Darvid was in splendid humor--he had bought at auction a house
and broad grounds very reasonably. He cared little for the
house--it was a rubbishy old pile which he would remove very
soon--but the grounds, covered then with an extensive garden,
represented an uncommonly profitable transaction. Situated near
one of the railroad stations, he would, of course, receive a high
price for it, because of the need to put there a great public
edifice.
Darvid would sell the ground to those who needed it, and then
make proposals to build the edifice. This was the third
undertaking which had fallen to him since his return, a few
months before. What of that, when the most important, for which
he would have given the other three willingly, had not fallen yet
to him, and he did not know well what had been done concerning
it? This affair did not let him sleep sometimes, still it did not
disincline him from working at that which he had begun already.
The day was clear, slightly frosty, myriads of brilliants were
glittering in the white rime which covered the trees, and in the
snow which lay on the extensive garden. Darvid, in company with a
surveyor, an engineer, and an architect, walked through the
garden, but the object of his walk was in no way the
contemplation of nature bound up under marbles, and alabasters
sprinkled with brilliants. The engineer brought him a plan for
the purchase of the place, and supported the interests of his
employers energetically; the surveyor and the architect spoke of
their part, pointed out with gestures the proportions and various
points of the open area. Darvid, in a closely fitting fur coat,
finished with an original and very costly collar, with a shining
hat on his head, walked over the ground with even tread; he
listened rather than spoke, there was a silent satisfaction in
his smile, when suddenly an immense brightness reflected from a
tree, directly in front, dazzled his eyesight. The tree, which
resembled a lofty pillar, had on each of its branches a plume,
cut as it were delicately from alabaster, every feather of this
plume flamed like a torch lighted in a rainbow. Sheafs of rainbow
gleams shot out of that wonderful carving, and from that fountain
of many-colored light. Darvid put his glasses on his nose
suddenly, and said with a painful twist of the mouth:
"What unendurable light!"
The architect looked at the tree and said, with a smile:
"No man, not even a Greek master, has ever finished a pillar like
that."
"The only pity is that it cannot be used," replied Darvid,
smiling also.
"You are not a lover of nature, that is true; while I--" began
the engineer.
"On the contrary, on the contrary. During intervals I have looked
at nature here and there," said Darvid, playfully. "But to become
her lover, as you say, I have not had leisure. To love nature is
a luxury which iron toil does not know--a luxury which must have
leisure."
With these words he turned from the beautiful work of nature and
intended to go on, but again he halted. He found himself at the
picket fence, which divided the garden from the street, and in
the movement of the street he saw something which occupied him
greatly.
It was the hour of departure for one of the railroad trains. The
street was wide, and the ground on both sides of it was not
entirely occupied yet with houses, many carriages on wheels, and
a multitude of sleighs were hastening toward the near railway
station. The sleighs shot forward with clinking harness, the snow
under wheels squeaked complainingly, the drivers uttered brief
shouts. The hats of men and women, various kinds of furs, the
liveries of coachmen, the horses puffing steam, covered here and
there with colored nets, formed a motley, changing line, moving
forward with a rattle and an outcry along the white snow, in an
atmosphere glittering from frost and sunlight.
One of the carriages looked like a flower garden. Roses,
camelias, pinks, and violets were creeping out--simply pouring
out--through its windows. The carriage was filled with bouquets,
garlands, baskets. Among these, as in a flood of various colors,
appeared in the heart of it the broad-rimmed hat of a woman.
Immediately behind the carriage rushed a sleigh drawn by a pair
of grand horses, the driver wearing an enormous fur collar, and
in the sleigh were two young men, at whose feet again was a
basket of flowers, but the finest and costliest, very rare and
expensive orchids. The carriage and sleigh shot forward through
the many-colored crowd of the street, as if some enchanted vision
of spring had risen through the snow and then vanished.
"Who is that lady in the carriage filled with flowers?" asked
Darvid, turning to his companions.
"Bianca Biannetti."
That was a name which needed no commentary. Darvid smiled, with
satisfaction. It was not wonderful that Maryan and the little
baron were escorting to the station that woman of European fame,
and were taking flowers to her. Of course, of course. He himself
a number of times in his life--and if it was not offener, it was
because time had failed him.
"There will be an amusing history to-day at the station," said
the engineer. "A special train for Bianca; it is to leave five
minutes after the regular one."
"For what purpose?" asked the architect.
"It is easy to divine: to have five minutes longer to enjoy the
society of the great singer."
"An extra train! That is madness!" said Darvid. "Who did this?"
The engineer and architect exchanged significant glances, and the
former answered:
"Your son."
