant still, in view 
 of your actual circumstances ; and you, in sheer whim 
 and caprice, you set yourself against it. It is to fiy in 
 the face of Providence. It would try the patience of a 
 
188 ME A CULPA. 
 
 saint. It is a piece of gross, unreasoning selfishness, for 
 which there is not even the shadow of an excuse. It is 
 driving the poor man to despair. Oh, my ducats ! Oh, 
 my daughter ! He thinks I am to blame. I have instilled 
 ridiculous notions of independence into your little head. 
 Now he wishes me to speak with you, labor with you, use 
 my influence with you, seek to bring you to reason, and 
 to repair the mischief I have wrought ; all which, you 
 see, like the amiable and obliging fellow that I am, I do 
 to the best of my poor ability." 
 
 He said all this laughingly ; but now, " Ah," he cried, 
 suddenly becoming grave, "you are going through a few 
 of the bitterest experiences a woman's life can hold. 
 Forsaken — or apparently forsaken — by the man you love, 
 and importuned to maiTy the man you don't love ! It is 
 very bad, very hard, my dear. But keep up your cour- 
 age, keep up your strength, and tire them out." 
 
 " Yes," I said, " if they don't tire me out first." 
 
 It was beginning to wear upon me, my father's policy 
 of silent disapprobation. Treated all day long every day 
 as if I had done something shameful and disgraceful, 
 never spoken to, and met constantly with cold reproach- 
 ful glances — it was beginning to be more than I could 
 bear. It somehow undermined my confidence in the 
 righteousness of my own cause, making me feel as if I 
 really had done something shameful and disgraceful, so 
 that I carried with me a heavy sense of guilt, like an evil 
 conscience. 
 
 " Oh, I wish I were your father's father," said Armidis. 
 
 " Why do you wish that ? " I questioned. 
 
 " Oh, if I were his father, wouldn't he catch it, though ! 
 I'd give him something that he'd remember all the rest of 
 his life. Haven't you noticed the prodigal way in which 
 he has been adding to his wardrobe lately ? " 
 
 No, I hadn't noticed it. Was it so? 
 
PRINCE LEONTIOHEFF. 189 
 
 " You're so seK-absorbed you don't notice anything 
 nowadays. Paul Mikhaelovitch has been blossoming out 
 in half a dozen new suits of clothes. What I want to 
 know is where he gets the funds ? " 
 
 I went home, and I asked my father, "Have you been 
 borrowing money from Prince L^onticheff ? " 
 
 " By what authority do you presume to question me ? " 
 returned my father. 
 
 " I want to know. I want you to teU me. Have you 
 taken money from him ? " 
 
 " I must decline to answer any such impertinent ques- 
 tions from my daughter," he said. 
 
 But what was equivalent to an" admission. My father 
 has been borrowing money from the Prince ! Did not 
 this add a serious element of complication to the problems 
 that I have to face ? 
 
 " Will you tell me how much ? WiU you tell me how 
 much you owe him ? " I pleaded. 
 
 " I will not tell you anything. I will not talk with 
 you. Until you come to me in a spirit of contrition, and 
 beg my pardon for your selfish obstinacy, and offer me 
 your obedience, you need not expect me to hold any inter- 
 course with you." 
 
 Toward the end of August I received the following 
 letter from the Prince. It bore the Copenhagen post- 
 mark. . . . 
 
 "Dear Mademoiselle Banakine : 
 
 " As you see by the date of this note, I am aboard 
 the Tchemobog, off Copenhagen, on my way back to 
 Paris from our cruise in these clear Scandinavian waters. 
 " You have no doubt observed that I am a very rough 
 and awkward man with my tongue. Somehow it seems 
 as though Nature had decreed that the pen should be my 
 
190 MEA CULPA. 
 
 instinctive vehicle of expression. The moment I take my 
 pen in hand, a change comes over my entire character. 
 A load is lifted from my mind, my faculties are un- 
 chained, my vision becomes clearer, my thoughts become 
 keener^ my feelings purer and better. And I am like a 
 dumb man suddenly blessed with the gift of speech. I 
 discover to my surprise, to my joy, that I can express my- 
 self faithfully ; that I need no longer stumble and stam- 
 mer, and expose myself to misconstruction because of the 
 imperfection and ambiguity of my utterance, but that I 
 can say what I am moved to say in the way my heart 
 longs to say it. 
 
 " Many times, many times, I have tried to tell you that 
 I love you ; I have tried by word of mouth to give vent to 
 these deep and strenuous emotions of passion and of ten- 
 derness that have been stirring in my heart of hearts ever 
 since the day I first saw you in Paris a few months ago. 
 WiU you let me try once more to teU it to you, to tell you 
 that I love you and how I love you ; this time with my 
 pen on paper ? Love you ! Love you ! Oh, I love you 
 so dearly, so dearly and tenderly, so entirely ! There is 
 nothing in my power, there is nothing that I can imagine, 
 which I would not do to procure you a moment of happi- 
 ness, or to save you from a moment of pain. I love you 
 so dearly that at this moment I would cut off my own 
 hand, if by doing so I could bring one ray of joy into your 
 life, or expel from it a single pang of sorrow. 
 
 " I want you to become my wife. Oh, how my heart 
 leaps as I write the words ! My wife ! You, Monica, my 
 wife ! I want you to become my wife. I want it first 
 because I am human and therefore selfish; and I have 
 come to love you so utterly that my only hope of happi- 
 ness in this world depends upon you ; so utterly that if 
 you send me away from you, I shall feel like one going 
 out into eternal darkness upon a measureless desert of 
 
PRINCE LEONriGEEFF. 191 
 
 dry and arid sand ; whereas if you will take me to you, if 
 you will accept me, all my life will become one radiant 
 glorious blessing to me. But I want it secondly, because 
 there is an unselfish element in my love ; because I know 
 I can make you happy. I can make you happy and I can 
 make your father happy. And the whole world will be 
 happier and better for our great happiness. Oh, believe 
 me, Monica ! Believe me and trust me, and say that you 
 will be my wife, 
 
 " I wish you to know this : that there is no concession 
 I will not make in order to win you. Ask me anything, it 
 shall be yours. Impose any condition, I will submit to it. 
 No kinder husband ever existed than you will find me. I 
 shall make it the sole aim and occupation of my life to 
 shelter and protect you, to serve you, to provide for you, 
 to cherish and keep you. And all I ask in return is the 
 privilege to call you by my name, to look at you and think. 
 She is my wife, my wife ! 
 
 " Do you believe I love you ? Do you believe in the 
 seriousness and earnestness and kindness of my love? 
 How then can you fear it or mistrust it ? How can you 
 fear it or mistrust it ? How can you hesitate to give your- 
 self to the keeping of a man who loves you like that ? 
 
 " Ah, but my love is unrequited ! I tell myself that a 
 hundred times a day. She does not love me, she does not 
 love me ! I tell it to myself over and over ; but it does 
 no good. My own love is so great and ardent, I cannot 
 be other than hopeful. For see : you do not love me, but 
 neither do you hate me ; and if you will only marry me, I 
 wiU be so good to you, so devoted, so faithful and so 
 tender, I will serve you so untiringly. I will in one syl- 
 lable make you so happy, that in the end you cannot help 
 but love me. Oh, give me a chance to prove it to you. 
 If you could look into my heart, and see with your own 
 eyes how true and pure, how absolute and all-controlling 
 
192 MEA CULPA. 
 
 my love for you is, you could not hold out against me, 
 you would not hesitate for an instant to confide your 
 happiness to me, you could not fear or doubt such a love 
 as that, you could not withstand it or refuse it. 
 
 " I am coming to Paris to press my suit in person. I 
 shall arrive during the first week of September. Do you 
 wish to know the question that is never absent from my 
 mind ? that repeats itself over and over in my thoughts 
 all day, that keeps me awake at night, or if I sleep haunts 
 my dreams ? It is this : Will she have me ? Is there any 
 hope for me ? 
 
 " Until the first week in September ! Ah, the time 
 seems long. 
 
 " You are to give my best respects to your father, and 
 remember me kindly to Mr. Armidis. And whatever 
 happens, whatever fate you reserve for me, believe me 
 now and always your devoted 
 
 " L^ONTICHEFF." 
 
 A queer love-letter, surely ; perf ervid ; even comical ; 
 but I coidd not smile at it. All day long, after reading it, 
 I went about with a dull anguish in my heart, as if I had 
 been threatened with some hideous calamity, and could 
 not hope to escape it. 
 
Yin. 
 
 One evening in the last week of August I came home 
 from an errand across the river, and had rather a startling 
 little experience. 
 
 It was intensely hot. I had walked all the way home, 
 and had got very tired and very heated. I went up to my 
 room. My room faced northward, so that it was protected 
 from the sun ; and the window had been open, and the 
 blinds closed, all day; and it was deliciously fresh and 
 cool. 
 
 I sat down to rest. I felt strangely tired, unduly tired, 
 weak, languid, almost faint. I had a queer sensation of 
 weight upon my chest, and of compression, as if it were 
 bound in an excessively tight bandage. But I closed my 
 eyes, and lay back in my chair ; and the air from the win- 
 dow swept over me, bringing a grateful, reviving coolness. 
 
 All at once I began to cough. It was a cough unlike 
 any that I had ever had before, deeper, more violent. It 
 . seemed as if my lungs were full of glue. I could not 
 breathe. I could do nothing but cough, cough, cough, to 
 save myself from suffocation or strangulation. I remem- 
 ber I thought, "Why, this is strange. I have not had a 
 cold. What makes me cough like this ? " 
 
 Suddenly my coughing ceased. I reached for my hand- 
 kerchief. . . . What I saw in another minute upon 
 my handkerchief turned me to ice from head to foot. It 
 was blood, a great scarlet patch of blood, vivid as flame 
 upon the white linen. 
 
 My heart stopped beating, and a horrible thrill of terror 
 13 
 
194 
 
 3TEA aULPA. 
 
 ran through all my body. It was like suddenly hearing 
 the voice of Death in my ears, and feeling the glacial 
 touch of his hand. 
 
 t was utterly ignorant about such things. Only in a 
 general way I knew that hemorrhage was considered a 
 symptom of something alarmingly wrong in a person's 
 health. In my ignorance I thought, " There ! I am go- 
 ing to be ill, to have consumption, or something. . . . 
 Oh, heavens, what shall we do now ? What will become 
 of us now ? If I am going to fall ill, and be unable to 
 work ! " 
 
 What Prince L^onticheff had said came back to my 
 memory with awful force : " Suppose your health should 
 break down ? Eh ? " His face rose before me, lit by a 
 triumphant smUe, and seemed to question me : " Well, 
 now? What are you going to do? Where will yoiu: 
 daily bread come from now ? " 
 
 The bleeding continued from time to time throughout 
 the night. I think I hardly need to say that I suffered 
 all the agonies that the imagination, stimulated by fear, 
 and unrestrained by any sort of knowledge, can occasion 
 one. 
 
 I did not wish to frighten my father, if it could be 
 helped. So, in the morning, without telling him, I went 
 to the consulting room of Dr. Druot, who, I knew, was 
 esteemed one of the ablest specialists in diseases of the 
 lungs in Paris. 
 
 He put me through a long and fatiguing examination. 
 In the end he said, " I find a consolidation of the apex of 
 the left lung. No, it is not a case for serious alarm, but 
 it is a case for great care. If you are extremely careful, 
 the consolidation may be resolved away. No, no, it is 
 not consumption, not at all ; but if it were neglected, it 
 would develop into consumption. You must leave Paris 
 at once. You must go to the country; Switzerland I 
 
PRINCE L-EONTICHEFF. 19S 
 
 would recommend, or the Tyrolean Alps. You must eat 
 well, sleep well, guard yourself religiously against ex- 
 posure to cold, and never allow yourself to get in the 
 slightest degree fatigued. It is essential that your mind 
 and body should enjoy perfect repose. Any sort of strain, 
 bodily or mental, to which you might be subjected, would 
 tell instantly upon this weak spot, this point of least re- 
 sistance." 
 
 " Yes, I understand," I said. " But suppose I were too 
 poor to do all this ? Suppose I could not afford to leave 
 Paris ? That I must stay here to do my daily work, and 
 earn my living ? What would become of me then ? " 
 
 " Ah, madam, the people who get well of troubles like 
 this are those who are able to take proper care of them- 
 selves. The others, those who are in the predicament 
 that you describe, they are the ones who die." 
 
 " Well, that is my predicament exactly," I said. " I 
 have no money except what I can earn from day to day 
 by teaching music. Now I beg of you to be perfectly 
 candid, and tell me the worst." 
 
 " If you wish me to be candid, I will say that unless 
 you take absolute rest, and great care of yourself, you will 
 probably become an incurable consumptive within six 
 months." 
 
 " And if I do take that rest and that care ? " 
 
 " Oh, there is no reason why you should not become 
 perfectly well and strong, and live to a green old age. 
 You are not especially ill as yet; but according as you 
 live a life of ease or of hardship, you will get very much 
 better or very much worse within a short period. If you 
 continue to work, you will have to go to the hospital be- 
 fore the spring." 
 
 So it reduced itself to this ; I would no longer be able 
 to earn a livelihood for my father and myself. In other 
 words, destitution stared us in the face. 
 
196 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " The doctor forbids me to work. If I don't work, we 
 starve. If I do work, I sicken, and perhaps die, and my 
 father is left to starve alone," I said to myself. 
 
 The corollaries were obvious. 
 
 I went home and I said to my father, " Soil I I wiU 
 marry Prince Leonticheff, if he will take me when he 
 leams the condition of my health." 
 
 " And now," concluded Armidis — he had come to me 
 in a great state of indignation and excitement, to ask, "Is 
 this true, that your father tells me ? " and when I had 
 answered, "Yes, it is quite true," he had talked with me, 
 reasoned with me, pleaded with me, for an hour, trying, 
 as he said, to save me from myself; but my mind was 
 made up, and I had listened to him with incredulity and 
 obstinacy, fool, fool, fool that I was — " And now," he 
 concluded, " it will be your own doing, your own fault. 
 You will have no one but yourseH to blame for all the 
 unutterable misery that you are going to bring upon your- 
 self. I teU you that a loveless marriage is the worst sin, 
 the worst sacrilege, that a human being can be guilty of. 
 Nothing can justify it, nothing. It is a violation, a deg- 
 radation, a profanation of everything that is fine or good 
 or sweet, of everything that is sacred, in human nature. 
 How you can bear the thought of it I cannot understand. 
 I should think you would rather die a thousand times. 
 Look: I will use plain words with you. You are no 
 longer a child, and I can use plain words with you. 
 Well, then, I say it is worse, it is immeasurably worse, 
 than prostitution : for prostitution is but for the hour or 
 for the day, whereas this frightful marriage is for life. 
 Oh, my God ! Monica, Monica ! Oh, where is your soul? 
 Where are your instincts, your intuitions ? " 
 
 He walked rapidly up and down the room, wringing his 
 hands, breathing heavily. I sat still in my chair, looking 
 
PRINCE L'&ONTIOHEFF. 197 
 
 hard at the floor, determined to let nothing that he could 
 say alter my resolution. 
 
 " Listen to me," he went on. " There never yet was a 
 loveless marriage made that didn't end in wretchedness, 
 not only for the woman, but for every one in any way 
 concerned. It isn't only your own happiness, and Julian 
 North's happiness, that you're dealing a death-blow to, it 
 is just as surely your father's happiness, L^onticheffs 
 happiness, the happiness of your unborn children. Your 
 children who wiU come into this world conceived not ia 
 love, but in a man's lust, and a woman's loathing ! And 
 Leonticheffs happiness, I say. No, even if, instead of 
 beiQg the brute beast that he is, even if he were the pur- 
 est and the most honorable gentleman ia the world, not 
 loving him, you. would have no right to marry him ; not 
 loving him, if you married him, you would do him, him 
 as well as yourself, a great wrong ; you would engulf 
 him and yourself, and your unborn children, and every- 
 body else concerned, in hopeless misery. Not loving 
 him, you have no right to marry him. How much less 
 right have you to marry him, when you do love another 
 man ! Oh, I tremble for you, I tremble for you. But I 
 have done my utmost to save you, and now it will be 
 your own fault. . . . Oh, I know, I know what you 
 are going to say," he cried, as I started to interrupt him. 
 " I know, I know ! Julian North does not love you any 
 more ! He has neglected you, he has abandoned you ! 
 I don't believe it ; I have told you a hundred times 
 that I don't believe it ; but I wUl grant it for the sake 
 of the argument ; and then, what of it ? What of it ? 
 Do two wrongs make a right ? So long as one last par- 
 ticle of tenderness for him, of regret for him, lingers ia 
 your heart, you have no right even to dream of marrying 
 another man. Oh, is there nothing that I can say, noth- 
 ing that I can do, to move you, to bring you to reason, 
 
198 MBA CULPA. 
 
 to wake you up, and rescue you from this utter ruin? 
 Oh, it is like a nightmare. I see you in extreme peril, 
 but unconscious of your peril, and I long with all my 
 strength to warn you, to save you ; but when I caU out to 
 you, you refuse to hear me, you are deaf and insensible. 
 It is a question of ways and means ? It is to avoid des- 
 titution ? You cannot work any more, and if you don't 
 work, starvation stares you in the face, you and your 
 father ? Don't I tell you that I will never let you want, 
 you or your father ? Don't I tell you that so long as I 
 have a shilling in my pocket, half of it will be for you ? 
 Oh, you can't accept help from me ! You would rather 
 sell yourseK body and soul to the devil, than accept help 
 from me, from a friend who loves you like his own child, 
 from one who has five times more money than he needs to 
 spend, and would never feel the difference ! You would 
 rather sell your soul to the devil, and make your body 
 over as a chattel to L6onticheff ! Oh, you drive me mad, 
 you drive me frantic. I see you in this great peril, and I 
 see that you do not realize your peril, and I signal to you 
 and call out to you, and you are deaf and blind, and I 
 know that in a little while you wiU have wrecked your life, 
 wrecked it forever. I believe — I do honestly believe — it 
 would be better if I should kiU you. Better if I should 
 kill you here, now, on the spot ! " 
 
 " I wish you would, I wish you would," I cried. " But 
 if you don't kiU me, if no one kills me, if I have to live, 
 then. . . ." 
 
 " Then it will be your own fault, I say. If you marry 
 Prince L6onticheif, it will be of your own free will, with 
 your eyes open, and the consequences will be your own 
 fault. I have shown you all the true morality of the 
 matter as clearly as speech can do it. I have offered you 
 every means of escape. Now, if you do it, you do it of 
 your own free wiU, in perfect knowledge and imderstand- 
 
PRINOE mONTlGHEffP. 199 
 
 ing of what you are doing, and of what must inevitably 
 follow. You are deliberately choosing to sow the wind, 
 and you are perfectly aware that you must reap the 
 whirlwind. Now I will say no more. I have done. I 
 have tried to save you from destroying your happiness, 
 but that is not all. I have tried to save you also from 
 destroying your soul, from debasing and polluting your 
 soul. Happiness doesn't matter so very much, perhaps ; 
 perhaps you could never have been entirely happy ; but 
 your soul. . . ! The soul that God has intrusted to 
 your keeping ! What right have you to ruin that ? Oh, 
 I tell you, the worst part of such pain as you are storing 
 up for yourself is not that it is hot and biting and hard to 
 bear : the worst part of it is that it demoralizes the soul, 
 that it corrupts and diseases and disintegrates the soul. 
 Yes, paia of that sort is infinitely, irresistibly demoraliz- 
 ing. Mark what I say, and learn in good time how true 
 it is. Watch the gradual demoralization that will come 
 upon you, creep upon you, grow upon you, from the day 
 of your wedding to the end. Oh, I know the process : it 
 is thus. I want to be happy ; I have keen and strong in 
 me the craving for happiness that is common and intrin- 
 sic to human nature, like the craving for food, for drink, 
 for air. But I have done that which puts happiness for- 
 ever beyond my reach. I have sold my birthright in 
 happiness for a mess of pottage. I have made a bargain 
 whereby I have renounced all claim to happiness, though 
 I have obtained nothing in compensation. Very good, 
 very good; now look. All this time the craving for hap- 
 piness is there in my heart, gnawing like hunger, burning 
 like thirst. It begins to be unendurable. This bargain 
 that I have made I have got the worst of ; this renuncia- 
 tion, I begin to think, is artificial, is unnatural, is unjust ; 
 this deprivation is unreasonable, uncompensated, impos- 
 sible. I brood upon it, brood upon it ; and by and by my 
 
200 MEA CULPA. 
 
 brooding reaches the ear of the devil, like a voice sum- 
 moning him, and he comes to me. He says to me, 
 ' How is this ? Yon crave happiness, but you have sold 
 your claim to it. So ! By fair means, then, it appears, 
 you can't hope to obtain it. Well, then, why not try foul 
 means ? Why not try to steal a little of it back ? ' And 
 the instant the Tempter first puts the question to me, that 
 instant I begin to go to pieces, my moral disintegration 
 sets in. His breath upon my conscience has produced 
 a little spot of corruption, of gangrene ; and now it be- 
 gins to spread. I cannot obtain happiness by fan- 
 means ; well, then, why be too scrupulous about the 
 means ? - . . You doubt what I say ? It is a fancy, a 
 phrase ? Very good. Have it so if you like. Ten years 
 hence, five years hence, I will ask you for your maturer 
 opinion. Meantime, oh, God pity you ! " 
 
 The Prince went with us as far as Geneva. There he 
 left us, for what he called a little run into Russia. At 
 the end of six weeks he came back, bearing two impor- 
 tant documents. One was a full and free pardon for my 
 father, restoring him to all his rights as a Russian 
 nobleman, including the possession of his sequestrated 
 estates ; the other was an Imperial authorization of our 
 marriage. 
 
 We were married at Nice, in December. Then my 
 father bade us good-by, and returned to St. Petersburg. 
 
PAET lY. 
 
 MATBIMOJSrr. 
 
I. 
 
 Early in May, 1890, we came on to London, to pass 
 tlie season at Salchester House. A few days after our 
 arrival, however, Prince Leonticheff went away again. 
 He said to me, " I sLiall probably be gone a fortnight or 
 three weeks." But he did not tell me where he was going. 
 
 We had been married more than four years. It is es- 
 sential to the purposes of this confession that I should 
 now set down as accurately and as dispassionately as 
 possible the conception of Prince Leonticheff's character 
 which I had come to entertain as a result of those four 
 years of close acquaintance with him ; also that I should 
 summarize briefly the history of our married life; and 
 finally that I should explain the. actual state of our re- 
 lations to each other. 
 
 My greatest difficulty will be to do justice to Prince 
 Leonticheff. 
 
 I feel that unless this story that I am trying to tell, be, 
 in all its aspects, in aU its details, in all its inferences 
 and implications, as true as human endeavor can make it, 
 then it will destroy its own raison d' etre, it will defeat it- 
 self ; and all the time and labor that I have given it wiU 
 have been expended in vain. And especially, if I err in 
 my account of Prince Leonticheff, if the picture I present 
 of him be false in color or distorted in form, I might as 
 well, I might better, have held my peace. 
 
 I should find it easy enough to say in three words : I 
 was miserably, incredibly unhappy ; he treated me with 
 the grossest brutality, the most refined cruelty ; I hated 
 
204 MEA CULPA. 
 
 him, I loathed him ; he was bad, bad, bad. And all this 
 would be true, in a way ; but it would be only a fraction 
 of the truth ; it would be the truth seen from only one 
 angle ; and in its effect it would equal a falsehood. 
 
 For my own sake, if for no better reason, I must try to 
 suppress my personal feelings, and to make my testimony 
 concerning him impartial and discriminating. 
 
 To begin with, then, I must admit that he was not en- 
 tirely bad, not by any means entirely bad. To this it 
 might be answered that no human being ever was entirely 
 bad, or entirely good; that absolute perfection or abso- 
 lute depravity are no more attainable in flesh and blood, 
 than a mathematically perfect line or circle is attainable 
 with ink and paper ; that in the heart of the most spotless 
 saint or the most exalted hero there must lurk some re- 
 maining traces of human wickedness or weakness, while 
 in that of the most vicious evil-doer some remote, per- 
 haps microscopic, fibre must survive not wholly corrupt. 
 . . . But when I say of Prince L6onticheff that he 
 was not entirely bad, I do not mean it in that niggard 
 philosophic sense. I mean that in an appreciable num- 
 ber of his actions and impulses he was positively good. 
 Indeed, if I could leave his relations with me out of the 
 question, I should be obliged to declare that, on the 
 whole, as men go, he was not much worse than the aver- 
 age. So long as he was comfortable in mind and body, so 
 long as he had his own way, and his appetites were satis- 
 fied, he really was a good-natured and well-meaning per- 
 son. With money, for example, he was extremely free- 
 handed, giving large sums annually to many charities, 
 lending large sums to relieve the embarrassments of his 
 friends, and always readily drawing his purse from his 
 pocket when any case of distress among the poor was 
 brought to his notice. If physical courage be a virtue, he 
 had it in abundance. To give but a single instance, when 
 
MATBIMONY. 305 
 
 malignant typhus was raging in Southeastern Eussia, in 
 the summer of 1886, he left London at the height of the 
 season, and went straight to the district \v^here the pesti- 
 lence was doing its worst, and remained there for more 
 than a month, Adsiting the hospitals, distributing alms, and 
 writing descriptions of the horrors that he witnessed, for 
 the English public to' read in his newspaper, the Beacon. 
 . . . He was coarse, if you please, and vulgar, and 
 fatuous to the verge of insanity; he was clumsy and 
 heavy and tactless ; he was so completely wrapped up in 
 himself that he never thought to avoid offending the sen- 
 timents of his neighbors ; but his usual condition of mind 
 was, none the less, one of lazy smiUng contentment, the 
 outward and visible sign of which was a broad and imper- 
 turbable good-nature. 
 
 Yes, if his relations with me could be eliminated from 
 the problem, I believe I should have to say of him that, 
 despite his conceit and his vulgarity, taken for all in all, 
 and tried by the ordinary standards of the world, he was 
 not much worse than the average of men. 
 
 A point upon which I must bear is this : that he thor- 
 oughly and profoundly believed himself to be, not merely 
 no worse than the average man, but far, far better. He 
 thoroughly believed himself to be a paragon of all manly 
 virtue. He was no cynic, no hypocrite. He admired 
 the nobility of his own character as fervently and as sin- 
 cerely as he admired the power and acumen of his own 
 intellect — with a siucerity and a fervor indeed that were 
 almost religious. I am sure that under no possible cir- 
 cumstances would he ever have done anything that he 
 thought brutal, or mean, or wrong. But then, he always 
 thought, earnestly and honestly thought, that what he 
 desired to do wafe right. That — or, in other words, his 
 total lack of humor — was the key to his personality. 
 Lacking humor, he lacked all sense of perspective, of con- 
 
206 MEA CULPA. 
 
 gruity, of proportion, in looking at life. He regarded 
 himself as the Centre of the Universe, the Fact of su- 
 preme significance in the world ; his wish, his idea, his 
 sensation of the moment was the one thing of real im- 
 portance. If you opposed his wish, or disputed his idea, 
 or caused him a disagreeable sensation, he believed in all 
 conscience that you were a double-dyed viQaia, actuated 
 by the basest motives, and attempting a most horrid 
 crime ; and that he was not simply justified, but that he 
 was morally bound, to go to any length, to employ any 
 means, for the purpose of vanquishing you, of confuting 
 and confounding you, and defeating your nefarious de- 
 signs. 
 
 I said long ago that the results of his lack of humor 
 upon his conduct, often queer, were sometimes appalling. 
 I believe that his lack of humor was accountable for the 
 very worst meannesses, brutalities, and cruelties of which 
 he was ever guilty, as well as for his most ridiculous 
 solecisms. When, for instance, he would strike his wife, 
 I am convinced that he believed himself to be performing 
 an unpleasant but righteous duty, just as a father at times 
 believes it to be his duty to administer corporal punish- 
 ment to a refractory child. 
 
 At the time of our betrothal I had said very explicitly 
 to the Prince— what, for the rest, it was scarcely necessary 
 to say— " It must be understood that I do not love you, 
 that I can never love you." 
 
 « Oh, that will be all right," said he. "You don't love 
 me now, and I don't ask you to' But you will love me, 
 you will come to love me. You can't help loving me, 
 when once I've had a chance to woo you. I'm not at all 
 disturbed about that." 
 
 "I assure you, you are deceiving yourself," I responded. 
 " If you choose to marry a woman who does not love you, 
 well and good. It is your own affair. But you mustn't 
 
MATBIMONT. 207 
 
 delude yourself with the fancy that I shall come to love 
 you. I never shall, I never can. It is best that you 
 ■should make up your miad to that now, at the outset. 
 Otherwise, you will prepare a disappointment for your- 
 self." 
 
 But he had chosen not to heed this warning, not to 
 give it any weight or place in his calculations. He be- 
 lieved that his powers of fascination were altogether 
 irresistible, and that no woman could help succumbing to 
 them, if they were once brought to bear upon her, any 
 more than she could help drowning if she were immersed 
 in water. Herein lay the beginning of much of our 
 trouble. For awhile after our marriage, I must do him 
 the justice of saying, no man could have been more 
 patient or more forbearing with a woman's indifference 
 than he was with mine. . . . 
 
 "Now that I have won your hand, you must let me 
 win your heart," he said. "When you have seen how 
 truly and devotedly I love you, how eager I am to make 
 you happy, how untiring I will be in your service, how 
 kind I shall be, how I shall have no other purpose in life 
 than that of contributing in some way to your happiness 
 and your well-being, I am sui-e your heart cannot hold out 
 against me." 
 
 And for the first winter after our marriage, I must con- 
 fess, there was nothing in his conduct, nothing even in 
 his speech, of which I could fairly complain ; on the con- 
 trary, nothing but what, remembering always that I was 
 his wife, and he my husband, nothing but what deserved, 
 even if it didn't obtain my gratitude and my praise. He 
 was on his good behavior. In his speech he subdued and 
 mitigated himself to such a degree that one who had not 
 known him before would perhaps never have thought of 
 him as an especially unrefined or underbred man. And 
 in his conduct he was certainly all that I had any right to 
 
208 MEA CULPA. 
 
 expect considering our relations — considering that I had 
 sold myseH to him, and was his wife. He was indeed 
 untiring in his efforts to serve me, to make me happy ; and 
 if I remained miserably unhappy, if I was unhappier than 
 I had ever been before, than I had ever conceived of being, 
 it was not his fault : it was the fault of the situation, and 
 the situation was the result of a bargain that I myseH had 
 made. He had the tact and the deHeacy — incongruous as 
 it may seem to speak of tact and delicacy in connection 
 with Prince Leonticheff — he had the tact and the delicacy 
 seldom to obtrude himself upon me. If he saw that his 
 attentions were unwelcome to me, he would suspend them ; 
 that his talk was unwelcome, he would be silent ; that his 
 presence was unwelcome, he would go away and leave me 
 alone. I say, " If he saw," for unless a thing of that sort 
 were extremely plain, he could not see it ; and I generally 
 would try not to let him see. 
 
 " I never believed that he was a villain, but now I know 
 that he is really, according to his light, a good man ; far 
 kinder and better than I ever gave him credit for," I 
 began to say to myself ; and if I still could not like him, 
 if I felt no gratitude toward him, I began at least to re- 
 spect him and admire him. 
 
 We spent that winter in his villa at Nice, my health 
 making it impossible for us to go to Eussia. "We would 
 never meet tiU the afternoon. His mornings he passed in 
 his study, writing. After the mid-day breakfast he would 
 usually come to see me in my apartments, often bringing 
 his manuscripts with him to read them to me. Then he 
 would ask, " And how would you like to spend the after- 
 noon ? " Whatsoever wish I expressed in answer to this 
 question, he bowed to without a murmur. If I mastered 
 my repugnance for his company enough to say, " I will go 
 for a drive with you," or what else of the sort, it was al- 
 most touching to witness his suppressed delight. If I 
 
MATRIMONY. 209 
 
 said, " I should like to be alone this afternoon," he would 
 answer, "Very well," and submissively withdraw. He 
 was surely as kind, as forbearing, as I, whom he had re- 
 gularly bought and paid for, who bore his name, and ate 
 his bread, and was his wife, had any right to expect. 
 
