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Introduction
Eliza Orzeszko, the authoress of "The Argonauts," is the greatest
female writer and thinker in the Slav world at present. There are
keen and good critics, just judges of thought and style, who
pronounce her the first literary artist among the women of
Europe.
These critics are not Western Europeans, for Western Europe has
no means yet of appreciating this gifted woman. No doubt it will
have these means after a time in the form of adequate
translations. Meanwhile I repeat that she is the greatest
authoress among all the Slav peoples. She is a person of rare
intellectual distinction, an observer of exquisite perception in
studying men and women, and the difficulties with which they have
to struggle.
Who are the Slavs among whom Eliza Orzeszko stands thus
distinguished?
The Slavs form a very large majority of the people in
Austria-Hungary, an immense majority in European Turkey, and an
overwhelming majority in the Russian Empire; they are besides an
unyielding, though repressed, majority in that part of Prussian
territory known as Posen in German, and Poznan in Polish.
The Slav race occupies an immense region extending from Prussia,
Bohemia, and the Adriatic eastward to the Pacific Ocean. Its main
divisions are the Russians, Poles, Bohemians (Chehs), Serbs,
Bulgarians; its smaller divisions are the Slovaks, Wends,
Slovinians, Croats, Montenegrins. These all have literature in
some form, literature which in respect to the world outside is
famous, well known, little known, or unknown.
The Slavs have behind them a history dramatic to the utmost,
varied, full of suffering, full also, of heroism in endurance or
valor.
The present time is momentous for all nations, the future is a
tangled riddle; for the Slavs this seems true in a double
measure. To involved social problems is added race opposition in
the breasts of neighbors, a deep, sullen historic hostility.
Hence when a writer of power appears among the Slavs, whether he
takes up the past or the present, he has that at hand through
which he compels the whole world to listen. Sienkiewicz has shown
this, so has Tolstoy, so have Dostoyevski and Gogol.
The present volume gives in translation a book which should be
widely read with much pleasure. The winning of money on an
immense scale to the neglect of all other objects, to the neglect
even of the nearest duties, is the sin of one Argonaut; the utter
neglect of money and the proper means of living is the ruin of
the other.
Darvid by "iron toil" laid the basis of a splendid structure, but
went no farther; he had not the time, he had not the power,
perhaps, to build thereon himself, and his wife, to whom he left
the task, had not the character to do so. By neglect of duty
Darvid is brought to madness; by neglect of money Kranitski is
brought to be a parasite, and when he loses even that position he
is supported by a servant.
The right use of wealth, the proper direction of labor, these are
supreme questions in our time, and beyond all in America.
Friends have advised Madame Orzeszko to visit this country and
study it; visit Chicago, the great business centre, the most
active city on earth, and New York, the great money capital. If
she comes she will see much to rouse thought. What will she see?
That we know how to win money and give proper use to it? Whatever
she sees, it will be something of value, that is undoubted;
something that may be compared with European conditions,
something to be compared with the story in this book.
Eliza Orzeszko writes because she cannot help writing; her works,
contained in forty-odd volumes, touch on the most vital subjects
in the world about her. She tells the truth precisely as she sees
it. We may hope for much yet from the pen of this lady, who is
still in the best years of her intellectual activity.
Madame Orzeszko was born a little more than fifty years ago in
Lithuania, that part of the Commonwealth which produced
Mickiewicz, the great poet, and Kosciuszko the hero.
THE ARGONAUTS
By Eliza Orzeszko (Orzeszkowa)
Translated by Jeremiah Curtin
Bristol, Vt., U.S.A.
September 12, 1901.
CHAPTER I
It was the mansion of a millionaire. On the furniture and the
walls of drawing-rooms, colors and gleams played as on the
surface of a pearl shell. Mirrors reflected pictures, and inlaid
floors shone like mirrors. Here and there dark tapestry and
massive curtains seemed to decrease the effect, but only at first
sight, for, in fact, they lent the whole interior a dignity which
was almost churchlike. At some points everything glistened,
gleamed, changed into azure, scarlet, gold, bronze, and the
various tints of white peculiar to plaster-of-Paris, marble,
silk, porcelain. In that house were products of Chinese and
Japanese skill; the styles of remote ages were there, and the
most exquisite and elegant among modern styles, lamps,
chandeliers, candlesticks, vases, ornamental art in its highest
development. Withal much taste and skill was evident, a certain
tact in placing things, and a keenness in disposing them, which
indicated infallibly the hand and the mind of a woman who was far
above mediocrity.
The furnishing of this mansion must have cost sums which to the
poor would seem colossal, and very considerable even to the
wealthy.
Aloysius Darvid, the owner of this mansion, had not inherited his
millions; he had won them with his own iron labor, and he toiled
continually to increase them. His industry, inventiveness, and
energy were inexhaustible. To him business seemed to be what
water is to a fish: the element which gives delight and freedom.
What was his business? Great and complicated enterprises: the
erection of public edifices, the purchase, sale, and exchange of
values of various descriptions, exchanges in many markets and
corporations. To finish all this business it was necessary to
possess qualities of the most opposite character: the courage of
the lion and the caution of the fox, the talons of the falcon and
the elasticity of the cat. His life was passed at a gaming-table,
composed of the whole surface of a gigantic State; that life was
a species of continuous punting at a bank kept by blind chance
rather frequently; for calculation and skill, which meant very
much in his career, could not eliminate chance altogether, that
power which appears independently. Hence, he must not let chance
overthrow him; he might drop to the earth before its thrusts and
contract a muscle, but only to parry, make an elastic spring, and
seize new booty. His career was success rising and falling like a
river, it was also a fever, ceaselessly bathed in cool
calculation and reckoning.