The skin on Darvid's face quivered, but he answered with perfect
composure:
"Ah, true! I remember Maryan told me something of this. I
persuaded him a little, but he insisted. What is to be done? Il
faut que la jeunesse se passe (youth must have its day)."
Then he gave his hand to the three men in farewell:
"I am sorry that we cannot finish our discussions to-day, but I
remember an important affair. I beg you, gentlemen, to come
to-morrow at the usual hour of my receptions."
He raised his hat and left them.
"To the station! Hurry!" said he to the driver while entering the
carriage.
At the station stood a row of cars with a locomotive sending up
steam. A throng of people were moving toward the snow-covered
platform, and hurrying to the train. Darvid came out also,
searching with his eyes for a youthful face which filled his
sleepless nights with care. At first he could not find it, but
when many people had entered the train, those assembled for the
passive role of spectators formed a group and turned their
glances toward one point upon the platform. There in the hands of
a number of people bloomed a garden of beautiful flowers, and
near them two persons were conversing with great animation. The
opera singer was an Italian, a beautiful brunette, with eyes
blazing like dark stars. Conversing with her in her own language
was a young man, younger than she, very youthful, light haired,
shapely, elegantly dressed. At some steps from this pair, in a
careless posture, with an unoccupied air, stood Baron Emil,
fragile and red-haired.
The bell, summoning passengers, was heard in the frosty air for
the second time. The lady, with a charming smile, bowed in sign
of farewell, and made a step toward the train, but the young man
barred the way with a movement made adroitly, talking meanwhile,
and holding her under the determined glance of his blue eyes.
Without showing alarm she delayed, smiled, and listened.
Darvid stood on the platform, lost in that crowd of the curious,
and snatches of conversation struck his ear.
"She will not go!" said one man.
"She will! There is time enough yet!" said another.
"He detains her purposely, so that she may not go."
"He does, for she is beautiful. Her smile is as charming as her
song."
"He is a daring boy," said some third man near Darvid's other
ear. "Look, look, how he talks her down purposely--poor woman,
she will go back to the city beaten."
"But no! That would be an impoliteness on his part."
"Who is this handsome young man with golden hair?" asked some
woman.
"Young Darvid. The son of the great financier. How young! He is a
child."
"A man with millions ripens quickly, like a peach in sunlight."
"What language are they speaking? I cannot hear, but it is not
French."
"Italian; she is Italian."
"But he chatters in that language as if he were her compatriot."
"Millions are like the tongues at Pentecost," said the man who
had mentioned peaches, "whoever is touched by them speaks every
language on earth right away."
All the passengers had vanished in the cars, the doors of which
were fastened now with loud clinking. This time the opera singer
stepped forward quickly, but young Darvid spoke a few words which
brought to her face astonishment and the most beautiful smile in
the world; she nodded, agreed to something, gave thanks for
something in the same way that kindly queens consent to receive
marks of the highest honor from their subjects.
In the crowd surrounding Darvid someone laughed:
"Ah, he is a stunning fellow! he will not let her go!"
"How handsome he is, that young Darvid!" said a woman.
"He looks like a young prince," added another.
"But what will come of this? She will not go."
"She will go!"
"She will not go!"
"I will bet!"
"I will bet!"
In a moment a number of bets were made behind Darvid as to
whether the woman, who was talking to his son, would go from the
city that day or not. On his thin lips a smile of satisfaction
appeared, the eyes from behind his glasses looked at his son with
an expression which was almost mild. A young prince! Yes, that is
true. What freedom of manner, what grace! What fine disregard for
the common throng gazing at him! Triumphant even with women! That
woman, famous throughout Europe, is simply devouring him with
those black eyes of hers.
The bell was heard on the platform for the third time, and at the
same moment a prolonged whistle pierced the air. The wheels of
the train began to turn with a slow, measured movement.
"It is over!" cried someone in the crowd. "She has not gone!"
"I have lost the bet!" said a number of voices.
"How splendid that that handsome youth has carried his point,"
said a woman.
Meanwhile, from the remotest end of the platform, new whistling
of a locomotive came up, and the measured beat of wheels on the
rails was heard; at some distance a certain black mass appeared,
it pushed forward faster and faster, until under the smoke came
out clearly the cylinder of a locomotive, drawing behind it a
short row of wagons. This was the train, and small, fresh,
elegant. This train glittered in the sunlight with its yellow
brass fittings, gleamed in its sapphire-colored varnish. Its rich
interior, with cushions of purple velvet, was visible through the
windows. A conductor opened the door of a car and stood near it
in an expectant position. Maryan, with a motion of request,
indicated it to the celebrated singer.