 " No," I said to myself, " it is not Prince Leonticheff 
 whom I must blame, it is the situation, and the situation 
 is one of my own making. If I had to sell myself at all, 
 I could scarcely have sold myseK to a better- man than 
 ^ Prince Leonticheff." And my wonder was great that so 
 clear-sighted a person as Ajmidis could have formed so 
 mistaken an estimate of him. 
 
 But all the same, the situation was an extremely pain- 
 ful one, a most terrible and hateful one, and I was very far 
 from happy in it. I would look at those other woman, of 
 the half-world, who throng the Riviera at this season, and 
 I would realize that after all the difference between them 
 and me was not a moral difference, was only a conven- 
 tional difference ; and my heart would bum, and I could 
 not lift up my eyes. Would I some time become accus- 
 tomed to it, and not mind it any more, like them ? I un- 
 derstood with a sort of sick horror that that sort of relief 
 would be worse than the pain itself ; that it would mean 
 the final death and corruption of whatever remained pure 
 and clean in my soul. 
 
 Oh, I was very far from happy. I had determined to 
 put the thought of Julian North absolutely out of my 
 mind, the love of him absolutely out of my heart. Per- 
 haps I had succeeded in doing so ; but it had been a little 
 like tearing out a living fibre, and it left a wound that 
 ached. It had been, too, like taking away from my life 
 the only thing that made life worth living, the only thing 
 that gave me an object to hope for, to work and wait for, 
 to look forward to : now my life was all meaningless, pur- 
 poseless, insipid to me ; and as I realized how irrevocable 
 14 
 
210 MEA CULPA. 
 
 it was, and how it must go on like this, without aim, with- 
 out savor, for who could tell how many years — probably 
 until I died, an old, old woman — I could not help it, but 
 I fell to asking, " What is the use ? Wherein is it worth 
 while ? Oh, have I got to plod this dismal circle round 
 and round until I die?" Sometimes these questions 
 would simply depress me, and fill me with a sort of duU, 
 languid despair ; but at other times they would infuriate 
 me, madden me, with hurt and resentment. "Here is 
 my one life," I would cry, " my one precious life, mine 
 for once in the course of all time ; and must I sit still, 
 with hands tied, like Tantalus, and see it slip by, just be- 
 yond my reach, unemployed and unenjoyed ? Of no use, 
 interest, or profit to a single living human being, least of 
 all myself ! Is this what I was bom for? Is it for this 
 that lite was given me ? Life, precious, mysterious life ! 
 Must" it be squandered in pettinesses, in fruitless and 
 flavorless nothings, when it is not scorched and with- 
 ered with pain and shame ? Oh, I would rather die at 
 once." 
 
 At first I had tried to find some solace, some oblivion, 
 some excitement, in the doings of society, and in the 
 chances of Monte Carlo. At first I had not altogether 
 failed ; but as soon as the novelty wore off, gambling 
 began to pall, and society to wear, upon me. I was not 
 very strong, and dressing and going, going and dressing, 
 fatigued me ; and besides, the Eussian and English peo- 
 ple who made up our world, were one and all either the 
 fastest of the fast, or the slowest of the slow ; in both 
 cases equally unsatisfactory. 
 
 But as the spring drew near. Prince Leonticheffs 
 patience began to show signs of giving way. He had 
 tried all winter long to move my heart, and win my love. 
 So long as he had been able to hope that by kindness he 
 might prevail, he had been kind. If I could have loved 
 
MAfRIMONT. 211 
 
 him, I do not doubt, he would have continued kind. But 
 I could not love him ; and now, as he began to lose hope, 
 as he began to think that perhaps I might never love him, 
 his attitude toward me, and his treatment of me, began to 
 alter. 
 
 At the outset, however, the alteration was not greatly 
 for the worse. His attitude acquired a certain expression 
 of injury, of righteous long-suffering, as if I had wantonly 
 sinned against him, and he was sorry, rather than angry. 
 His treatment of me became a little empresse, and seemed 
 to imply a reproach, as if I were a perverse child, and my 
 perversity grieved him. The germ of all our trouble lay 
 in this : Prince Leonticheff was utterly unable to under- 
 stand that I could not love him ; that it was with me not 
 a question of wiUingness, but a question of power ; that I 
 had no more power to change the nature of my feelings 
 toward him, than I had to change the color of my eyes. 
 He was utterly unable to understand that. As undoubt- 
 ingly as he believed that he lived and breathed, so un- 
 doubtingly also did he believe that no woman upon whom 
 he chose to exert his charms could help loving him, if 
 she would only let herself go ; and his inference was that 
 I, perversely, deliberately, of malice aforethought, was 
 holding myself back, was checking the natural tendency 
 of my emotions, and laboriously compelling myself to 
 remain indifferent to him. Believing this, he not un- 
 naturally felt aggrieved, felt that I was l cheating him of 
 what he had earned, that I was withholding from him his 
 due, that I was of set purpose refusing him justice ; and 
 he commenced to regard himself as a wronged man, a sort 
 of martyr, and me as a cold-hearted, wicked woman. 
 
 His attitude toward me, and his treatment of me, as I 
 say, implied a grievance and a reproach ; but it was a 
 long while before he spoke. We left Nice in May, 1886, 
 to come to London. It was in the train, in the seclusion 
 
212 ME A CULPA. 
 
 of a Pullman compartment, as we were nearing Calais, 
 that he first broached the subject of his wrongs. 
 
 " Look here, Monica," he said, " I want to have a little 
 talk with you. I want to have a little serious talk 
 with you, if you don't mind. I think you wiU be fair 
 enough to acknowledge that I haven't troubled you much 
 this winter with talk about ourselves, and now perhaps 
 you can endure a little. There are things that ought 
 to be said." 
 
 "Yes?" I answered, in a flutter of nervous apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 " Well, to begin with, I know it would be utterly use- 
 less for me to ask you whether you care anything for me. 
 I know you don't. Tou don't care a halfpenny for me, 
 you don't care a farthing. I'm as fond of you, as careful 
 of you, as kind to you, as a man can be to a woman, and 
 yet you don't care any more for me, you haven't any more 
 ordinary affection for me, not to speak of love, than you 
 have for the engine-driver of this train." 
 
 He paused for a little ; but I kept my eyes turned from 
 him, and did not speak ; and by and by he resumed. . . . 
 
 " All this winter long I have done everything in my 
 power, everything I could think of, to make you happy, 
 to make you comfortable and contented, and to move yoiu: 
 heart a little toward me. Whatever wish you have ex- 
 pressed, or I have been able to divine, has been law to 
 me. I've never asked a single service of any kind from 
 you ; and when you have chosen to do me one unasked, 
 I have accepted it with thankfulness, as if, instead of 
 being my due, it were a gratuitous favor on your part. 
 I have always preferred your pleasure not only to my 
 pleasure, but to my interests. I know, for instance, that 
 some of my best friends, some of my most valuable 
 and useful friends, have been offended this winter by 
 our neglect of them. But I saw that you didn't care for 
 
MATRIMONY. 213 
 
 them, that it would be a bore for you to have to visit 
 them much, or entertain them ; and so I said nothing, 
 I made no protest or complaint, I let you go your own 
 way, and ignore them. I only mention that as an 
 example of what I mean when I say that I've made no 
 demands upon you, that in small things as well as great 
 I've respected your pleasure as if it were the only thing 
 of importance in the world." 
 
 " Yes," I said. " You have been very good, very pa- 
 tient and forbearing. But I did not mean to offend your 
 friends. If I had known that you cared about it, I should 
 have been perfectly willing to receive them and visit 
 them as often as you liked. I simply waited for you to 
 express your desire." 
 
 "Quite so, quite so. Don't understand me as com- 
 plaining of your conduct. I'm not complaining of it, I'm 
 only reminding you of it. You waited for me to express 
 my desire ; but I didn't express my desire, I suppressed 
 it, because I wanted to spare you even the faintest sort of 
 fatigue or annoyance. The thing I do complain of is this : 
 First, that you appear deliberately to have shut your 
 heart against me, to have hardened yourself against me, 
 so that you haven't given me — all I ask for — a fair chance 
 to win you, or yourseK a fair chance to be won. You 
 seem to have made up your mind beforehand that you 
 will deliberately prevent any particle of Hking or fondness 
 for me, not to speak of passionate love, taking root in your 
 heart. All I've done, and all I've refrained from doing, 
 don't appear to have made any impression of any kind 
 upon you. You have simply set to work with might and 
 main to freeze yourself toward me. I must say I think 
 I'm justified in complaining of that." 
 
 " If it were true, yes, you would be justified in com- 
 plaining. But it is not true. I told you before we were 
 married that I did not love you, that I never could love 
 
214 ME A CULPA. 
 
 you. You ought not to have married me, if you could not 
 be satisfied with that. I appreciate deeply all your kind- 
 ness to me this winter, all your forbearance. But I can't 
 love you. It is no more possible for me to force a feeling 
 in my heart, than to force myself to grow an inch in 
 stature." 
 
 The blood rushed to his face, and he cried out, " That's 
 what makes me furious. I say that is downright child- 
 ish folly. Nobody asks you to force a feeling in your 
 heart. On the contrary, aU I ask is that you will let your 
 heart alone, let it follow its natural impulses. It isn't in 
 nature for a woman to remain indifferent to a man who 
 loves her as I love you, who is as kind to her, as untiring 
 in his devotion to her, as I am to you. The trouble is 
 that you're forcing your heart in the other direction. Let 
 your heart alone, give your heart a chance. That's aU I 
 ask. Why, you couldn't help loving me, if you only 
 wouldn't try not to. It makes me furious. Isn't it your 
 duty to love your husband ? Isn't it his right to demand 
 your love ? You say you can't force yourself to love him. 
 Well, I teU you that if the man is the sort of man I am, 
 kind and devoted, and— I use your own words — forbear- 
 ing and patient, i£ he lays his Hf e and his heart at your 
 feet as I do, I teU you you can't help loving him, unless 
 you make a deliberate effort not to. And that's what 
 you're doing, and that's one of the things that I complain 
 of." 
 
 He was very much excited. He spoke in a very loud 
 voice, and very vehemently. What could I answer ? I 
 looked out of the window, and held my tongue. 
 
 "WeU? well? Have you nothing to say?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 " I can't say any more than I have said. I am not 
 forcing my heart in any way. I can't love you. I may 
 esteem you and respect you, but I can't love you. I told 
 
MATRIMONY. 215 
 
 you I couldn't at the outset. I told you you were storing up 
 a disappointment for yourself. Why did you many me ? " 
 
 Again the blood rushed to his face, staining it almost 
 purple. He bit his Kps, his eyes flashed, and he cried 
 out, " By God ! Don't you ask me that again, or I'll do 
 something we'll both be sorry for. I talk to you as if 
 you were a sensible woman, and reason with you tiU I'm 
 black in the face, and then I ask you what you have to 
 answer, and you simply go back, like a little deaf, dumb, 
 imbecile infant, and repeat what you said in the begin- 
 ning, letter for letter, for all the world as if you hadn't 
 heard a word that I had spoken. You — you ought to be 
 taken out and whipped." 
 
 " "Why don't you take me out and whip me ? " I asked. 
 I also was somewhat angry now. 
 
 "You'd better not tempt me to. Perhaps I will," he 
 retorted, nodding his head threateningly, and looking 
 wickedly at me from his deep-set little eyes. 
 
 After which we were both silent for a while. 
 
 By and by he began again, very quietly. . . . 
 
 " Of course I ought not to have said that, and I offer 
 you my apologies. I'm sincerely sorry for it ; but you 
 infuriated me, and I didn't realize what I was doing. I'll 
 say no more now about your loving me. I'U simply wait, 
 and try, and hope. If you'U only give yom:self and me a 
 chance, I am sure you must come to love me in the end. 
 But now there's something else I want to talk to you 
 about ; and that's the way you mope. Here you have 
 everything in this world that a reasonable human being 
 can ask for of the gods. You've got wealth, and aU that 
 wealth can buy ; you've got a magnificent title, and a high 
 place in the best society of Europe ; you're not very 
 strong, perhaps, but you've got no real disease, and on 
 the whole you're blessed with health as good as that of 
 most people ; your time is all your own, to do with as 
 
^16 MEA CULPA. 
 
 you please ; you've got a husband who loves you like a 
 dog, and whose only purpose in life is to make you hap- 
 py ; if any woman ever had reason to be contented with 
 her lot, to thank heaven for her lot, you have. And yet, 
 see. Day after day you go about with a rueful counte- 
 nance, and a whining voice, and pathetic eyes, to all ap- 
 pearances miserably and morbidly wretched. Now, I 
 complain that that is unreasonable, and ungrateful, and 
 unworthy of you. Tou have no right to nurse misery, 
 and refuse comfort. It's your duty to enjoy and be 
 thankful for the good things that heaven has vouchsafed 
 you. And I say that if you go on like this, you'll deserve 
 to have some real misfortune happen to you, just to pun- 
 ish you for your ingratitude." 
 
 I did not answer. 
 
 " Well, wiU you do me the honor of answering me ? " 
 he demanded. 
 
 " I have nothing to answer. I was not aware that I 
 had troubled you with any expression of my griefs, if I 
 have griefs ? " 
 
 " No, you haven't ; and that's just the point. You go 
 about with a dismal countenance, but you never speak. 
 Now, I say that if you have no griefs, then you'd better 
 try to be and to look a little more cheerful. And if you 
 have griefs, then I think it's my right to know what they 
 are. I say you have no occasion for any griefs ; but 
 apparently you're eaten up by them, all the same ; and 
 now I demand to hear what they are. Good heavens, how 
 many women in this world would like to change places 
 with you ! " 
 
 " If I have griefs, they are not ones that I can talk 
 about. I did not know that my countenance had been 
 dismal. I'll try to alter it." 
 
 " It isn't your countenance that I complain of, except 
 as your countenance reflects your heart. I say you have 
 
MATRIMONY. 217 
 
 every possible reason to be light-hearted and happy. 
 And if you're not that, if there is any deep and mysterious 
 sorrow gnawing at your vitals " — this in a tone of irony 
 — " I have a right to know what it is." 
 
 " I do not think there is any deep or mysterious sor- 
 row gnawing at my vitals. But if I am not exuberantly 
 happy, I can't help it. One can't be happy or unhappy 
 at will, any more than one can be hungry or thirsty. At 
 least I can't." 
 
 " Well, you wait. Perhaps some day you'll really 
 have something to cry about. Then you will look back 
 at this time, and wish with all your might that you'd 
 realized how well off you were. Yes, by Jove, you're ex- 
 actly like a chUd. You don't appear to have any more 
 mind or reasoning faculty than a six-year-old infant. I 
 might as well argue with an infant. Yes, by God! I 
 was right. A whipping would do you good. It would 
 be the only way of appealing to you, just as it's the only 
 way of appealing to a child. It would set your blood 
 circulating, and it would take your mind off your imagi- 
 nary, manufactured sorrows, to make acquaintance with a 
 little genuine pain." 
 
 " Thank you," I returned. 
 
 " Well, now, then, I ask you once for all, will you tell 
 me what it is ? If you've got any grief of any kind in 
 your bosom, I demand to be told what it is." 
 
 " I have nothing to tell you." 
 
 " God damn you ! " he screamed, his rage suddenly 
 getting the mastery of him. "I believe you are still 
 thinking of that starved cur of an American painter. If 
 you are, by God, I advise you to put the thought out of 
 yoiir head, or there'll be trouble." 
 
 I sprang to my feet, and made for the door of the little 
 Pullman compartment in which we were travelling. But 
 he placed himself before me. 
 
218 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " No, you may just sit down again where you were," lie 
 said. " If I want to talk to you, I think you may do me 
 the honor to listen to me. There's no use your standing 
 there. You don't leave this compartment tiU I'm ready 
 to let you." 
 
 " Oh, very well. If you resort to force. Of course you 
 are stronger than I am," I answered and resimied my 
 seat. 
 
 " Well, now, if you're ready we may talk," said he. 
 "And I want you to understand to begin with that I 
 meant no offence to you by what I said about your young 
 American paiater. I spoke hotly, because you angered 
 me ; but you have no groimd for taking offence. I will 
 say this much for you at once : I know you are the soul 
 of honor, and that you would never do anything to iajure 
 me. So far as that's concerned, I'd be perfectly willing 
 to leave you alone with him on a desert island ; I know 
 you'd never be guilty of doing anything wrong ; you've 
 got too much honor, and too much pride and seH-respect. 
 But what I want to impress upon you is this ; that you 
 can injure me just as much by feeling and thinking, as you 
 can by doing. I'm yomr husband, and your husband is 
 entitled to demand of you not only that you should keep 
 yourself faithful to him with your body, but also that you 
 should be faithful to him in thought and feeling. Now, 
 I submit it to you in all fairness, if it's your American 
 painter who's standing between you and me, who's pre- 
 venting you from giving me your love, isn't it due to me 
 that you should put the thought of him entirely out of 
 your mind ? There, I have spoken to you reasonably and 
 kindly ; I expect a reasonable answer." 
 
 "I will not answer you. I will not have anything to 
 say to you. You have insulted me and outraged me in 
 the most cowardly manner ; and you have compelled me 
 by force, against my will, to sit here and listen to you. 
 
MATRIMONY. 219 
 
 But you cannot compel me to answer you. I have 
 nothing to say to you except this : that, after the way in 
 which you have spoken to me and treated me to-day, I 
 despise you." 
 
 " You hell-cat ! " he cried, and struck me across the 
 face. 
 
n. 
 
 I WISH most earnestly in making this confession to ex- 
 tenuate nothing, and to set down nothing in malice. I 
 have not recoimted the foregoing scene for the purpose 
 of casting discredit upon Prince Leonticheif, or of excul- 
 pating myself. Indeed, I realize perfectly well that I 
 was by no means entirely blameless, that perhaps I was 
 as much to blame as he was. I can see that my attitude, 
 my conduct, and my speech must have been extremely 
 exasperating to him ; that I ought, in all right and jus- 
 tice, to have met him in a kindlier, friendlier, more sym- 
 pathetic spirit. I can imagine that if I had done so, he on 
 his side would have behaved differently, and things from 
 that time forth might ha^e gone better with us, instead 
 of worse. No, I do not wish to excuse myself, or to 
 prejudice him. Whether he was to blame, or I was to 
 blame, or we were equally to blame, what happened hap- 
 pened ; and to tell what happened, honestly and plainly, 
 not to assign the blame for it, is the task I have set my- 
 self. He insulted me, and struck me, and that was all 
 wrong ; but I had infuriated him, and that was all wrong 
 too ; so perhaps it was six of one and half a dozen of the 
 other. 
 
 But, though I think that to-day, at this distance, I can 
 take a fair and reasonable view of it, at the time I could 
 do nothing of the kind. 
 
 If I had been able then, as I am now, to make allow- 
 ances for him, and to appreciate my own share of the 
 responsibility, doubtless we might have forgiven each 
 
MATRIMONY. 221 
 
 other, our quarrel miglit have served to clear the air be- 
 tween us, and we might have begun our life anew, upon 
 a better footing, a more thorough understanding. But, 
 as I say, I could do nothing of the kind. The blow he 
 struck me seemed to set my brain on fire ; I was con- 
 sumed by a wild, unutterable paia and rage and hatred ; 
 I could think of nothing else, I could feel nothing else. 
 I clinched my fists, and looked at him, and if wishes 
 could have killed, he would have died on the spot. It 
 was well perhaps that there were no more deadly weapons 
 within my reach. 
 
 I did not speak to him again till after our arrival in 
 London, at Salchester House. At first, for a long while, 
 he himself did not speak. His bearing after his explo- 
 sion was that of a wronged superior being, who had been 
 compelled, to his regret, to resort to extreme measures. 
 It seemed to say, " There ! You see ! I have had to be 
 severe with you. I am sorry it came to that, but it was 
 your own fault. You drove me to it, you deserved it, 
 you made it necessary, you brought it upon yourself. I 
 regret not what I did, but the necessity I was tmder to 
 do it. Very like the bearing of a virtuous parent, who 
 has been forced to inflict bodily punishment upon his 
 erring child. This self-righteous attitude on his part was 
 like fuel to the fires of my resentment. Oh, how I hated 
 him ! How fiercely my heart burned ! How iutensely I 
 longed in some way to revenge myself upon him ! How 
 it baffled and maddened me to realize that I was abso- 
 lutely powerless to do so ! 
 
 But gradually these first violent feelings subsided, giv- 
 ing way to a dull aching misery ; a sense of utter desola- 
 tion and friendlessness. Here I was, all, all alone with him, 
 with this man whom I feared and hated, between whom 
 and myseK there was no possible ground of understanding 
 or sympathy, yet whose wife I was, so that he had to me 
 
222 MEA CULPA. 
 
 all the right, and over me all the power, that law and tra- 
 dition give a husband ! It seemed to me very awful. It 
 filled me with a vague but keen alarm and dread. Oh, it 
 I could but see a friendly face, hear a friendly voice; 
 anything to break this terrible sense of being alone with 
 him ! I thought of my father, thousands of miles away 
 in Russia. I thought of Armidis, the only other friend 
 I had in the world, virtually just as far away, in Paris. 
 And yes — I thought of Julian North ; but that thought 
 was as guiltless and as despairing as the thought of one 
 who is dead. And then I returned to the actual present 
 place and time, and saw myself alone in that railway car- 
 riage with Prince Leonticheff ; and my feeling of friend- 
 lessness was bitter beyond expression. 
 
 When we left the train at Calais, and my maid joined 
 me, I could have thrown myself into her arms, and kissed 
 her, and wept upon her shoulder ; she was the only 
 human being in my horizon with whom I could exchange 
 a friendly word. 
 
 The Prince left her and me together in the cabin he 
 had engaged, during the crossing, and for that hour and 
 a half I was almost happy, such relief it gave me to 
 escape his presence. 
 
 He broke silence for the first time after we had taken 
 our places in the train from Dover. 
 
 " Come ! don't you think you have sulked long 
 enough ? " he asked. 
 
 At the sound of his voice, aU my violent feelings of 
 rage and hatred were instantly revived. I bit my lips, 
 and did not speak. I could not have spoken. It wds a 
 choice between keeping silence, and screaming out. 
 
 " Now, really, Monica," he went on, in his softest and 
 most plausible Eiccents, " you are behaving like an un- 
 reasonable child. A woman, a mature human being, if 
 she has anything on her mind, talks it out ; it's the part 
 
MATRIMONY. 223 
 
 of a silly, stubborn li'ttle child just to sit in a corner, and 
 pout and sulk and refuse to speak. Come ! let us under- 
 stand each other. I struck you. I suppose that's what 
 you're sulking about, so I'll admit at once that I struck 
 you. Well, I'm sorry I struck you. I'm sorry I had to 
 strike you. I don't believe I struck you hard enough to 
 hurt you ; there's no mark. But I'm sorry all the same. 
 The trouble was that you drove me to it. It was the 
 only way of moving you, of stirring you up. I'd tried in 
 vain to talk to you, to argue with you ; you were deaf. 
 I'd exhausted every means of appealing to your intelli- 
 gence, and then I struck you. Well, when a woman de- 
 liberately behaves like a child, she's got to expect to be 
 treated like one. You did behave like a chUd ; you're 
 behaving like one now ; and I struck you because that's 
 the only way of getting any satisfaction out of a child. 
 However, as I say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I gave way to 
 my impulse. I suppose I ought to have borne with you 
 longer. But you have no idea how trying you were. If 
 you could see yourself even at this moment ! By Jove, I 
 believe very few men would be as patient with you as I 
 am." 
 
 Still I did not speak. I had nothing to say, except 
 that I hated him and despised him ; and it seemed to me 
 that it would be a condescension on my part to tell him 
 that. 
 
 I thought, " He may talk and talk and talk ; but I will 
 not lower myself so far as to utter one syllable in reply." 
 
 He waited a little ; then, " Will you pay me the com- 
 pliment of answering me ? " he demanded. 
 
 Again he waited a moment. At last he gave a short, 
 angry laugh. "By God, I believe you want to make me 
 do it again," he cried. "Well, if you enjoy making a 
 sickening idiot of yourself, you may. I won't trouble my- 
 self to notice you." 
 
224 MEA CULPA. 
 
 # 
 
 But at the end of perhaps a half -hour's dignified silence, 
 he began anew. . . . 
 
 "Oh, this is too absurd. "What is it that you are 
 thinking about, what are you meditating, as you sit there 
 with your back up, and your lips stuck out, as silent as if 
 you were dumb ? " 
 
 He gave me time to reply ; but then, as I did not reply, 
 " WeU, have you got a tongue in your head ? I am wait- 
 ing to hear what you have to say ? " 
 
 But I said nothing. 
 
 " Come ! You've got to open your mouth if I have to 
 pry it open with a chisel. Do you hear me ? I want to 
 know what it is you've got on your mind. Whatever it is, 
 out with it. If you want to abuse me, abuse me. Say your 
 say. Only don't put on these airs of a tragedy-queen. 
 You'U make me laugh. If you want to curse me, curse 
 me viva-voce. If you go on swallowing your venom, it 
 may strike in. You'd better spit it out. There ! I've 
 pleaded with you long enough. I won't plead with you 
 any more. I fall back now upon my rights. I wiU thank 
 you to remember that I'm your husband; and now I 
 demand as my right to be told what it is you're timiing 
 over in your obstinate little brain." 
 
 And so from time to time he would renew his efforts 
 to make me speak, now imploring, now threatening, now 
 arguing, now commanding — while I, it cannot be denied, 
 derived a certain malicious satisfaction from the spectacle 
 of his impotent annoyance — until we reached Salchester 
 House, and I had been shown to my own apartments, and 
 supposed myself rid of him for the night. 
 
 But I had not been alone five minutes, when he joined 
 me ; opening the door of my dressing-toom, which I had 
 forgotten to lock, without the formality of rapping. 
 
 He sent my maid away, and then he said to me, " I am 
 not going to bed to-night, I am not going to let you go, 
 
MATRIMONY. 225 
 
 mitil we have had this out. Now the sooner you open 
 your lips and speak, the sooner you'll be left to your 
 own devices." 
 
 He sat down, and settled himself in his chair with the 
 effect of a fixture. 
 
 " Here I sit," he said, " until I hear your voice. And 
 I can't allow you to leave the room before me." 
 
 I looked at him, and I realized with a certain mixture 
 of despair and weariness that he would probably be as 
 good as his word. 
 
 " Well ? You wish me to speak. "V\Tiat do you wish 
 me to say ? " I demanded. 
 
 " "Why, look here, Monica " — dropping his tone of au- 
 thority, and becoming persuasive — " I wish without ran- 
 cor or ill-feeling to talk this thing over with you. 
 Things have come to a sort of crisis between us, and it's 
 best on all accounts that we should talk our thoughts out, 
 and understand each other. I struck you to-day in the 
 train. I've already told you that I'm sorry I did so. I 
 don't think I struck you hard enough to hurt you, and I 
 do think that you deserved it ; but all the same I'll admit 
 at once that it would have been better if I hadn't struck 
 you at all, no matter how lightly, no matter if you did de- 
 serve it. There, I've made an apology. Now I want to 
 know whether you can be generous enough to accept it ? 
 You've been pouting your lips and brooding over it ever 
 since it happened. Now I want to know if you can't 
 drop it, and behave as if it hadn't occurred ? I've apolo- 
 gized ; it's for you to forgive." 
 
 " If you wish me to behave as if it hadn't occurred, 
 why will you persist in talking to me about it? " I asked. 
 
 " I talk to you about it because I want to hear you 
 
 talk. I want to know what you have to say. You've 
 
 been turning it over and over and over perpetually in 
 
 your brain for the past five hours. You must have made 
 
 15 
 
226 MEA CULPA. 
 
 up yom- mind to something, by this time. I want to 
 know what. I want you to open yoiu- lips. I don't care 
 what you say, only say it. Spit it out, instead of swal- 
 lowing it. It's this infernal silence that I can't stand. 
 It frightens me. I don't know what you mayn't be medi- 
 tating. I don't dare to leave you alone." 
 
 " I have nothing to say to you, nothing whatever. I 
 don't think it would give you any pleasure to hear what I 
 think of you ; I don't wish to expose myself to your vio- 
 lence again. At any rate, I will not stoop to recrimina- 
 tion with you. You know what has happened as well as 
 I do. You understand the situation as well as I do. 
 There is nothing to be said. It goes without saying." 
 
 " Now listen to me for one moment, Monica. I have 
 made up my mind to control myself, and to be very kind 
 and patient with you. Therefore I shan't allow your 
 stubbornness or your unfairness to anger me. I will just 
 put it to you as from one reasonable being to another, 
 whether we hadn't better talk this thing out, and under- 
 stand each other. You say you don't wish to expose 
 yourself to my violence again. That's a petty a,nd con- 
 temptible thing to say, and you ought to be ashamed of 
 it. I've apologized for my ^dolence, and it isn't very 
 noble of you to taunt me with it. What's more, if 
 you don't want me to be violent with you, don't bring 
 it upon yourself by acting like a silly child, and mak- 
 ing me forget that you're a woman. You say I 
 wouldn't enjoy hearing yoiu- opinion of me. I say, 
 yes, I would. No matter how uncomplimentary or unjust 
 it may be, I'd infinitely rather hear you speak it out in 
 plain words, than have you hold it in, and let it rankle 
 and fester and poison our relations. Now, come. You 
 see I'm calm and reasonable ; try to be reasonable your- 
 self. I don't understand how you can be so small. Any 
 one would suppose you had no more soul than a little 
 
MATRIMONY. 227 
 
 tuppenry-ha'penny shopkeeper's wife. I should think 
 with your traditions you could be bigger, more generous. 
 There, now; in all kindness, I beg you to talk it out. 
 We never can take up our life again until we have talked 
 this thing out, and come to an understanding." 
 
 " There is nothing to talk out. There is nothing to 
 understand. It is very easy for you to sit there and prate 
 of patience and kindness and generosity. Is it kind or 
 generous of you to force your presence upon me, here in 
 my private rooms ? I should think you might be patient, 
 you who have all the advantages on your side. I have 
 nothing to say to you, except to ask you to leave me. I 
 do not think you would stay, if you could know how un- 
 welcome you are." 
 
 He colored up. "I see," he cried. "You want to ex- 
 asperate me still more, so that I shall say or do some- 
 thing else to give you an excuse for posing as an innocent, 
 abused woman. Your private rooms, indeed ! I think 
 this house is mine, and that I can occupy any part of it I 
 please, whenever I please, without asking you. Your 
 private rooms ! Why, damn it, you haven't a stitch of 
 clothing on your back that doesn't belong to me. Yes, I 
 see. You want to drive me to the point of making a 
 brute of myself. But you can't do it. I've got myself in 
 hand." 
 
 " Oh, no," I retorted, " I don't think you could mahe a 
 brute of yourself." 
 
 " I thought you weren't going to stoop to recrimina- 
 tion ? " he flung back. 
 
 For awhile after that we were both silent. 
 
 At last, " Look here, Monica, is there no way by which 
 you can be brought to your senses ? " he asked. " It stands 
 to reason that you've made your mind up to something. 
 Anyhow, I can see that you have, by the set look in your 
 face. Now, I want to know what. The least you can do 
 
228 MEA CULPA. 
 
 is to tell me what. I think I am well within my rights 
 when I ask to be informed what you mean to do." 
 