As to the rest, post-wagons, railways, bells at railway stations,
urging to haste, glittering snows of the distant North, mountains
towering on the boundary between two parts of the world, rivers
cutting through uninhabited regions, horizons marked with the
gloomy lines of Siberian forests, solitary since the beginning of
ages. Then, as a change: noise, glitter, throngs, the brilliancy
of capitals, and in those capitals a multitude of doors, some of
which open with freedom, while others are closed hermetically;
before doors of the second sort the pliancy of the cat's paw is
needed; this finds a hole where the broad way is impossible.
He was forced to be absent from his family for long months,
sometimes for whole years, and even when living under the same
roof with the members of it he was a rare guest, never a real
confiding companion. For permanence, intimacy, tender feeling in
relations, with even those who were nearest him, Darvid had not
the time, just as he had not the time to concentrate his thoughts
on any subject whatever unless it was connected with his lines,
dates, and figures, or with the meshes of that net in which he
enclosed his thoughts and his iron labor.
As to amusements and delights of life, they were at intervals
love-affairs, flashing up on a sudden, transient, fleeting,
vanishing with the smoke of the locomotive which rushed forward,
at times luxuries of the table peculiar to various climates, or
majestic scenery which forced itself on the eye by its grandeur
and disappeared quickly, or some hours of animated card-playing;
but, above all, relations with social magnates, who were on the
one hand of use, and on the other an immensely great honor to his
vanity. Money and significance, these were the two poles around
which all Darvid's thoughts, desires, and feelings circled; or,
at least, it might seem all, for who can be certain that nothing
exists in a man save that which is manifest in his actions?
Surely no one, not the man himself even.
After three years' absence, Darvid had returned only a few months
before to his native city, and to his own house, where he was as
ever a rare and inattentive guest. Pie was laboring again. In the
first week, on the first day almost, he discovered a new field;
he was very anxious to seize this field, and begin his Herculean
efforts on it. But the seizure depended on a certain very highly
placed personage to whom, up to that time, he had not been able
to gain admittance.
The cat's paw had played about a number of times to open a
crevice in the closed door, but in vain! He desired a
confidential talk of two hours, but could not obtain it.
He turned then to a method which had given him real service
frequently.
He found an individual who had the art of squeezing into all
places, of winning everyone, of digging from under the earth
circumstances, relations, influences. Individuals of this kind
are generally dubious in character, but this concerned Darvid in
no way. He considered that at the bottom of life dregs are found
as surely as slime is in rivers which have golden sand. He
thought of life's dregs and smiled contemptuously, but did not
hesitate to handle those dregs, and see if there were golden
grains in them. He called his dubious assistants hounds, for they
tracked game in thickets inaccessible to the hunter. Small,
almost invisible, they were still better able than he to contract
muscles, creep up or spring over. He had let out such a hound a
few days before to gain the desired audience, and had received no
news from him thus far. This disturbed and annoyed Darvid
greatly. He would rush into the new work like a lion into an
arena, and spring at fresh prey.
The evening twilight came down into the series of great and small
chambers. Darvid, in his study, furnished with such dignified
wealth that it was almost severe in the rich lamp-light, received
men who came on affairs of various descriptions: with reports,
accounts, requests, proposals.
In that study everything was dark-colored, massive, grand in its
proportions, of great price, but not flashy. Not the least object
was showy or fantastic; nothing was visible save dignity and
comfort. There were books behind the glass of a splendid
bookcase, two great pictures on the wall, a desk with piles of
papers, in the middle of the room a round table covered with
maps, pamphlets, thick volumes; around the table, heavy, deep and
low armchairs. The room was spacious with a lofty ceiling, from
which hung over the round table a splendid lamp, burning
brightly.
Darvid's remote prototype, the Argonaut Jason, must have had
quite a different exterior when he sailed on toward Colchis to
find the golden fleece. Time, which changes the methods of
contest, changes the forms of its knights correspondingly. Jason
trusted in the strength of his arm and his sword-blade. Darvid
trusted in his brain and his nerves only. Hence, in him, brain
and nerves were developed to the prejudice of muscles, creating a
special power, which one had to know in order to recognize it in
that slender and not lofty figure, in that face with shrunken
cheeks, covered with skin which was dry, pale, and as mobile as
if quivering from every breeze which carried his bark toward the
shores which he longed for. On his cheeks shone narrow strips of
whiskers, almost bronze-hued; the silky ends of these fell on his
stiff, low collar; ruddy mustaches, short and firm, darkened his
pale, thin lips, which had a smile in the changeableness of which
was great expression; this smile encouraged, discouraged,
attracted, repelled, believed, doubted, courted or jeered-jeered
frequently. But the main seat of power in Darvid seemed to be his
eyes, which rested long and attentively on that which he
examined. These eyes had pupils of steel color, cold, very deep,
and with a fullness of penetrating light which was often sharp,
under brows which were prominent, whose ruddy lines were drawn
under a high forehead, increased further by incipient baldness-a
forehead which was smooth and had the polish of ivory; between
the brows were numerous wrinkles, like a cloud of anxiety and
care. His was a cold, reasoning face, energetic, with the stamp
of thought fixed between the brows, and lines of irony which had
made the mouth drawn.