Now the people standing on the platform understood everything,
and fell into enthusiasm. The spirit, which rose to that plan and
threw out a large sum of money for the sake of it, struck the
imagination and roused the sympathy of people inclined to gold
and strange acts, without reference to their object or value. On
the platform was heard the sharp clapping of some tens of hands,
and soon after the locomotive whistled once more, and that small,
special train pushed forward into space, only five minutes later
than the regular train which preceded it.
Darvid stood near the door of the station whence he could see his
son, who passed with slow step along a part of the platform. And
he looked at him with unquiet curiosity, for something unexpected
in Maryan astonished him. In contradiction to what one might
expect, and which seemed natural, there was not in the expression
of face and the movements of. Maryan either the pleasure of youth
at something accomplished, or sorrow at the departure of the
woman, for whom he had accomplished it. When a moment before
applause was heard on the platform, he looked around and cast on
the hand-clapping crowd a passing glance, as indifferent as if
they were an object not worthy of contempt, even. Now, too, his
whole person expressed perfect indifference, nay, even annoyance,
which contracted his lips, and yellowed the rosiness of his round
cheeks somewhat. In his blue eyes, fixed glassily on the
distance, was depicted something like dissatisfaction, or a
feeling of disappointment, a dreaming, or a pondering in vain
over deceitful visions which pass over space, but which no one
can seize upon. He did not see his father, for his glassy eyes
were looking far away at some point. Even the baron did not see
Darvid; he was searching for something in his pocketbook
carefully, till he took out a ten-rouble note and threw it at the
porters who had borne in the baggage and flowers of the
primadonna. At the same time he cast these words through his
teeth at them:
"I have no small money!"
Maryan, without rousing himself from thought, said, as if
mechanically:
"It is wonderful!"
"What?" asked the baron.
"That everything in the world is so little, so little."
"Except my appetite, which is immense at this moment," cried the
baron.
"But those fabulous sums which Maryan must expend!" thought
Darvid going to his carriage; before he reached it he heard other
snatches of conversation:
"To throw away so much money for a few moments' talk with a
beautiful woman--that is a character!"
"It promises trouble, does it not?"
"Especially for papa."
"He has as many debts, no doubt, as curly hairs on his head."
"He borrows, of course, on the security of papa's pocket."
"Or his death."
Others said:
"In such hands ill-gotten gains will go to the devil quickly."
"Why ill-gotten gains?"
"Well, can you imagine Saint Francis of Assisi making millions?"
While his carriage was rolling along the streets of the city,
Darvid's head was full of conflicting ideas. True, true; that
green youth had a special capacity for devouring the golden sands
of Pactolus! But in what a charming and princely fashion he did
that! Darvid was proud of his son, and at the same time greatly
dismayed and troubled; for this could not last. That lad was
making debts in view of--his father's death. And this absolute
idleness! What good was a man who did nothing? The results also
of idleness were evident in him: a certain premature withering, a
certain dreaming without object--a handsome fellow! He looked as
if born to a princely coronet. As Darvid was ascending the marble
steps of his mansion he said to the Swiss:
"When Pan Maryan comes home say that I request him to come to
me."
Darvid passed an hour or more in his study, alone, over papers,
writing, taking notes, examining various accounts, and letters;
but over his face, from time to time, ran a disagreeable quiver,
and the nervous movements of his hand caused sheets of paper to
rustle unpleasantly. At last the door of the antechamber opened
and Maryan appeared, hat in hand.
"Good-day, my father," began he on entering. "I am glad that you
invited me, for it is long since I have had the pleasure of
talking with you. We both have been greatly occupied. For some
weeks Bianca Biannetti has taken all my time."
He was perfectly unconstrained, though not at all gladsome in his
manner. Darvid, standing at the round table, looked at his son
quickly.
"Are you in love with that singer?" asked he.
Only then did Maryan laugh unaffectedly, almost loudly.
"What a question, my father; love is a sanctuary, built on a
poppy-seed; love then is sacred; while my fancy for that
beautiful Bianca--"
"Is a poppy-seed which you are transporting through the world on
special trains," finished Darvid.
"Have you heard of that, father?"
"I have seen it."
"Ah, you were at the station! Strange that I did not see you."
He made a gesture of contempt with his hand.
"I was disappointed. I planned that surprise for Bianca, and felt
sure of a lively pleasure. When the time came I convinced myself
that the affair was a trifle, not new, and, like everything,
stupid. So it is always: what imagination builds up in a long
time, criticism overturns in a twinkle. It is impossible to
invent anything important. The world is so aged that it has come
to us a worn-out old rag."
He took a seat on one of the armchairs surrounding the table, and
put his hat on the carpet. Darvid replied without changing his
posture:
"Nothing wonderful; when imagination builds up stupidities
criticism overturns the building in a twinkle--"
"Who can be sure that he is building up wisdom?" interrupted
Maryan.