 " I have not the faintest objection to telling you what 
 I mean to do. Of course you must know that after what 
 has happened to-day, I cannot mean to live in the same 
 house with you any longer than I can help. I shall stay 
 here to-night, and to-morrow I shaU start with my maid 
 for St. Petersburg, to join my father." 
 
 " By Jove, that shows what a thought-reader I am ! 
 Do you know, I suspected exactly that. I had a sort of 
 presentiment that that was what you were meditating. 
 But do you take me for a full-blown lunatic ? Do you 
 fancy for one instant that I will allow it ? Do you sup- 
 pose I am going to stand still, and let my wife abandon 
 me, and make a scandal in the four comers of Europe ? 
 What do you suppose I married you for, if you are not 
 to live with me ? Oh, you must think I am a fool ! " 
 
 " I don't know what you married me for, I'm sure. Cer- 
 tainly, if you expected me to live with a man who was 
 capable of beating me, you deceived yourself. I do not 
 intend to expose myself to the risk of a repetition of to- 
 day's experience. I shall leave you, and go to my father. 
 As for your allowing or not allowing it, I don't see how 
 you can prevent it." 
 
 " Oh, you don't ! Well, then you'd better invest in a 
 pair of spectacles. I do. I see very clearly. I see seve- 
 ral ways by which I can prevent it. I could lock you up 
 here in your room, if it came to that. You mustn't allow 
 yourself to forget that you happen to be my wife, and that 
 the law gives me considerable authority over you. But I 
 think I know another way that will be more effective still. 
 Beating you, indeed ! You would go away from me, and 
 tell people that I had beaten you, and spread the scandal 
 of it far and wide. Poor defenceless thing, her husband 
 maltreated her, and she had to fly from him, and seek ref- 
 
MATRIMONY. 229 
 
 uge with her father ! It takes a woman to pervert the 
 truth like that, to lie like that. I struck you a little gen- 
 tle blow on the cheek, so light a blow that it hasn't even 
 left a mark ; and now you talk of my having beaten you ! 
 You wouldn't hesitate to tell the world that I had beaten 
 you ! Yes, it takes a woman, a small-souled, mean-spirited 
 woman. A man would be ashamed. No, no ; I can't al- 
 low it. I couldn't allow you to leave me under any cir- 
 cumstances ; but I must especially forbid it under the act- 
 ual ones. You must put your thoughts of flight out of 
 your mind." 
 
 " You asked me what I intended to do, and I have an- 
 swered you. I have no desire to discuss it with you. 
 Unless you do lock me up in my room — and I hardly 
 think that you will take such an abject advantage of your 
 superior strength as that — I shall not stay under your 
 roof another day. I may be a mean-spirited woman, but 
 I am not so mean-spirited as to go on living in the same 
 house with a man who has insulted me as you have done 
 to-day. I do not see why you should wish me to do so. 
 You must know that there is no danger of my making 
 public the indignity to which you have put me. If 
 you are not ashamed of it, I am. All I ask is to be 
 allowed to leave you, and go to my father. But, as I 
 said, whether you aUow it or not, I shall do it. That is 
 all." 
 
 "Oh, that's all, is it? You think that's all. Very 
 good. Now listen to me. I'll speak very plainly to you 
 for about half a minute, and then I'll give you complete 
 liberty to do as you choose. I've just got one thing to 
 say, and that is this. You pack up your traps, and call 
 for your maid, and leave for St. Petersburg, if you like ; I 
 won't stop you ; only there's one fact you'd better bear in 
 mind — before you reach the Russian frontier, your worthy 
 father will be marching with a shaved head in the direc- 
 
230 
 
 MEA CULPA. 
 
 tion of Siberia. Don't allow yourself to forget that. As 
 I imagine you have seen, I possess a rather considerable 
 influence with the powers that be in my native land, and 
 I hold, so to speak, the fate of your venerable parent at 
 the points of my ten fingers. A word from me by tele- 
 graph would cause his arrest and transportation before he 
 knew where he was standing. . . . Don't allow your- 
 self under any circumstances to forget what I'm telling 
 you. You see, if you were amenable to reason in the or- 
 dinary way, I shouldn't find it necessary to go into these 
 little details ; but in the actual situation it strikes me as 
 perhaps the only argument that will be hkely to convince 
 you. Just remember, whenever you feel in a rebellious 
 mood, that I practically possess over your father the 
 power of life and death." 
 
 "What do you mean? " I cried in terror. "Whathas 
 my father done ? What can you accuse him of ? Oh, I 
 don't believe a word you say. It is simply a threat.'' 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you how you can test it, and find out to 
 your perfect satisfaction whether it's simply a threat or 
 not. Do what you said. Leave for St. Petersburg to- 
 morrow morning. And then, when you arrive there, in- 
 quire for your father's whereabouts. I fancy you'll find 
 that he's departed for our pretty little Asiatic colony of 
 political damned fools." 
 
 " Will you tell me what my father has done ? What 
 has he done, to place himself in such peril ? What can 
 you allege against him, to cause him to be arrested? 
 What can you prove ? " 
 
 " No, I won't teU you. It would tire me. All I'll say 
 is this, that your father is not an incarnation of discretion, 
 and that a very little indiscretion goes a long way in 
 Russia. Then, you see, besides, I'm something of a 
 power in Bussia, and I had more or less to go bail for 
 his good behavior when I procured his pardon, and an 
 
MATRIMONY. 231 
 
 accusation of any sort from me wouldn't need to be 
 bolstered up with any very great amount of proof." 
 
 " Very good. I shall warn my father. I shall tell him 
 to leave Eussia at once." 
 
 " As you please, of course ; but I wouldn't, if I were 
 you. You'd only succeed in making things unpleasant for 
 him. I'm going to send a little telegram to St. Petersburg 
 to-night instructing certain people, upon whose obedience 
 I can rely, to keep an eye upon your father's movements, 
 and at the first sign of a disposition on his jpart to leave 
 the country, to clap him into jail." 
 
 " Oh, I don't believe that you will do anything so base. 
 What is the use, after all ? Why should you object to letting 
 me leave you ? Why shouldn't you allow me to go to my 
 father, for a visit ? Why should you fear any scandal ? 
 What could be more natural than that I should go for a 
 visit to my father? Nobody shall ever learn from me 
 what has happened to-day. I promise you that. Why 
 should you wish me to go on living in your house ? 
 We're utterly unsuited to each other. You can't be much 
 happier in it than I am. It has all been a mistake — our 
 marriage — everything — a terrible mistake. Why can't 
 you let me go away ? " 
 
 " Why, because I love you so, my dear. Because your 
 presence is a constant joy to me. Because, so long as I 
 can see you every day, and woo you, I can hope to win 
 you ; whereas, if you were away from me, you might for- 
 get me ; I might lose what little ground I have gained." 
 
 He looked at me with eyes that made my blood run 
 cold; and the inflexion of his voice sent a shudder through 
 me. 
 
 " Come ! " he said, stretching out his arms. " We'll 
 say no more about it. Let's kiss and make up." 
 
 I shrank away from him, and tried to suppress a tremor 
 in my voice as I answered, " Yes, I quite agree with you. 
 
232 MEA CULPA. 
 
 We'll say no more about it. We have said as mucli as is 
 at all necessary. Will you be good enough to lea^we me 
 now? I'm very tired." 
 
 He took a qiiick step forward, and caught me in his 
 arms. Then he began to kiss me, on the cheeks and on 
 the forehead. I put up my hands, and covered my lips. 
 
 " Oh, how cold you are ! " he complained. " What are 
 you made of ? Not flesh and blood, I'U be bound ! . . . 
 Oh, yes, I'll leave you now. Only, remember what I have 
 told you. I meant it, every word- of it. Your father's 
 liberty depends upon a nod from me, and it is altogether 
 at your option whether I shall give that nod or not. Good- 
 night." 
 
 That explains why I could not separate from the Prince, 
 why I had to go on living with him, insupportable as our 
 life together had become. 
 
ra. 
 
 ^lFTEe that tilings went steadily from bad to worse be- 
 tween us, and from worse to worst. It is a miserable 
 story, sordid and disgraceful in all its aspects ; it makes 
 my cheeks tingle with shame to think of telling it ; and I 
 shall tell no more of it than I must. Sometimes, when I 
 reflect upon it, it seems as if it had been all my fault, or 
 chiefly my fault, at least ; but at other times I feel that it 
 was inevitable from the beginning — that nothing else 
 could possibly have resulted from such a wretchedly un- 
 natural and ill-assorted m.arriage. 
 
 At first, for a while, it was evident that Prince L6on- 
 ticheff desired and hoped for a reconciliation. He made 
 no absolute overtures for one, but his speech, his bearing, 
 everything, showed that he desired one. I, however, not 
 only woTild not, I could not meet him half way. A deep 
 sense of resentment toward him, a violent dread and loath- 
 ing of him, had got kindled in my heart. Quite without 
 reference to my will, they burned hotter and fiercer as 
 time went on, instead of cooling and dying out. 
 
 The trouble was that every day fresh fuel was added to 
 them, because I had to live with him. If he had allowed 
 me to leave him, and go to my father, I dare say it 
 woidd have been different. But by the employment 
 of means that seemed to me cruel and cowardly to the 
 last degree, he had compelled me to remain with him. 
 He held my father as a hostage ! That constraint, that 
 annihilation of my personal liberty, and the method of it, 
 stung me with a furious sense of outrage and injustice. 
 
234 ME A CULPA 
 
 And then, joined to that, my constant feeling of his 
 nearness to me, my consciousness that I was living in his 
 house and on his bounty, the necessity I was under fre- 
 quently to meet him, speak with him, listen to him, were 
 Hke continual reopenings of the wound, which kept it 
 sore. 
 
 Was it my fault ? or was it inevitable ? 
 
 Perhaps it was both. It was the fault of my tempera- 
 ment, of my character, no doubt ; but then, my tempera- 
 ment and my character were entailed upon me, and I 
 could no more help them than I could help the color of 
 my hair. 
 
 At all events, as I have said, things went steadily 
 from bad to worse with us. Steadily my hatred of him 
 seemed to grow bitterer and more violent, rankling deep 
 in my heart with an intensity of pain that was almost 
 physical. I cannot express the sick abhorrence that filled 
 me and chilled me when I thought of him, nor the thrill 
 of fear and repulsion that I experienced when I would 
 hear his voice or his footstep, or when I would see his 
 face. 
 
 Yes ; if he would only have consented to let me go 
 away from him, I am sure it would have been different. 
 But the thought that by an intimidation more galling, 
 more humiliating, and more efficacious than main force, 
 I was compelled to live with him in spite of myself, was 
 like a constant irritating thorn in my brain; and our 
 daily meetings were like daily thrustings of the thorn in 
 deeper still. It came to the point where I could not look 
 at him, but my hatred bumed in my eyes ; where I could 
 not speak to him, but it vibrated ia my voice. And 
 then, my knowledge of its hopelessness. . . ! That 
 it must go on and on like this forever ! Until I died, un- 
 less . . . unless he died first ! That no escape from 
 it was imaginable, except in the death of one of us ! It was 
 
MATRIMONY. 235 
 
 all very wrong and terrible, but if I am to tell the truth, 
 I miist tell it, again and again I caught myself saying to 
 myself, " Oh, I wish that he was dead ! There is no hope 
 possible for me so long as he lives. Oh, I wish that he 
 was dead ! " 
 
 It was the first season I had ever passed in London, 
 that summer of 1886. Of course we were very busy, 
 going and receiving. I was presented at the next draw- 
 ing-room held after our arrival ; then followed a breath- 
 less whirl of dinners and dances, routs, rowdies, theatri- 
 cals, I know not what aU. For a while, as I have said, 
 Prince Leonticheff's attitude toward me was tacitly con- 
 ciliatory ; but gradually, as he saw no sign of relenting on 
 my part, his patience began to fail ; it was plain that he 
 was growing angry and angrier ; till, finally, so to speak, 
 the air between us became heavy with suppressed ill-feel- 
 ing, and I lived in perpetual terror of an explosion. 
 
 At last, one night toward the end of June, the explo- 
 sion came. We had given a dinner, and a reception after 
 it. Then, when our guests had gone, and I was about to 
 retire to my own apartments, he said, " I should like a 
 few minutes' talk with you. Come into the library." 
 
 In the library he announced, " I am leaving London in 
 the morning, to go to Russia. It appears that malignant 
 typhus has broken out in the south-east, among my peas- 
 antry, and they are dying by the hundreds. I'm going 
 down there to see what it is like. I shall probably send 
 some letters about it to the Beacon. I shall leave in the 
 morning before you are awake." 
 
 He paused, and waited in manifest expectation that I 
 would say something to show admiration of his courage, 
 or concern for the danger to which he was about to ex- 
 pose himself. But — to my shame, perhaps, it should be 
 acknowledged — the only thought or feeling that his an- 
 nouncement aroused in me was one of relief at the pros- 
 
236 MEA CULPA. 
 
 pect of a period of separation from him. He waited for 
 me to speak imtil tlie silence became painful, when, very 
 tactlessly, I asked, " How long will you be away ? " 
 
 He looked at me with a smile that was grim and con- 
 temptuous, nodding his head. At the end of a miaute 
 he uttered a dry little laugh. 
 
 " Ha ! That's just what I expected. I tell you that I 
 am going to a pestilence region, carrying my life in my 
 hands ; and all you have to say is, how long shall I be 
 gone ? . . . That's the only aspect of the affair that 
 interests my wife. Well, I shall be gone about a month. 
 Perhaps a little longer, perhaps not quite so long. We 
 are engaged for a cruise on the Tchemobog in August, and 
 I shall of course be back in time to start on that. I'll 
 keep you informed of my movements by telegraph." 
 
 "And you -nish me to stay on here in Salchester 
 House ? " I queried, more 'for the sake of saying some- 
 thing than because I had any doubt or curiosity. 
 
 " Why, I don't see but that you'll have to. We've in- 
 vited people for a good many evenings ahead, and we've 
 accepted a good many invitations. I don't see but you 
 will have to stay here to do the honors." 
 " Yes, of course," I assented. 
 For several minutes neither of us spoke. 
 At length I rose, as if to withdraw, and asked, " Is that 
 aU?" 
 
 " Well, as I told you, I shall leave in the morning with- 
 out seeing you. This is the last occasion we shall have to 
 talk together till I come back. If you have anything to 
 say to me, you'd better say it now." 
 "I have nothing to say to you." 
 
 Again there was a minute of silence. I did not look 
 at him, but somehow I knew that he had colored with 
 anger, and that his eyes were fixed with no friendly gaze 
 upon my face. Presently, still without looking at him, I 
 
MATBIMONT, 237 
 
 began to move toward the door. Just as I had got my 
 hand upon the knob of it. . . . 
 
 " Come back here ! " he cried out. 
 
 Each word was short, loud, sudden, and big with pas- 
 sion. The sound of them struck me like a blow. I stood 
 stiU, trembling, but I did not take my hand from the 
 door-knob, nor turn around. 
 
 " Let go that door-knob, and come back here," he cried 
 again. 
 
 Then, as I still did not move, " Do you hear? " he 
 screamed. 
 
 But I had no power to obey him. I was transfixed to 
 the spot by fright. 
 
 Next moment he grasped my arms, dragged me back 
 into the room, and half pushed, half flung, me into a 
 chair. 
 
 "Now, then, you may just sit there till I tell you to 
 get up," he said. 
 
 His face was terrible, purple and swollen with con- 
 gested blood. His eyes were lowering and vicious, and 
 he kept them half closed as he looked at me. 
 
 " By God ! I wish a stranger could be present to see 
 the way you carry yourself toward me," he said. " He'd 
 wonder at my patience. He'd wonder I didn't kill you." 
 
 He strode backward and forward through the room for 
 a bit, then came to a halt before me. 
 
 " You may have nothing to say to me," he went on, 
 " but I have something to say to you, and I'll thank you 
 to give me your attention while I say it." 
 
 He drew up a chair, and sat down, facing me, with his 
 knees touching mine. 
 
 "Now," he said, "I called you in here to-night, not 
 only to tell you that I was going to Eussia, but also be- 
 cause I wanted to give you a chance, before I went, to 
 apologize to me for the manner in which you've seen fit 
 
238 MEA CULPA. 
 
 to demean yourself ever since that day in the train coming 
 from Nice. I've stood your damned airs and nonsense 
 just as long as I intend to. Now you may beg my par- 
 don, and mend your ways. Or else, by God, I'll make 
 you repent it ! There's a limit even to my good nature, 
 and you've reached it. Now you may open your mouth 
 and talk. I don't intend to let you sulk and mope about 
 this house any longer." 
 
 " What do you wish me to apologize for ? " I queried. 
 " Do you wish me to beg pardon for the blow you struck 
 me in the train ? " 
 
 He sprang to his feet in a fury, and shook his fist at 
 me. 
 
 " You petty-minded, mean-spirited shrew ! " he cried. 
 " Good heavens, how can any human being, with human 
 blood in her veins, nurse and cherish rancor as she does ! 
 It takes a little contemptible penny-counting school-mis- 
 tress, by Jove, to be as small as that ! Oh, good God, 
 why did I ever lift you out of the squalor in which I 
 found you, to make a lady of you, you who have the soul 
 of a fish-wife ? I'll just give you one piece of advice, 
 however, and you'd better bear it in mind. Don't you 
 throw that incident in the railway carriage in my teeth 
 again, don't you taunt me with it again, or I'll repeat it 
 with compound interest." 
 
 " Brute ! " I muttered. In my anger, the word came 
 out independently of any volition on my part. 
 
 " Hold your tongue," he shouted. " If you take to 
 calling names, I may meet you and beat you on your own 
 ground. Now what I have to say to you is this. Hith- 
 erto I've been your friend ; I've put up with your moods 
 and your tantrums, and borne your insults, and done 
 everything that a friend could do to smooth your path 
 for you, and make you comfortable and contented. But 
 now you've gone too far. From this night on, you may 
 
MATBIMONT. 239 
 
 count me as your enemy. Look out for me. You hate 
 me. Well, I'll return the compliment henceforward, and 
 hate you. Look out for me. You've spumed my love 
 till you've tired it out. Now beware of my hatred. I 
 tell you, until you come to me grovelling on your knees 
 and licking the dust at my feet, and fawn Kke a dog to 
 be taken- back in my good graces, you'd better be on your 
 guard. You've gone too far ; you drive me to take re- 
 prisals. You'll find I'm a good hater." 
 
 " Thank you," I replied. " I much prefer your hatred 
 to what you call your love. It is not quite so loath- 
 some." 
 
 " So? Ah, well, time will show. I think your opinion 
 on that score will be more valuable a year hence than it 
 is at present. I think I can lead you a dance. I will 
 pay you back in your own coin, and I'll pay you a sover- 
 eign for your every shilling. The fun of it all is, of 
 course, that you'U have to be entirely submissive, and to 
 do everything pretty much as I wish you to, because you 
 must never allow yourself to forget that I hold your 
 father's fate in my hands as a sort of bond or guarantee 
 for your good behavior. That's what makes the situation 
 pretty. The circumstance that your father will have to 
 suffer for any little sins of yours, will doubtless have the 
 effect of keeping you within bounds." 
 
 " You coward ! " I said between my teeth. 
 
 "Faugh ! You ! " he retorted ; I cannot repeat his 
 
 word. He spat into my face. 
 
 It all seems very petty and contemptible, I suppose, 
 and unworthy of being recorded. But at the time it was 
 of the utmost hideous seriousness tp me, — to us, perhaps 
 I ought to say, — and I record it as part of the explana- 
 tion of the unquestionably grave events that ultimately 
 followed. 
 
240 MEA CULPA. 
 
 Up to this point, I think I have been able, in telling 
 my story, to take a reasonably impartial view of it, — to 
 make allowances for Prince Ldonticheflf, and to recognize 
 my own share of the blame. But beyond this point I 
 cannot do so. When I think of the things that happened 
 during the next four years, my heart burns again with 
 rage and mortification, I hate him again with as great 
 intensity as if he were still visible before me in the 
 flesh, and I cannot help thinking that it was all his fault, 
 all, all his fault. Because he forced me to live with him ! 
 Why could he not have allowed me to go away? Then 
 the things that I must recount would never have come to 
 pass ; separated, we could have lived our own lives in 
 peace. But he forced me to live with him. Why ? He 
 must have known that I could never forgive him his last 
 outrage ; that after that, all possibility of reconciliation 
 between us was destroyed. And yet he forced me to go 
 on living with him, so that every circumstance of my life 
 operated to keep my wound open ; every circumstance 
 and condition of my life served to remind me of my griev- 
 ance. He forced me to live with him ; and I cannot see 
 but he alone was responsible for the consequences of his 
 doing so. I believe his reason for so forcing me was 
 simply this : I had worn out his patience, I had angered 
 him profoundly, he had come to reciprocate my hatred, 
 and now he wished to have me constantly in his house, 
 constantly under his hand, so that he might, as he had 
 said, take reprisals; he forced me to live with him so 
 that he might torture me, and thus taste the sweetness of 
 revenge. Of course, when it is a question of the motives 
 of so unusual a person as Prince Leonticheff, I may possi- 
 bly be mistaken ; bu|; I have thought and thought, and 
 that is the only theory of his conduct which seems to me 
 to explain it. 
 
 But if I had hated him before, conceive how I hated 
 
MATRIMONY. 241 
 
 him now ! Now that it had come to open war ; now that 
 in cold blood he had determined to " lead me a dance ! " 
 With a hatred that was all the more hot and furious, be- 
 cause it was impotent and dumb — because there was noth- 
 ing it could say or do to satisfy itseK. Here I was, com- 
 pelled to live with him ; compelled to live with this great 
 coarse hidking red-faced boor and bully ; compelled to 
 pass my life in his company, to eat at the same table with 
 him, to travel with him, to be his property, his slave, his 
 thing ; to sacrifice all privacy to him, to hold myself in 
 constant readiness for his commands, to come when he 
 called, to submit to his every appetite or caprice ; com- 
 pelled to play the wife, the wife, to this man who had 
 struck me, who had spat upon my face, who had crushed 
 and outraged every instiuct of pride, of sensitiveness, of 
 self-respect, that I possessed ! I was constrained to live 
 and move and have my being in an atmosphere that was 
 poisoned for me by his presence. The mere sight of him, 
 the mere thought of him, made me recoil and shudder 
 and groif sick at heart ; the mere sound of his voice filled 
 me with dismay ; and yet I was his wife, he owned me, I 
 had to live with him ! Is it wonderful that my hatred of 
 him gained in virulence ? There was nothing I could do 
 to escape him, nothing I could do to disarm him, I was 
 completely, absolutely, in his power, at his mercy ; utterly 
 helpless to defend or to avenge myseK. How could I help 
 hating him with increasing fierceness? Of course, of 
 course, my hatred was an evil thing, evil and shameful ; I 
 do not mean to justify it or excuse it ; what I do mean is 
 that it was also an inevitable thing, and not a thing for 
 which I was responsible ; I mean that I could not help it, 
 that, evil as it was, I coidd no more help it than I could 
 have helped falling sick of a fever if I had been exposed 
 to contagion, than I could have helped bleeding if he had 
 cut my flesh with a knife. And I mean, too, that it was 
 * 10 
 
242 MEA CULPA. 
 
 a thing of his own making ; that he kept my hatred alive 
 by daily feeding it, that every day he injected a fresh 
 supply of its poison into my blood. If he had allowed 
 me to live away from him, I should not have hated him ; 
 I might even perhaps have forgotten what he had made 
 me suffer, and have forgiven him. 
 
 "WTiat he had made me suffer ! It had seemed a good 
 deal at the time ; but it was nothing, nothing, to what he 
 made me suffer now. It is needless that I should tell the 
 story in detail. I shall say enough when I say that he 
 seemed to bring all his powers of invention upon the task 
 he had set himself, the task of " leading me a dance ; " the. 
 task of annoying me, humiliating me, hurting me. He 
 had come to hate me ; that was not to be wondered at ; 
 we were mutually antipathetic ; and his hatred of me was 
 as natural as my hatred of him. But there was this dif- 
 ference : he had the upper hand ; he could wreak his ha- 
 tred upon me ; and he did not neglect to do so. "You 
 will find that I am a good hater," he had warned me ; 
 his warning proved to be quite true. 
 
 Certain of the measures that he took to the end of 
 causing me pain, were, however, rather ineffectual. I sup- 
 pose I had become dulled and hardened ; at all events, I did 
 not mind especially when he would bring one of his mis- 
 tresses to stay in the house, and force me to do the hon- 
 ors to her, abusing me in her presence, and making love 
 to her in mine ; I could not take that sort of thing very 
 tragically, it was too despicable, it was beneath contempt. 
 I did not mind especially, either, when he would set one 
 of his male parasites on to make love to me. What I suf- 
 fered most from was the general necessity I was imder to 
 live with him, and the sense of isolation and defenceless- 
 ness that it engendered ; the feeling-that my life was being 
 stolen from me and wasted, a waste as hopeless as it was 
 pxirposeless, " like water spilled upon the ground, which 
 
MATRIMONY. 243 
 
 cannot be gathered up again ; " and the loss of self- 
 respect that must befall anyone who is conscious of lead- 
 ing an empty, useless life — the humiliation, the despair. 
 After that, the thing I suffered most from was his talk. 
 I can give no idea how nauseous it was. He let himself 
 go ; and in my presence, and sometimes in my presence 
 and in that of others as well, he would say things so im- 
 possible in their vileness that I cannot write them down, 
 so incredible in their vileness that I cannot conceive a 
 human being even thinking them in the silence of his 
 own brain, much less giving them utterance before a 
 woman. Some Russians are said to be like that. He 
 appeared to derive an exquisite satisfaction from the 
 spectacle of the horror and disgust he contrived thus to 
 inspire in me, and to enjoy keenly my inability to silence 
 him, or to leave his presence. Among other things, he 
 wrote a set of verses — oh, but a set verses ! — in the Rus- 
 sian language. Then, one day, when he and I were limch- 
 ing together era tete-a-tete, he insisted upon reading them 
 aloud to me, ia the hearing of the servants. Of course 
 the servants were English and did not understand a sylla- 
 ble of Russian ; but that fact did not mitigate the miser- 
 able shame and sickness that I felt. At this moment 
 the coarse brutal laughter with which he punctuated his 
 reading, seems to vibrate again m my ears. 
 
 But I cannot dwell on this ; the mere memory of it is 
 too painful. From his talk I think I suffered more even 
 than from his blows, though whenever he became particu- 
 larly angry with me now, he did not hesitate to cuff or 
 kick me. At the time, a blow from him would infuriate 
 me far more than a word ; on a hundred occasions, when 
 he struck me, if I had had a weapon, and if I had been 
 his equal in physical strength, I do not doubt I would 
 have killed him ; but looking upon it all from this dis- 
 tance, I find myself forgetting the blows, whereas the 
 
244 MEA CULPA. 
 
 words come back to me with tlie same venemous force 
 they had when they were spoken. . . . And always, 
 always, he held over my head that threat of sending my 
 father to Siberia, to tame me with, he said, when I mani- 
 fested a rebellious spirit. 
 
 So I may pass over four years, and come to the spring 
 of 1890, when again we were in London, at Salchester 
 House. As I have said, a few days after our arrival he 
 went away, not telling me where he was going, but prom- 
 ising to be gone a fortnight or three weeks. 
 
PAET Y. 
 
 ABMIDI8. 
 
I. 
 
 Among all the people whom I knew in London, there 
 was no one I liked better than Miss Clotilde Wynn, the 
 poet, who lived in Kensington Gore, in a house whose 
 windows overlooked the Park. A few days after Prince 
 L^onticheffs departure, I went to her in the afternoon 
 for a cup of tea. While we were talking together I began 
 to notice a little water-color drawing, in a passepartout 
 frame, that stood on a table at my side. It represented 
 the head and shoulders of a young man, twenty years old 
 perhaps, with a thick, waving mane of brown hair, and a 
 face of such unusual and exquisite beauty that I supposed 
 it must be a fancy-sketch, the translation of a painter's 
 ideal, and not a veritable portrait. Yet something in it, 
 I could not tell what, teased me with a sense of familiar- 
 ity, until, all at once, I exclaimed, "Why, that is just 
 how Armidis must have looked thirty years ago. Armi- 
 dis the composer." 
 
 " Why, but it is Armidis ! " cried Miss Wynn. " Do 
 you know him ? " 
 
 I answered that he was one of my best and dearest 
 friends. 
 
 " And one of mine, too," said she. " I knew him when 
 I was a girl. Have you seen him lately ? " 
 
 "I have not seen him since my marriage — four years 
 ago." 
 
 " Why, but you know he is in town, of course ? " 
 
 "No? I had not known it. Is it true? If it is, 
 nothing, nothing could give me greater happiness than to 
 
248 ME A CULPA. 
 
 see him. What is his address ? I will write to him. It 
 is strange he has not come to call on me. He must have 
 known I was here." 
 
 " He has been living in London about a year. I see a 
 good deal of him. He drops in to drink a cup of tea 
 three or four times a week. Tou know I go out very 
 little. Indeed, he said he was coming this afternoon; 
 but I don't know that that is any reason for expecting 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, I hope he will, I hope he will," I said. My heart 
 was trembling. The prospect of seeing him, though it 
 was altogether a pleasant one, agitated me very much. 
 
 "But, my dear, you are pale," cried Miss Wynn. There's 
 a histor3^ Tell it to me at once." 
 
 "No, there is no history. Only I saw a great deal of 
 him when I was a girl in Paris. He was kind to me, and 
 I was fond of him. And now, the thought of seeing him, 
 it is so sudden and unexpected — you can understand ..." 
 
 A servant entered, and announced, " Mr. Armidis." 
 
 Next moment Armidis himself, his face all smiles, and 
 both of his fat hands extended, was bearing down upon us. 
 
 I was standing with my back toward the window, so 
 that he could not have recognized me. At the sight of 
 him, the tears sprang to my eyes ; I could not help it ; I 
 was weeping in silence while he made his obeisance to the 
 lady of the house. 
 
 Then Miss Wynn said, with a travesty of ceremonious- 
 ness, "I wish to present you to her Serene Highness 
 the Princess L^onticheif. I think you have had the honor 
 before." 
 
 Armidis gave a little start, and slowly turned his 
 face toward me. AU the color and all the sparkle had 
 faded from it. It was white and grave and questioning. 
 I still stood with my back to the window, so that my own 
 face was always in shadow. 
 
ABMIDI8. 249 
 
 He did not speak for a minute. At last he said very 
 low, "Not Monica?" 
 
 " Yes, Monica," I answered, also very low, and impul- 
 sively I moved toward him. 
 
 " Monica ! " he repeated ; it was like a sob. 
 
 " Aren't you going to shake hands with me ? " I asked, 
 putting out both of miae, and trying to smile down my 
 tears. 
 
 " Oh, my child ! " The words were scarcely audible. 
 He took my hands, and held me off, and looked into my 
 face with eyes that were eloquent of his emotion. By 
 and by he drew a long breath, like a sigh ; and his eyes 
 became radiant with one of his bright, beautiful smiles ; 
 and "There, there! Dry your tears," he said. "The 
 awful moment has passed ; and now we may be quite 
 commonplace and friendly again. I knew you were in 
 London; I saw your arrival noted in the newspapers. 
 Distinguished personage ! But it hadn't occurred to me 
 that we might meet. I, poor Bohemian, I am not of your 
 world, you know." 
 
 " I think you might have come to see me," I said. 
 
 "I didn't dare. Park Lane is so grand. Besides, dis- 
 cretion is the better part of friendship; and though I 
 knew you in your old earth-bound existence, I didn't 
 want to haunt you in your present state of exaltation. I 
 feel that I must be something like a ghost in your eyes." 
 
 " A most welcome one, and, fortunately, most substan- 
 tial." 
 