A jurist, one of the most renowned in that great city, held in
his hand an open volume of the Code, and was reading aloud a
series of extracts from it. Darvid was standing and listening
attentively, but irony increased in his smile, and, when the
jurist stopped reading, he began in a low voice. This voice with
its tones suppressed, as it were, through caution, was one of
Darvid's peculiarities.
"Pardon me, but what you have read has no relation to the point
which concerns us." Taking the book he turned over its pages for
a while and began then to read from it. In reading he used
glasses with horn-rims; from these the yellowish pallor of his
lean face became deeper. The renowned jurist was confused and
astonished.
"You are right," said he. "I was mistaken. You know law
famously." How was he to avoid knowing it, since it was his
weapon and safety-valve! The jurist sat down on one of the broad
and low armchairs in silence, and now the architect unrolled on
the table the plan of a public edifice to which the last finish
was to be given during winter and before work began in spring.
Darvid listened again in silent thought, looking at the plan with
his steel-colored eyes, in which at times there flashed sparks of
ideas coming from the brain-ideas which, after a while, he
presented to the trained architect. He spoke in a voice low and
fluent; he spoke connectedly and very clearly. The architect
answered with respect, and, like, the jurist who had preceded,
not without a certain astonishment. Great God! this man knows
everything; he moves as freely in the fields of architecture,
mathematics, and law as in his own chamber! Darvid noticed the
astonishment of those around him, and irony settled on his thin
lips. Did those men imagine that he could begin such undertakings
and be like a blind man among colors? Some begin thus but are
ruined! He understood that in our time immense knowledge is the
only foundation for pyramidal fortunes, and his memory alone knew
the long series of nights which had passed above his head while
it was sleepless in winning knowledge.
Next appeared before the table a young man, lean and slender; his
dark eyes expressed genius, his clothing was threadbare, his
gestures almost vulgar. This was a sculptor, young but already
famous. The man had incipient consumption, which brought
excessive ruddiness to his face, a glitter to his eyes, and a
short, rasping cough from his breast.
He spoke of the sculptures which he was to finish for the
edifices reared by the great contractor; he showed the drawings
of them, and explained his ideas; he rose to enthusiasm; he spoke
more loudly, and coughed at more frequent intervals. Darvid
raised his head; the sensitive skin on his cheeks quivered with a
delicate movement; he touched the shoulder of the artist with the
tips of two white, slender fingers.
"Best," said he; "it hurts you to speak too long."
"My younger daughter coughs in just this way," remarked he to the
other men present, "and it troubles me somewhat."
"Perhaps a visit to Italy," said the architect.
"Yes, I have thought of that, but the doctors note nothing
dangerous so far." Then he turned to the sculptor:
"You ought to visit Italy, for its collections of art and--its
climate." The artist, not pleased with this interruption, did not
answer directly, but went on showing his projects and explaining
them; though his short breath and the cough, which was repeated
oftener, made his conversation more difficult. Thereupon Darvid
straightened himself.
"I know very little of art," said he. "Not because I despise it;
on the contrary, I think art a power, since the world does it
homage, but because I lack time. Trouble yourself no further to
exhibit plans and ideas here. I confirm them beforehand, knowing
well what I do. Prince Zeno, whose good taste and intellect I
admire, advised me to turn to you. At his house, moreover, I have
seen works of your chisel which charmed me. Some declare that we
men of finance and business represent only matter, and have no
concern with Psyche (the soul). But I say that your Psyche, now
in Prince Zeno's palace, produced on me the impression that I am
not matter only."
Irony covered his lips, but with increased amiability he added:
"Let us fix the amount of your honorarium, permit me to take the
initiative," said he, hurriedly.
In a tone of inquiry he mentioned a sum which was very
considerable. The sculptor bowed, unwilling, or unable to conceal
his delight and astonishment. Darvid touched him lightly on the
arm, and conducted him to a great desk, one drawer of which he
opened. The jurist and the architect at the round table exchanged
glances.
"A protege of the prince!" whispered one.
"Cleverness! advertising!" whispered the other.
"I know from report," said Darvid, to the young artist, "that
sculptors must spend considerable sums before they begin a given
work. Here is an advance. Do not hesitate. Money should be at the
service of talent."
The sculptor was astonished. He had imagined the millionaire as
entirely different.
"Money should be at the service of talent!" repeated he.
"I hear this for the first time from a man having money! Do you
really think so?" Darvid smiled, but his face clouded
immediately.
"My dear sir," said he, "I would give, I think, much money if a
cough like yours were not in the world."
"Because of your daughter--" began the sculptor, but Darvid had
grown cold now, ceremonious, and he turned toward the round
table.
At the same moment a servant announced from the door a new guest.
"Pan Arthur Kranitski."
The guest entered immediately after the servant, and passed the
outgoing sculptor in the door.
This guest was a man who carried his fifth decade of years with
youthful elasticity of movement, and with a pleasant, winning
expression on his still handsome face. In general he seemed to be
clothed with remnants of great manly beauty, from behind which,
like soiled lining through rents in a once splendid robe,
appeared, carefully concealed, old age, which was premature,
perhaps.
A tall man with a shapely oval face, he had dark whiskers, and
the black curls of his hair did not cover successfully the bald
spot appearing on the back of his head; his mustache was curled
upward, in the fashion of young men, above ruddy lips; he passed
through the study with a youthful step, and had the express
intention of greeting the master of the house in a cordial and
intimate manner. But in the cold eyes of Darvid appeared flashes
well-nigh threatening; he barely touched with his finger-tips the
hand extended by the guest-a hand really aristocratic, white,
slender, and greatly cared for.