Then, taking a cigarette-case from his pocket, he asked:
"Do you permit, father?" Then, handing the cigarette-case, with
great politeness, to Darvid, he added:
"But, perhaps, you will smoke also?"
Darvid, with thick wrinkles between his brows, shook his head and
sat down.
"Why did you leave the university soon after I went away?" asked
he. "I inquired of you touching this several times by letter, but
you have never given me a definite answer."
"I beg pardon for that, father, but I am wonderfully slow in
writing letters. I will explain all to you willingly in words--"
Darvid interrupted:
"I have no time for long talk, so tell me at once. Have you no
love for science?"
Maryan let out a streak of smoke from his lips, and spoke with
deliberation:
"I feel no repugnance whatever toward science. I read much, and
mental curiosity is just one of the most emphatic traits of my
individuality. In childhood I swallowed books in monumental
numbers, but I have never learned school lessons. All were
astonished at this, and still the thing is simple, it lies quite
on the surface. Common individualities yield to rules, but
energetic and higher ones will not endure them. Rules and duty
are stables in which humanity confines its beasts, to prevent
them from injuring fields under culture. Cattle and sheep stand
patiently in the enclosures, higher organisms break them down and
go out into freedom. I need absolute freedom in all things;
and,-therefore, I stopped going to inns of science, which give
out this science at stated hours, in certain sorts and doses.
Though, even in this regard, I showed many good intentions, owing
to the entreaties and persuasions of mamma. From legal studies I
betook myself to the study of nature, and turned from that to
philosophy, thinking that something would occupy me, and that I
should be able to still that real storm of desperation which
seized poor mamma. But I was not able. The professors were
contemptible, my fellow-students a rabble. Society relations
amused me in those days, and occupied me: imagination swept me
farther and higher. So I stopped a labor which was annoying and
irritating, and which, moreover, had no object."
He quenched his cigarette stump in the ash-pan, and, sinking
again into the deep armchair, continued:
"So far as I have been able to observe, people study science
regularly for one of two purposes: either they intend to devote
themselves to what is called the salvation of mankind, or they
need to win a morsel of bread for their stomachs. Neither of
these objects could be mine; for, as to the first, I hold the
principle of individuality carried quite to anarchy. The
so-called salvation of society is, for our decadent epoch, a
fable, quite impossible; and the naked truth is, that each man
lives for himself, and in his own fashion. The man whom fate
serves well passes his life in a manner more or less agreeable;
if it serves him ill--he perishes. Luck, and the chance meeting
of causes, arranges everything. It is impossible to turn the
earth into a general paradise, just as it is to change a small
planet into an immense one. The salvation of society is one of
the narcotics invented to lull the sufferings of people.
Altruists possess a whole drug-shop of these narcotics; whoever
wishes has the right to use them; but, as for me, I prefer not to
be lulled to sleep. I am an individualist, and do not understand
why Pavel must suffer for the purpose of decreasing the pains of
Gavel. Let Gavel, as well as Pavel, think of himself; and, if
they are clever, they will both help themselves somehow without
turning to labelled bottles. This is my conviction about one of
the objects for which people make regular studies in science. As
to the other--"
He took out his cigarette-ease again, and, lighting a cigarette,
finished:
"As to the other object, that is a simple thing; since being your
son, my father, I shall not need to bake my own bread. Such is my
confession of faith which I have laid down before you; all the
more readily since I have long cherished a genuine reverence for
your strength of mind and independence. I am certain, too, that
by no one could I be understood better than by you, my father."
He was mistaken. The man to whom he was talking so fluently and
politely did not understand him in any sense.
For the first time in his life, perhaps, Darvid did not
understand the person with whom he was talking. The millionnaire
was astounded. He had expected to find a frivolous youth, whom
passions had pushed into extravagance and idleness; meanwhile, a
reasoning, disenchanted sage sat before him, with bitterness on
his lips and irony in his speech and eyes. That sour wisdom, the
measureless belief in himself and his opinions, with the
independence which accompanied it, were found in a slender,
delicate, and rosy-faced youth, with eyes as blue as
forget-me-nots, and came from lips slightly faded, but marked by
a tiny, youthful moustache. Besides, the perfect elegance of
manner, the aestheticism and irreproachable grace in movements,
in voice, in compliments, the utterance of which he rounded very
beautifully.
Darvid was astounded. He had found no time in his life to observe
the new directions which thought and character were taking in the
world; nor for observing the changed forms in which time moulds
the various generations of mankind. He was dumbfounded,
speechless, and only after a while did an ironical smile appear
on his lips--that lad with his theories was absurd!