 " Oh, now, how imkind of you ! Why not tell me out- 
 right that I'm shamefully fat, and have done with it? 
 Most substantial ! . . . This lady," he annoimced, 
 addressing Miss Wynn, " this lady and I were children 
 together ia Paris, a hundred years ago. Then she went 
 off and got married, and we haven't seen each other since. 
 Hence our tears." 
 
250 MEA CULPA. 
 
 With that, the talk became general, and remained so, 
 until, at the end of an hour, Armidis rose to go. I fol- 
 lowed his example, and we took leave of Miss Wynn to- 
 gether. 
 
 My carriage was waiting at the door ia the street. 
 
 "Get in," I said. "You must come home with me. 
 Tou must dine with me. You don't seem at all glad to 
 see me. I . . . for me, it is the happiest moment I have 
 known for four years." 
 
 "My dear, dear chUd," he returned, "I am so glad to 
 see you — ^this meeting, all unforeseen, has moved me so 
 deeply — I have quite lost my head. I have had to be 
 matter-of-fact and nonchalant about it — ^you must let me 
 be so a little longer — lest I should become incoherent." 
 
 " Very good. I will forgive you everything and any- 
 thing, if you will only be nice now, and come home with 
 me, and stay till I bid you depart." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I should like to above all things. But . . ." 
 
 " But . . . ? " I prompted, as he paused. 
 
 " But — your prince? " 
 
 " Oh, he is away. He is out of town." 
 
 " Then I will come. Though I confess, my feet will 
 burn when I cross his threshold, and, if I eat of his salt, 
 it will give me an indigestion." 
 
 We drove through the Park, already thronged with car- 
 riages, though the Season was but just beginning. 
 
 I think we were both of us still rather embarrassed. 
 We had not recovered yet from the suddenness of our 
 encounter, and the excess of our emotion. We found it 
 hard to talk ; and it was with an evident determination to 
 say something, no matter what, that Armidis began to 
 speak of Miss Wyim. 
 
 "What a nice creature that Clotilde is!" he exclaimed. 
 "And she's written some extremely pretty verses. 
 There's one thing I want you to explain to me. Why, 
 
ABMIDI8. 251 
 
 with her wit, her beauty, and her wealth, why is she still 
 a spinster, at the age of forty ? How has she contrived 
 to avoid the pitfall of matrimony ? You were no prettier 
 than she, you were poor, you weren't half so clever. And 
 yet . . .!" 
 
 " Yes. If I had only been haK so clever, perhaps it 
 wouldn't have happened." 
 
 " But you had my cleverness quite at your service." 
 
 " The longer I live, the more I come to realize that we 
 can't profit by the wisdom or the experience of others. 
 We have to learn our own lessons, fight our own battles, 
 alone and unaided." 
 
 " That sounds very deep, my dear, but it only means 
 that we have to live our own lives. If it were otherwise, 
 God might have stopped with Eve and Adam. It is the 
 fact that after all we are infinitely individual, infinitely 
 isolated from each other, that makes life interesting, and 
 helps to make it worth while. Our souls are like stars 
 gravitating millions of miles apart in space : we mingle 
 our light a little, we describe orbits aroimd one another, 
 but we never touch." 
 
 " I don't see how life is worth while in any case. It 
 may be interesting, like any other tragedy ; but worth 
 while . . . ! Is it worth while to suffer, without an 
 object for our suffering? Yet that is what we have to do. 
 We are told that we are bom to trouble, which is bad 
 enough. But to be born to aimless trouble . . . ! " 
 
 " Oh, dear, me ! What a pessimist we are ! Shock- 
 ing ! " 
 
 " Aren't you a pessimist ? I thought aU wise men 
 were pessimists." 
 
 " A pessimist ? I ? When there are peaches and sun- 
 shine in the world ! Fie ! " 
 
 " Well, I am glad to see one thing," said I ; " you are 
 always Armidis," 
 
252 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " Am I? Eeally? Oh, I'm so relieved to be assured 
 of that. I'm often dubious of my own identity. To hear 
 a disinterested third person vouch for it is such a com- 
 fort. And apropos of that, tell me, tell me truly, are you 
 always Monica ? " 
 
 " I have every reason to believe so. Why ? " 
 
 " Because, if you are, I think I can impart a little in- 
 formation to you, that will mitigate your pessimism some- 
 what, and perhaps convert you to the faith that it is 
 rather worth while, after aU." 
 
 " What is it ? TeU me, quick." 
 
 Armidis turned his full face upon me, and held my 
 eyes for a moment with a smiling, studious, mystifying 
 gaze. 
 
 At last he said, " He is in London." 
 
 " He ? " I repeated. " Who ? " 
 
 " He ? Who ? Behold the dreadful soul of woman ! 
 He ? AMio ? Or is it only affectation ? Hypocrite ! Of 
 old there was but one He for you. Don't tell me that to- 
 day there are many." 
 
 " Oh ! " I gasped, as his meaning struck me ; and I 
 sank back in my place all in a tremor. 
 
 " Or rather, he isn't in London," he pursued. " But 
 it's the same thing. He's somewhere down on the south 
 coast. But he has a studio here, in Chelsea; and he's 
 coming up to town in a day or two. So there ! " 
 
 " Don't, don't," I begged. 
 
 There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask ; but 
 I had not the strength to pursue the subject ; it was like 
 suddenly uncovering the quick. I closed my eyes, and 
 for two or three minutes neither of us spoke. Then we 
 drew up at Salchester House. 
 
n. 
 
 I LED him to my boudoir. 
 
 " There are so many things I can't understand," said 
 he. " Of course I know it's none of my business, and you 
 may snub me to your heart's content. But we can't play 
 at mere acquaintanceship, you and I ; we've tried, and it's 
 been a failure. It must be all or nothing : close confeder- 
 ates, as we were in the old days, or strangers. I know so 
 much, and I understand so little. I know, for instance, 
 that he beats you. I Imow that every day, in every way, 
 he defiles and outrages every finer instinct of your being. 
 I know that he seeks to crush your individuality, to de- 
 prive you of all personal liberty, to reduce you to the con- 
 dition of his mere thing and chattel. But what I don't 
 know, what I can't understand, is why you submit to it, 
 why you continue to live with him. I have waited and 
 waited, from day to day, from year to year, to hear that 
 you had left him. I have been nonplussed, amazed, horri- 
 fied even, at your not doing so. I have conjectured about 
 it in vain. Now if you love me, if you care for my love, 
 explain it to me. What price does he pay you ? Don't 
 teU me it is the mere material advantage of your position, 
 or the rank. I shouldn't believe that." 
 
 " How do you know these things ? " I cried in con- 
 sternation. " How do you know he beats me ? Do you 
 mean to say that it is common talk ? " 
 
 " Common talk ? I can't tell you whether it is com- 
 mon talk or not. I am not of your world, and you are 
 not of mine. But one night — yes. I was at a club. I 
 
254 MEA CULPA. 
 
 chanced to overhear three words dropped by a man who 
 had been dining here with you and him. Only three 
 words ; but they M^ere enough. Just as the naturalist, 
 finding the claw of an antediluvian beast, will build up 
 from it a truthful image of the whole animal, so I, from 
 those few words, built for myself a model of your domes- 
 tic situation. But I had known it all before, I had sus- 
 pected, I had divined, it all ; these words merely con- 
 firmed me in my belief. How do I know that three and 
 two make five ? I am acquainted with you to some small 
 extent, and I am not entirely ignorant of the character of 
 your Prince. You are an obstinate, opinionated little 
 person, Monica, and he is a slightly impulsive man. In 
 the course of nature you would necessarily irritate him a 
 good deal, and he would instinctively resort to his fists. 
 Oh, I know ; I know everything ; I know by intuition 
 and inference." 
 
 He drew his chair up close to me, and took my hands, 
 and looked into my eyes. 
 
 " It's this way, my dear," he said. " You see, I love 
 you. If you were my own daughter I could not love 
 you better than I do. And love of this sort is very far 
 from blind. It is like a spur to the imagination. I 
 know you and I know Leonticheff ; therefore I know, I 
 can guess, the whole sorry story. Ah, if there were but 
 some way in which I could help you, shield you, make it 
 easier for you ! That is the thought, the wish, that has 
 never left me since your marriage. Daily I have said to 
 myself, ' She is far away, alone with him, alone with 
 Leonticheff, utterly at his mercy, alone and suffering. 
 And' — you remember Capponsacchi ? — 'here am I, 
 " with a whole store of strengths, eating into my heart, 
 craving employ; and she perhaps in need of a finger's 
 help ; and yet there is no way in the whole world to 
 stretch out mine, and so relieve myself ! " ' Yes, it is a 
 
ABMIDia. 255 
 
 good deal as you said : we have to fight our own battles 
 alone and unaided. But why don't you leave him ? 
 Where is your self-respect, your pride, your spirit? 
 How can you go on eating at the table, living in the 
 house, sharing the luxuries, of a man who degrades you 
 so ? I cannot understand it." 
 
 " Oh, it's simple enough," said I, laughing a little, 
 nervously. " He holds my father as a hostage, as a bond 
 and guarantee for my good behavior. Whether my 
 father has done anything or not, I don't know. But the 
 Prince warns me that if I leave him, he wiU cause my 
 father to be arrested and transported to Siberia. He has 
 my father watched constantly, so that he may not, at a 
 possible hint from me, quit the country. He gave us a 
 proof of his power and influence in Eussia, when he pro- 
 cured my father's pardon. I don't dare to move. He 
 would be sure to make good his threat." 
 
 " But — but he ? What is his motive in all this ? I 
 should think, by this time, he too would desire a separa- 
 tion. Does he enjoy it ? Is domestic infelicity like nec- 
 tar in his cup ? " ^ 
 
 " Oh, don't ask me. I can't undertake to explain 
 Prince Leonticheff. Or, rather, I dare say, the explana- 
 tion is simply this : he regards me as a piece of property 
 which he has bought and paid for, and he doesn't intend 
 to let any of his property slip between his fingers. Then, 
 I suspect, he finds it convenient to have a scapegoat con- 
 stantly at hand, some one upon whom he can vent his 
 spleen when the world is out of tune for him. Further- 
 more, is it not said that revenge is sweet ? He feels that 
 he has a grievance against me, in that I don't adore him, 
 and he likes to keep me within reach, so that, by daily 
 little applications of the torture, he may avenge himself." 
 
 " It is terrible, terrible," said Armidis ; " but the most 
 terrible thing of aU is the tone in which you speak of it." 
 
266 MEA CULPA. 
 
 "Oh," I cried, "it is a horrid, dark, sickening coil. 
 Don't pry into it." ■ 
 
 "Ah, that is better. Speak seriously and feehngly 
 about it. Tour cynicism made my flesh creep. Then it 
 is a condition of things that can only end with the death 
 of one of you. I believe I should do you a kindness if I 
 killed you." 
 
 " Thank you. I should very much prefer it if you 
 would kill him." 
 
 " Oh, don't, don't, Monica," he groaned. " There are 
 things which, in a case like this, you shouldn't say even 
 to me, you shouldn't say even in jest. Besides, I don't 
 like to feel that you can jest about it, no matter how bit- 
 terly. It seems somehow sacrilegious. It is too grimly, 
 awfully serious." 
 
 " Yes, it's pretty serious," I admitted. " I don't mean 
 to jest about it. But if I speak about it too seriously I 
 shall go into hysterics, or something. Oh, you can never 
 know how miserable I am, or how I hate him." 
 
 After a long pause, Armidis said, " I told you that Ju- 
 lian North is in London — that he has a studio in Chelsea." 
 
 " Yes ..." I responded. 
 
 My temples began to throb, and something caught ia 
 my throat, and made it tingle. He had come back to the 
 subject that had not left my mind since he had first intro- 
 duced it, which I longed to hear him speak of, and yet 
 which I could not help dreading and shrinking from, as I 
 would dread and shrink from the touch of a knife. 
 
 " And you do not ask me a single question about him ! " 
 cried Armidis. " I shoidd think you would be interested 
 to hear my news of him. If only for old sake's sake ! 
 Or is your indifference merely feigned ? Hypocrite ! " 
 
 " What do you wish me to ask ? I questioned. 
 
 My voice sounded faint and thin to me, and my heart 
 trembled so ! 
 
ABMIDI8. 257 
 
 " Well, for instance, you might ask how he is getting 
 on." 
 
 " Well, tell me then, how is he getting on ? " . . . 
 Oh, such a strange, painful, sinking feeling within me ! 
 
 " He is getting on famously. He is becoming the 
 fashion. He has been here less than a year, and already 
 he is distinctly a success. Portraits, you know ; por- 
 traits of the aristocracy. He's immensely clever ; he has 
 improved wonderfully in his technique." 
 
 " I am delighted to hear it. Of course I knew he was 
 bound to succeed sooner or later. Do you . . ." My 
 voice failed me ; I had to pause and recover it. . . . 
 " Do you see much of him ? " 
 
 " Oh, a little, a little, some thirty-six hours in every 
 twenty-four. That is to say, he has adopted me. We 
 share a house together. A house, if you please, no mere 
 beggarly bachelor chambers. Oh, we're domesticity in- 
 carnate. We have a cook and a maid-servant and a man- 
 servant, and we're extremely smart. I wear his old 
 clothes, and he profits by my experience, if you'll admit 
 that to be possible for the nonce. We have a monstrous 
 fine studio, wherein he paints by day, and I compose by 
 night : a sort of aesthetic Box and Cox arrangement. We 
 give the nicest little afternoon teas every Wednesday, and 
 if you're very good, perhaps I will procure you a card. 
 Miss Wynn comes. We live in Church Street, and just 
 around the corner from us is the home of that gentleman 
 whom Julian designates as the greatest painter of all time, 
 and with whose acquaintance we are honored. Environ- 
 ment! It is everything. We paint, and compose, and 
 sing our songs, and exhibit our pictures, and are alto- 
 gether to be envied. Just at present, as I told you, my 
 painter is out of town, and I'm disconsolate. He's a 
 most aquatic beast, amphibious, and he's fled to the south 
 coast for a watery week or two. Have you been to the 
 17 
 
258 MEA CULPA. 
 
 Academy yet? The Grosvenor? You must go. We 
 have a lot of portraits. One of myself that's just too 
 pretty for anything. And what a crowd we had Show- 
 Sunday ! Celebrities ! Nobilities ! Everything short 
 of Royalties, and they'U have to come to us in time, or 
 the throne will lose its prestige. Oh, he's a good lad, 
 is Julian ; but not so young as when you knew. him. Let 
 me see ... I fancy he's about one-and-thirty, and 
 old for his age. You see, he has suffered a good deal — 
 Mstoire de/emme. And you will be twenty-nine? Not 
 so?" 
 
 "Yes, twenty-nine." 
 
 "Your indifference puzzled me and troubled me at first, 
 Monica, but now I've come to like it. I like it because 
 it's so transparent. At first it struck me as ojiaque, and 
 I hate indifference when it is opaque ; but now I can see 
 through it like a glass. I perceive a hundred questions 
 trembling unspoken on your lips ; that's right ; let them 
 remain tacit. I will answer them. First, then, yes, I 
 mean it, he has suffered a good deal, on account of a cer- 
 tain woman. But we'll leave that for the moment, to 
 return to it later. Secondly, no, we don't talk of that 
 woman very often. When we fii'st met, now some eleven 
 months ago, we talked of nothing else for a while : until, 
 that is, he thought he had pumped from me aU the infor- 
 mation concerning her that I would yield. Then, little 
 by little, we dropped the subject. We found it, if you 
 must know, too painful. It interfered with oui- work, it 
 destroyed our repose of mind. No, I have never told 
 him that her husband was a brute, whom they had com- 
 pelled her to marry against her will ; I regarded my knowl- 
 edge of that fact as in a sense privileged and confidential. 
 Whatever he knows of the quality and savor of her 
 Prince, he has gathered from other lips than mine. Yes, 
 it is very rarely nowadays that we mention her. Poor 
 
ABMIDIS. 259 
 
 youth, lie has never been able to forget, and it's always 
 therefore a sore subject with him. Has he explained his 
 silence to me, that criminal silence, which was, when all 
 is said, the cause of the evil that followed? To be sure 
 he has ; and it was just as I had supposed. He was per- 
 mitted to write to the lady in question once a month, and 
 then only such cool conventional letters as her father 
 might with propriety look over. Well, one day, when 
 the time for writing his monthly letter had come round, 
 he found himself in. the deepest depths of melancholy and 
 discouragement. Everything had gone wrong with him ; 
 he had no money ; he had pawned his last pawnable pos- 
 session ; what was worse, he could not work, and he be- 
 lieved that he had lost his talent ; he believed that his 
 hand had forgot her cunning. He was lonesome, he was 
 in despair, and he was hungry. Then he thought, 'What 
 is the use of my writing to her ? It's a hopeless case. It 
 never can come to anything. I, who haven't the price of 
 a dinner in my pocket, what right have I to keep her re- 
 minded of me ? If I have any sentiment of honor in my 
 heart, I must help her to forget me. I must efface myself. 
 I must not write to her any more.' ... Of course 
 he was insane : one of those periodic attacks of dementia 
 to which all artists are subject. Insane, or worse ; I plead 
 • insanity, because, if he was in his sound mind, then there's 
 no excuse for him. Well, he remained insane for some 
 time, some weeks or months. Meanwhile, two or three 
 letters had come to him from her ; and he — the young 
 maniac ! — what do you suppose he had done with them ? 
 He had burned them, without opening them ! He said 
 he felt that under the circumstances, and in view of the 
 resolution he had taken, he had no right to read them ! 
 Quixote ! • Then, with the lapse of time, he recovered his 
 wits, his insanity slipped from him like a foul garment, he 
 was himself again, and — he realized what he had done ; 
 
260 MEA CULPA. 
 
 \ 
 he realized what an idiot he had been, and what a knave ; 
 
 and overcome by remorse of his conduct, and by terror of 
 its possible consequences, he sat down and began to 
 write her a letter, explaining his silence, and craving her 
 forgiveness. He had written perhaps half a dozen lines, 
 when he was interrupted by the arrival of the postman, 
 the letter-carrier. This functionary handed him a note, a 
 short, poUte little note, from a certain Paul Mikhaelovitch 
 Banakin. . . . ' It is my wish, and it is the wish of 
 my daughter,' said Banakin, 'ihat all further relations 
 between you and her, and all correspondence, should 
 cease ! ' This note, curiously enough, was dated in Jmie, 
 1885, — just about the time when the huge figure of a 
 certain Russian Prince first loomed up on our horizon in 
 Paris ! Clever father ! Well, so Julian said to himseK, 
 'That ends it;' and he never finished his letter; and. 
 the worst befell. . . . All this while, if you please, he 
 was having the devil's own struggle of it for a living. He 
 was grubbing along within a hair's breadth of downright 
 starvation, and that sort of thing. But by and by he sold 
 a picture ; and then another. Orders for portraits began 
 to come in. All at once, to cut a long story short, he 
 woke up to the fact that he had a comfortable sum of 
 money in his pocket, and was by way of earning a decent 
 income. Then, suddenly, in his bosom Hope revived. 
 He thought to himself, ' Perhaps she is still there. Per- 
 haps she still remembers me. Perhaps, now that I am 
 no longer a pauper, her father will be willing to consider 
 me.' Whereupon he shut up his studio, packed his port- 
 manteau, and sailed for Liverpool. And from Liverpool 
 he hastened to London. And the first man he met in the 
 streets of London was no other than poor old Armidis, the 
 composer. And he told Armidis that he was on his way to 
 Paris, to look up the Banakins, and to sue once more for the 
 hand of Monica Paulovna. And Armidis laughed in his 
 
ABMIDIS. 261 
 
 face, and made answer, ' Oh, simple youth ! 'Tis now five 
 years or thereabouts, since she has seen you ; and do you 
 imagine for one instant that she has remained constant ? 
 Little do you know of the heart of woman. Go to ! 
 She wouldn't look at the likes of you. She has become 
 a pillar of the high church of the World, the bride 
 of a Prince, the pearl of the superior noblesse of Eus- 
 sia ! '. . . With which he and Armidis put their 
 heads together, and took a house in Chelsea, a house 
 with a garden and a studio. And Julian settled down in 
 a dogged, desperate way to work, and all at once he 
 found himseK the fashion. Perhaps Armidis procured 
 him his first few orders, but after that the intrinsic ex- 
 cellence of his work carried him along. Would Madame 
 la Princesse like to have her portrait painted ? In the 
 best style, and at moderate cost ? We should be proud 
 to receive her commands." 
 
 " Oh, talk of something else . . . please," I cried. 
 
 I could not bear it any longer, this talk of Julian. It 
 touched too deep, too sensitive a spot. It held me spell- 
 bound, but the joy it gave me was too keen, so keen that 
 it hurt and exhausted me. I cried out to him to talk of 
 something else, though there was no other subject in the 
 world which, at that moment, had the least interest for 
 me. 
 
 " Of something else ? " he queried. " Of what ? " 
 
 " Oh, anything. Of yourself. Tell me what you have 
 been doing lately. I read somewhere that you had writ- 
 ten an opera. Is it so ? " 
 
 " Oh, how kind and condescending of you ! To inter- 
 est yourself in my poor affairs ! . . . Yes, I believe I 
 have written an opera. At least I've seen statements to 
 that effect in the newspapers." 
 
 " What is its subject ? What is its title ? " 
 
 " Oh, I forget. I'll look it up when I go home, and let 
 
262 MEA CULPA. 
 
 you know, if you're really curious. But if we must talk 
 of something else, let's talk of dimier. The more I con- 
 sider it, the less disposed I find myself to dine with you 
 here. Really, in all seriousness, I shall have no appetite 
 for my food, and what I eat would stick in my throat, it 
 Prince L^onticheff pays for it. Come ! I have a scheme. 
 A lark ! If you want to be very kiud to me, and show 
 that you're not proud or anything, you will come and 
 dine with me. It will be like old times. Don't you re- 
 member ? We will make believe we are a boy and girl 
 again. What say you ? " 
 
 "Where? Where do you want to go? " 
 
 " Where ? Why, to our house, of course. There's a 
 dinner all prepared awaiting me there ; and I assure you 
 oui- cook is not to be despised. We shall be quite alone. 
 Julian is a hundred miles away. Just our two dear Uttle 
 selves. There ! Be nice, and say that you will come." 
 
 " Oh, no. I thought you meant a restaurant. I can't 
 go to your house. I mustn't." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you can, you must. What harm? I am so 
 old, you know, and a friend of your infancy, besides. It 
 will be like a resurrection of dead days. Ah, don't be 
 sUly and conventional and cruel ! You can't deny me 
 this one little request. There's no earthly chance of 
 anything happening that you wouldn't like. I tell you 
 he's a himdred miles away. And think of the pleasure it 
 would give me. And you, yourseH, wouldn't you enjoy it 
 a little ? I want to show you our studio, our garden." 
 
 " Oh, I should enjoy it very much. But I feel that I 
 oughtn't. The idea frightens me." 
 
 "There! If you would enjoy it, I'll hear no more. 
 On with your hat and off with us." 
 
 The temptation was strong, and I was weak. We 
 walked out together, and took a hansom, and were driven 
 to Church Street, Chelsea. 
 
III. 
 
 DuEiNG the first half of our drive we chatted together 
 merrily and vivaciously about such impersonal topics as the 
 moment and the event suggested ; but after we had turned 
 from !^ightsbridge into Sloane Street our tongues began 
 to lag, and by the time we had left Sloane Square be- 
 hind us, and entered the King's Road, our talk had quite 
 died out. We went on from thence to the end in that 
 sort of nervous silence which falls upon people who feel 
 themselves to be approaching an unusual and critical sit- 
 uation. 
 
 Probably we were each absorbed by our respective 
 thoughts, conjectures, and misgivings. For me as I re- 
 alized that we were drawing near to our destination, my 
 courage began to ooze away, giving place to a sensation 
 very like terror, and my hands and arms grew cold up to 
 my elbows. When at last the cab came to a stand-still, 
 and Armidis, having alighted, turned to help me to do 
 likewise, I felt so faint and frightened that I shrank back, 
 saying, " No, I can't, I can't." 
 
 He looked at me, and imderstood. 
 
 "Allans, pas de faiblesse! " he urged, and offered me 
 his hand. 
 
 "No. I ought not to have come. And now I can't go 
 in. Take me back home." 
 
 " Oh, really now, I can't have that, you know," he 
 grieved. 
 
 And getting hold of my hand, he pulled at it, very 
 gently, but with such persuasiveness and such determina- 
 
264 MEA CULPA. 
 
 tion, that presently I foimd myself standing on the pave- 
 ment beside him. 
 
 "We are pale," he laughed; "but our pallor is ia- 
 terestiug and becoming, and it sets off admirably our big 
 dark eyes. Our lair is not very terrible, and I promise 
 you safe-conduct. But first, please examine and appreciate 
 our exterior." 
 
 It was a one-storied house, built in the style of 
 Southern Europe, covered with yellow stucco, and roofed 
 with red tiles ; and its fa§ade was pierced by only one 
 window, a small grated window, high up above the door, 
 so that the effect was rather oriental. 
 
 " It was built by a South American," Armidis explained. 
 " It's hon-ibly out of place in London, but I like it aU the 
 same. It encloses three sides of a court, and all our wiu- 
 dows look into that. In the middle of the court there is 
 a fountain, and beyond, the garden. Come in." 
 
 He opened the door with a latch-key, and led me 
 through a short passage into a great room lighted by a 
 big north window, furnished and decorated as a studio, 
 and smelling strongly of paints. I felt like one in a 
 trance, or half unconscious. I sank upon the first chair I 
 came to, and closed my eyes. My heart was beating so 
 hard I could scarcely breathe. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, don't tell me you are going to 
 faint," he cried piteously. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, I'm all right," I answered, making an 
 effort to possess myseH. " A little tired, that's aU." 
 
 " I'm sorry," he went on, " our shop is almost empty. 
 Most of OTU" stock has gone to the exhibitions : the Salon, 
 you know, the Academy — yes, we condescend to the Acad- 
 emy; it's only fair that they should have a few good 
 things, if but to teach the public how bad the others are 
 — the Grosvenor, the New. StiU I can show you one or 
 two little trifles that may interest you, and the portrait we 
 
ABMIDI8. 265 
 
 are at work on now — a portrait of Lady Emily Chaldieott. 
 A duke's daughter ! Oh, I told you we were smart ; and 
 if you favor us with an order, you will be in your proper 
 element — among your own kind. Princess ! . . . 
 Besides, there's always the room itself, for you to look 
 at. It's been a good deal admired. Take my arm, and let 
 me personally conduct you." 
 
 I took his arm, and walked about the room with him, 
 looking at the canvases he pointed out, and listening to 
 his running commentaries on them. But I could not in- 
 terest myself in these things at that time. One thought, 
 that seemed to include all others, filled my brain : " This 
 is his room. I am in his room. The room he works in. 
 This is his room, his room, hi^ room." It was almost as 
 if I were in contact with a part of himself ; in communion 
 with him ; with him who had so long ago died out of my 
 life, after filling it, and now again suddenly was revisiting 
 it, like a ghost. My emotions were too many and too tur- 
 bulent to leave me any mind wherewith to appreciate his 
 pictures. 
 
 " Well, I must say," cried Armidis, at last, in impa- 
 tience, " you are hard to move. Unsatisfactory ! Not a 
 word of praise. Come, you are unworthy of your privi- 
 lege. We will go into the garden." 
 
 A door from the studio led into the court. 
 
 "Here is our fountain," said Armidis. "Perhaps you 
 will admire that." 
 
 " I admire everything," I assured him. " Only I don't 
 gush. Yes, the fountain is very pretty." 
 
 " Our South- American was a sculptor, who had a lot 
 of money and some real talent, and one day blew his 
 brains out. This fountain is his own work. Venus ris- 
 ing from the Sea. The tritest of themes, but not badly 
 done. Stay. I will turn the water on." 
 
 He turned the water on, and we stopped a moment to 
 
266 MEA CULPA. 
 
 watch the fountain play. Then we went from the court 
 into the garden. 
 
 " I hate to keep vaunting my merchandise," he said, 
 " but I must impress upon you that this is a charming 
 garden. The greensward, eh ? And the old red walls, 
 covered with ivy, eh ? And the beds of geranium ! And 
 the rose-bushes ! And the struggling fig-trees ! And 
 our jolly old oak, which was growing here when our 
 grandfathers were children ! Isn't it nice, now ? Let us 
 sit down yonder, on that bench." 
 
 We sat down on the bench. 
 
 " This is the best hour for it, too," he said ; " with the 
 sunset colors in the sky. Do you see ? We are screened 
 from all inquisitive eyes. Nothing is visible of our neigh- 
 bors but their house-tops. I feel that I must smoke a 
 cigarette." 
 
 Having lighted his cigarette, he began again. . . . 
 " Do you know, Monica, you upset all my theories, all 
 my little pet notions and hypotheses. Most imkind of 
 
 you." 
 
 " What are they, the theories that I upset ? " 
 " First tell me this, what is joxir mling passion " 
 "My ruling passion? Oh, that's a hard question. I 
 don't think I have one. If I have, I don't know what it 
 is.'' 
 
 " Well, I mean, what is the most frequent, the most con- 
 stant, of your emotions ? What is the feeling most often 
 in your heart ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " I exclaimed. 
 " Well ? " he questioned. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I'm afraid no very good one." 
 " Is it not — let us be frank — is it not a feeling of bitter- 
 ness ? A feeling of rancor in thinking of your spoiled 
 life, and of hatred for the man who has spoiled it? " 
 " Oh, I don't know. Perhaps so. Why ? " 
 
ABMIDI8. 267 
 
 " Because I have always entertained an innocent little 
 theory to the effect that one's ruling passion, one's most 
 frequent emotion, must have a direct influence upon one's 
 physical character and personal appearance. I have 
 thought that if one's ruhng passion were good and sweet, 
 it would necessarily end by beautifying one ; and contra- 
 riwise, if it were bad and bitter, one would grow ugly to 
 the eye." 
 
 " Ah, I see. And you find that I have grown ugly to 
 the eye ! " 
 
 " No, no, no, tutt' altro ! That is just the point. I 
 said that you upset vaj theories, not that you confirmed 
 them. I find that you have grown wonderfully, terribly 
 beautiful ; and that is what puzzles me. You were a 
 sufficiently pretty girl, my dear ; you had eyes, you had 
 hair, you had a skin. But you were too thin, you looked 
 as though, if a man blew on you, you'd evaporate. Now 
 you've rounded out ; and the character of your beauty 
 has deepened and mellowed. Your eyes were always 
 strange and attractive ; now they're . . . ! You're still 
 pale, but your pallor is warm, where of old time it was 
 cold. And your hair is darker than it was, and more 
 becoming. Altogether you've improved. I hope for his 
 own sake poor Julian will not see you. And all this im- 
 provement has taken place in spite of a passion, an emo- 
 tion, that is evil, dominating your heart. I don't know 
 what to make of it." 
 
 " I am afraid your eyes are becoming dim. I can see 
 in my glass that I am growing hard-looking, tired-looking, 
 just as in truth I am growing hard and tired in spirit. I 
 am happy to-day ; perhaps that has refreshed and soft- 
 ened me a little. But I know that ordinarily I look hard 
 and cold and tired. I can see it myself, and I have heard 
 other people say so." 
 
 " I suppose a great many men have fallen in love 
 
268 MEA CULPA. 
 
 with you ? I confess at once that I should do so if I 
 were thirty years younger than I am." 
 
 " On the contrary, so far from many, not any men have 
 fallen in love with me." 
 
 " You can never make me believe that." 
 
 " Nevertheless, it is the fact." 
 
 " Impossible. That they have never declared their 
 passions I can well believe. You have a forbidding man- 
 ner. But that does not prove that they haven't /eZ<." 
 