"Pardon, pardon, dear Pan Aloysius, that I come at this hour,
just the hour of thy important, immense, colossal occupations!
But on receiving thy invitation I hastened."
"Yes," said Darvid, "I need to talk with you a little--will you
wait a while?"
He turned toward the two men standing by the table, who when he
greeted Kranitski looked at him with a curiosity impossible to
conceal.
Every meeting of Darvid with that eternal guest, that offshoot of
aristocratic families, roused the curiosity of people. For a good
while Darvid did not know this, but at last he discovered it, and
now his quick glance caught on the lips of the famous jurist a
barely discernible smile, to meet which a similar smile appeared
on the lips of the architect. He discoursed a few minutes more
with the two men. When they turned to go he conducted them to the
door; when that was closed he turned to Kranitski and said:
"Now I am at your service."
No one had ever seen service so icy cold, and having in it the
shade of a restrained threat. Kranitski in view of this spent
more time than was needed in placing his hat on one of the pieces
of furniture, besides an expression of alarm covered his face,
now bent forward, and, in the twinkle of an eye, the wrinkling of
his forehead and the dropping of his cheeks, made him look ten
years older. Still with grace which was unconscious, since it had
passed long before into habit, he turned to Darvid.
"Thou hast written to me, dear Pan Aloysius--"
"I have called you," interrupted Darvid, "for the purpose of
proposing a certain condition, and a change."
From a thick, long book he cut out a page, on which, previously,
he had written a few words in haste, and giving it to Kranitski,
he said:
"Here is a bank check for a considerable sum. Your affairs, as I
hear, are in a very disagreeable condition."
Kranitski's face grew radiant from delight, and became ten years
younger. Taking the check presented to him he began, with a
certain hesitation:
"Dear Pan Aloysius, this service, really friendly, which thou art
rendering me, even without request on my part, is truly
magnanimous, but be assured that the moment income from my
property increases--"
Darvid interrupted him a second time.
"We know each other so long that I cannot be ignorant of what
your property is, and what income you receive from it. You have
no property. You own a little village, the income from which has
never sufficed to satisfy even one half of your needs. In that
little village you would have passed your life unknown to the
great world if your mother had not been a relative of Prince
Zeno, and some other coronets of nine quarterings. But since you
had relationship so brilliant through your mother, high society
did not suffer from the loss of your presence. I know all that
relates to you, you need not try to lead me into error--I know
everything."
On the last words he put an emphasis which seemed to bring
Kranitski into a profound confusion, which he could not master.
"Parole d'honneur," began he, "I do not understand such a real
friendly service with such a tone."
"You will understand at once. This sum offered you is not a
friendly service, but a simple commercial transaction. To begin
with, I insist that for the future you cut short all relations
with my son Maryan."
Kranitski stepped back a number of paces.
"With Maryan!" exclaimed he, as if not wishing to believe his own
ears. "I break all relations with him! Is it possible? Why? How
can that be? But you yourself--"
"That is true, I myself began this. I wished that my family,
which, during my frequent absences, resided here permanently,
should move in that social sphere which I considered most
desirable, and I asked you to be the link between my family and
that sphere--"
"I did what you desired," interrupted Kranitski in turn, and
raising his head.
Darvid, looking firmly into his face, said in a low voice,
slowly, but the ice of his tones seemed at moments to break from
the boiling of passion confined beneath them.
"Yes, but you, sir, have demoralized my son. Of himself he would
never have gone to such a degree of corruption and idleness. You
drew him from study, you led him into all kinds of sport, you
took him to all places of amusement, from the highest to the
lowest. On returning, after three years' absence, I found Maryan
withered morally. Luckily he is a child yet, twenty-three years
of age, it is possible to save him. The process of salvation I
begin by forbidding you to have any further relations whatever
with my son."
Darvid grew terrible during his remaining words. His fingers were
sinking into the table, on which he rested his hand. The cluster
of wrinkles between his brows became deeper, his eyes had the
flash of steel in them; he was all hatred, anger, contempt. But
Kranitski, who at first listened to him as if unable to move from
astonishment, boiled up also with anger.
"What do you say?" cried he. "Does not my hearing deceive me? You
reproach me! Me, who during your ceaseless occupations and
absences have been for many years, one may say, the only guardian
of your family, and director of your son. Well! Then do you not
remember our former intimacy, and this, that it was I who made
you acquainted with the highest families of this city, and all
this country? Do you not remember your confidential statements to
me that you wished to give your daughters in marriage within
those circles to which my connections might be a convenient
bridge for you? Do you not remember your requests that I should
introduce Maryan into the best society, and teach him the manners
prevailing there? Very well! You were making your millions in
peace, going after them to the ends of the earth, while I did
everything that you wished, and now I meet with reproaches,
which, at the very least, are expressed without delicacy--des
reproches, des grossieretes--Mais ca n'a pas de nom! c'est inoui!
This demands the satisfaction of honor."
His indignation was genuine and heartfelt; it brought out a deep
flush on his still shapely face. A stony amazement fell on
Darvid. True, true, that man spoke the truth.
He, Darvid, had used him for his purposes; he had liked the man,
almost loved him; he had given him great confidence. He had not
looked into his character; he had not tried to know him, though
he had found time to analyze and know men who took no part in his
business. But the fact in this case was, that whatever had
happened, had happened with his own will. From the depth of his
bosom, from out their mysterious den, came a coil of snakes, and
a repulsive coldness and slime rose toward his throat, still he
reared his head.
"There is much truth in what you say; still my decisive and
repeated wish is that you cease to appear in my house."