"All that you have said is simply ridiculous. You are making a
principle out of a thorough absence of principles. At your age
such opinions and such coolness are incredible. At your age,
which is almost that of a child, and with your scant training,
they are, out and out, ridiculous."
Maryan, with a quick movement, raised his head and looked with
astonishment at his father. He, too, had expected something
entirely different.
"Ridiculous!" cried he; "what does this mean, father? This is not
argument. I felt sure that we should agree perfectly. With the
profoundest astonishment I see that this is not the case. How is
it, my father, then, you do not take up the motto: each for
himself, and in his own way? Still, it is impossible for any man
to carry contempt for all painted pots farther than you do; than
you have carried it all your life. But, perhaps, this difference
in our opinions is only apparent? I beg you to give me argument.
The charge of ridiculousness is not argument. I may be
ridiculous, and be right. A lack of principles? Very well;
principles form one of the most brightly painted of all pots,
and, therefore, it is most difficult to see the clay. But, never
mind; I ask for a closer description. What principles do you
value, father?"
Darvid, with a strong quiver in his face, answered:
"What? Oh, moral. Naturally, moral principles--"
"Yes, yes, but I ask for an accurate definition. What are they
called; what are the names of those principles?"
Darvid was silent. What are they called? Was he a priest, or a
governess, to break his head over such questions? If it were a
question of law, mathematics, architecture, guilds, banks--but he
had never occupied himself with morals; he had not had the time.
A deep anger began to possess him, and his words hissed somewhat
through his lips; when, after some silence, he added:
"My dear, you have made a mistake in the address. It is not the
office of a father to instil moral principles into children. That
is the province of mothers. Fathers have no time for that work.
Go back in memory to your childhood; recall the principles which
your mother implanted in you, and you will find an answer to your
question."
Maryan laughed.
"What you say, father, reminds me of one of my friends who writes
books. A poor devil, but we receive him into our set, for he has
talent--that legitimizes. Well, on a time, someone asked him:
'What do you do when, in writing, you meet a difficulty?' 'I try
to overcome it,' answered he. 'But if you can't overcome it?'
'Then I dodge; or, I run to one side like a rabbit, and avoid
saying that which I know not how to say.' Well, you have acted,
dear father, like this author. You have dodged! Ha! ha! ha!"
He laughed, but Darvid grew gloomier and stiffer. It was strange,
but true, that in presence of that professor he felt himself more
and more a pupil.
"Let us leave poor, dear mamma in peace," continued Maryan. "She
is the impersonation of charm and sweetness. If there is still
anything of this sort which for me is not a painted pot yet, it
is the tenderness which I feel for mamma. She has spoken to me
often, indeed; and she speaks, even now, of principles, but the
best and dearest of women is only a woman. Sentiment, routine,
and, besides, want of logic: theory without end and practice
nowhere, is not that the case with women? You know them better
than I, father; for you have had more time to explore this part
of the universe."
His azure eyes glittered with sparks; his golden curls fell low
on his white forehead; and from his lips, shaded by a tiny
mustache, the words came out with increasing boldness and
fluency, and more thickly intermingled with a sarcastic smile:
"As for me, were I an old maid, I should become a Sister of
Charity; for that office has always a certain position in the
world, and the stiff bonnet casts a saving shadow on wrinkles.
Since I am who I am, I think thus of principles: they depend on
the place; the time; the geographical position; and the evolution
which society is accomplishing. If the heavens had created me an
ancient Greek, my principle would have been to battle for freedom
against Asiatics, and to be enamoured of a beautiful boy. If in
the Middle Ages, I should have fought for the honor of my lady
and burnt men alive on blazing piles. In the Orient, I should
possess, openly, a number of wives, accommodated only to my wish;
in the West, principle commands a man to pretend that he has only
one wife. In Europe, it is my duty to honor my father and mother;
in the Fiji Islands it would be criminal for me not to put them
to death at the proper moment. Wretched makeup--hash, with which
our age does not wish now to feed itself. Our age is too old, and
its palate is too practised, not to distinguish figs from
pomegranates. We children of an advanced age, decadents, know
well that man may win much, but will never gain absolute truth.
It does not exist. All things are relative. My only principle is,
that I exist, and use my will, my only interest is to know how to
will. Many other things might be said, but what use? Still, I
will add to what is already said. You, my father, are an
uncommonly wise man. You must think, therefore, just as I do; you
speak differently only because people have the habit of talking
in that way--to children!"