 "Oh, for the declaring, yes! At one time it was a 
 favorite amusement of my husband's to set his creatures 
 on to declare love to me, and to persecute me with their 
 addresses. It wearied me, it disgusted me, but I couldn't 
 take it very tragically, it was so absurdly despicable ; so 
 in the end he tired of it. Those are the only adventures 
 of the sort that I have had."- 
 
 " I told you he was a beast before you married him," 
 said Armidis. 
 
 " Yes, but I was a fool, and I didn't believe you." 
 
 " If I were you, I wouldn't live with him another day. 
 I don't believe for a moment that he'd molest your father." 
 
 " The mere possibility that he might, is enough." 
 
 " How old is your father ? " 
 
 "Oh, don't, don't!" I cried. "Enough evil thoughts 
 visit my mind, as it is. That is the one that I have tried 
 and tried never to allow to enter it." 
 
 " Yet it is a question of some one's death." 
 
 "Yes, Prince Leonticheff's, or mine. No one else's." 
 
 " Prince Leonticheff is a very robust person." 
 
 " Yes, I know that. But robust people die. I wish he 
 was dead from the bottom of my soul. Now do you be- 
 lieve I am hard ? I would not go so far as to hire a man 
 to kill him ; but if a man would kiU him without consult- 
 ing me, I would give him my whole inheritance by way of 
 reward. Now do you believe I am hard? " 
 
ABMIDI8. 269 
 
 " You say things that you don't really mean. Oh, yes, 
 you think you mean them. Superficially you mean them ; 
 your meaning is skin-deep. Down at the bottom, though, 
 you mean nothing of the kind. If Prince Leontichefif 
 should die, you would be inexpressibly shocked and 
 grieved. For death is always a shocking thing, and the 
 death of a brute beast like him is trebly so. Eventually, 
 however, you woidd be happy. If he died a natural death, 
 you would eventually be the gainer by it. But if he died 
 by your connivance — never ! You would only change the 
 form of your misery. You would exchange what you suf- 
 fer now for something worse — remorse. What you ought 
 to do is plain. Leave him. Leave him, and let him ex- 
 act the penalty from your father if he will. I don't know 
 why your father shouldn't pay, as weU as you. You would 
 have all public sympathy and opinion on your side. In the 
 ■face of that, he wouldn't dare to molest your father.'' 
 
 "He could cause my father to be hanged to-morrow 
 without letting his own name once appear. No, I cannot 
 leave him. Some day I shall probably take poison. I If 
 weren't such a coward ! But some day I shall have the 
 courage of despair, and then it will end." 
 
 " I think we had better change the subject," said 
 Armidis. " It is getting dark and chilly. Suppose we 
 go into the house and have our dinner." 
 
 After dinner, he said, " You asked me what I had been 
 doing lately. Just these last few days I have been writ- 
 ing a little melody for that old French brunette — Encore 
 queje sois jeunette. I will sing it for you." 
 
 I played the accompaniment, reading from his manu- 
 script, and he sang his song. 
 
 "Isn't it like old times? " he demanded. "Dear me ! 
 It makes me feel young again." 
 
 " It is delightfully and painfully like old times," I con- 
 fessed. 
 
270 MEA CULPA. 
 
 " Now," said he, " I want to do that brunette into 
 English verse of the same measure, so that it can be sung 
 to my tune. You are an old translatress. Will you help 
 me?" 
 
 And then I spent a perfectly happy evening, helping 
 him do the bnmette into English verse. "When at last 
 we had finished one stanza to our satisfaction, it was so 
 late that I had to go home. He accompanied me, as we 
 had come, in a hansom. 
 
 " Though I'm scarce a woman grown, 
 
 I have still my tme-love sweet ; 
 He is mine, he is my own ; 
 
 And to-night we two shall meet. . . 
 Yet when I hear his footfall near 
 All my heart is thrilled with fear. . . 
 
 Yes, it will do very fairly, very fairly," he said. " But 
 when wiU you come again ? When can we resume our 
 labors ? Jtilian •will not return for a good week yet." 
 
 " Oh, I will come whenever you like," I answered. " I 
 have enjoyed it so much." 
 
 " Will you come to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I have a lot of engagements for to-morrow ; but I will 
 break them all, and come." 
 
 " You are an angel. I wiU call for you, and fetch you. 
 About five o'clock. I am so glad to see that you have not 
 grown proud. Princess ! " 
 
 " If you call me that, if you remind me of that, I will 
 not come, after aU." 
 
 "Oh, forgive me. It was an ill-timed jest. Good- 
 night." 
 
IV. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed Armidis, as we entered the studio ia 
 Chelsea the next afternoon, " a letter ! A letter on the 
 mantel ! " 
 
 He picked the letter up, and held it out at arm's length, 
 so that we could both see its superscription. It was in 
 Julian's handwriting. 
 
 " We will open it and read it together," he said ; and 
 tore off the envelope. 
 
 Then we sat down side by side upon a sofa, and read 
 the letter. It was dated that same morning, from Greal, 
 Sussex, and it ran as follows . . . 
 
 'Deae a. : 
 
 " I have had an extremely odd adventure, one of those 
 that look like ironical pre-arrangements on the part of 
 Fate, but are in reality, I suppose, only accidental coinci- 
 dences. You will see some report of it, no doubt, in this 
 evening's papers ; but the news-gatherers are ignorant of 
 that which gives it point. 
 
 "Yesterday afternoon a brisk southwest wind sprang 
 up in this quarter of the world, which rapidly strength- 
 ened into half a gale, so that the waters became white 
 with trouble as far as eye could see, and what sails there 
 were about began to put in for shelter. Presently ar- 
 rived one of the village fishing-boats ; and the skipper 
 announced that he had passed a man clinging to the beU- 
 buoy that floats some three miles out in the Channel. 
 He had tried, he said, to approach near enough to take 
 
2Y2 MEA CULPA 
 
 the poor devil off, but the sea was running so high, and 
 the buoy was pitching about in such unruly fashion, that 
 that had proved impossible. He had not even been able 
 to get within speaking distance, and find out who the fel- 
 low was', or how he came in fcuch a sorry plight. So, the 
 conclusion was, there hung the man at the present mo- 
 ment, unless he had already lost his hold, very like to 
 drown. 
 
 " The affair interested me a good deal ; and after some 
 enquiring about, and a lot of parleying and haggling, I 
 finally hired a steam tug to take me out. It was roughish, 
 there's no denying that. But we managed easily enough 
 to come up within a few hundred feet of the buoy, and 
 there surely enough was the man. The tug's captain re- 
 fused to go any nearer — for which, however, he could 
 not be blamed, because it really would have been danger- 
 ous. But we contrived vrith some labor to launch a smaU 
 boat, and a couple of stout men rowed me up to within 
 shouting distance of the buoy. 
 
 " It was pitching about unmercifully, and we were 
 doing likewise. We would go up, and the buoy would go 
 down ; then we would go down and the buoy would go 
 up ; and it was like a wet game of see-saw, to which the 
 deafening clang-clang of the bell kept time. Well, I had 
 a rope, with a noose at its end, like a halter or a lariat ; 
 and I yelled out to the castaway to catch it, and gave it a 
 fling. But he didn't budge. He simply lifted up his 
 voice, and remarked that if I wanted to get him off that 
 buoy I must come and take him, because he explained, 
 he was so giddy and so exhausted that he didn't dare to 
 let go even with one hand long enough to grab the rope. 
 Thereat we engaged in a little argument, which was tire- 
 some, seeing that the bell drowned more than half we 
 said, and anyhow, I saw that he was bound to get the 
 best of it, and that there was nothing for it, but I must 
 
ABMIDI8. 273 
 
 take a bath. Which I did. I hung on to the rope with 
 my teeth, and I swam out to the buoy, and finally man- 
 aged to fasten my noose about the man's waist ; and then 
 I called out to the boatmen to haul the rope in, and they 
 hauled, and by and by, to cut a long story short, we were 
 aU safe and sound again on board the tug, and steaming 
 back to Greal. 
 
 " Well, my gentleman was really pretty badly used up ; 
 and at first his observations were few and not especially 
 luminous. But some warm clothes, and a nip of spirits, 
 went a long way toward reviving him ; and presently his 
 tongue got loosened, and then he proved to my satisfac- 
 tion that he had a supreme talent for wagging it. He 
 talked ten thousand words an hour for the next three 
 hours. 
 
 " He said he had been out in a small pleasure boat, 
 and a squall had struck him from behind, and capsized 
 him ; and he had managed to reach that buoy, and there 
 he had been hanging between sea and sky for a matter of 
 six hours. He seemed to be an effusive as well as a 
 loquacious sort of creature, and quite overwhelmed me 
 with expressions of his gratitude. ' There's one thing I 
 can assure you of, my friend,' he said, ' and that is that 
 you won't repent it. I don't know who you are, or what 
 your station in life may be ; but I can just tell you this, 
 that, whoever and whatever you are, I'm not the man to 
 forget a favor, and my position is such as to enable me 
 to reward you royally. You may reasonably count this 
 as the most profitable day's business you have ever trans- 
 acted in the course of your life.' . 
 
 " From which, dear chum, I concluded that I had res- 
 cued either a lord or a lunatic. 
 
 " ' I see, you don't recognize me,' he went on, ' but then 
 I gather from your accent that you're an American, so 
 that's not to be wondered at. Well, when I tell you who 
 18 
 
274 MEA CULPA. 
 
 I am, you will begin to realize what a monstrous stroke 
 of good luck has befallen you.' 
 
 "Well, now, Axmidis, guess a little who he was. No, 
 none of the Royal Highnesses ; no, not Mr. Gladstone, 
 or Lord Salisbury, or Pamell ; no, nor yet a maniac es- 
 caped from an asylum. . . . 
 
 " He was, he is — the Prince Leonticheff ! . . . Her 
 husband ! 
 
 " Oh, how I should like to be on the spot, to see you 
 jump around, and hear you howl, when this intelligence 
 reaches you ! That I, I, I should have been instrumental 
 in prolonging the life of her husband ! Surely, Destiny 
 went out of her way to be ironical. As you see, I laugh 
 about it ; but I suspect it is the laughter of nervousness ; 
 down deep it makes me feel cold. It seems somehow 
 full of an uncanny significance, which I cannot under- 
 stand. 
 
 " But tell me this one thing, you who know : will she 
 be glad or sorry ? He is apparently a most eccentric per- 
 son, \vith a monumental opinion of himseK, and divers 
 other peculiarities equally grotesque. He tells me, for 
 instance, that he has written the greatest novel in the 
 English language! But I should judge him, notwith- 
 standing, to be entirely weU-meaning and good-natured ; 
 and probably she is fond of him, and will be glad. Any- 
 how, I hope so — for her sake. 
 
 " But suppose she is unhappy with him? 
 
 " You have told me so little about the circumstances 
 of her marriage, and the character of her husband ; yet 
 somehow I have gathered the impression that it was a 
 marriage rather forced upon her, and that he was not a 
 man to make her happy. I may have mistaken your in- 
 tention, but I have certainly surmised — more from your 
 very silence, your very reticence, perhaps, than from any- 
 thing you have said — that it was forced upon her against 
 
ABMIDIS. 275 
 
 her will, and that Leonticheff was not an angel. Then I 
 have heard stories about him, remarks, and little anec- 
 dotes, elsewhere ; and altogether I have got a notion that 
 . . . well, you understand. Now if this is so ? If 
 she is unhappy with him, and was at the point of being 
 delivered from him ? And then I, I of all men, stepped 
 in to interfere ! That would be too much. 
 
 " I say he seems a good-natured person, and so he does ; 
 but he is not beautiful, he is uot dainty or delicate ; and 
 when I look at him, at his fat red face, his double-chin, 
 his slouching burly iigure, and then realize what his rela- 
 tion is to her — well to tell you the truth, my gorge rises, 
 and I cannot believe she cares for him. She, the most 
 sensitive and high-souled woman that was ever bom ! I 
 cannot believe that she cares for these fifteen stone of 
 flesh. I cannot help thinking that life with him must be 
 a perpetual squirm and shudder for her. But very likely 
 I am allowing my imagination to run riot; very likely 
 my wish is the father of my thought. 
 
 "You see, the whole affair has excited me rather. 
 
 "One thiag is odd— he does not know who I am, 
 though I have told him my name, and that lam a painter. > 
 Do you mean to say he has never heard of me ? . . . 
 Had I become already a thing forgotten and never men- 
 tioned, when he arrived in Paris, only a year or so after 
 my departure ? But never mind. I can't talk it over on 
 paper. There are so many things I want to ask, I should 
 have to write a volume. When I see you — ^which, D.V., 
 will be to-morrow — ^you must prepare yourself for a cross- 
 examination. After what has happened, I feel that I am 
 entitled, that I have acquired a sort of right, to ask you 
 to break your silence concerning her husband and her 
 marriage. 
 
 "I come to town to-morrow in his company. He 
 swears he will make my fortune for me. I may count him 
 
276 MEA CULPA. 
 
 from this time forward as my certain friend and ally, lie 
 says. Isn't it funny? But the fun is surely of a ghastly 
 sardonic kind. He wants me to come and stay at his 
 house in town. I have had the greatest difficulty in beg- 
 ging off. I am engaged forthwith to paint his portrait and 
 his wife's ! I can't very well tell him that once upon a 
 time I was her favored suitor, can I? 
 
 "Oh, Armidis, it has somehow all gone straight to my 
 sore place. You see how incoherent it has rendered me. 
 I have to laugh a little at it, lest I should do something 
 mad. But I should like to go to sleep to-night and never 
 wake. What is the use — to live with death in the soul? 
 " I don't know but I have forgotten to tell you that she 
 is in town. I am, according to Leonticheff, to be pre- 
 sented to her as soon as I return — to-morrow even. "What 
 had I better do ? I don't see how I can get out of it. 
 Perhaps I had best turn tail and fly to the Continent ? 
 And yet this chance of seeiug her, of speaking with her, 
 of hearing her speak, of drinliing in her beauty for a mo- 
 ment, of feeling myself m her presence, and breathing the 
 same air that she breathes — oh, I cannot let it pass ! It 
 would be like bread to a starving man. Just to let my 
 eyes rest with hers for one minute ! It would renew my 
 life, and give me strength to go on with. What harm 
 could possibly come of it ? And yet, I dread it, I dread 
 it. For if she cares for him, and thanks me in good 
 earnest, her thanks will scald me. And if she hates him, 
 she will want to curse me, and I will curse myself. This 
 much I will say to you in a whisper : if I had known be- 
 forehand who the man was, I am afraid I never should 
 have hired that tug. That's beastly, I know ; but I can't 
 help it. 
 
 " Au revoir tiU to-morrow. — J. N." 
 
PAET YI. 
 
 DE8PEBATE APPLIANCE. 
 
"And now," concluded Prince Leonticheflf — it was the 
 afternoon of the next day, and he had just given me his 
 version of the affair: a version eloquent of praise and 
 gratitude for his deliverer — " and now he is downstairs, in 
 the library, waiting to be presented to you. And I shall 
 expect you — whatever your private feelings may be, and 
 I dare say you wish he had been a thousand miles away at 
 the time — I shall expect you to receive him graciously, 
 and to thank him for saving your husband's life. I will 
 have no sulking on this occasion ; let that be understood. 
 I am going down to him now, and you will be good 
 enough to follow in the course of a few minutes." 
 
 " Yes," I responded, " I wiU come at once. But first 
 
 I felt so weak and nervous, my heart was fluttering so, 
 my thoughts were in such confusion, I had to pause and 
 close my eyes, and rest for a moment, before I could go 
 on. A sleepless night, a long day crowded with emotions, 
 had quite unstrung me ; and now that the actual hour had 
 come, and I knew that Julian in living person was waiting 
 to meet me twenty steps away, and that in another minute 
 or two I should be standing in his presence — now the 
 last atom of my strength seemed to slip from me, leav- 
 ing me so prostrated, so exhausted, that I could neither 
 move nor speak. I closed my eyes, and was silent for 
 a little. Then at last I gathered force enough to con- 
 tinue. " But first I think I ought to tell you that this 
 Mr. North ..." 
 
280 MEA CULPA. 
 
 I looked up to where Prince Leonticheff had been 
 standing. He was gone. I suppose he had left the 
 room at the end of his own speech, without waiting to 
 to hear my reply. . . . 
 
 By and by, with throbbing pulses, and tremulous 
 breath, I started to follow him. ... I descended the 
 staircase, and advanced toward the library — where JuUan 
 was waiting for me !— Julian was waiting for me ! Oh, 
 the joy, and the strange pain and fear ! How should I 
 greet him? How would he greet me ? What would pass 
 between us ? I did not know. I could not think. My 
 brain was whirling, all my faculties were as if frozen, my 
 very body seemed numb and dead. 
 
 A servant threw open the library door, I entered the 
 room. 
 
 But I could do no more than just cross the threshold. 
 There I had to stand still, and put out my hand, and 
 lean against a console for support : so faint and weak 
 that otherwise, I believe, I should have sunken to the 
 floor. 
 
 He was seated on a sofa, beneath one of the great 
 windows, opposite me. From the instant of the door's 
 opening I saw him there, I could see nothing else. But 
 to my dizzy senses, the distance between us seemed im- 
 measurable ; it was as if I looked at him across leagues 
 and leagues of space. 
 
 At my entrance I saw him rise, turning his face toward 
 me. It was white like chalk ; and his lips were coi.tracted 
 in an awful simulacrum of a smile. He fixed his eyes 
 upon me ; they glowed with an intense hungry fire that 
 seemed to bum me, so that, by a movement altogether 
 instinctive and spasmodic, I put up my hands, and 
 covered my breast, as if to protect it. 
 
 " This is Mr. North," the Prince began— the sound of 
 his voice startled me : I had forgotten that he was there 
 
DESPEBArE APPLIANCE. 2 SI 
 
 — " Mr. North, who yesterday, as I have told you, saved 
 my life at the very imminent peril of his own. Whoever 
 is my friend must be his equally. Whoever wishes for 
 my good- will must do him honor." 
 
 The room had grown dim and gray to my sight ; and a 
 chin and sickness had come upon me, Uke those that pre- 
 cede a fainting-fit. All I could see of Julian was a vague 
 black figure, unsubstantial and wavering, far, far in the 
 distance, and a patch of whiteness where his face had 
 been. The thought that I was going to faint, and so 
 make a scene, acted as a spur upon me, and gave me a 
 sort of desperate energy. I dare say it was with every 
 sign of self-possession that I answered the Prince, " We 
 did not need to be introduced, Mr. North and I. We 
 knew each other long ago in Paris. You have often 
 heard of him. Do you not remember ? " 
 
 " What ! " cried the Prince, looking amazement from 
 one to the other of us. . . . 
 
 So he stood for a moment, nonplussed. 
 
 "You mean to say . . . ?" he began at last ad- 
 dressing me. 
 
 He read his answer, I suppose, in my face. 
 
 " Well, I'U be hanged ! " he ejaculated, with a laugh. 
 Whereat he went up to Julian, and slapped him on the 
 shoulder, saying with all good nature, " Well, my boy, 
 here's a go. Hey ? So you — you're the young American 
 painter ! It's the strangest coincidence I ever heard of 
 in my life. And how mum you kept about it ! But I 
 say, look here, did you know who I was ? That is, that 
 I was her husband? " 
 
 " No. All I knew was that a man was cHnging to the 
 buoy," Julian answered. 
 
 It was the first time I had heard his voice since he had 
 bidden me good-by in Paris, six years ago. 
 
 "No, no, I mean after we were aboard the tug," ex- 
 
282 MEA CULPA. 
 
 plained the Prince. "After I had told you my name. 
 Did you know that I was the man she had married? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I knew that," Julian said. 
 
 " Well, it's aU right, anyhow," returned the Prince, com- 
 plaisantly. " It's all right, my boy. Don't let it disturb 
 you the least bit in the world. The past is past, and I'm 
 not jealous of it. There's nothing small about me, and I 
 shan't begrudge you — the man who saved my life — I 
 shan't begrudge you my wife's friendship, even if you 
 were, in days gone by, her lover. Sit down. We'll be 
 quite a little family party. . . . And I say," he in- 
 quired of me, " can't we have some tea ? " 
 
 I rang for a servant ; and he went on. . . . 
 
 " No, my friend, don't let it disturb you. If it was going 
 to disturb anybody, you say, it ought to disturb me ; but 
 it doesn't, not in the least. You see, I'm so confident of 
 the affections of my wife. I know aU about the little 
 fancy you and she had for each other years ago ; she's told 
 me all about it, and laughed over it with me. Oh, that 
 sort of thing happens to everyone at a certain age ; but it 
 doesn't count, it doesn't leave any mark. On the contrary, 
 it exercises the faculties, it paves the way for a really se- 
 rious passion. Monica loves me now with such whole- 
 souled devotion, I'd be a fool to let the past bother me. 
 I've always been an attractive man for women ; and she 
 fairly dotes on me ; she can't bear me out of her sight. 
 But it's a wonderful coincidence all the same, isn't it? 
 Ho-ho-ho ! " he laughed. 
 
 Julian turned away, and looked out of the window. I 
 wondered whether he believed what the Prince said. Or 
 did he understand that it was simply a he, manufactured 
 on the spot, for the purpose of hoodwinking him, reliev- 
 ing the Prince's embarrassment, and thrusting a thorn 
 into me ? Had he seen Armidis ? If so, he knew by this 
 time just what the relations were between my husband 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANGE. 283 
 
 and myself. But if he had not seen Armidis, what was 
 there to prevent him believing anything and everything 
 the Prince might say ? 
 
 The Prince was looking hard at me, smiling in enjoy- 
 ment of his advantage and my helplessness. 
 
 A servant came in with the tea. 
 
 " Now, my darling," the Priace said, " let us have our 
 tea. Come, North; tea, tea! Will you take yours with 
 cream and sugar, or with rum and a bit of lemon ? Better 
 try the rum and lemon. Are there any cigarettes here, 
 dearest ? " 
 
 The situation was unbearable. There was nothing I 
 could say, there was but one thing I could do, to relieve 
 it. I got up hastily, and made for the door, to leave the 
 room. 
 
 But the Prince stepped in front of me. . . . 
 
 "Where are you going, my love? To fetch some 
 cigarettes? Oh, don't trouble to do that. Send some 
 one. Come, you haven't spoken to your old friend yet, or 
 shaken hands with him." 
 
 He put his arm around my waist, and drew me back 
 into the room. 
 
 That was the last straw. ... At his touch, all my 
 hatred of him, all my scorn of him, all the rancorous ill- 
 feeling for him that smoldered in my heart, aU the angry 
 pain that he had been kindling there during this interview, 
 blazed up in an uncontrollable fire. At his touch . . . ! 
 Oh, I could have killed him ! 
 
 I felt myself suddenly grow cold and rigid ; then sud- 
 denly the cold changed to heat, a fierce heat that went 
 burning through all my veins. Then I heard the Prince 
 say, unctuously, coaxingly, "Come; you surely must 
 have something to say to Mr. North," and he gave my 
 waist a little pressure. Then . . . 
 
 Somehow, by a quick, violent movement, I managed to 
 
284 MEA CULPA. 
 
 free myself from his embrace, and trembling with rage, I 
 cried, " How dare you touch me ! " Then, mechanically — 
 for my instinct to leave the room was still upon me — I 
 tried again to reach the door. But again the Prince 
 placed himself before me. His face had turned purple, 
 and his little eyes shone upon me with their wickedest, 
 most menacing light. 
 
 I thought he was going to strike me. In another min- 
 ute I believe he would have done so. For a second I 
 stood still, facing him, hesitating, trying to think of some 
 way to escape him. . . . 
 
 He took a step toward me. . . . 
 
 " Julian !" I called. . . . 
 
 And then, somehow, I found myself at his side, and had 
 his hand in mine ! I looked at the Prince, and I cried 
 out, " Julian, don't let him touch me ! " . . . And all 
 at once there came to me, in a great wave, a feeling that 
 I had never known before. I stood at Julian's side, and 
 I clung to his hands, warm and strong in mine, and I re- 
 alized, with a mighty swelling of the heart, I realized that 
 I ims srife ! that now, at last, for the first time since my 
 marriage, I was safe, absolutely secure and safe!" My 
 enemy was at bay ! There was no harm he could do me 
 now, no insult he could offer me. Julian was here, beside 
 me, holding my hands, giving me strength and courage. 
 For the first time in the course of our lives together, I 
 met the Prince on something like equal terms. I felt as 
 if clad in armor, and surrounded by an invincible body- 
 guard. I looked across the room at him, scowling threats 
 upon me, and now somehow more repulsive, more mean 
 and evil, in my sight than he had ever been before ; I 
 looked at him, and my passion mounted, and possessed 
 me, and carried me away 
 
 " Julian ! " I cried, still trembling, in spite of my great 
 joyous sense of safety. " Oh, you will not let him touch 
 
DE8PEBATE APPLIANCE. 285 
 
 me ! Look at him. He wishes me to speak to you. He 
 brought me down here to thank you for having saved his 
 life ! To thank you for it ! For having risked your life, 
 to save his ! And then, when he found out who you were, 
 then he began to mock me, and torture me, in your 
 presence, telling you that I loved him, and that I had 
 laughed with him over my love for you. He thought I 
 would not dare to answer him, to contradict him, and he 
 gloated in the anguish he knew he was causing me, and 
 in my helplessness. And then he would not let me go 
 away, but kept me here, and wanted to know if I had 
 nothing to say to you. And then when he touched me, 
 and I could not control myseK any longer, and could not 
 help showing my fear of him and my loathing of him, then 
 he became furious ; and now, now he would strike me, 
 he would knock me down, and kick me, and spit upon 
 me, only you are here, and he doesn't dare, he doesn't 
 dare ! . . . You think I must have soinething to say to 
 Mr. North ! Do you know who he is ? Do you know what 
 he was ? Oh he was my lover — my lover, my lover ! " I 
 repeated. " Do you understand ? And now I see him for 
 the first time, after so many years, and so much suffering ! 
 Oh, I have much to say to him, a great many things to say 
 to him ; things that I have never been able to say to any- 
 one before, that I never could have said to anyone but him, 
 and not even to him, except for what has happened these 
 last two days. But he has saved your life, he has saved 
 you from drowning, and that gives him a peculiar relation 
 to you and me. I think he has a right to know the sort of 
 life that he has saved, and how his saving it will affect me, 
 how it will affect my life. I am going to tell him. . . . 
 You, you cannot stop me. You will not dare to touch 
 me, and I can speak without fear of you. If you so much 
 as raised your finger against me, he would kill you — yes, 
 he would kill you ! " 
 
286 MEA CULPA. 
 
 Oh, the wild joy ! To let this lava-flood of passion, 
 long pent under, long accumulating, and burning and 
 festering in my heart, to let it at last and all at once 
 break forth ! To stand there protected by the man who 
 loved me, the man I loved, and pour it out fearlessly upon 
 the head of the man I hated ! 
 
 "Julian," I hurried on, "yesterday I was at your 
 house, with Armidis. I was there with him when he re- 
 ceived your letter ; and I read it with him, he let me 
 read it with him. . . . Look, Julian! You have 
 saved this man's life. At the risk of your own, you have 
 saved his life. That gives you a peculiar position toward 
 him and toward me. The life you saved — you have a 
 right to know it, to know what it is like, to know what 
 you have done. Oh, I don't blame you, I don't reproach 
 you ; but you would never -have done it, if you had known 
 beforehand. I will tell you now; I will tell you the 
 truth about it. I have never told anyone before ; I have 
 kept it aU a secret. But now I will tell you. He would 
 like to stop me, but he cannot, he doesn't dare, because 
 you are here. Oh, thank God that you are here ! For 
 this hour at any rate I need not fear him. It makes me 
 feel so safe, so strong and fearless to have you here. 
 Look at him. Either he must go away, and leave us to- 
 gether, and let me tell you what I have to tell, alone ; or 
 he must stay here, and not move or speak, and listen. 
 Julian, do you know how I came to marry him ? You 
 said in your letter you thought it was forced upon me. 
 Oh, forced upon me ! Listen. He had it in his power 
 to procure a pardon for my father from the Emperor of 
 Russia, so that he could return to his own country, and 
 to his estates, and to all his rights. But he said he 
 would not exercise this power, unless he was paid ! He 
 said he would exercise it only on one condition, for one 
 price : I must marry him ! He would not lift his finger 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 287 
 
 to help my father, unless he was paid ; and I was the 
 price he asked ! And at last, after .long resistance, I was 
 tired out, and I was ill, and I was a fool, and I married 
 him. It seemed as if there was nothing else for me to 
 do, and so I married him. But then, having bought me 
 in that way, he expected me to love him ! Love him ! 
 love him I Oh, Julian ! And because I could not love 
 him, because by his very nature he was hateful and loath- 
 some to me, he became furious with me, and he struck 
 me, and he spat in my face. And after that, because I 
 still could not love him, he made it a practice to strike 
 me, to spit upon me, to insult me, whenever he was dis- 
 pleased. Then I asked him to let me leave him, to let 
 me go away from him, to let me go to my father. But 
 no, he wouldn't. He would not let me go, and he said if 
 I tried to go in spite of him, he would have my father 
 arrested and sent to the mines in Siberia ! So that I 
 have had to go on living with him, for four years I have 
 been compelled to live with him ; and there is no deliver- 
 ance possible for me, except in death — his death or mine. 
 But oh, Julian, his beating me is nothing. If you could 
 hear him talk to me ! If you could hear the kind of talk 
 he delights in in my presence, to shame me and humiliate 
 me and disgust me ! He brings his mistresses to stay in 
 this house; he sets his sycophants on to make love to 
 me : and then before them he says things to me . . . ! 
 Oh, imagine, imagine ! And I have had to bear it all, be- 
 cause he holds my father as a hostage. Would you have 
 gone out ia the storm, would you have risked your life, 
 would you have saved him, if you had known? Oh, see 
 what you have done, what you have condemned me to ! 
 Oh, if you had only known ! If you could only have let 
 him drown?" 
 
 The Prince stood across the room, trying to laugh. 
 As I paused, he raised his arm, and pointed to the door, 
 
28 8 ME A CULPA. . 
 
 and said to me, " Get out of this room. Hold your jaw, 
 and get out of the room." 
 
 I felt Julian's fingers tighten convulsively upon mine. 
 Then he turned to the Prince, and nodding his head at 
 him in a way that was not to be misunderstood, he said, 
 very low, very slowly, with the drawl that was his habit, 
 and with an inflexion that gave his speech the value of a 
 thousand threats, "I will thank you, in addressing this 
 lady, to be a little more choice of your language." 
 
 " Look here, North," the Prince expostulated, " I don't 
 want to quaiTel with you." 
 
 " I am afraid you will have no alternative," Julian an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Oh, I say ! You don't mean to tell me that you are 
 going to swallow the lies of that she-devil, " the Prince 
 cried. 
 
 " I must really trouble you to guard your tongue," Jul- 
 ian said. 
 
 To me, by this time, had come the inevitable reaction. 
 Exhaustion and depression had followed my excitement, 
 and I had sunken upon a chair, where I sat in a state of 
 complete nervous and physical collapse. 
 
 The Prince for a moment seemed to hesitate, uncertain 
 what to do or say. Presently . . . 
 
 " I'm under great obligations to you. North," he began, 
 " and that puts me at a disadvantage. I think, if you 
 will fancy yourself in my place, you will grant in common 
 fairness that I am at a disadvantage." 
 
 "Well . . . ? And then . . . ?" returned Ju- 
 lian, shortly. 
 
 " Well, I don't want to quaiTel with you, that's aU. If 
 any other living man stood in your shoes at this moment, 
 it would be bad for him. If any other man had been a 
 Avitness of this scene to-day, I don't think he'd live long 
 to tell of it. But with you it's different, I can't forget 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 289 
 
 what happened the day before yesterday ; I can't forget 
 the debt I owe you ; and that puts me at a serious disad- 
 vantage. It puts me at a disadvantage, and it renders you 
 comparatively speaking safe. Now, I don't think you're 
 a coward, and no one but a coward would profit by a sit- 
 uation like this. My hands, so to speak, are tied. 
 Therefore, I say to you, don't exasperate me. Of course, 
 if you drive me to it, I shall have to quarrel with you, 
 whether I will or no." 
 