Kranitski's forehead was flushed with blood, and the words were
hissing on his lips when he cried:
"In view of such feelings of yours toward me, how am I to explain
the service rendered just now?"
"As pay for service which you have rendered me, or my family. I
pay, we are at quits, and part forever."
"You are not the only power in this world!" cried Kranitski; "not
your will alone can open or close the doors of this house to me."
Darvid, so pale that even his thin lips did not seem to possess a
drop of blood, took from a letter-case and showed Kranitski,
between two fingers, a letter in a small elegant envelope,
bearing the address of Pani Malvina Darvid.
The dark flush vanished from Kranitski without a trace; he became
very pale and rested his hand on the arm of the chair; his eyes
opened widely. Silence lasted some seconds; between those two men
with faces as pale as linen hung the terror of a discovered
secret. Darvid, with a voice so stifled that it was barely
audible, was the first to speak.
"How this letter came into my hands we need not explain! Simply
by chance. Such chances are very common, and they have in them
only this good, that at times they put an end to deceit
and--villainy!"
Kranitski, still very pale except that red spots were coming out
on his forehead, looked very old all at once; he advanced some
steps and stood before Darvid, the round table alone was between
them. With stifled voice, but fixing his black, flashing eyes
boldly on Darvid's face, he said:
"Deceit! villainy! those words are said easily! Do you not know
that in early youth your wife was almost my betrothed?"
Darvid's lips were covered with irony, and he said:
"You deserted her at command of your mother, when she sent you to
this capital in search of the golden fleece."
"And when you went to the ends of the earth for it," answered
Kranitski, "you thought proper to place me to guard the woman
whom I loved formerly. You considered yourself invincible, even
when separated by hundreds or thousands of miles from her--"
"Let us stop this ridiculous discussion," said Darvid.
"As for me," put in Kranitski, with animation, "I will finish it
by offering you any satisfaction which you may demand. I await
your seconds."
Darvid laughed loudly and sharply.
"A duel! Do you think that the world would not know the cause of
it? Your former betrothed would appear in the matter. For that I
should care less, though I must care, for she bears my name, but
I have daughters, and I have business--"
He was silent a while, then he finished:
"A scandal might injure my business, and most assuredly would
injure the future of my daughters; therefore I will neither
challenge you to a duel, nor will I direct my servants to thrash
you!"
A trembling shook Kranitski from head to foot, as if from the
effects of a blow; he straightened himself, he became manful, and
crushing in his hand the bank check which he had received, hurled
that paper bullet into Darvid's face so directly that it hit him
at the top of his bronze colored whiskers and fell to his feet.
Then with elastic movement, and with a grace which was
unconscious and uncommon, he turned toward the door and strode
out. Darvid remained alone. In that spacious, lofty chamber,
richly furnished, in the abundant light of a costly lamp, he
remained alone. Clasping his inclined head with both hands, he
squeezed it with his white, lean fingers, as with pincers. How
many vexations and troubles had met him here after an absence of
years! There was something greater still than even these
vexations and troubles. The coil of serpents rose in his breast
and crawled up to his very throat.
That was torture mixed with a feeling of unendurable disgust. But
Darvid avoided high-sounding phrases, and would never think or
say: torture, disgust. That was a manner of speaking for idlers
and poets. He, a man of iron industry, knew only the words
vexation, trouble. What is he to do now with that woman? Throw
her out like a beast which, bathed in milk and honey by its
owner, has bitten him to the blood? Impossible. His children,
especially his daughters, his business, his position, his
house--scandals are harmful in every way. So he must live on
under the same roof with her; meet the sight of her face, her
eyes--those eyes which on a time were for him--yes, it cannot be
otherwise.
He must endure that and master himself; master himself mightily,
so as not to let things reach a scene, or reproaches, or
explanation. Naturally, no scenes, disputes, or explanations.
For, first of all, what can they profit? Nothing save a useless
expense of energy, and he needs energy so much.
Besides, the very best punishment for that woman is unbroken
silence, which will raise between her and him an impenetrable
wall. From words, even though they be as sharp as sword-edges,
some sound may be got, some slight hope of salvation; but
silence, concealing hidden knowledge of a deed, is a coffin in
which, from the first hour of each day to the end of it, that
woman's pride will be placed with all that in her may still be
human. Contempt as silent as the grave! She will eat of his
millions, seasoned with his contempt. She will array herself in
his millions, interwoven with his hatred. Hatred? Oh, beyond
doubt he hates her with passion, and only at times does her name
move marvellously through his brain with such sounds as if they
were the echo of things very dear, things lost forever and
irreplaceable. Can it be? Is it possible that she did that?
Malvina, once an ideal maiden, and ten years later a woman so
loving that when he was going on a journey she threw herself on
her knees and wept, and then besought him not to go from her! He
remembers the scene perfectly.
Her hair of pale gold, dropping then in disorder to her shoulders
and bosom--her magnificent hair, surrounded by which the tears
flowing down her face glistened like diamonds! He raised his
head, straightened himself. What stupidity! On what sentiment and
exaltation is he losing time and energy! He needs them for
something else. He needs to concentrate all his forces to bring
his new designs to the desired culmination. Why does "that hound"
not show himself and bring the answer needed? Ah, if he could
only get one hour of that conversation, he would convince; he
would capture; he would overcome rivals, and seize into his own
sole possession new fields of industry and speculation! There are
hindrances, intrigues, dangerous rivalries, he knows of them, and
these oppositions it is precisely which attract him most of all.