Darvid seemed to hear this speech out, only mechanically; and
when Maryan, with a short and somewhat sharp laugh, pronounced
the last words and was silent, the following words broke from him
more quickly than words had ever left his mouth before:
"Not true. You are greatly mistaken. I think and act differently
from what you say. I have not had time to meditate over the
theory of principles; but all my life has rested on one of
them--on labor. Skilled and iron labor was my principle, and it
has made me what I am--"
"Pardon me for interrupting," exclaimed Maryan. "I beg you
earnestly, but permit one question: What was the object of your
labor? What was the object? That will settle everything; for a
principle can be found only in the object, not in the labor,
which is only the means of obtaining an end. What was your
object, my father? Of course, it was not the salvation of the
world, but the satisfaction of your own desires--your own--not
any put on you beforehand, and accepted obediently; but your own
individual desires. The object of them was great wealth--a high
position. Through labor you strive to acquire these, and I do not
see here any principle except that which I myself
possess--namely: it is necessary to know how to will. In the very
essence of things we agree; only I, with the sincerest homage,
have recognized in you a master. Frequently have I thought with
what perfect logic, with what unbending will, you have freed
yourself from the labels which other men, even wise ones for the
period, have never ceased from pasting on their persons. If in
your career you had knocked against painted pots, labelled:
birthplace, fatherland, humanity, charity, etc., you would have
gone at considerably less speed, and not gone so far. But you
were astonishingly logical. With amazing strength and
unsparingness you have known how to will. It is from this point
precisely that I looked, and I was filled with real admiration.
During your absence, of more than three years, I called you
frequently, in thought, a superhuman. Friederich Nietsche
imagined such men as you when--"
He stopped here, raising a glance full of astonishment at his
father's face. Darvid, very pale, with quivering temples, stood
up, leaned firmly on the table, and said:
"Enough!"
Unable to conceal the violent emotion which he felt, under an
ironical tone and laugh, he continued:
"Enough of this mockery of reasoning and argument, and of all
this empty twaddle. If it was your intention to pass an
examination before me, I give you five with plus. You have fluent
speech, and quite a rich vocabulary of words. But I have no time
for those things and proceed to facts and figures. The life which
you are leading is impossible, and you must change. You must
begin another life."
He put emphasis on the word must. Maryan looked at his father
with an amazement which seemed to take away his speech.
"You have not ended your twenty-third year yet, and the history
of your romances has acquired broad notoriety in the world a
number of times--"
Maryan recovered from his amazement slowly.
"Affairs so completely personal--" began he with a hesitating
voice.
Darvid, paying no attention to the interruption, continued:
"The sum which you lost in betting at the last races was, even
for my fortune, considerable--thirty thousand."
Maryan had now almost recovered his balance.
"If this shrift is indispensable I will correct the
figures--thirty-six thousand."
"The suppers which you give to friends, male and female, have the
fame of Lucullus feasts."
Maryan, with sparks of hidden irritation in his eyes, laughed.
"An exaggeration! Our poor Borel has no idea of Lucullus, but
that he plunders us, unmercifully, is true."
"He knows how to will!" threw in Darvid.
Maryan raised his eyes to him, and said:
"He is making a fortune."
This time, in his turn, astonishment was depicted on the face of
Darvid, indignant to that degree that a slight flush appeared on
cheeks generally pale.
"Folly!" hissed he, and immediately restrained himself.
"You are incurring enormous debts; on what security?"
Maryan, at least apparently, had regained perfect confidence in
himself. With eyes slightly blinking he seemed to look at a
picture on the wall.
"That is the affair of my creditors," said he. "They must have
this in view, that I am your son."
"But if I should wish not to pay your debts?"
Maryan smiled with incredulity.
"I doubt that. Such a smash-up, as refusal to pay my debts, would
injure you also, my father. Besides, the sums are not fabulous."
"How much?"
"I cannot tell the exact figure, but approximately they are--"
He mentioned figures. Darvid repeated them indifferently.
"About a quarter of a million. Very good. I shall be far from
ruin this time, but in future--I make no reproaches; for to do so
would be to lose time. What has dropped into the past is lost.
But the future must be different."
On the word must he laid emphasis again. With a quick movement he
put his glasses on his nose, and taking a cigarette from a
beautiful box, he put the end of it at the flame of one of the
candles burning on the desk. He seemed perfectly calm; but behind
his eyeglasses steel sparks flew, and the cigarette did not
ignite, held by fingers which trembled somewhat. Turning from the
desk to the table, he said:
"I will pay your debts at once; and the pension which, three
years ago, I appointed to you--that is six thousand yearly--I
leave at your disposal. But you will leave the city two weeks
from now, and go to--"
He named a place very remote, situated in the heart of the
Empire.
"In that place is an iron mill, and also glass-works; in these
two establishments I am one of the chief shareholders. You will
take the office designated by the director, who is a shareholder,
and a friend of mine; under his guidance and indications you will
begin a life of labor."
