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inaccessible to him. But these unpleasant matters were all drowned in
the sea of kindliness and good humor which was always within him,
and more so than ever since his course of Carlsbad waters.
The day after his arrival the prince, in his long overcoat, with his
Russian wrinkles and baggy cheeks propped up by a starched collar,
set off with his daughter to the spring in the greatest good humor.
It was a lovely morning: the bright, cheerful houses with their little
gardens, the sight of the red-faced, red-armed, beer-drinking German
waitresses, working away merrily, did the heart good. But the nearer
they got to the springs the oftener they met sick people; and their
appearance seemed more pitiable than ever among the everyday con-
ditions of prosperous German life. Kitty was no longer struck by this
contrast. The bright sun, the brilliant green of the foliage, the strains of
the music were for her the natural setting of all these familiar faces,
with their changes to greater emaciation or to convalescence, for which
she watched. But to the prince the brightness and gaiety of the June
morning, and the sound of the orchestra playing a gay waltz then in
fashion, and above all, the appearance of the healthy attendants,
seemed something unseemly and monstrous, in conjunction with these
slowly moving, dying figures gathered together from all parts of Eu-
rope. In spite of his feeling of pride and, as it were, of the return of
youth, with his favorite daughter on his arm, he felt awkward, and
almost ashamed of his vigorous step and his sturdy, stout limbs. He
felt almost like a man not dressed in a crowd.
“Present me to your new friends,” he said to his daughter, squeez-
ing her hand with his elbow. “I like even your horrid Soden for making
you so well again. Only it’s melancholy, very melancholy here. Who’s
that?”
Kitty mentioned the names of all the people they met, with some of
whom she was acquainted and some not. At the entrance of the
garden they met the blind lady, Madame Berthe, with her guide, and
the prince was delighted to see the old Frenchwoman’s face light up
when she heard Kitty’s voice. She at once began talking to him with
French exaggerated politeness, applauding him for having such a de-
lightful daughter, extolling Kitty to the skies before her face, and calling
her a treasure, a pearl, and a consoling angel.
“Well, she’s the second angel, then,” said the prince, smiling. “she
calls Mademoiselle Varenka angel number one.”
“Oh! Mademoiselle Varenka, she’s a real angel, allez,” Madame
Berthe assented.
In the arcade they met Varenka herself. She was walking rapidly
towards them carrying an elegant red bag.
“Here is papa come,” Kitty said to her.
Varenka made—simply and naturally as she did everything—a
movement between a bow and curtsey, and immediately began talking
to the prince, without shyness, naturally, as she talked to everyone.
“Of course I know you; I know you very well,” the prince said to her
with a smile, in which Kitty detected with joy that her father liked her
friend. “Where are you off to in such haste?”
“Maman’s here,” she said, turning to Kitty. “She has not slept all
night, and the doctor advised her to go out. I’m taking her her work.”
“So that’s angel number one?” said the prince when Varenka had
gone on.
Kitty saw that her father had meant to make fun of Varenka, but
that he could not do it because he liked her.
“Come, so we shall see all your friends,” he went on, “even Ma-
dame Stahl, if she deigns to recognize me.”
“Why, did you know her, papa?” Kitty asked apprehensively, catch-