Now especially, with those vexations and troubles, victory and
the new work would be as a spoonful of hashish to him, or a glass
of strong, invigorating wine. He must go to the club. A game of
cards, to which he devotes some night hours frequently, is not
specially pleasant, but he plays with persons of high position in
society, or with those who are needed in his business. He will
find perhaps, also, that man for whom he has been waiting,
vainly, some days.
He was extending his hand to the button of the electric bell when
from behind the portieres which half hid the door opening to the
interior of the mansion a thin and timid voice came; one could
hardly tell whether it was the voice of a child or a young lady:
"Is it permitted to enter?"
Darvid went to the door hurriedly, saying, also hurriedly:
"It is! It is!"
At that moment, from the darkness which filled the adjoining
room, into the abundant light of the study, came a maiden of
fifteen years, in a bright dress; she was tall and very slender,
with a small waist and narrow breast. An immense wealth of pale,
golden hair seemed to bend back with its weight her small,
shapely head somewhat; her oval face, with its delicate features,
had the blush of spring on it; her lips were like cherries, and
under the arches of her dark brows were large dark eyes. Right
behind the bright dress of the girl came a small shaggy creature,
a ball of ash colored silk, a little dog.
"Cara!" cried Darvid, "well, you are here, little one! How often
have I asked you to come always boldly. How do you feel to-day?
You have not coughed much, I think? Have you taken your daily
walk? With whom did you go? With Miss Mary, or Irene? Come, come,
sit here in this armchair."
He held her small hand in his and led her toward the table, which
was surrounded with armchairs. In his movements there was
something polished and exquisite, as it were delicacy toward a
person who was very dear and not much known, pushed to the degree
where it might be called gallantry. Joined with this was a
feeling of delight. She was pleased and smiling, but she was
blushing and embarrassed. Advancing with short steps at his side,
she bent to his hand every moment and kissed it. Her act was full
of a timid charm, half capricious. They both looked like persons
who were greatly pleased at meeting, but who remained on a
footing of ceremony with each other. He received her in his study
as a queen; he seated her in an armchair, then, sitting very
near, he held her hands in his. Between them, on the edge of his
mistress's skirt, sat the dog with the ash-colored coat, in a
posture of disquiet and uncertainty; it was evident that he was
not accustomed to visit that room. Cara also, with an expression
of timid happiness on her lips which were open, cast her glance
with a smile on the vases and the walls, uncertain whether she
was to speak, not knowing if she might say something; she bore
herself very simply; her small hands rested without motion
between her father's palms. At last she said, in a very low
voice:
"I was so anxious to see you, father, dear; I wished so much to
speak with you that I have come."
"You have done excellently, my little one. Why not come oftener?
Your coming gives me great pleasure."
While speaking he looked all the time into her face, which was
almost that of a little child. She was so like her mother, that
Malvina's youth was simply renewed in Cara.
But Malvina, when he made her acquaintance, was considerably
older; the hair was just the same, very bright, and the eyes with
dark brows and pupils, the same shape of forehead. With a
deepening of the wrinkles between his brows he repeated:
"Why not come offener?"
"You are always so occupied, father," whispered she.
"What of that?" answered he hurriedly and abruptly.
"There is reproach in your voice. Are my occupations a crime? But
labor is service, it is the value of a man. My children should
esteem my labor more than others, since I toil for them as much,
or even more, than for myself."
He did not even think of speaking to that child with a voice so
abrupt, and with such a cloud on his forehead; but that cloud
came to him from some place within, from a distant feeling of
something which he had never looked at directly before. But he
hardly knew the girl! When he went away the last time she was a
child; now she was almost full grown. But she, in the twinkle of
an eye, slipped from the low armchair to the carpet, and kneeling
with clasped hands began to speak passionately and quickly:
"Your child is on her knees before you, father. When you were far
away she revered you, did you homage, longed for you; when you
are here she loves you greatly, above everything--"
Here she turned and removed from her dress the ball of
ash-colored silk, which was climbing to her shoulder.
"Go away, Puffie, go away! I have no time for thee now."
She pushed away the little dog, which sat on the carpet some
steps distant. Darvid felt a stream of pleasant warmth flooding
into his breast from the words of his daughter; but on principle
he did not like enthusiasm. In feelings and the expression of
them he esteemed moderation beyond everything. He raised with
both hands the girl's head, which was bending toward his knees.
"Be not excited, be not carried away. Repose is beautiful, it is
indispensable; without repose no calculation can be accurate, no
work complete. Your attachment makes me happy; but compose
yourself, rise from your knees, sit comfortably."
She put her hands together as in prayer.
"Let me stay as I am, father, at your knee. I imagined that on
your return I should be able to talk often and long with you; to
ask about everything, learn everything from you."
She coughed. Darvid took her in his arms, and, without raising
her from her knees, he drew her to his breast.
"See! your cough lasts! Do you cough much? Well, do not speak, do
not speak! let it pass. Does this cough pass quickly?"
It had passed. She stopped coughing, laughed. Her teeth glittered
like pearls between her red lips. A gleam of delight shot through
Darvid's eyes.
"It has gone already! I do not cough often, only rarely. I am
perfectly well. I was very sick when I got chilled at an open
window while you were away, father."
"I know, I know. Your enthusiastic little head thought of opening
the window on a winter night, so as to peep out and see how the
garden looked covered with snow in the moonlight."
"The trees, father, the trees!" began she, smiling and with
vivacity; "not the whole garden, just the trees, which, covered
with snow and frost in the moonlight, were like pillars of
marble, alabaster, crystal, set with diamonds, hung with laces;
and whenever the slightest breeze moved, a rain of pearls was
scattered on the ground."