In Maryan's eyes again appeared amazement without limit; but on
his lips quivered a smile somewhat incredulous, somewhat jeering.
"What is this to be?" asked he. "Penance for sins? Punishment?"
"No," answered Darvid; "only a school. Not a school for
reasoning, for you have too much of that already; but for
character. You must learn three things: economy, modesty, and
labor."
Quenching in the ash-pan the fifth or sixth cigarette, Maryan
inquired:
"But if--perchance--I should not agree to enter that school?"
Darvid answered immediately:
"In that case you will remain here, but without means of
independent existence. You will be free to live under my roof,
and appear at the parental table; but you will not receive a
personal income of any kind. At the same time, I will publish in
the newspapers that I shall not pay your debts hereafter. What I
have said, I will do. Take your choice."
That he would do what he had said any man who saw him then might
feel certain.
The bloom on Maryan's cheeks took on a brick color; his eyes
filled with steel sparks.
"The system of taking fortresses through famine," said he, in an
undertone; and, then with head inclined somewhat, and eyes fixed
on the carpet, he said:
"I am astonished. I thought, father, that in spite of my seeing
you rarely, I knew you well; now I find that I did not know you
at all. I admired in you that power of thought which was able to
strike from you the bonds of every prejudice; now, I have
convinced myself that your ideas are not only patriarchal, but
despotic. This is a deception which pains. I wonder myself, even,
that this affects me so powerfully; but in falling from heights
one must always hurt, even the point of the nose. This is one
lesson more not to climb heights. I have in me a cursed
imagination which leads me astray. One more mirage has vanished;
one more painted pot has lost its colors. What is to be done?"
He said this in a low voice, biting his lower lip at times; he
was pained in reality, and deeply. After a while he continued:
"What is to be done? I must be resigned to the disappointment
which has met me; but as to disposing of my person so absolutely,
I protest. Had it been your intention, my father, to make a
mill-hand of me, you should have begun that work earlier. My
individuality is now developed, and cannot be pounded in through
the gate of a given cemetery. To rear me as a great lord and
permit--even demand--during a rather long period that I should
use all the good things of society, and be distinguished most
brilliantly for your sake, and then thrust into a school of
economy, modesty, and labor is--pardon me if I call the thing by
its name--illogical and devoid of sequence. I might even add,
that it lacks justice; but I do not wish to defend myself with
arguments taken from painted pots. One thing is certain--namely
this: that I shall not be the victim of patriarchal despotism."
He rose, took his hat from the carpet, and calmly, elegantly, but
with a brick-colored flush on his cheeks, and a blue, swollen
vein on his forehead, he added:
"I know not what I shall do. It may happen me to be the creator
of my own destiny. I know how to be this; and I shall decide more
readily to be a workman at my own will than at the will of
another. I shall surely leave this place. Expatriation has come
to my mind more than once, but not in the direction in which you
have seen fit to indicate. Besides, I do not know yet, for this
has fallen suddenly. I shall look into myself; I shall look
around me. Meanwhile, I must go; for I have promised one of my
friends to be at a certain collector's place at a given hour, to
examine a very curious picture. It is an original; an authentic
Overbeck. A rare thing; a real find--I take farewell of you, my
father."
He made a low bow and went out. Exquisite elegance did not desert
him for an instant; still, in the expression of his face, and
especially his excited complexion, and his voice, too,
indignation and distress were evident in a degree which bordered
on suffering.
The door of the antechamber opened and closed. Darvid was as if
petrified. What was this? What had happened? Was it possible that
this should be the end of the conversation, and that such a
conversation should end in Overbeck, and a perfectly elegant bow?
Wonderful man! Yes, for that was no petulant child, with childish
requests, evasions, outbursts; but a premature man, almost an old
man. A reasoner; a pessimist; a sceptic. A genial head! What
elegance! What command of self. A princely exterior. Marvellous
man! What could he do with him? If he had asked for forgiveness;
had promised, in part, even to accommodate himself to his
father's wishes; even to change his life a little. But this iron
persistence and unshaken confidence in himself, joined with
perfect politeness, and with reason which would not yield a step!
What was to be done with him? Fortresses are taken sometimes
through famine; but, suppose it is resolved on everything except
yielding. Well, he would try; he would keep his word; he would
see.
A servant at the door announced:
"The horses are ready."
He was invited to dine at the house of one of the greatest
dignitaries in the city. He would have given much to remain that
day in quiet. But he had to go. In his position--with his
business--to offend such a personage might involve results that
would be very disagreeable. Besides, he would meet someone there
whose good will also was necessary. He did not wish to go; but he
would do violence to himself and go. Is not that the firm and
strict observance of principle? What had that milksop said? That
he did not recognize principles, and would not observe them? Who
could treat himself more sternly and mercilessly than he? How
many of the most beautiful flowers of life had he east aside; how
many sleepless nights had he passed, and borne even physical toil
for the principle of untiring labor--merciless iron labor!