 " Yes, I think you will have to," said Julian. 
 
 " WeU, it will be your fault if I do," said the Prince. 
 " But first I want to know if you can listen to reason for 
 a moment. Of course I am prejudiced in your eyes be- 
 forehand. When Ed man is arraigned before another man 
 by a woman, and especially by a woman whom the other 
 man has been in love with, his case is prejudiced before- 
 hand. All the same I'll appeal to your common sense 
 and your sense of fair play, to your knowledge of the 
 world and of human nature, not to swallow quite as gos- 
 pel the ravings of a woman in hysterics. My wife and I 
 have had our differences, that I'll admit at once ; we have 
 had our differences, just as all married couples on the 
 face of this planet have their differences from time to 
 time ; but to-day she lost her head, and she exaggerated, 
 and she said things without appreciating their meaning 
 or their gravity, and without reckoning their effect. She 
 said things in such a way as to throw an entirely false 
 light upon them ; I dare say, in her excitement, she saw 
 them in an entirely false light, and didn't purposely dis- 
 tort the truth. But I can assure you of this, she will be 
 the first to regret what she has said to-day when she 
 comes to her senses to-morrow. All this business — my 
 narrow escape from drowning, your rescuing me, and then 
 her meeting with you under these peculiar circumstances 
 after so many years of separation — aU this has wrought 
 19 
 
290 MEA CULPA. 
 
 upon her nerves, and unhinged her, and sent her into 
 hysterics. Now don't tell me that you're going to take 
 seriously and literally what a woman says when she is in 
 hysterics. She's just as far out of her right mind as if 
 she were lying in delirium on a fever bed. And don't we 
 all know that when a person is delirious he always says 
 the very opposite of what he would say in his right 
 mind? He reviles the people he loves, he conceives a 
 passion for those he hates. The whole world is turned 
 wrong-end-foremost in his brain ; and no one thinks of 
 giving the slightest weight to what he says. Well, it's 
 just the same when a woman's hysterical. Monica and I 
 have had our differences, but on the whole we're a singu- 
 larly happy and a singularly affectionate couple, as she 
 will tell you with her own lips when she is herseK again 
 — to-morrow, say. I just want to ask you whether it's 
 probable that, if I were really anything like the monster 
 she's been describing, is it probable that she would have 
 let herself go as she has to-day ? Wouldn't she have 
 been afraid ? Afraid of my making it infernally disagree- 
 able for her afterwards ? If I were really in the habit of 
 beating her and spitting on her and abusing her gen- 
 erally, as she pretends, or if she had thought that there 
 was the remotest danger of my doing anything of that 
 sort, don't you think she would have made a little effort 
 to hold herself in ? What would the brute that she has 
 painted do as soon as you had gone, and he and she were 
 alone together ? Hey ? Do you see what I mean ? Now, 
 don't misunderstand me ; I'm not blaming her. I excuse 
 her and forgive her on the ground that she had lost her 
 head, and was irresponsible, and didn't in the least real- 
 ize what she said. To-morrow she'll regret it aU from 
 the bottom of her heart ; she'll send for you, and she'll 
 contradict every word that she has spoken to-day. All I 
 g^k of you is that you'll suspend your judgment in the 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 291 
 
 affair till tlien — till you have seen her again, and heard 
 her speak in her sober senses. There ; now I don't want 
 to seem inhospitable ; but you had better go away now, 
 and leave her to me." 
 
 " Leave her to you ! " Julian echoed, in a sort of gasp. 
 " To you . . . ! " 
 
 Then he turned to me, and said, " Monica, you must let 
 me take you away from here. You must come with me. 
 I will take you somewhere where you will be safe. Then 
 I will settle with him afterward." 
 
 " Really, North, I put it to you as a man of the world, 
 aren't you going a little to far ? To ask my wife to elope 
 with you imder my very nose ! " said the Prince. 
 
 " Of com-se, Monica, you know I mean nothing of that 
 kind," said Julian. " But I can't go away and leave you 
 here. You must come with me. I must know that you 
 are safe from him, before I can do anything else." 
 
 " I don't think, Monica," said the Prince, " that you will 
 be unwise enough to accept Mr. North's invitation. Al- 
 ready, if you have recovered yourseK a little, you will 
 have begun to repent your behavior during the last half 
 hour, and to consider its possible consequences. I wouldn't 
 go any further, if I were you. You would only store up 
 more matter still for regret to-morrow. I think you had 
 better leave us now, and retire to your own rooms. I 
 honestly think you had better. The situation is becoming 
 slightly strained. By leaving us you will do much to re- 
 lax it." 
 
 Indeed, he was right. Already I had begun to repent. 
 Already every other sentiment had disappeared before a 
 growing terror of the possible consequences of what I had 
 done. I had given way to an uncontrollable impulse ; I 
 had leapt "without looking. Now, when it was too late, 
 after the fact, I began to look. I was appalled by what I 
 saw. The Prince was not the man to eschew reprisals. 
 
292 MEA CULPA. 
 
 What form would his reprisals take ? ... In the ex- 
 tremity of my fear, I had lost aU power to think ; but to 
 my imagination his revenge presented itself like a storm- 
 cloud, formless but black and vast, looming up on my 
 horizon. And a sort of instinct told me that now docUity 
 and obedience would be the better part of valor. 
 
 "Yes," I said to myself, "I had better do as he bids 
 me, and go upstairs." 
 
 And I rose from my chair to do so. But then sudden- 
 ly a new fear came upon me. If I should leave those 
 two men alone there together . . ! What might not 
 happen ? 
 
 " Julian," I said, " please go away." 
 
 He did not speak, but his eyes covered me with ques- 
 tions and appeals. 
 
 "Yes," I answered, "I mean it. Please go. You 
 need not be afraid. It is the only way you can help me. 
 I cannot go with you. You will do no good by staying. 
 You will only make it harder for me if you do." 
 
 The Prince rang for a servant. " I wiU drop you a 
 line, telling you when to come again. North," he said. 
 
 The servant entered, and the Prince bade him show 
 Mr. North to the door. 
 
 Julian looked at me. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " go, go." 
 
 And then he was gone. . . . 
 
 Now — what would my husband do to me? Would 
 he kill me ? I stood shrinking and trembling across the 
 room from him. 
 
 "I am dining at the club to-night," he said, in his 
 most matter-of-fact accents, "and so I shan't see you 
 again until to-morrow. Meanwhile you may think over 
 the mess you've made this afternoon, and consider how to 
 straighten it out. I don't care how you do it, but some- 
 how you've got to convince our friend North that there 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 293 
 
 wasn't a word of truth in all you said. The end is the 
 only thing that concerns me ; the ways and means are 
 your affair. I give you twenty-four hours. I shall write 
 to North to call at this time to-morrow. Au plaisir de 
 vous revoir." 
 
 He made a profound bow, and opened the door for me 
 to pass. 
 
n. 
 
 I GOT up early next morning, and threw open my win- 
 dow, aaid leaned out for a breath of air. It was a pale 
 gray day. The sky was completely overcast with leaden, 
 low-hanging clouds. The atmosphere was dim with a fine 
 bluish mist. And though it was not raining now, I could 
 see from the water in the street that it had been doing so 
 during the night. The Park stretched away in front of 
 me, dark green and distinct in the foreground, but ashen 
 and blurred by the mist in the distance ; and it sent forth 
 from its wet turf and dripping trees a crowd of racy pene- 
 tratiag odors. My head ached, and every nerve in my 
 body seemed to be on edge, and in my breast, like a 
 weight, there lay a dull feeling of depression and of ap- 
 prehension ; and the sight of the cool shadowy Park, and 
 the smell of it, tempted me, so that I thought, " I will go 
 out and walk there. It will soothe me and refresh me." 
 
 I entered by the gate opposite Salchester House, and 
 struck straight across the wet greensward, in the direction 
 of Kensington Gardens. The air was exquisitely keen 
 and sweet ; it was intensely quiet, save for the rustling of 
 the leaves in the breeze and the occasional piping of a 
 bird ; and with the exception of a desultory keeper or 
 two, the place appeared deserted. 
 
 But in a few minutes I became "aware of the rapid 
 rhythm of footsteps behind me ; and mechanically I 
 glanced around. ... A man was advancing toward 
 me. ... It took a second for me to recognize 
 him. . . . 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 295 
 
 " Julian ! " I seemed to cry out ; but I spoke the word 
 only in imagination ; no sound escaped riiy lips. 
 
 I stood still, and waited for him to overtake me. 
 
 "I've been hanging around your house for the last hour 
 or two," he explained quietly. "I couldn't keep away. 
 But I never hoped to see you. I was seated on one of 
 the benches below there, when a woman passed at a dis- 
 tance. I must have been in a brown study, or something ; 
 for it didn't strike me till a minute ago who she was." 
 
 I could not speak, I could hardly breathe, for the turbu- 
 lent rush and throb of the blood in my veins. We walked 
 on, side by side, in silence. He carried a stick in his 
 hand, and kept whipping the grass with it. 
 
 " Oh, it's hellish ! " he cried out all at once, bringing his 
 stick down with violence. " The devil himself must have 
 plotted it. Wasn't it bad enough and hard enough al- 
 ready? Good God! And if they couldn't leave him. 
 there, and let him drown, and go to Hell in his own way, 
 why did they need to choose me — me ! — to step in and 
 pull him out? I wish I had the chance again." 
 
 Still I could not speak. We continued to walk on in 
 silence. 
 
 By and by, " Oh, to think, to think ! " he groaned. 
 " Your incubus was slipping from you ; in another minute 
 you would have been free ; and then I — I — had to come 
 up and fasten him on again ! Was there ever such a 
 devilish mischance? Merciful God! To have such a 
 thing to remember ! Oh, how you must hate me ! " 
 
 " No, no ; I don't hate you. Don't think that ; you 
 mustn't thiak that. You couldn't help it. How could 
 you know ? " 
 
 " Oh, If I'd known ! " he cried. . . . 
 
 Then, after a minute, with sudden fierceness, " If I'd 
 known — by God, I'd have gone out there just to watch 
 him drown ! " 
 
296 MMA CULPA. 
 
 Presently, " Well," lie went on, with a short, bitter 
 laugh, " you have a lot to thank me for. I've been your 
 mascot from the beginning, haven't I ? You see, I've had 
 a talk with Armidis ; and I know all about it now. Yes, 
 you have a lot to thank me for — all the misery that has 
 ever come into your life, in short. And yet you used to 
 say, we used to think, that it was God who had brought 
 us together ! And now this, this caps the climax, crowns 
 the good work, paints the lily ! Oh, no, I didn't know. 
 All I knew was that a man was hanging on to that buoy 
 for dear life. I'm vain of my prowess as a swimmer, and 
 I thought to gain a feather for my cap by going to his 
 rescue. My motive was a low one from the outset ; I see 
 that now — vainglory. Perhaps that's why the Lord has 
 punished me so." 
 
 After a while he said, " Do you see how beautiful the 
 effect is, as you look off across the grass, between the trees, 
 and the distance gradually melts and merges into the haze? 
 That's one of the loveliest things in London ; and it's 
 London's own ; you never find it elsewhere. Whenever I 
 see a beautiful thing, there comes a great aching, a sort 
 of hunger, in my heart ; and I think, ' Oh, if she were 
 here, if she were here ! ' It's like fuel added to the fire. 
 Thousands of times, as I've walked here in the Park, and 
 all this beauty has poured in upon me, that longing 
 for you to share it with me has come over me, and I 
 have thought, ' Oh, my cup would nm over if she were 
 here ! ' ... Well, the dream has come true ; the dreain 
 that I always held to be impossible has come true; and 
 here you are ! Here we are together ! But, oh — the differ- 
 ence ! Even in nightmares I never dreamed anything so 
 horrible as this. That I should be to blame for the . . . 
 the . . . well, then . . . the perpetuation of your 
 sorrows ! " 
 
 " You are not to blame for it. Nobody is to blame. It 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 297 
 
 is a part of the inevitable order. What you did was 
 noble and heroic. Ton could not have done otherwise." 
 
 " Oh, if my motive had been noble or heroic ! But I 
 haven't even that small satisfaction. I fooled myself at 
 the time with the notion that my motive was an unselfish 
 desire to save a poor devil from drowning. I see now 
 that my motive was nothing more or less than a desire to 
 glorify myself, and figure in an heroic attitude. Vanity 
 pure and simple. That's God's truth about my motive." 
 
 " Oh, well, what does it matter ? What does it matter ? " 
 I cried. " It can't be helped now.'' 
 
 " Tell me this," he said abruptly. " What did he . . . 
 what did he do after I had gone . . . yesterday? 
 Did he . . . ?" 
 
 "No," I answered. "He did nothing. He told me 
 that I must see you again to-day, and persuade you not 
 to believe what I had said. He has written you to come 
 again this afternoon." 
 
 " You wiU have hard work to persuade me," said Julian, 
 with a grim little laugh. 
 
 " Oh, of course, of course. I ought not to have told you ; 
 above all not before him. I ought never to have spoken 
 as I did. It put me in the wrong. But I was beside 
 myself. I couldn't help it. And now — now that it is 
 done, and you know it all, I don't see why I should try to 
 make you think it was false. I have not seen him since." 
 
 "Well, then, you have seen the last of him, thank 
 heaven ! " 
 
 "The last of him?" I echoed, puzzled, alarmed a 
 little. 
 
 "You never shall see him again — never. You shall 
 never return to his house." 
 
 "Ah, but that's the worst of it. I must." 
 
 " Must ! But I say you shan't. I won't allow it. It 
 was bad enough to know that you were married to him ; 
 
298 MEA CULPA. 
 
 but I could bear that. I could bear it because I didn't 
 know the rest, and I had no reason to suppose you were 
 unhappy with him. But now ! Now that I do know, 
 know it all ! What do you think I am made of ? I never 
 can let you live with him again, and I never will. It is 
 impossible." 
 
 " There is nothing else for me to do. " 
 
 "No, no, I won't allow you to return to him," he went 
 on, not heeding what I had said. " Never, never ! I 
 don't ask you to come to me. I can't invite you to that 
 sort of life. It would be as wretched for you in its way 
 as this. But I will put you somewhere where you will be 
 safe from him. You don't suppose I can stand still and 
 let you go back to a man who beats you ! Beats you ! 
 Monica! Beats you, and spits on you, and insults you! 
 And I away from you, so that I can't shield you, so that 
 I can't strangle him ! Merciful heavens ! " 
 
 He took my hand, and for a moment we stood to- 
 gether, hand in hand. 
 
 " You are trembling," I said. " What is it ? " 
 
 "Oh, I don't know, I don't know. It is everything. 
 It is because I love you so ; because I have never ceased 
 to love you, and to hunger for you, and to dream of see- 
 ing you again ; and now here you are ! It makes my 
 heart leap, it makes me tremble. But oh, the horror of 
 it, the horror ! " 
 
 " Oh, you love me I " I cried. 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes ! I love you. Oh, God knows I love 
 you. If I coidd take you in my arms now, and crush 
 you there, and die with you ! Oh, yes, I love you ! If I 
 didn't love you it wouldn't matter. It's the love that 
 makes it hideous. Oh, put yourself in my place. It is 
 just as terrible for me as it is for you. Fancy ! To 
 know that you live in constant peril of being outraged by 
 him, beaten by him — you, so frail and beautiful and de- 
 
DE8PEBATE APPLIANCE. 299 
 
 fenceless— you, whom I love! Oh, Monica! Imagine 
 the hell I have been in ever since I left you yesterday, 
 left you to him, alone to his tender mercies ! Why did 
 I do it ? Why did I go away ? How did I ever come to 
 do it ? To go away, and leave you alone with him, with 
 nobody to protect you from him? Oh, I was mad, I was 
 out of my senses ; and you commanded me, and I could 
 not disobey you then. You said it would make it harder 
 for you if I stayed ; and my wits seemed frozen up, and 
 I did as you bade me. But now . . . ! Now that I 
 have you here, hold you here ! Do you think I will let 
 you go ? You have chosen to bear it, to put up with it, 
 in silence. But I tell you that I wonH bear it. Do 
 you hear ? There's a limit, a limit ! You never shall go 
 back. To expose yourself to his foulness and his brutal- 
 ity again ! " 
 
 " But you don't realize, you don't reflect. I never 
 would go back to him — I should have left him ye'ars ago 
 — only, as I told you, he would wreak his vengeance upon 
 my father. His iufluence in Kussia is boundless. He 
 would have my father thrown into jail, sent to Siberia, I 
 don't know what. He could do anything he liked." 
 
 " That's an empty threat ; brag, bluster." 
 
 " I'm afraid it isn't. At aU events, I don't dare, I have 
 no right, to put it to the test. The mere possibility is 
 too appalling." 
 
 " I don't see that it is any more appalling than this 
 actual condition of affairs. And, anyhow, it only is a 
 possibility, whereas this is a terribly certain fact. Be- 
 sides, talk of right ! Why, if anybody's got to suffer, 
 why shouldn't it be your father ? Why shouldn't it be he 
 as well as you ? Eather than you, by Jove ! He made 
 this marriage, didn't he? It was his doing, wasn't it? 
 He was the one who desired it, who forced you into it. 
 Well, now, let him pay the penalty of it, aad bear the 
 
300 ' MEA CULPA. 
 
 brunt of it.' He sowed the wind ; let him reap the whirl- 
 ■yvind. You are miserable, in order that he may be 
 happy. I can't see that his happiness is of any greater 
 importance than yours. One human being is as good as 
 another. That's justice and common sense." 
 
 "No, no, it is sophistry. You have learned it from 
 Armidis. You ought to know me well enough, you ought 
 to know human nature well enough, to understand that I 
 would only be more imhappy still if I tried to purchase 
 liberty for myself at the cost of my father's. What peace 
 would there be for me ? " 
 
 "AVhy don't you get your father out of Russia? Out 
 of the reach of danger ? Write to him to make a journey 
 to Paris. Then . . . you can join him there, and 
 Leonticheff may whistle." 
 
 " Ah, but the Prince has him watched constantly. At 
 the first move he made to leave the country he would be 
 arrested." 
 
 " Bah ! Such things happen only in melodramas. I 
 don't believe it. Do you ? " 
 
 " Yes. Prince Leonticheif is melodramatic. At least, 
 I believe it enough to refraia from trying experiments. 
 Eussia is not like other countries. A man may be ar- 
 rested and shut up in prison, in solitary confinement, 
 without his friends knowing where he is, for years and 
 years — until he dies or loses his reason, perhaps — on 
 mere suspicion. It is like the days of the Bastille. You 
 simply disappear, that is all. And a word from Prince 
 Leontichefif in Russia would be as fatal as a conviction 
 by a jury in England." 
 
 "But he wouldn't speak the word. After all, why 
 should he ? " 
 
 " Oh, his motives would be complex. Partly for pure 
 malice, partly to give me tit for tat. But I cannot under- 
 take to analyze his motives." 
 
DE8PEBATE APPLIANCF,. 301 
 
 " Well, he may try it. He may do his worst. You 
 don't go back to him, you shan't. No, not if I have to 
 prevent you by main force. You talk of right. "Well, you 
 have a right to your life, haven't you ? I have a right to 
 it, by heaven ! I shan't let you forswear it any longer. 
 No, no ! " 
 
 " Oh, what is the use of saying things like that ? I 
 have got to go back to him. I can't even think of not do- 
 ino- so. I've got to go back to him, and live with him. I 
 have no choice or option in the matter. I can't sacrifice 
 my father. So long as my father is alive, there can be no 
 escape for me ! " 
 
 " Unless . . . unless . . . well, then, unless the 
 Prince should be inspired to drop off first." 
 
 " Yes. But he won't." 
 
 " I don't know. He came mighty near it the day before 
 yesterday. There wasn't more than an hour left in him 
 when we hauled him aboard that tug. If it hadn't been 
 for my infernal meddling . . . ! Why, damn him, I own 
 the man ! His life is my property. If I killed him, it 
 wouldn't be murder. It would only be putting him back 
 where he was before I interfered." 
 
 Julian stopped short in his walk, and looked at me. His 
 face was white, and very hard and set. His eyes shone 
 with a light that somehow made me shiver. 
 
 " If I should kill him . . . ? " he repeated very low. 
 " Eh ? Suppose I should kill him ? " 
 
 I stood trembling, with my eyes averted from his. 
 
 " I should be well within my rights," he said. " I should 
 simply be undoing what I myself have done. Repairing 
 the mischief ! " 
 
 He paused for a few seconds. Then . . . 
 
 " Do you wish me to kill him ? You have only to speak 
 the word. It wouldn't be murder. It would be giving 
 the devil his due — which I cheated him of the other day. 
 
302 MEA CULPA. 
 
 Murder ! Why, it would be pig-sticking ! It would be 
 like shooting a mad dog. Isn't a man justified ia kill- 
 ing a beast that's attacking a woman? The woman he 
 loves ! " 
 
 I had grown cold from head to foot ; and there was some- 
 thing aching in my throat, that felt like a lump of ice. 
 Every word he spoke seemed to pierce me through and 
 through, and to set all the quick quivering. . . . 
 " Don't, don't," I gasped faintly. " I can't bear it." 
 
 " Don't what ? " he questioned, with a harsh laugh. 
 " Don't kill him ? Or don't talk about it ? Why, it would 
 be a deed of atonement, of expiation, of penance. It's the 
 only way open to me to retrieve the wrong I've done you. 
 If you would leave him, if you could leave him, it would 
 be different, it wouldn't be necessary. But if you won't 
 leave him, if you can't leave him, if he refuses to let you 
 leave him, and conapels you by force to go on living with 
 him — why, it's his own responsibility. If I can escape 
 without killing my jailer, so much the better for him. 
 But if he places himself before me, his blood will be upon 
 his own head, since escape I must and wiU, co^te que coiife. 
 . . . But there ! In all seriousness, in aU conscience, I 
 believe it would be right. I believe it's the only right thing 
 to do. Come ! Let us brush aside shams and conven- 
 tionalities, and face the truth, God's truth. We have come 
 to a pass in life where the ordinary formulas of the world 
 won't help us. They give way beneath us like the hollow 
 shells they are. Our position is a great, a terrible reality : 
 we must fall back upon realities, in order to cope with it. 
 We've got to let go the formulas of the world, and return 
 to nature. Let us be frank and honest and unsparing. 
 Now tell me, tell me in one word, don't you wish he was 
 dead ? Wouldn't you be glad, wouldn't it be like news of 
 emancipation to you, if you knew that he was dead ? " 
 
 " Oh, for that ! Yes, I wish that he was dead. I can't 
 
DE8PEBATE APPLIANCE. 303 
 
 see that he does good to any human being by living. 
 Oh, yes, I should be glad tp know that he was dead." 
 
 " And now tell me this other thing ; tell me in what 
 manner, in what degree, it would be wrong, or criminal, 
 or sinful, or anything but holy and righteous for me to 
 kill him ? . . . for me to put him out of existence ? 
 Look ! He's a curse to you, he's a curse to me, he's a 
 curse to your father, he's a curse to every living thing 
 that comes near him. He poisons the air around him. 
 He's a blemish, he's a danger, on the face of the earth, 
 like the dragons, the ogres, of our childhood. Why 
 would there be any more harm in removing him, than in 
 removing any other mass of evil and corruption ? Why, 
 it would be to abate a public nuisance. If you should do 
 it with your own hand, it would be a clear case of self- 
 defence. Isn't it the same thing if you do it by proxy ? 
 If I do it for you ? Besides, it's my fault that he's alive 
 at aU. I dragged him out of the jaws of death, and now 
 he belongs to me. I should only be disposing of my own 
 if I made away with him. And then . . . with him 
 once for all out of God's world ! Oh, Monica ! It would 
 be ours ! Ours, Monica ! We could begin to live ! We 
 could go back to the life and the joy that we've lost, that 
 he has robbed us of." 
 
 " Oh, don^, don't," I entreated him. " What is the use 
 of talking like that? It is so impossible. You won't 
 kill him, you can't kill him. Yes, I wish he was dead ; 
 but you cannot kill him. What is the use of talking of 
 impossibilities ? We may as well make up our minds to 
 bear it. We've borne it four years, five years, already. 
 We can bear it a few years longer, more or less. And 
 after we are dead what vidll be the difference ? I sup- 
 pose there is some reason for it, some purpose in it; 
 there must be. No, no, we must part from each other 
 again, and go back to our separate lives. You to your 
 
304 MEA CULPA. 
 
 work, your painting ; you will paint great pictures. And 
 I ... I to Prince Leonticheff, and I wiU try to 
 wait in patience for the end.. The best thing of all would 
 be for me to die. I should have taken poison a thou- 
 sand times, only I don't dare, I am too great a coward. 
 We will try to forget these last two days, and take up 
 our lives again just where they were before it all hap- 
 pened." 
 
 "Oh, if you speak of impossibilities, there is one. 
 That is against the whole scheme of nature. As if events 
 could be without consequences ! As if we could shape 
 our future in imitation of the past, without regard to the 
 facts, the causes, that come to alter it. This thiag has 
 been done ; it can't be undone ; it's a seed that has been 
 planted : it can't fail to take root and bear fruit, bitter or 
 sweet. We're not ostriches ; we can't stick our heads in 
 the sand, and ignore it. You might as well try to ignore 
 it if your house were afire. And as for forgetting ! Can 
 I forget that but for my cursed interference you to-day 
 would be free ? Why, it's the only thing I can remem- 
 ber. It fills my whole brain, and bums in every drop of 
 my blood. You see . . . you see . . . well, 
 then, you see ... I love you." 
 
 " Oh, if you had only never known me, never seen me! " 
 I cried. • 
 
 " It would have been better for you, yes. For me, oh, 
 Monica ! I prefer this hell to any heaven without you." 
 
 We were in Kensington Gardens, near the palace. 
 
 " I am going home now," I said. "You may put me in 
 a hansom." 
 
 "Home! " he echoed. " Then you haven't heard me? 
 I have told you that you never shall go back to that house, 
 and I mean it. Somehow this matter has got to be ar- 
 ranged so that you will never pass another hour alone un- 
 der the same roof with him. I could no more stand still 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 305 
 
 here and allow you to go back there, than I could stand still 
 and let you walk out under the hoofs of those horses in 
 the street. Why, think of it ! At any moment he might 
 insult you, he might strike you! How can I live, and 
 know that you are alone there with him, exposed to such 
 datiger? Fire would be nothing to it. No, you shan't 
 go back." 
 
 " But there is nothing else to do. Nothing else is pos- 
 sible, practicable." 
 
 " Yes, there is. There is this. I have got a plan. 
 Listen to me. I will go to him. I will go and have a 
 talk with him. He's under a certain obligation to me, 
 and in common decency he will have to give me a hear- 
 ing. I will go and have a talk with him, and I will bring 
 him to reason. I v.'ill persuade him to consent to a sepa- 
 ration. I will show him that it is folly of the worst kind 
 on his part to force you to live with him, and he will 
 consent to a separation. Between arguments and threats 
 I will guarantee to bring him round." 
 
 " Arguments and threats ! You might as well address 
 them to a statue." 
 
 "Well, let me try. There's no harm trying. It's a 
 chance. Surely the end is worth it." 
 
 " No, no. I should be afraid — afraid to leave you and 
 him alone together." 
 
 " Afraid ? Afraid of what, for heaven's sake ? What 
 do you fear would happen ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. He— he might kill you." 
 
 " I don't think you need be afraid of that," he said, 
 with a strange laugh. 
 
 Then, after a little pause, " See here," he began. "You 
 know Miss Wynn, don't you? Wasn't it at her house 
 that you met Armidis the other day ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, now, listen. This is what I want you to do. 
 30 
 
306 MMA CULPA. 
 
 Let me take you to Miss Wynn's. She lives within five 
 minutes' walk of here. Let me leave you there, with her, 
 while I go to see Leonticheff. Then I will come back 
 and tell you the result of our interview. That is not ask- 
 ing very much, Monica ; do you think it is ? Only that 
 you will stay with Clotilde Wynn for an hour or so, while 
 I see your husband. She's a good woman, she's kind and 
 honest." 
 
 " Oh, no, I can't do that. I have no right to involve 
 her in my affairs. Especially not in my troubles with 
 Prince Leonticheff. If it should ever come to an open 
 scandal, or anything. . . . Don't you understand ? " 
 
 "Well, then, where can I leave you? Where can you 
 wait while I am away ? " 
 
 " Oh, nowhere, nowhere. It's utterly useless. I have 
 got to go back, I have got to, Julian. There is no use in 
 your seeing the Prince. No good can come of it. You 
 never can persuade him to anything. What's the use of 
 rebelling against a thing that can't be helped ? It only 
 makes it harder." 
 
 " Well, I am going to see him anyhow, use or no use. 
 All I ask is where will you wait for me meanwhile." 
 
 " I will wait at home, I will wait at Salchester House, 
 if yoU insist upon seeing him." 
 
 We turned out of the gardens into Kensington High 
 Street, and I said, " Please call a hansom for me." 
 
 " Well," he said, with a shrug of the shoulders, " you 
 are determined. But so am I. You will go back to Sal- 
 chester House ; and I will seek an interview with Leonti- 
 cheff. Then I shall know where to find you when I am 
 ready to report. Meanwhile. . . . Can't you lock 
 yourself up in your room ? " 
 
 "Oh, there is nothing to be feared meanwhile. He 
 won't molest me in any way till this afternoon, when he 
 will expect me to see you, you know. But your interview 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 307 
 
 with him ... It will be a failure. I can assure 
 you of that beforehand." 
 
 " Never mind, never mind. Where there's a will there's 
 a way, and you needn't have any doubt of the will in my 
 case. If my interview with him should prove a failure, 
 why, then, I'U have to try something else. But I will 
 give him that chance. If he rejects it, let him . . . 
 well, then, let him prepare for the consequences, that's 
 all. May I . . . may I drive back with you ? " 
 
 He had summoned a hansom by waving his stick. 
 Now he helped me in. 
 
 " May I ? " he repeated. 
 
 " I think we had better say good-by here," I answered, 
 
 " Oh, well, just as you like, of course. It doesn't make 
 much difference. I shall see you again very soon." 
 
 " Good-by, Julian." 
 
 " Good-by, good-by. Oh, Monica," he cried wildly, 
 " tell me that^ou forgive me." 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive you for, Julian." 
 
 " Nothing ! You call it nothing ? To have snatched 
 him from the devil, and fastened him back again on you ! 
 Haven't you yourself said that so long as he lives . . . ? 
 Oh, if he were dead ! To see him lying dead at my 
 feet , . . ! Tell me one thing, Monica, will you 
 marry me when he is dead ? " 
 
 " Oh, he won't die, Julian. He will outlive us all." 
 
 " I don't know. I'm not so sure. He's only a mortal 
 man, after all. In the midst of life we are in death," he 
 said, laughing curiously. 
 
 " But it won't happen. Such things never do happen 
 in this world. It's generally the other person who dies. 
 If a man is a brute or a drunkard or in any other way 
 a burden or a nuisance to people, he lives to a green old 
 age." 
 
 " But you haven't answered my question. If he were 
 
308 ME A CULPA. 
 
 dead, you would be my wife, wouldn't you? Wouldn't 
 you, Monica ? " 
 
 " Oh, if he were dead, I would do anything you wished 
 me to," I answered, rashly, in a sudden gush of passion. 
 
 "Well, he will either consent to a separation from you 
 to-day, or I wouldn't advise a man to bet very heavily on 
 his longevity. I think I shall have to kiU him." 
 
 " If you could ! But you can't," I said. 
 