"Great God!" exclaimed Darvid, "marbles, alabasters, laces,
diamonds, pearls! But there was nothing of all this in fact!
There was nothing but dry trunks, branches, snow, and hoar-frost.
That is exaltation! And you see how destructive it may be! It
brought you acute inflammation of the lungs, the traces of which
are not gone yet."
"They are!" answered she, in passing, and then she spoke
seriously. "My father, is it exaltation to worship something
which is very beautiful, or to love some one greatly with all our
strength? If it is--then I am given to exaltation, but without
exaltation what could we live for?"
An expression of wonder, meditation, thoughtfulness filled her
eyes and covered her finely cut face with a freshness like that
of a wild rose. With a movement of wonder she opened her arms,
and repeated:
"What do we live for?"
Darvid laughed.
"I see that your head is turned a little, but you are a child
yet, and your trouble will pass."
Stroking her pale, golden hair, he continued:
"Homage, love, and like things of the sensational sort, are very
nice, very beautiful, but should not occupy the first place."
Cara listened so eagerly that her mouth was open somewhat, and
she became motionless as a statue.
"But what should stand in the first place, father?"
Darvid did not answer at once. What? What should stand in the
first place?
"Duty," said he.
"What duty, father?"
Again he was silent a while. What duty? Yes, what kind of duty?
"Naturally the duty of labor, hard labor."
The flush on Cara's face increased; she was all curiosity, all
eagerness to hear her father's words.
"Labor, for what, father, dear?"
"How? for what?"
"For what purpose? For what purpose? because no one labors for
the labor itself. For what purpose?"
For what purpose? How that child pushed him to the wall with her
questions! With hesitation in his voice, he answered:
"There are various purposes--"
"But you, father, for what are you working?" continued she, with
eager curiosity.
He knew very well for what purpose he wished now to undertake the
gigantic labor of erecting a multitude of buildings for the
residence of an army, but could he explain that to this child?
Meanwhile the dark eyes of the child were fastened on his face,
urging him to an answer.
"What is it?" said he. "I--labor gives me considerable, sometimes
immense profits."
"In money?" asked she.
"In money."
She made a motion with her head, signifying that she knew that
this long time.
"But I," began she, "if I wanted to work, should not know what to
work for, I should not know for what object I could work."
He laughed.
"You will not need to work; I will work for you, and instead of
you."
"Well, father!" exclaimed she, with a resonant laugh, "what can I
do? To worship, to love, is exaltation--duty is labor, but if I
may not labor, what am I to do?"
Again she opened her small hands with astonishment and inquiry;
her eyes were flashing, her lips trembling.
Darvid, with marks of disagreeable feeling on his face, reached
for his watch.
"I have no time," said he; "I must go to the club."
At that moment the servant announced from the antechamber,
through the open door:
"Prince Zeno Skirgello."
Delight burst forth on Darvid's face. Cara sprang up from her
knees, and looking around, called:
"Puff! Puff! Come, let us be off! doggy."
"Where is the prince?" asked Darvid, hurriedly. "Is he here, or
in the carriage?"
"In the carriage," answered the servant.
"Beg him to come in, beg him to come in!"
In the delight which the unexpected arrival of the prince caused
him at that time, he did not notice the expression of regret on
Cara's face. Raising the little dog from the floor and holding
him in her arms, she whispered:
"This is the third time, or the fourth--it is unknown which time
it is!" Darvid sprang toward her.
"You may remain! You know the prince--"
"Oh, no, father, I flee--I am not dressed!"
Her white robe with blue dots had the shape of a wrapper, and her
hair was somewhat dishevelled. With the dog on her arm she ran to
the door beyond which was darkness.
"Wait!" cried Darvid, and he took one of the candles which were
burning on the desk in tall candlesticks. The prince was coming
up the stairs slowly. "I will light you through the dark
chambers."
Saying this he walked with her to the second chamber, and when
passing through that, she, while going at his side with the dog
on her arm, and with her short step, which gave her tall form the
charm of childhood, repeated:
"This is the fourth time, perhaps--it is unknown how many times
it will be in this way!"
"What will be in this way?"
"Just when I begin to talk with you. Paf! something hinders!"
"What is to be done?" answered he, with a smile; "since your
father is not a hermit, nor a small person on this world's
chessboard."
They went hurriedly, and passed through the second chamber. The
flame of the candle which Darvid carried cast passing flashes on
the gold and polish of the walls, and the furniture. These were
like tricky gnomes, appearing and vanishing in the silence,
darkness, and emptiness.
Darvid thought:
"How dark it is here, and deserted!" Cara divined this thought,
as it were, and said:
"Mamma and Ira are invited to dine to-day at--"
She gave the name of one of the financial potentates, and added:
"After dinner they will come to dress for the theatre."
"And thou?" inquired Darvid.
"I? I do not go into society yet, and so far the doctor forbids
me to go to the theatre. I will read or talk with Miss Mary, and
amuse myself with Puff."
She stroked with her palm the silky head of the little dog.
Darvid halted at the door of the third chamber, and gave Cara the
light, from the weight of which her slight arm bent somewhat.
"Go on alone; I must hurry to the prince."
She bent down to his hands, covered them with hurried, ardent
kisses. With the flame of the candle before her rosy face, with
the dog at her breast, and the pale, golden hair pushed back on
her shoulders, she advanced in the darkness. Darvid returned
through that darkness in the opposite direction, and when he had
passed the two spacious chambers hastily, he felt in the twinkle
of an eye as if from behind, from that interior, some weight had
been placed on his shoulders. He looked around. There was nothing
but vacancy, obscurity, and silence.