In a dress-coat, his bosom covered with the finest of linen, and
with glittering diamond buttons, with ruddy side-whiskers, a pale
and lean face, unbending, irreproachable in dress, and correct in
posture, he stood in the middle of his study, and was drawing on
his light gloves very slowly. Taking his hat he thought that he
felt a decided sourness and a bitterness in his person, which
would make the most famous dishes, on the table of the dignitary,
ill-tasting. What was to be done? He had to go. Principle beyond
all things else!
When he was descending the stairway, in his fur-coat and hat, he
heard the rustle of silk garments on the first landing, and a
rather loud conversation in English. He recognized the voices of
his elder daughter and Baron Emil; but he saw Malvina first; she
was in front of the young couple. With elegant politeness he
pushed up to the wall so that his wife might have more room, and
raising his hat, with the most agreeable smile which his lips
could give, he asked:
"The ladies are coming from visits, of course?"
There were witnesses of the meeting. Malvina, wrapped in a fur,
the white edges of which appeared from under deep black velvet,
answered, also with a smile:
"Yes, we have made some visits."
But Irene, who was standing some steps lower, caught up the
conversation with a vivacity unusual for her.
"We are coming just now from the shops, where we met the baron."
"What are your plans for the evening?" inquired Darvid again.
"We shall remain at home,'" answered Malvina.
"How is that?--but the party at Prince and Princess Zeno's!"
"We had no intention--" said Malvina, in an attempt at
self-defence; but she saw the look of her husband, and the voice
broke in her throat.
"You and your daughter will go to that party," said he, with a
low whisper, which hissed from his lips. And immediately he added
aloud, with a smile: "Ladies, I advise you to be at that party."
Malvina became almost as white as the fur which encircled her
neck, and at that moment Irene asked:
"Will you be there, father?"
"I will run in for a while. As usual, I have no time."
"What a pity," said Baron Emil, "that I cannot offer you a part
of mine as a gift. In this regard I am a regular Dives."
"And I a beggar! For this reason I must take farewell of you."
He raised his hat and had begun to descend when he heard Irene's
voice behind him, calling:
"My father!"
She told her mother and the baron that she wished to exchange a
few words with her father, and ran down the steps. The splendid
entrance was empty and brightly lighted with lamps; but the
liveried Swiss, at sight of the master of the house, stood with
his hand on the latch of the glass door. At the foot of the
stairs a tall young lady, in a black cloak lined with fur, very
formal and very pale, began to speak French:
"Pardon me, that in a place so unfitting, I must tell you that
the ball, of which you have spoken to Cara, cannot take place
this winter."
Darvid, greatly astonished, inquired:
"Why?"
Irene's blue eyes glittered under the fantastic rim of her hat,
as she answered:
"Because the very thought of that ball has disturbed mamma
greatly."
After a moment of silence Darvid asked, slowly:
"Has your mother conceived a distaste for amusements?"
"Yes, father, and I need not enlighten you as to the cause of
this feeling. There are people who cannot amuse themselves in
certain positions."
"In certain positions? In what position is your mother?"
He made this inquiry in a voice betraying a fear which he could
not conceal. This thought was sounding in his head: "Can she know
it?" But Irene said, in a voice almost husky:
"You and I both know her position well, father--but as to this
ball--"
"This ball," interrupted Darvid, "is necessary to me for various
reasons, and will take place in our house after a few weeks."
"Oh, my father," said Irene, with a nervous, dry laugh, "je vous
adresse ma sommation respectueuse, that it should not take place!
Mamma and I are greatly opposed to it; therefore, I have
permitted myself to detain you for a moment, and say--" The smile
disappeared entirely from her lips when she finished; "and say to
you that this ball will not take place."
"What does this mean?" began Darvid; but suddenly he restrained
himself.
The Swiss stood at the door; at the top of the stairs was another
servant. So, raising his hat to his daughter, he finished the
conversation in a language understandable to the servants:
"Pardon me; I have no time. I shall be late. We will finish this
conversation another time."
When the carriage, whining on the snow, rolled along the crowded
streets of the city, in the light of the streetlamps which fell
on it, appeared Darvid's face, with an expression of terror. That
pallid, thin face, with ruddy whiskers, and a collar of silvery
fur, was visible for a moment with eyes widely open, with raised
brows, with the words hanging on his lips: "She knows
everything!--ghastly!" and after a while it sank again into the
darkness which filled the carriage.