 " 'Who lives shall see,' " he quoted. " Good-by." 
 
 And the cab drove off. 
 
 To speak the bare truth, I had set my lover on to kill 
 my husband ; but it is also the truth that at the time I 
 did not in the least realize what I had done. It did not 
 once enter my mind to imagine that Julian's talk of kill- 
 ing the Prince might presently lead to the act of killing 
 him. I took that talk as the expression of a mood rather 
 than an intention. To wish for the Prince's death was a 
 familiar mood to me, and it did not shock me ; but I was 
 far from perceiving that we had gone to-day a little be- 
 yond simply wishing for his death, that we had ap- 
 proached perilously near to plotting it. Familiar as the 
 wish was to me, the idea was as unsubstantial, as intan- 
 gible, as the idea of any impossible thing. It was as ii I 
 had wished for the earth to cease revolving on its axis ; I 
 might wish it as heartily as you please, but I could never 
 for an instant fancy my wish accomplished. I had ac- 
 customed myself to consider the Prince as a person 
 invincible, perhaps scarcely mortal, certainly, at any rate, 
 destined to flourish long beyond my time; and it was 
 stronger than a conviction, it was a law and habit of 
 thought with me, that in whatsoever conflict might come 
 to pass between him and any other human being, he 
 would surely not be the sufferer. So, when Julian said, 
 " I think I shall have to kill him," and other things of like 
 tenor, I supposed him to be uttering an emotion in the 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 309 
 
 form of a purpose, but I did not suppose that the purpose 
 had any actuality in his mind. If I had supposed the 
 latter, I daresay I should still not have been shocked, but 
 I should have been filled with terror for Julian. I should 
 have felt a terrible confidence not only that he would fail 
 in his endeavor to kill the Prince, but that he would get 
 himseK killed by the Prince instead. 
 
 However, I do not say this by way of excusing myself. 
 I am perfectly well aware that it is no excuse. I ought to 
 have understood and calculated the results of my speech 
 and attitude, and now I must not shirk the responsibility 
 of them. Indeed, to acknowledge and assume that respon- 
 sibility, is one of the chief objects that I have in making 
 this confession. The newspapers have been fuU of false 
 namors ; public gossip has seized upon every conceivable 
 explanation except the right one. It is best on all ac- 
 counts that the truth should be known ; and the truth is 
 that I, in the blindness of my pain and my passion, had 
 set Julian North on to kill PriQce Leonticheff. 
 
ni. 
 
 The following letters explain themselves. 
 
 The first, from Prince Leonticheff to me, was written at 
 his club in the evening of the day when I had had my 
 walk and talk with Julian in Hyde Park. . . . 
 
 " I am off for what one of your particular admirations 
 in literature has called a little tour in Prance. I cross to- 
 night, but shall return within a week. I think I can 
 promise to bring you home a surprise." 
 
 The second, from Julian to Armidis, was written the 
 same evening. . . . 
 
 " I am going to Prance for a few days. I will write 
 again in the morning, explaining the whys and the where- 
 fores." 
 
 And the third is the letter promised by the last. . . . 
 
 " Dear Aemidis : I suppose you are somewhat curi- 
 ous to know why I am making this sudden invasion of 
 France. I will tell you in three words : for the purpose of 
 fighting a little duel with his Serene Highness Prince 
 Leonticheff. If I did not say as much in the scrap of a 
 note I sent you last night, it was because I preferred to 
 leave you in ignorance of the matter until I had got well 
 beyond your reach, where you couldn't interfere to stop 
 me. Do you see? I am at this moment at Calais ; but 
 where I shall be two hours hence you will possess no pos- 
 sible means of discovering^ 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANOE. 311 
 
 " As I told you yesterday, I had had an accidental meet- 
 ing in Hyde Park with Monica. We took a walk and had 
 a talk together ; and the result of it was to show me more 
 clearly than ever that I had contrived to make an ex- 
 tremely nasty hash of things. By dragging her husband 
 out of the jaws of hell, where a kindly Providence had 
 dropped him, I simply meddled with her life to mar it, 
 and to perpetuate its wretchedness. That was exceed- 
 ingly nice and pleasant, wasn't it ? She informed me in 
 as many words that so long as Leonticheff lived she could 
 never look for anything remotely resembling happiness. 
 She would not leave him, she could not, she did not dare, 
 because he had threatened to visit his displeasure upon 
 the head of her father. She must simply continue to en- 
 dure his daily outrages and insults, imtil somebody went 
 off the hooks — her husband, her father, or herself. It 
 was plain enough that she cordially wished him dead, but 
 was hopeless of his dying ; and she could not conceal her 
 regret at what I had done, though she is generous and 
 bears me no grudge for it. ' Ah, yes, if he were dead ! ' 
 she said. ' But he won't die. He will outlive us all.' 
 You see, she understands his character pretty well, and 
 she knows that he could never of his free will do any- 
 thing so graceful as lie down and breathe his last like 
 a gentleman. I pleaded with her not to go back to him, 
 and to let him do his worst, and make a scapegoat of her 
 father if he chose ; but she would not hear of it. By and 
 by I saw that I should never be able to shake her deter- 
 mination on this point ; so I had to cast about for other 
 expedients. I made up my mind, and I told her, that I 
 would see the Prince myself. I would see him, and I 
 would endeavor in all earnestness to persuade him to 
 consent to let his wife live apart from him. I would give 
 him that chance. If he refused it — well and good. The 
 consequences would be upon his own head. If he refused 
 
312 MEA CULPA. 
 
 it, then I would do tlie only other thing left in my power 
 that might in some degree repair the mischief I had 
 wrought, and set myself right with Monica and with my 
 own conscience. I would, so far as possible, undo the 
 eyil I had done, by putting him back where he would 
 have been if I hadn't hired that tug. I would give him 
 an opportunity to save himself by consenting to a separa- 
 tion from his wife ; and if he refused it, I would kill 
 him. 
 
 " I told her all this, not in the same words, but to the 
 same effect ; and she approved. I don't mean that she 
 answered me explicitly, ' Yes, go and kill him ; ' but she 
 made it evident that she would not blame me if I did so, 
 and she said that if he were dead, she would be happy. 
 
 " That is all I want to know. 
 
 " Now, Armidis, don't fly off the handle, but just listen 
 to me quietly for one instant. There are two ways of 
 looking at the question of killing a man. There is the 
 transcendental-sentimental way, and there is the way of 
 reason and of common sense. If you are a sentimental 
 transcendentalist, as I am afraid you are, you may say of 
 each separate human life that it is an awful and a sacred 
 mystery, that it comes into being willy-nilly, we know 
 not whence, or why, or to what end, and that therefore to 
 tamper with it is to tamper with the secret things of the 
 Unknowable. That is one view ; perhaps it is your view ; 
 if so, to be consistent, you would not believe yourself en- 
 titled to kill another man even in seK-defence, and you 
 would wish to see malefactors go unhanged. It is a per- 
 missible view, but it is scarcely the view of common sense, 
 and it is certainly not the view taken by society. Society 
 has agreed from time immemorial that under various cir- 
 cumstances it is entirely justifiable to put men to death ; 
 and death-dealing machinery is a part and parcel of soci- 
 ety's regular equipment — sword-arms and fire-arms, gal- 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 313 
 
 lows and guillotines. If I am a soldier, and you are an 
 enemy, and I shoot you down in battle, who dreams of 
 blaming me ? If I am a mere civilian, and you attack me, 
 am I not authorized by public opinion and by the laws of 
 the land to kill you to protect myself ? That is the view 
 of the subject taken by most sane inhabitants of the civil- 
 ized world : that there is justifiable homicide as well as 
 unjustifiable homicide : in other words, that the killing of 
 a man is not per se criminal, but that it depends for its 
 moral quality upon the particular circumstances of the 
 particular case. 
 
 " Very good. Now, what I say is this : I say that if it 
 has ever been, under any circumstances, justifiable to put 
 a man to death — if it can ever be, under any imaginable 
 circumstances, justifiable for one man to kill another — 
 then it is abundantly justifiable now, and under these cir- 
 cumstances for me to kill Leonticheff. He is, as you 
 know, guilty of crimes as black and horrible as any that 
 any blackguard on this earth has ever committed; but 
 they are crimes for which there is no sort of remedy in 
 law. He has fastened himself like a vampire upon an in- 
 nocent and defenceless woman ; he is sucking her life out ; 
 and there is no relief possible for her except in his death 
 — no relief, no release. She is his prisoner, and daily he 
 loads her with every species of ignominy and misery that 
 his ingenuity can invent : he strikes her, he sj)its upon 
 her, he empties his mind of its foulness by vile speech in 
 her presence — God knows what else and worse he may do. 
 It is exactly as though she had been taken captive by 
 North American Indians, or by Sicilian banditti. Would 
 I not be justified in killing them for the sake of rescuing 
 her ? Who would dream of blaming me ? And in what 
 respect is the case of the Indian different to the case of 
 the European ? How does the fact that the latter is rich, 
 that he can read and write, that he dresses in clothes 
 
314 ME A CULPA. 
 
 made by Poole instead of in skins and feathers, that his 
 face is the color of raw beef instead of the color of copper, 
 and that he talks Tartar instead of Chocktaw — how do 
 any of these facts operate to render the killing of him 
 more sinful or less righteous than the killing of the 
 savage ? 
 
 " You yourself will not pretend to deny that on general 
 principles his death would be a highly desirable thing. 
 Suppose that the other day at Greal I hadn't happened 
 to learn that a man was clinging to that bell-buoy ; sup- 
 pose that consequently he had been left to drown there at 
 his leisure : what would you have said at receiving the 
 news of his death? What would any fair-minded man, 
 informed of the manner of his life, have said? Come, 
 now, be honest, and answer me that. Wouldn't you have 
 said, Thank Providence? Wouldn't you have said. Good 
 riddance to bad rubbish ? You would have said that in 
 every way, from every point of view, it was a thing to be 
 grateful for. Well, if his death would have been a matter 
 for rejoicing under those circumstances, pray tell me why 
 not under these ? In the one case he would have died as 
 the result of an accident, and you would have cried, Good ! 
 In this case he is going to die as the result of design : 
 will you not again cry, Good ? You will, if you have a 
 single atom of logic and fairness in your composition. 
 
 " And then, look you, Armidis, I in a sense own the 
 man. But for me he would have been dead and damned 
 five days ago. If I kill him now, it won't be like an 
 ordinary homicide ; I shall simply be undoing what I 
 myself have done. Do you mean to tell me that a man 
 has not the right, supposing him to have the power, to 
 undo what he has done ? That a man has not the right 
 to alter his mind, and amend a past error, if amendment 
 is possible ? Oh, it's too ridiculous, it's too preposterous ; 
 you can't stand up and maintain any such rank nonsense 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 315 
 
 as that. Look : what I did was unmitigated evil. My 
 hauling Leonticheff out of the water was an act of unmiti- 
 gated evil. Now I say, it is not only my right, it is my 
 sacred duty to go back and undo it if I can. Here — I was 
 just supposing the case of an Indian ; add to that sup- 
 position this further one, that she was on the point of 
 escaping from him, of regaining her liberty, and then I, 
 I myself, blundered into stopping her, and restored her 
 to him : would I not be doubly, trebly, justified in killing 
 him, after I realized what I had done ? Do you imagine 
 that I am going to live out my life with that hideous fact 
 burning forever in my memory — that Monica was within 
 an ace of being delivered from him, and that then I 
 stepped in to prevent it, and that therefore for every 
 future blow he strikes her, for every insult he offers her, 
 I am directly to blame ? What have I done to deserve 
 such a hell on earth as that? No ! I am made of flesh 
 and blood ; and there is a limit to what flesh and blood 
 can stand, to what it ought to stand. For my sake, for 
 her sake, for the sake of common decency and justice, I 
 must mend the mischief by letting the life out of him, 
 damn his soul ! 
 
 " But I must tell you tny story in proper order. 
 
 "I left Monica yesterday morning outside Kensington 
 Gardens, and I went home and I found there a note from 
 Leonticheff inviting me to call at Salchester House in the 
 afternoon, to hear his wife give herself the lie, and retract 
 the charges she had laid at his door the day before. The 
 man is sadly lacking in humor, and he wrote me that with 
 a perfectly straight face. I sat down, also with a straight 
 face, and I answered him to the effect that it would not 
 suit my convenience to call at Salchester House, but that 
 I desired to see him in private about a certain matter, and 
 would meet him at the *** Club at any hour he would 
 name, I sent my missive by a commissionaire, who 
 
316 MEA CULPA. 
 
 brought me back a line from the Prince saying that he 
 would be on the spot at three o'clock. At that time ac- 
 cordingly I met him there, and we had considerable talk. 
 I gave him his chance. But, Armidis, he is quite the 
 most impossible person that God has ever created. I told 
 him I thought he had better consent to let his wife Uve 
 apart from him, and I advanced a hundred excellent reasons 
 in favor of that course ; bat the poor man couldn't seem to 
 see it. Finally, therefore, convinced that further argu- 
 ment would be wasted, I laid down my ultimatum. I told 
 him very frankly that if he couldn't agree to a separation 
 from his wife, I should find myself obliged to kill him. I 
 explained the situation to him pretty fully, and he was 
 clever enough to perceive that I had abundant motives for 
 my enterprise. He said, however, that he was afraid I 
 would fail in it, because he had reason to regard himself 
 as rather a hard man to kill. I replied that he need give 
 himself no uneasiness on that score, and I added that, 
 although if I shot him down in cold blood on the spot, he 
 would be getting no more than he jolly well deserved, 
 nevertheless for the satisfaction of my own aesthetic tastes, 
 I had determined to take his life in equal combat ; that is 
 to say, I proposed a duel. He demurred a little, talking 
 some sentimental rubbish about my having saved his 
 life, and protesting that therefore he had no desire to see 
 my blood flow ; but when I assured him that there was 
 not the slightest danger of his having that experience, in- 
 asmuch as I had fully made up my mind to examine the 
 color of his, and when I added that I suspected his reluc- 
 tance was rather the result of cowardice than of humanity, 
 he said he would meet my wishes, and referred me to his 
 friend Count Feyghine for the arrangement of the practi- 
 cal details. 
 
 " I know so few men in London at all intimately that I 
 was rather hard put to it to find a second for myself. 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 317 
 
 But at last I thought of Coutances, the impressionist, and 
 I went to him. He is a Frenchman, and he at once 
 consented to serve. He hurried off to see Feyghine, and 
 when he returned everything had been agreed upon. We 
 transact our business to-morrow morning bright and 
 early in the fields outside a little village whose name does 
 not matter, and the weapons are to be pistols. Leonti- 
 cheff's second witness will be a Pole named Tchigulski, 
 and mine a friend of Coutances' named Margerie, both res- 
 idents of Paris. Naturally enough, we don't care to let 
 the real reason of our difference be known; to avoid 
 which we all dine together to-night, in the course of 
 the dinner L^onticheff and I quarrel, and a duel is then 
 and there arranged. 
 
 " You needn't have the slightest anxiety on my account; 
 I am going to kill Leonticheff. You may take that as a 
 deliverance excaihedrd. I do not admit for a moment 
 that there is any possibility of the affair going against me. 
 You may comfort yourself with the knowledge that I am 
 a iirst-rate shot ; and then as they say in America, my 
 'dander is 'way up.' Beside, I have the right on my 
 side ; I believe that God is on my side. I shall kill him 
 with no more compunction than I should feel in ki llin g a 
 grizzly bear. 
 
 " I leave it to your own discretion whether or not to 
 show this letter to her. 
 
 "Good-by. I ought to be home again within three 
 days, or a week at the latest. But of course the proces 
 verbal may delay me a bit. 
 
 " Always yours, J. N." 
 
 And now ! . . . 
 
 Now I realized what I had done. I realized what my 
 speech and manner that morning in the Park with Julian 
 
318 MEA CULPA. 
 
 had led to, had brought to pass. He and my husband 
 had gone to fight a duel ; he had provoked my husband 
 to a duel, and he had done so because I had given him to 
 understand that I would be glad if the Prince were dead. 
 And now — now he would be killed ! The Prince would 
 kill him ! And it would be my fault, all my fault. 
 
 My state of mind may be imagined : my remorse, my 
 terror, the agony of suspense in which I waited to learn 
 for certain how it had gone. 
 
 Kemorse? Yes; but not as yet remorse for having 
 encouraged Julian to seek the life of Prince Leonti- 
 cheff, only remorse for having led him to imperil his 
 own. He would be kiUed, he would be killed ; and it 
 was all my fault ! When I said to myself, " Suppose 
 . . .' only suppose . . . that by some wonderful 
 chance he should not be kiUed . . . suppose he 
 should kill his adversary . . . ! " — when I allowed 
 myseK to suppose that, my heart bounded with a joy that 
 was fearful in its violence. But that was not because I 
 wished Prince Leonticheff dead ; it was because I wished 
 Julian alive. I had forgotten now to wish for Prince 
 Leonticheff 's death, to wish for anything, to care for any- 
 thing, except just this, that Julian might not be killed. 
 Every other thought and emotion had been swept from 
 me by the one overmastering prayer, that Julian might 
 not be killed. 
 
 " And yet," said Armidis, " that would be better than 
 the alternative — better than that he should kill your hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Better . . . ! " I cried, aghast. 
 
 "Yes; precisely; better. Because, don't you see, if 
 Julian should kill your husband, the poor lad's hands 
 Avill be stained with blood ; and for men of sensitive ner- 
 vous organization, like his, blood-stains bum as long as 
 life lasts. They're extremely nasty." 
 
DE8PEBATE APPLIANCE. 319 
 
 " Oh," I said, " if he only comes out of it alive, it will 
 be all I ask." 
 
 But strong as my wish was, I had no sort of hope. 
 For me, it was as if he were already dead. I had sent 
 him to his death ! 
 
 "You see," Armidis went on, " at the best you will 
 have only changed the form of your misery ; you won't 
 have reduced it ; you won't have gained anything. At 
 the best — that is, of course, the best from your point of 
 view: supposing Julian to come off untouched, leaving 
 your husband dead on the field — you wiU simply have 
 got rid of a bad husband in exchange for a bad con- 
 science. Oh, but a dreadful conscience, my dear ! You 
 will find it unpleasant enough to remember all your life 
 that you have been the cause of one man's death ; but 
 you wUl find it unpleasanter still to remember that you 
 have made of another man a murderer, that you have 
 branded the man you love with the mark of Cain." 
 
 "He will not be a murderer. If he kiUs him in a 
 duel, it will not be a murder. He exposes his own life to 
 equal danger. It is absurd to speak of it as murder." 
 
 " Ah, my dear, you are as cunning as a Jesuit. You 
 draw a distinction without a difference ; whereas there is 
 a real distinction with a difference which you do not ap- 
 pear to feel. There are, as one may say, duels and 
 duels : duels forgivable, and duels unforgivable ; duels 
 venial, and duels mortal. There is the duel into which a 
 man is driven by stress of circumstances, and in which he 
 desires not the death of his adversary, but the vindica- 
 tion of his honor ; such a duel may perhaps be pardon- 
 able. But in matters of this sort the spirit is every- 
 thing. The spirit! And Julian's spirit, the spirit in 
 which Julian has so far acted, is simply the spirit of any 
 murderer. He makes up his mind to kiU L^onticheff, 
 and then he selects his method. He selects the method 
 
320 MEA CULPA. 
 
 of duelling, just as he might have selected poisoning, just 
 as he might have selected the homelier method of stick- 
 ing a knife between his ribs. He does this, as he says, 
 for the satisfa,ction of his aesthetic tastes ; he does it in 
 truth to the end of dulling and deceiving his own con- 
 science. He determines to kill your husband ; and then 
 he seeks him out and forces a duel upon him, for the 
 sheer sake of killiag him, and nothing else. It is mur- 
 der. Whoso looketh upon another to desire his death is 
 guilty of murder in his heart. The fact that I expose 
 my own life to equal danger does not alter the moral 
 quality of what I do ; I am less a coward, if you please, 
 but I am not less an assassin. These are fine shades ; 
 perhaps you cannot see them. You are growing a little 
 color-blind. I told you long ago that your marriage with 
 L^onticheff would demoralize you; I seem to have proph- 
 esied correctly." 
 
 " You despise me ! Why do you come here to me, if 
 you have nothing but reproaches to heap upon me? If 
 whoso looketh upon another to desire his death is guilty 
 of murder in his heart, then I am a murderess ten times 
 over. How can one help desiring the death of a man 
 who blights one's whole life, who robs one of one's hf e ? 
 You never loved the Prince ; why should you take the 
 notion of his death so hard ? " 
 
 " It is not, Monica, that I abhor the Prince the less, 
 but that I love you — you and Julian — the more. You 
 ■will have done one of two things : you will have caused 
 Julian's death, or you will have ruined his life. Neither 
 will be a pleasant memory for you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know, I shall have caused his death. I 
 know that well enough, God help me. You do not need 
 to remind me of that. Prince L6onticheff will kill him, 
 and it will be all my fault. Yes, I never can forget that. 
 I have sent him to his death." 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 321 
 
 " Well," said Armidis, " it is a bad business, any w^y 
 you look at it. I can't pretend to offer you any comfort ; 
 tlie situation admits of none. Now there is nothing fot 
 us to do but wait and see. Of course it is always on the 
 cards that they will come out of it with nothing worse 
 than a scratch or two apiece." 
 
 " No, they will fight to the death. I am sure of that," 
 I said. 
 
 The following paragraph appeared in that evening's 
 papers . . . 
 
 "EEPOBTED SHOOTING OF PEINCE LEONTIOHEFP. 
 
 " A General Press despatch from Paris says : A duel 
 was fought at an early hour this morning, in the coimtry 
 near Malpierre, between Prince Leonticheff and Mr. 
 Julian North, an artist of London. Pistols were used, 
 and but one round exchanged. Prince Leonticheff falling 
 shot through the heart, and expiring almost instantly. 
 There were present two surgeons, Count Feyghine and 
 M. de Tchigulski as witnesses for the Prince, and Mes- 
 sieurs Margerie and Ooutances for Mr. North. The gentle- 
 men are said to have quarrelled at dinner last night, but 
 it is rumored that there is a woman in the case. The two 
 surgeons and the witnesses have signed a declaration 
 stating that everything was conducted regularly and in. 
 accordance with the laws relating to duelling. It is not 
 considered probable that the authorities will institute an 
 investigation." 
 
 Oh, as I read that, the great wave of joyous gratitude 
 that weUed up in my heart ! . . . Not that Prince 
 Leonticheff was dead, but that Julian was alive ! Julian, 
 thank God, was alive ! The news that Prince Leonticheff 
 was dead did not at the time impress me or affect me in 
 21 
 
322 AfEA CULPA. 
 
 any way. I could not realize the fact, nor appreciate what 
 it meant — how utterly and fundamentally it would revolu- 
 tionize my life, how it would change for better or for 
 worse the whole hue and flavor of my future. I could 
 not take it in ; it was a mere detail and side-issue. Noth- 
 ing in the world seemed to signify any more, now that I 
 knew that Julian had escaped imharmed. 
 
 Armidis said, " God pity you. God pity you and him. 
 Now you have passed through the gate of tears, you 
 have passed through the gate of fire, and there is no 
 tm-ning back." 
 
IV. 
 
 At the moment I could think of nothing else than this, 
 that Julian had passed through that fearful peril, and 
 had escaped unharmed ; I could think of nothing else, 
 and the only emotion there was room for in my heart 
 was one of unutterable relief and gratitude. I had sent 
 him into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and he had 
 come out unharmed! That was all, but that was enough. 
 
 By and by, however, I began to repeat to myself, 
 " And Prince Leonticheff is dead ! He is dead, he is 
 dead, he is dead ! Do you understand ! " 
 
 At first, no, I did not understand, I could not grasp it 
 or realize it. But then at last, suddenly, the tremendous 
 significance of it flashed upon me, and my heart gave 
 another great terrible bound. . . . 
 
 " Oh, he is dead ! " I cried out. " He is dead ! I 
 never shall see him again ! He never can trouble me in 
 any way again ! He is dead ! I am free ! I am delivered 
 from him ! Oh, my God ! " 
 
 " Free ? " echoed Armidis. " My dear, you were never 
 less free than you are now, than you must be henceforth. 
 Before, you were bound and bowed down by a heavy 
 weight of sorrow ; but now and henceforth forever you 
 will find yourself fettered body and soul in the toils of 
 guilt, in the chains of crime, and they will burn you un- 
 ceasingly like red-hot irons. You have built your own 
 prison-house, my dear ; you have enclosed yourself with- 
 in it." 
 
 " Oh, but he is dead," I repeated. " Prince Leonticheff 
 
324 MEA CULPA. 
 
 is dead. Oil, -what more can I ask or want ? He is dead 
 and Julian is alive." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me seriously," questioned Armi- 
 dis, " that the fact of his death brings you no other feeling 
 than joy at your deliverance from him ? Doesn't it shock 
 you a little ? Doesn't it terrify you a little ? He is dead, 
 yes ; but that is not all. If that were all, you should have 
 my heartiest congratulations, and I should join in your re- 
 joicing. But, alas, it isn't all. It is only the beginning, 
 or it is only the end, as you choose to take it. Not only 
 is he dead, but it is you who have caused his death, it is 
 you who have killed him. And that puts an altogether dif- 
 ferent light upon the matter. You have killed him just as 
 truly as if you had done it with your own hand. Julian 
 has shot him, but it was you who inspired him to do so ; 
 you were what the lawyers call an accessory before the 
 fact. He was your mere instrument, your agent, your 
 cat's-paw." 
 
 " Oh," I cried, " what can I care for all that? Wliat is 
 the use of quibbling and juggling words? He is dead! 
 Just think of that ! He is dead. The shadow is lifted 
 from my life. He will never darken it any more. I shall 
 never — never ! — have to see him, or listen to him, or speak 
 with him, any more ! What does it matter how he died, 
 so long as he is dead ? Oh, to think that I never need 
 fear him any more ! If you could know, if you could put 
 yourself in my place, you would understand. If you had 
 lived with him, in constant loathing of him, in constant 
 dread and terror of him, for five years ! I never knew till 
 now how I had suffered. I never realized how heavy my 
 load had been, till now that it has fallen off. Oh, it seems 
 as if my heart would over-flow. He is dead, and Julian 
 is safe and unhurt." 
 
 " I wonder whether you have really become as hardened 
 as all that," said Annidis. " Or is it the Tartar in you, 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 325 
 
 waking at a scratch ! Or is it simply a temporary aber- 
 ration of your conscience? There is blood on your 
 hands, there is a dead man's body af your feet ; you are a 
 woman, I suppose, and yet you don't so much as 
 shudder." 
 
 " "Why should you wish me to be a hypocrite? " I re- 
 torted. " I don't imderstand you at all. Nobody ever 
 despised Prince Leonticheff as bitterly as you did ; no- 
 body ever thought or said worse things of him. But now 
 — one would suppose you had loved him like a brother. 
 I don't know why I should feign what I do not really 
 feel. I don't know why I should conceal my true feelings 
 from you. It is not as if you were a stranger. You have 
 been in my confidence from the beginning." 
 
 " Well, wait and see. It is too early in the game to 
 foretell how it will end," Armidis said. 
 
 They brought the body back to England, and buried it 
 in the park at Argelby, Prince Leonticheff's seat in Berk- 
 shire. That was in obedience to a wish that he had ex- 
 pressed to Count Feyghine, before the duel. 
 
 The newspapers followed up their first meagre reports 
 of the affair with longer ones ; and these three facts were 
 well ventilated : that the same Mr. North who had shot 
 Prince Leonticheff had, before the Prince's time, been en- 
 gaged to the lady who afterward became the Princess ; 
 that he was also the same Mr. North who, a few days ago, 
 had rescued the Prince from drowning at Greal ; and that 
 a day or two after the rescue and before the duel, while 
 Mr. North was paying a call at Salchester House, the 
 Princess had made a tremendous scene in the library ! 
 
 I lived of course in absolute seclusion, seeing no one 
 but Armidis and my servants. I received, however, a 
 great many letters ; and I learned that all the world was 
 
326 MEA CULPA. 
 
 gossiping about me, and accusing me of having induced 
 my lover to kill my husband. I knew too that the word 
 " lover " was used in its least innocent sense. 
 
 Armidis said, " Of course, that is no more than you are 
 bound to expect. Scandal has marked you for its own. 
 That was inevitable, in the circumstances." 
 
 I answered, " It is a matter of total indifference to me. 
 Or, rather, no ; I am glad of it. Because now I shall feel 
 at perfect liberty to do as I choose in all things . . . 
 since they have said the worst they can say of me, al- 
 ready." 
 
 Meanwhile we had had but a single word from Julian 
 
 " Deae Aemidis : You have seen by the papers how the 
 thing has gone. I shall not be coming home quite yet 
 awhile. I would rather not see anybody just yet. I want 
 to wait till I have got a little used to it. I feel very queer. 
 
 " God bless you. Please be all you can to her, do all 
 you can for her, in these trying times. I hope she is 
 happy. 
 
 "J.N." 
 
 " He feels very queer," said Armidis. " I should hope 
 so. He'd he very queer if he didn't. He has killed a 
 man." 
 
 " He has kiUed a man in a perfectly fair duel," I an- 
 swered. " The man was a monster, and he killed him in 
 a duel. There is no reason why he should feel anything 
 except that he has done a good deed. You speak as if he 
 had stabbed the man in his bed." 
 
 " The difference is only one of form, not one of matter. 
 Poison is poison, whether it be concealed in a finger-ring, 
 or openly displayed in a bottle labelled with a death's 
 head." 
 
DBSPEKATE APPLIANCE. 827 
 
 " Oh," I cried, " you are what Julian called you. You 
 are a transcendental-sentimentalist." 
 
 " Mercy upon me ! What a dreadful name ! Crusher ! 
 But never mind, my dear. I am your true friend. And 
 though you seem to me very hard and strange, I could not 
 love you better if I were your father." 
 
 My father ! My father, upon reading the report of 
 Prince Leonticheffs death in the Russian newspapers, had 
 written me the cruellest of cruel letters, taking my guilt 
 for granted, and denouncing me not only as the murderess 
 of my husband, but as the first woman of our family to 
 bring a blot upon its scutcheon. 
 
 But I did not mind all this especially ; not the scandal 
 of the world ; nor the cold morality of Armidis ; nor the 
 bitterness and injustice of my father. Prince Leonticheff 
 was dead ! He had disappeared from out of my life. I was 
 free. The burden that had bowed down my shoulders, 
 the fear and the disgust that had filled my heart, for so 
 many years, were gone. There is no reason why I should 
 disguise the truth. Not only had his death not grieved 
 me, it had not even shocked me in any degree; it had 
 simply relieved me ; I was glad of it. 
 
 What I wished most for was to see Julian. I did not 
 know when he would return, but I counted the hours. I 
 longed to see him with my eyes, to touch his hand, to 
 hear his voice, I longed to feel him near to me. The 
 longing was acute and unceasing, like a spiritual hunger. 
 I longed for an opportimity to pour out for him the great 
 store of love and gratitude that were garnered for him in 
 my heart. He had taken such an awful risk for my sake, 
 he had rendered me a service so immeasurable ! The de- 
 votion* of my life should be his henceforth ; but notliing, 
 not even that, could ever adequately pay him, or discharge 
 my debt. I had a thousand things to say to him, a 
 thousand plans to propose to him, Avhen he came home. 
 
328 MEA CULPA. 
 
 But wlien would he come ? Why did he delay his com- 
 ing, like this ? I should have supposed he would be as 
 eager to see me, as I was to see him. Then why did he 
 not come home ? 
 
 " The time seems very long. Will he never come ? " I 
 asked of Armidis. 
 
 " Oh, he feels queer, he feels queer, you see," Armidis 
 repeated. "He has killed a man. Therefore he has a 
 state of mind." 
 