"Stupid! I must have the house lighted!" thought Darvid, and he
hurried into the study, where, with movements a little too
vivacious, with a fondling smile, and with repeated declarations
that he felt happy, he greeted the prince, a man of middle age,
of agreeable exterior, affable and pleasant in speech. When they
had sat down in armchairs, the prince declared the object of his
visit, which was to invite Darvid to a hunt which was to take
place soon on one of his estates. Darvid accepted the invitation
with expressions of pleasure, a little too prompt and hearty. But
he was never so well able to measure his words and movements in
presence of those high-born people as in presence of others. He
felt this himself, still he had not the power to refrain. In
presence of them he found himself under the influence of one of
his passions, and it carried him too far. The prince spoke of the
sculptor, whose gifts he esteemed highly; the young man had gone
directly from Darvid to him and told of all that he had heard,
and what he had experienced.
"I was really affected by your kindness toward this youthful
genius, and am delighted that he found in you a patron so
magnanimous."
Darvid thought that in every case his arrows always struck the
mark. To that act of his he was surely indebted for this unusual
visit of the prince, and the invitation. With a smile, in which
honey was overflowing, he said:
"That young man seems very ill. A visit to more favorable
climates might save him. I must try that he does not reject the
means which I shall offer him for that purpose. I foresee
resistance, but I shall do what I can to overcome it, out of
regard for art, and through good-will for a young man who,
besides many sympathetic traits, has this on his side, that he
rejoices in the exceptional favor of Prince Zeno."
Had he been able, Darvid would have kissed himself for that
phrase, he felt so well satisfied with it; especially when the
prince answered with animation:
"This, in the full sense of the words, means speaking and acting
beautifully! You use the gifts of fortune in a manner truly
noble."
"Not fortune, prince, not fortune!" exclaimed Darvid, "but iron
labor."
"Such toilers as you are the knights of the contemporary world,"
answered the prince, with vivacity; "the Du Guesclins and Cids of
the present century."
He rose and, while pressing the hand of that Cid, fixed again in
his memory the date of the hunt, which was not distant. Prince
Zeno was an aristocrat of the purest blood, possessing a wide
popularity which was fairly well deserved.
Darvid was radiant. While accompanying the prince to the door of
the antechamber he looked as if no coil of serpents had ever
crawled up in his bosom, which was now beating with delight and
with pride. The prince halted still a moment at the door, as if
to recall something.
"Pardon me an indiscreet question, but this interests me
immensely. Is there truth in the reports which are circulating in
the city, that Baron Blauendorf is to have the honor in the near
future of receiving the hand of your elder daughter?"
The expression of Darvid's face changed quickly, it became sharp
and severe.
"Were there any truth in the report," answered he, "I should try
to destroy it together with the report."
"And you would be right, perfectly right!" exclaimed the prince.
Then he bent his lips almost to Darvid's ear and whispered:
"There is no Pactolus which such a young buck as Baron Emil would
not drink up. He is a genuine devourer of fortunes. He has
swallowed one already and the half of another."
He laughed and added at once, with immense affability:
"I see your son frequently--that worthy Kranitski presented him a
year ago to us; I and my wife are very, very thankful. He is
sympathetic, handsome, and a highly intellectual young man, who
does you honor."
He went out. Darvid stood at the round table sunk in thought,
with pins of irony in his smile and his eyes, with a cloud of
wrinkles between his brows. That young sculptor, the favorite of
Prince Zeno, with clothing almost in tatters, brought consumption
on himself unhindered, till a parvenu appeared with his money-bag
and rescued the pocket of the aristocrat, receiving in return a
visit and an invitation to hunt. "Behold the significance of
money! Almost infinite power--ha! ha! ha!"
Internal laughter bore him away, and in his brain sounded the
word: "Wretchedness! Wretchedness!"
What was it specially that he called wretchedness? He was not
clearly conscious himself of this, but the feeling of it
penetrated him. Again he heard the prince saying "that honest
Kranitski," and a wave of blood rushed to his forehead.
Everything that he had forgotten a moment earlier returned to his
mind; the prince's voice roared in his ears: "That honest
Kranitski." He repeated a number of times to himself, in a
hissing whisper, "honest! honest!" And then he said:
"Wretchedness!"
That Baron Emil, the young buck capable of gulping down many a
Pactolus! And he was to possess the hand of his daughter, with a
considerable part of that fortune won by iron labor. Is Irene in
love with him? But the baron is a vibrio and a monkey all in one.
There is need to think over this family matter, lest a misfortune
might happen. He cast a glance at the door behind which was
darkness, thick, silent, immovable. It resembled a window opened
into a great and impenetrable secret.
"I must have the house lighted up," thought he. At this moment he
heard the dull rumble of a carriage in the gateway as it entered.
He pressed the button of the electric bell.
"Is that the lady who has come?"
"Yes, serene lord."
"Tell the coachman to wait. He will take me to the club."
When the servant opened the door the rustle of silk came in like
the sound of wind. Two long silken robes passed over the floor of
the anteroom and farther on in the darkness of the chambers,
which was dispelled by the light of the lamp, borne by the
servant advancing in front of them.
The glittering gnomes called forth by that light sprang along the
gildings, polished walls, and furniture; ran out of the darkness,
ran into it again; were lighted up and quenched on the inclined
heads, drooping lids, and silent lips of the two women in rich
array and gloomy.