 " Oh, wiU you never finish harping on that string? " I 
 cried in anger. 
 
 "Well, suppose he should come, suppose he were at 
 home at this very instant — you couldn't see him, you 
 know. That wouldn't do at all." 
 
 "Wouldn't do . . . ?" 
 
 "Why, consider the proprieties! How could you 
 with any sort of coimtenance have a meeting with a man 
 hot and red-handed from killing your husband? You 
 must observe the conventions of your widowhood. What 
 would people say ? " 
 
 " It makes me smile to hear you preaching the conven- 
 tions and the proprieties, you of all men. I don't care 
 what people would say. They can say nothing worse 
 than they have said already." 
 
 " Quite so. But they don't more than half believe what 
 they say at present. If you and Julian should be known 
 to have met, on the other hand, it would be confirmation 
 strong as proofs from holy writ." 
 
 " Well, I don't care. I don't care what people say or 
 believe. But I don't see why we could not meet without 
 anybody's knowing it at all." 
 
 " There speaks the woman, who loveth mystery, subter- 
 fuge, intrigue. A secret meeting ! Yes, it would be ro- 
 mantic. But I don't think it will come to pass. I doubt 
 if Julian will return to England for many a long day." 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 329 
 
 " What do you mean ? Have you heard from him ? 
 What is it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I had a second note from him this morning. 
 Here . . ." 
 
 He handed me this note . . . 
 
 " Dkae Aemidis : Please tell Calebs to pack some 
 clothes in the yellow leather box, and send them to me 
 at No. 32, Kue de Bourgogne, Paris. I am thinking of 
 going away somewhere, I don't know just where. On 
 some accounts I should like to come to London, on others 
 I dread doing so ; and on general principles I believe I 
 had better keep away. I don't know just what good 
 I could do by being there, and I can imagine a deal 
 of harm. I never dreamed that I should feel like this. 
 I can't get it out of my mind. Sometimes I feel as if I 
 woiild give my life just to see her for a little while, and 
 then at others I feel as if I could not bear to meet her. 
 It is the same about you. Sometimes I long for a sight 
 of you, a word with you, and then at other times I shrink 
 from the mere thought. You see, it has upset me. But 
 I shall get over it, and be myself again, presently. So 
 long as I can feel sure that she is the better off for what 
 I have done, I cannot repent it. I have twenty times 
 been at the point of coming to London, and then at the 
 last moment I changed my miud. 
 
 " Always, J. N." 
 
 " You see, it is as I said," commented Armidis ; "he 
 has a state of mind. You may answer that he had a 
 state of mind before he did it. Then he remembered 
 that he had saved your husband's life, and that made him 
 writhe ; but now he remembers that he has taken it, and 
 that is worse. I have never taken anyone's life myself ; 
 but I know how I should feel. Imagination ! The 
 
330 MEA CULPA. 
 
 whole color of the world would be changed for me ; I 
 should feel the mark of Cain perpetually scorching my 
 forehead ; I should feel cut off utterly from the fellowship 
 of other men and women, of those who hadn't done what 
 I had done. It would be an experience of a nature to 
 shake and overturn my life from its deepest roots. It 
 would alter the very essence of my soul. I should feel 
 that I had changed my skin, and become a member of 
 another race. A race apart. Tou have called me a 
 naughty name ; you have called me a transcendental- 
 sentimentalist. But the point is that Julian is another. 
 Unless I am very much mistaken his state of miud is like 
 what I have been describing. Blood has been spiUed 
 upon him. It is like sulphuric acid ; first it eats into the 
 skin, smarting like fire ; then it wiU eat through the 
 bones and the muscles, into the inmost heart. Poor 
 Julian ! " 
 
 This was in the evening, about ten o'clock, at Salches- 
 ter House. A little later that same evening Armidis's 
 man, Calebs, called, and asked to see his master. When 
 Armidis returned to me, he looked very grave. 
 
 " He has come home," he said, and handed me a sheet 
 of paper . . . 
 
 " I could not stand it any longer. I thought I was go- 
 ing away, but I have come home. They tell me you are 
 with her. I should like to see you whenever she can 
 spare you." 
 
 It was in Julian's handwriting. 
 
 " I think I had better go to him at once," said Ar- 
 midis. 
 
 " Yes. I will go with you," I said. 
 . " Oh, no ! " he cried. 
 " Yes. I must. I want to see him." 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 331 
 
 "But consider. ... It is the height of impru- 
 dence." 
 
 " You used to tell me to throw prudence to the dogs." 
 "But suppose — suppose he should not wish to see 
 
 you?" 
 
 " I am going with you," I repeated. And I ordered 
 my brougham. 
 
V. 
 
 Abmidis opened the door of the house with his latch- 
 key, and stood aside for me to enter. I hastened through 
 the hall, into the studio, where I took for granted that 
 Julian would be waiting. The room was lighted by 
 candles, a light soft and rich, but dim, so that at first 
 objects and shadows were not quite distinguishable. But 
 after a minute I saw him. He was seated in a deep arm- 
 chair, before the empty fireplace. His head was thrown 
 back, and his eyes were closed, but I did not think he was 
 asleep. His profile was toward me; the skin gleamed 
 waxen-white in the candlelight, and the cheeks and 
 temples looked thin and sunken. I remained for an in- 
 stant near the door, without moving or speaking. 
 Armidis came in, up to my side, and stood there tiU his 
 glance, wandering, rested on Julian. Then he nodded to 
 me, and stole out of the room on tip-toe, shutting the 
 door behind him. 
 
 " Julian ! " I called, very low. 
 
 Slowly he opened his eyes, and turned his face in my 
 direction. At first its expression was blank and puzzled, 
 as if he had been suddenly recalled from a brown study, 
 and did not recognize me ; but all at once it lightened ; 
 and he cried, " Oh ! " and sprang up, and advanced toward 
 me. . . . 
 
 I stretched out my hands. Oh, how full my heart was ! 
 How tumultuously it throbbed ! 
 
 But when he had taken three or four steps, he stopped, 
 suddenly, shortly. He stood motionless for a second, 
 
DE8PEBATE APPLIANCE. 333 
 
 staring at me with eyes that were almost vacant. Then a 
 sort of spasm passed over his face, and he cried " Oh ! " 
 again ; but this time it was like a sharp cry of pain. He 
 made a sort of convulsive gesture with his arm, and turned 
 around, and went back to his chair, dropping into it like 
 something inert, rather than seating himself with the 
 elasticity of life. He turned his face quite away from me. 
 
 I hurried up to him. . . . 
 
 "Julian! What is it? What is the matter!" I 
 asked, in fright and anguish. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, I don't know. I can't help it," he 
 answered. There was something awful in the quality of his 
 voice ; a note that chilled me with unimaginable terrors. 
 
 I knelt down beside him, and looked up into his face. 
 But he turned his eyes away from mine. 
 
 " Julian ! What is it ? " I entreated, in a moan. 
 
 Then he seemed to be seized by an impulse of tender- 
 ness. He put out his hands, and took mine, pressing 
 them very hard, and he looked into my eyes with a look 
 of great love, and he said, " Oh, my darling ! My dar- 
 Ung ! " But instantly after that, the same spasm that I 
 had seen before passed over his face, and he dropped my 
 hands, and he shrank back into his chair, as if to avoid 
 even the touch of my garments, and his eyes became as 
 cold and impenetrable as steel, and his face somehow 
 looked to me as if it were infinitely far away. 
 
 " Oh, Julian, what have I done ? What is it ? " I asked 
 again. 
 
 He gave a short laugh, and appeared to recover him- 
 self. " Oh, it's nothing," he .said lightly. " Nothing, 
 except that I feel queer. It's been an experience, and I 
 feel queer. But it doesn't matter. If you are happy, if 
 you are glad, if it's been a service to you, it doesn't mat- 
 ter how I feel. I dare say I shall get over it." 
 
 " Oh, Julian, it isn't only that I am glad. It isn't only 
 
334 MEA CULPA. 
 
 that you have rescued my life from a horror, and given it 
 back to me. But it is the awful peril you encountered 
 for my sake, the dreadful danger that you faced. What 
 if you had been hurt ! What if you had not come back 
 to me ! The thing that I am most thankful for, that I 
 never can thank God enough for, is that you have come 
 back safe and unharmed. Julian ! " 
 
 He took my hands again in his, and murmured some- 
 thing inarticulate ; while his eyes rested with mine for a 
 minute, and seemed to devour me. It was as if for that 
 minute our souls went out to each other, and met and 
 mingled. But then his withdrew itself from mine ; his 
 eyes became hard and impenetrable again ; he put away 
 my hands, and he said, " You don't realize. You don't 
 realize what I have done. If you realized that, you 
 would understand." 
 
 " I do realize it, Julian. I know what you have done. 
 What you have done is good, wholly good. It is good 
 for everybody, good for the whole world. No harm, no 
 pain, no evil, nothing but good, can come to any human 
 being from what you have done." 
 
 " Except to myseM. For me . . . oh ! " He threw 
 out his arms, and shuddered. " For me, it's been my 
 undoing." 
 
 " Oh, why do you talk like that ! WTiy do you feel 
 like that ? What do you mean ? " I cried. 
 
 " I have lulled a man. I have shot a man down in 
 cold blood. I have seen him stagger, and totter, and 
 turn half way roimd, and fall. I have heard the sicken- 
 ing noise he made as he fell, the dreadful noise of his last 
 breath, the dull noise of his body striking the turf. I 
 have seen him lying before me, red and white and dead. 
 I have seen nothing else, I have heard nothing else, for 
 eight days. Oh, it is horrible ! " He put up his hand, 
 shielding his eyes, as if to shut out a vision. 
 
DESPERATB APPLIANCE. 335 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " I cried. " If it has made you feel 
 hke this ! Oh, what shall I do ? You said — you said it 
 would be like shooting a mad dog ; you said you would 
 feel no more compunction than in killing a grizzly bear. 
 What you have done ! You have done a thing wholly, 
 entirely good. You have put an evil thing out of exist- 
 ence. You have removed an evil thing from the world. 
 That is what you have done." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know that. I am sure of that. He was 
 bad ; it is a good thing that he is dead, that he is out 
 of the way. The only doubt is whether it was a good 
 tlung that I should kill him. Whether that was not a 
 greater evil still. It is a good thing that he has been re- 
 moved ; but was it my place, was it my business to re- 
 move him ? After all, you see, he was a man. God made 
 him, God kept him alive, God must have had some reason 
 for it all ; and I feel as if I had interfered. He was a 
 man, yes, after all, a man. I never realized that, I think, 
 until I saw him fall down dead before me. Then . . . ! 
 Oh, if you had seen him there ! It makes you feel queer, 
 very queer, to see a man fall dead, and to know that you 
 have killed him, that it is your doing. To see him lying 
 dead there, and to know that he will never breathe or 
 move again, and to realize that you have done it ! To re- 
 alize that you have done it, and that you can't undo it — 
 never, never ! It's rather awful. It upsets you, it over- 
 turns you, it changes your life utterly, in a single minute, 
 changes its whole complexion. You see," he added, with 
 a smile of irony, " one kUls a man so rarely ! It is an ex- 
 perience. I dare say if one had killed a great many men, 
 one would get used to it. But it's the first step that 
 costs. For me — ^I think in killing him I killed myself. 
 I have felt as if a new self, a strange self, were in posses- 
 sion of me ever since " 
 
 His manner, his voice, the character of what he said, 
 
336 MEA CULPA. 
 
 seemed to indicate great weariness, almost apathy ; but 
 an apathy, I felt, which was but the extreme point of 
 profound and strenuous inward emotion. 
 
 " And I have brought this upon you ! " I groaned. " I 
 have brought you to this. But it can't last, Julian ; it 
 mustn't last ; it is not as if you had done a wrong thing. 
 You must let me, since I have brought it upon you, since 
 it was for my sake, you must let me . . . you must 
 let me comfort you, restore your happiness. The words 
 sound so meaningless, but you understand. I love you, 
 and I owe you everything. My life is yours now forever. 
 Oh, you can't be unhappy long. It has shocked you, it 
 has made you iU. But that will wear off; you will get 
 well ; I win make you well. Do you remember what you 
 said ? The world would be ours ! It is ours now. There 
 is nothing between us." 
 
 "Do you remember what the Lord said to Cain ? And 
 now thou art cursed from the earth ! Those words have 
 been ringing in my ears ever since. And now I am 
 cursed from the earth ! That is how I feel." 
 
 " Oh, to compare yourself to Cain ! You are mad, Ju- 
 lian. You are morbid. You have killed a man iu a duel. 
 A perfectly fair duel, where he had an equal chance of 
 killing you. Hundreds of men have killed men in duels 
 before this, and they have not felt as you feel. . , . 
 They have lived perfectly happy lives afterward." 
 
 " WeU, I don't appear to be that sort of man. Any- 
 how, it is different. It was a duel, and it was fair enough, 
 I suppose ; but it wasn't an ordinary duel. It was a duel 
 which I devised and manufactured simply and solely to 
 the end of killing him. It wasn't a duel into which I 
 was forced, nor one into which I entered impulsively, in 
 hot blood. It was a duel into which I forced him, and 
 into which I entered with my blood as cold and as serene 
 as water. It was a duel which I concocted and brought 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 337 
 
 to pass just with this one thought iu my head, that I 
 would kill him. But that doesn't matter much. The 
 trouble is that I can't get it out of my mind, I can't chase 
 it from my memory, I can't see anything else wherever I 
 turn. The only thing I can see is his dead body lying 
 there on the grass, limp and ghastly, with his white shirt 
 aU red with blood, and his eyes staring up with such a 
 sickening, glassy look ! I believe I shall never be able 
 to see anything else as long as I live. Oh, my God ! " 
 
 I knelt at his side, speechless, helpless, heart-sick, in 
 despair. 
 
 " It is funny," he said. "A few days ago I was in an 
 agony of mind because I had saved his life ; now I seem 
 to be in a worse agony because I have taken it." 
 
 Just the words that Armidis had spoken of him ! 
 
 " I tell you aU this very freely," he went on. " I am 
 sorry to do so. I never meant to tell you. But you have 
 come here. I can't keep silence. I suppose I had better 
 tell you the truth." 
 
 " Yes, yes," I answered, automatically. 
 
 " I say to myself that he was a brute and a devil, and 
 that his death means freedom and life for you ; but it 
 doesn't do any good. I suppose you will think me weak, 
 weak and sensational. I can't help it. Perhaps . . . 
 perhaps . . '. well, then, perhaps it is the artistic 
 temperament." He smiled grimly. 
 
 " I can think nothiag but good of you," I said. 
 
 After a long silence, he began, " Yes, there's no getting 
 around that. It has altered the whole complexion of my 
 life. I am a dififerent being, a different kind of being. I 
 have crossed the line, I have passed the pale. I have 
 been initiated into mysteries of which other men know 
 nothing, dream nothing. I can have no f eUows any more. 
 I am alone, apart. The ordinary purposes of life, the or- 
 dinary occupations, pleasures, companionships, things to 
 33 
 
338 MEA CULPA. 
 
 hope for, things to fear, to avoid — they have all lost their 
 meaning for me, their meaning and their color and their 
 savor. Or I have lost myself. It is the same thing. I 
 have not been myself, known myself, felt myself for a 
 single instant since. It isn't pleasant. I know it would 
 be to throw you back into the depths of your great mis- 
 ery ; and yet, while I am telling you the truth, I may as 
 well teU you this, that there have been moments, many 
 moments, when I have felt that I would sacrifice you, that 
 I would give up heaven and earth and everything, that I 
 would sit stiU and let them cut off my legs and arms and 
 sear my body with red-hot irons, if I could only recall it 
 and undo it, and be my own self again as I was before it 
 happened. There ! I was unhappy enough then, God 
 knows ; but I did not have this awful sense of difference, 
 of isolation, from the rest of men. But now — well, it is 
 as I said — I am alone, apart." 
 
 " You are not alone, you are not apart. You shall ^ 
 never be alone or apart. I am with you. I will never 
 leave you. If it has removed you from the ordinary plane 
 of life, has it not removed me with you, at your side ? 
 And so long as we are together, what does anything else 
 matter?. Aren't we sufficient to each other? You are 
 sufficient to me. It is all I ask. Just to spend my life 
 beside you, in devotion to you ! " 
 
 " Yes, you are with me ; that is true enough. We were 
 partners in it, after all. We planned it together. Yes, it 
 takes us two, just us two together, and separates us from 
 all other human beings, from all human fellowship and 
 commtmion. They may not feel it, but we will, we must. 
 They will see in us only a man and a woman ; but we 
 will knoio ! It unites us as nothing else ever could have 
 done ; it binds us together with chains." 
 
 " Well, so much the better ! " I cried. " I don't believe 
 that what you say is true ; I don't see how it can, or how 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 339 
 
 it should, separate us so from other people ; I am sure 
 that this feeling of yours will wear away ; it is only a 
 first result ; the final one must be different. But sup- 
 pose that I am wrong, and you are right — so long as we 
 have each other ! I cannot wish for anything more." 
 
 " Ah, but . . . ! It unites us, yes ; it joins us to- 
 gether, yes ; but at the same time it has another effect, a 
 contrary effect. It binds us together indissolubly, and 
 yet it divides us utterly, it puts us utterly, irrevocably 
 asimder." 
 
 " Asunder ? I don't understand that," I said. 
 
 " Oh ! " he cried wildly, in sudden passion, starting up 
 from his chair. " Don't you see ? Look ! Look ! " 
 He pointed to the floor, between us, staring with wide 
 horrified eyes, his face white as paper. " Look ! There 
 is a dead body between us ! There is blood between us ! 
 We cannot cross it — never, never ! Because it is there, 
 it is immovably there ! It must keep us always, always 
 apart. And yet we cannot leave it, we cannot go away 
 from it, aU our lives we must remain there, one on either 
 side of it ! Always within sight of each other, yet never 
 near enough to touch, never daring to speak, because of 
 the awful dead thing that lies between us ! Oh, my God ! 
 God help us ! We are like two slaves, condemned to 
 carry the same burden, a heavy burden, a ghastly burden 
 — a corpse ! a dead man's body ! — condemned to carry it 
 between us, one at each end, yet never allowed to ex- 
 change a word, never allowed to touch each other's hands, 
 never a word or touch of sympathy, of compassion, of 
 encouragement ! " 
 
 I went up to him, and put my hand upon his shoulder. 
 "Oh, Julian, for mercy's sake, calm yourself," I begged 
 him. 
 
 " Don't touch me ! " he cried harshly, starting away 
 from me. But then, instantly, " Oh, forgive me ! It was 
 
340 MEA CULPA. 
 
 the horror of it. Forgive me ! " And suddenly he threw 
 his arms around me, and strained me to him, covering 
 my face with kisses, and repeating my name, "Monica! 
 Monica ! Monica ! " 
 
 But then, as suddenly as he had seized me, he released 
 me, and moved a few steps away. 
 
 " We have gone from the devil to the deep sea, I am 
 afraid," he said. " We have got rid of Leonticheff, but 
 we've got this horror in his place. We have only changed 
 one misery for another. What sort of world is this ? On 
 what principle does God distribute His punishments and 
 His rewards? Leonticheff never suffered for his sins. 
 He sinned, and sinned, and sinned again, and was never 
 the worse for it, was he? We sin just once, if it was a 
 sin to kill him, and see how we are overwhelmed ! The 
 punishment is capricious and one-sided. Ten guiltier 
 men than I go free ; why must I suffer ? It isn't fair. 
 
 " You mustn't suffer, Jidian ; you shouldn't suffer ; you 
 won't suffer, after a little while. It wasn't a sin to kill 
 him. Your suffering is only for the moment. It is a 
 shock. It will pass. It must pass. If you love me, if 
 you care for my love, you cannot be unhappy long." 
 
 " Ah, that's just the point ! If I love you ! " 
 
 "You do love me, don't you? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You don't know . . . ! " I faltered. 
 
 " I don't know. I'm not sure. Or, rather, yes, I do 
 love you, only . . . it's this way. Everything is so 
 changed. All my feelings are so different. Sometimes 
 I love you ; sometimes I think that my love is dead, that 
 I have killed it, that it has been destroyed, swept away, 
 in the general overturn. That is the worst part of the 
 whole affair. It seems to have kiUed, to have burned out 
 from my heart, every other feeling, every other thought 
 or interest. Yes, at moments I love you, I seem to love 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 341 
 
 you more entirely than ever before ; then at other mo- 
 ments the horror of the thing simply overwhelms me, and 
 obscures my love, and I cannot find anything in me but 
 indifference toward you. I think of you, I speak your 
 name, I picture your face before me, but they do not move 
 me or affect me any more than the thought or the name 
 or the face of a stranger would. I am speaking the truth 
 brutally, but you may as well understand it first as last. 
 Then at other times still, it does not stop at that. The 
 horror of it mounts and mounts, till it seems to penetrate 
 every atom of my brain and body ; and then I am no 
 longer indifferent to you, but my horror includes you in 
 it, and I . . , well, then ... I hate you. Then 
 by and by my love comes back, and so it goes, alternat- 
 ing in waves. Day, evening, night; love, indifference, 
 hate." 
 
 " Oh, merciful God ! I have made you hate me ! " I 
 cried. 
 
 " No, no, no, not that. You have not maxle me hate 
 you. I don't mean that I do hate you, either, exactly ; I 
 mean simply that the horror which is upon me sometimes 
 includes you, as it includes every other thing, person, 
 circumstance, in any way connected with what I have 
 done. The boat I crossed the Channel in, the inn I 
 stayed in at Calais, the people I passed in the streets 
 the day before the duel, Malpierre, and the field in which 
 we met, and the grass we stood on, and the men who 
 were present, the very sky above our heads, the air we 
 breathed — my horror is over all these things ; and some- 
 times, not always, it includes you. . . . That is the 
 worst of it all." 
 
 " Then . . . that . . . that is why, when I first 
 came into the room, and called you, and you were coming 
 toward me, that is why all at once you started back, and 
 turned away from me ! You hate me because it was I 
 
342 MEA CULPA. 
 
 who set you on to do it ! Oh, I deserve it, I suppose I 
 deserve it." 
 
 " No ! " he cried, coming to me, and taking me in his 
 arms again, and drawing me down at his side, upon a 
 sofa. " No, you don't deserve it, and it isn't so. It was 
 only an illusion ; but now when I see you, yourseK, reaUy 
 here near to me, and know that it is you, your own real 
 self, no, I feel nothing in the world but just love for you, 
 and joy in you. Everything else goes ; and so far from 
 my horror at that thing obscuring my love, my love 
 chases away the horror. Oh, it is you ! And you love 
 me ! And you will be mine ! You wiU be my wife ! 
 There is nothing to keep us apart any longer ! " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing ! I will be your wife. I will be 
 anything and everything to you that a woman can be to 
 the man she loves, to the man who has faced death for 
 her, and delivered her from the evil that was over her 
 whole life. Oh, you will not be unhappy. Tell me, 
 promise me, you won't." 
 
 " Unhappy ! I can't believe I have ever been unhappy. 
 I am the happiest man in the whole world," he said. 
 Then he laughed, and added, " I'm sure you never can 
 guess what I thought of just then." 
 
 "What? TeUme." 
 
 He looked at me with smiling eyes for a moment ; and 
 then he said, " Do you remember ? What we used to 
 comfort ourselves with in the old days in Paris ? Entre 
 nous le passe ne valait pas le diable ; I'avenir sera delec- 
 table ; en attendant jouissons du present ! " 
 
 " Fh Men, done, jouissons en!" I whispered, laughing 
 for happiness. 
 
 And then . . . 
 
VI. 
 
 The next morning, at Salchester House, I received 
 this letter from him . . . 
 
 " No, it is no use. After I left you, it aU came back 
 upon me, ten times stronger than before. You see, I was 
 not quite frank last night. I told you nothing but the 
 truth, yet I did not tell you the whole truth. I told you 
 what I felt, I did not tell you what I thought. My feel- 
 ings, you said, would pass away ; I did not contradict 
 you ; indeed, I tried to lull myself into believing as you 
 did for the time ; but down deep I knew they would not 
 pass, I knew they could not. If they were feelings alone, 
 and stood by themselves — rested upon themselves — ^yes, 
 they would most likely pass. A mere wound must heal 
 after a certain lapse of time ; but where it is not a mere 
 wound ? Where it is a sore, the consequence of a poison 
 in the very composition of the blood ? The- truth is that 
 they are not simply /eeZ«^(/s ; they do not rest upon them- 
 selves ; they rest upon a conviction, they are the conse- 
 quences of a conviction — a conviction that has within a 
 few days become as deeply rooted and as vital in me as 
 my life itself. That is what I concealed last night, what 
 I tried to forget last night. 
 
 " It has come upon me, Monica, very late in the day 
 and very suddenly, you may say, but not with less force 
 or staying power because of its tardiness or its sudden- 
 ness ; it came upon me with overwhelming force, like a 
 voice from the sky, the very second I saw him fall — this 
 
344 MEA CULPA. 
 
 donviction : that I had been deceiving myself and making 
 my conscience drunk with lies and sophistries, and that, 
 in bare reality, I had meditated, compassed, and now 
 committed a crime, a great, terrible, irremediable crime. 
 When I saw him turn, and totter, and fall — it was as if 
 the skies opened, and the voice of God cried out, And noiv 
 tliou art cursed from the earth, and the hand of God 
 placed a seal upon my brow ! Why did God let me go so 
 far ? Why did He not open His skies, and let me hear 
 His voice, before it was too late ? Or, having allowed me 
 to go so far, why could He not have allowed me to go on 
 forever? Why, when it was too late, let me hear His 
 voice at all ? 
 
 " Anyhow, I must try to explain it to you. 
 
 " We, you and I, were in a terrible situation ; that is 
 undeniable ; a situation partly thrust upon us, partly of 
 our own making ; and one as heavily fraught with pain as 
 almost any human situation can be. But we had this 
 one consolation, though we did not realize how great a 
 consolation it was — ^we were innocent, our hands were 
 clean. So, though we did not know it, our situation was 
 not altogether hopeless. I see now — it is a truism, but 
 for me it is a new discovery — I see that so long as a 
 man's own soul is iimocent, his own hands clean, no situ- 
 ation in which he can be placed is altogether hopeless. 
 But ours seemed hopeless to us ; om- pain obscured our 
 vision ; it seemed hopeless to us, and it seemed intolera- 
 ble ; and we looked about for a way out of it. No, we 
 were hemmed in on all sides ; only at one point we saw 
 what looked like a way out of it, we saw one little open- 
 ing. There was just one path, one gate, through which 
 we could make our escape ; we did not stop to question 
 whither that path led, whether possibly it might lead to 
 another situation worse and more intolerable still ; it was 
 a way out, and we took it. 
 
BESPERATB APPLIANCE. 345 
 
 " "Well, the one gate we saw was the gate of sin, the 
 path was the path to hell. That is where I find it has 
 brought me, anyhow. We had been innocent, our hands 
 had been clean ; but after we had passed that gateway, 
 we were guilty, our hands were stained with blood ! We 
 fought the devil, as the saying is, with fire. We endeav- 
 ored to overcome one evil with another evil, a greater evil. 
 It didn't pay. For me, I confess, I have got the worst of 
 it. We have exchanged a situation that was bad enough, 
 but not hopeless, for a situation that is worse, and that 
 is hopeless. Our parts in the play had been those of in- 
 jured innocence ; we were the victims : but now we are 
 the heavy villains. 
 
 "I don't know whether I make myself clear to you! but 
 it has aU come upon me with a force and a light as great 
 and as certain as if it were a revelation straight from God. 
 Before, we were the victims ; now we are the heavy vil- 
 lains ! The shot I fired turned the tables quite around. 
 We had been in the right ; it put us in the wrong. The 
 same shot that killed Leonticheffs body, destroyed our 
 souls, destroyed the innocence of our lives, and placed any- 
 thing approaching happiness or peace forever, forever be- 
 yond our reach. Could we ever, do you think, be happy 
 together, with that awful burden of guilt between us? 
 Knowing the price at which we had purchased our liberty 
 and our unity ? We could never be otherwise than utterly 
 miserable ; we would come to blame each other, to lay the 
 responsibility each at the other's doot, to hate each other. 
 I preach? No, no, it isn't that. Only I know that I 
 have committed a dreadful crime ; a crime which I can 
 never undo, or atone for ; and I know that I can never for- 
 get it, that I can never ease my mind or my memory or my 
 conscience of the weight of it. Do not deceive yourself 
 with the notion that I am simply upset and shocked, because 
 I saw a man fall dead before me by my hand. That is bad 
 
346 MEA CULPA. 
 
 enough, but if I had killed a man under circumstances 
 which I could consider justifiable, I should be sure that a 
 little time would make that right. If I had killed a man 
 when he was in the actual fact of attacking you, for in- 
 stance, and I knew that I must kill him to save your life ! 
 But I killed him in circumstances that were not justifiable ; 
 I killed him because I wanted to get him out of the way ; 
 I murdered him ; and I never can get over that. Don't 
 misunderstand me ; I am not sorry that he is dead, I am 
 glad that he is dead ; his death was, so far as I can see, in 
 every way a desirable event ; I am only sorry that I killed 
 him ; I think his death was desirable, but I think it was 
 more desirable still that you and I should retain intact 
 the innocence of our souls. It is this way : better that 
 a thousand guilty men should live and prosper, than that 
 one innocent man should become guilty. 
 
 " What am I going to do ? Well, I will tell you in one 
 word that I cannot bear it any longer. I have borne it 
 unceasingly every hour of every day and night since it 
 happened. I can't describe what I have suffered, I can't 
 give you any idea of it. My life has simply been steeped 
 in horror . . . horror when I lie down, and horror 
 when I get up, horror, horror, horror ! I once saw a man 
 in delirium tremens. I dare say the comparison is gro- 
 tesque, but I feel just as he appeared to feel. Everything 
 I see, every sound I hear, makes me start and tremble 
 through and through with horror. I can't bear it any 
 longer, it is unbearable ; I don't know any reason why I 
 should try to bear it ; it is too much. As long as I live^ 
 it must be so, it must be the same ; as long as I remem- 
 ber. Therefore, the shorter my life, the better for me. 
 If I knew of some good cause in which I could lay down 
 my life, I believe I should go and do it. But I am not 
 aware of any good cause in the world at present wherein a 
 man can serve, and yet die an instant death. Nowadays 
 
DESPERATE APPLIANCE. 347 
 
 you must live, if you would serve a cause. I cannot live 
 any longer. Besides, I don't set much store by causes, 
 after all ; I am not a humanitarian. I cannot live any 
 longer. I have stood this agony just as long as I can 
 stand it. The first part of the curse of Cain I accept : I 
 am cursed from the earth. But I will not accept the 
 second part : I will not go on living, a vagabond and a 
 wanderer, with a brand upon my forehead, and an un- 
 ceasing fire in my heart. To-day will be the last day. I 
 will finish this letter, and send it to you, and then I 
 will . . . cela va sans dire. 
 
 " Don't say that I am leaving you to bear it alone. I 
 coiild not help you in any way if I remained. We could 
 never be anything to each other — with tJiat between us ! 
 The way of the transgressor is hard ; we should have to 
 tread it ; each would feel that it was the other's fault 
 which had brought us there. We could never be any- 
 thing to each other. We were happy last night ? Yes, 
 perhaps for a little while, with the short-lived ecstasy of 
 passion. But afterward? For me it was worse than 
 ever. 
 
 " Destiny seems to have been against us from the be- 
 ginning. Good-by. I would wish to live if I could say I 
 love you — if I could feel one^ spark of my old pure love 
 for you, my innocent sweet love, in my heart. Good-by." 
 
 I have been very ill since then ; the doctors warn me 
 that I may not have many months to live. I have written 
 these pages in September and October, 1890. If I 
 should die soon, they will be published. If I should 
 disappoint the doctors, and live . . . ? 
 
 THE END.