From street to street, and from one alley of the public garden to
another, passed Arthur Kranitski, with the step and the mien of a
person who is strolling through a city without great desire or
object. In his shining hat and well-fitting fur coat, on the
costly collar of which traces of wear were observable, the man
seemed notably older and poorer in some sort than he had been
during a past which was still recent. In his erect form and
springy step one might discover that disagreeable effort with
which people guard themselves when they fear lest observers may
penetrate their sad secret in some way. But despite every effort
Kranitski's secret was manifest sometimes in his stooping
shoulders, drooping head, pendant cheeks, and dimmed glances. All
this was the more evident since Pan Arthur was advancing in the
full gleam of the sun which flooded with light the sidewalks of
the streets and the alleys of the great public garden. The end of
the winter had been exceptionally mild and serene, the snow had
almost melted away, and only, here and there, mingled its dull
white with the azure of the sky and the golden hue of the
atmospheres. While passing multitudes of people, Kranitski raised
his hand to his hat frequently, and at times, with a smile which
was winning, nay, almost seductive, he made movements as if to
approach, or even spring forward to those whom he greeted; but
they, with a courteous though prompt inclination, moved past the
man swiftly. These persons were stylish young gentlemen
conversing with one another vivaciously, or young ladies
hastening to some point. They returned bow after bow, but none
took note of Kranitski's desire to draw near, or, at least, none
had the wish to observe it. Each man or woman had some person at
his side or hers with whom to converse, and was going, or even
hastening, to some place. How recent and intimate had been his
acquaintance with those persons!--lie had known them from early
childhood. He knew everything touching them: the names and
life-histories of their parents, the nicknames given them in jest
or in tenderness, names given at an age when they were barely
lisping. He knew every chamber, almost every corner of the houses
in which they had been reared. He had raised many of them in his
strong arms from the floor--he who at that time was the praised,
the beloved, the sought for. He who had amused and entertained
them, was he, indeed, to imagine a day when they would pass him
at a distance and indifferently? How could he? He with rosy
glasses on his eyes, those eyes famed at that period for beauty,
had been given to tenderness and attachments; he had considered
the feelings and relations of men as eternal. But from various
causes a multitude of his relations with people had ended
already--and now they were ending to the last one. He had the
vivid sensation of hanging in a vacuum, and felt a growing need
to grasp after something or someone lest he might tumble into a
place which he knew not, but which he felt must be abyss-like. At
the beginning of his walk he thought that in that bright hour of
the day when throngs of gayly-dressed people were covering the
sidewalks, and the middle of the street was filled with passing
carriages, some person would stop him, would invite him, would
attend him somewhere, or take him to some place. What was he to
do now? Whither was he to go? Baron Emil, whose mediaeval mansion
had been in recent days almost his one refuge from weariness and
lonely tedium, had gone to his estate to make trips in various
directions and search in village cottages and under their roofs
for remnants of art which were genuine or suitable. He was to
return soon; but, meanwhile, Kranitski could not sit in the broad
chair before Tristan, who was giving obeisance on the wall of the
chamber to Isolde, nor sit at the table where, besides
gastronomic tidbits, he found conversation to which he was
accustomed, nor in presence of the Triumph of Death sweeping
through the air on bat wings, or experience the tone of
beyond-the-worldness. With the departure of the baron he lost the
only ground on which he met Maryan--that dear child. The very
thought now of Maryan, from whom after so many years of life in
common he was separated, brought tears to Kranitski's eyelids.
He took a seat on a bench of the garden, and wishing to light a
cigarette drew the golden case from his pocket. He did not light
the cigarette, however; for there, beyond the low paling near
which he was sitting, passed a splendid carriage drawn by two
horses and bearing servants in livery. In that carriage sat a man
of thirty years, at sight of whom Kranitski pushed forward as if
to rush after him, as if to fly like the wind to him. This young
man was the son of Count Alfred, of him whom Kranitski had nursed
with endless devotion during illness under the sky of Italy. In
those days the young man was a child, and remembered little of
the hours in which Kranitski had occupied in his family the place
of the best of friends, and somewhat that of the most faithful of
servants. Afterward he forgot those hours completely, and put
away by degrees "that excellent Kranitski," who was growing old;
and though this Kranitski, on a time, had rendered some sort of
service to the young man's father, he had been rewarded richly by
resorting to the house for years, and, very likely, by loans of
money given frequently and with no thought of payment. Very
wealthy and a frequent traveller, Count Arthur's son had too many
affairs on his head, and too many in it to cherish any desire of
stuffing it further with old-fashioned trumpery. Kranitski soon
observed this frame of mind in the young son of his former friend
and protector, and he had long considered that house as lost and
its master as a stranger. This did not sadden him at first over
much, for he had a port, which he entered with, full sail at all
times. But now the passing sight of that young man struck his
heart with something which cut and burned at the same instant.
Services are forgotten, ties are broken, the past is rejected;
oh, the ingratitude of mankind! And still with what delight would
he have ridden through the streets of the city on such a spring
day in that carriage with rubber ties, bearing the persons within
it on yielding cushions, with the soft movement of a cradle. With
a still greater feeling of delight would he have conversed while
going with someone who possessed the same habits, tastes, and
relations which he had; with what vivid satisfaction would he
halt before one of the best restaurants of that city to have an
exquisite lunch, between walls decorated with taste, and amid
sounds of joyfulness. But all those things which on a time were
as cheap as good-morning, are now as remote and unattainable as
the blue sky above him.
In his closely drawn coat, and bent over so much that his
shoulders took the form of a half-circle; in his hat, from
beneath which black hair was visible and a row of furrows above
his dark brows, he gazed at the street which stretched along
outside the paling, and in his fingers, covered with Danish
gloves, he twirled the golden toy from habit. The hat shone like
satin above his head, and on tire cigarette-ease, which he
twirled in his fingers, the sun-gleams were crossing one another.
The street beyond that paling lay before a square which was
rather extensive; this square seemed dominated by two lofty
buildings, before the ornamented fronts of which there was a
great movement of people. Through the broad doors of these
buildings a throng of men went in and came out, equipages stopped
before them; on the steps which led up to them halted, advanced,
decreased, and again increased a crowd of figures clad in black,
noisy, gesticulating, occupied passionately in some work. No
wonder! These were the bank and the exchange, which stood with
opposing fronts, and, with their multitude of windows, seemed to
gaze eye to eye at each other. Kranitski looked neither at these
piles nor the throng of men circulating about them. He had never
had anything in common with activity in those buildings. But all
at once he bent forward a second time and fixed his eyes on a
carriage which passed the paling, or rather he fixed them on the
man sitting in it.
It was Aloysius Darvid who, on that sunny day, was in an open
carriage drawn by a pair of large, costly horses, which, in light
harness without mounting, stepped slowly, with grace and
importance. On the box sat a coachman and footman, in high hats
and immense fur collars; in the carriage, finished in sapphire
damask, a man of not large stature, slender, with pale face,
ruddy side-whiskers, and with the glitter of a golden spark in
the glasses which covered his eyes. Slowly, with dignity, the
carriage with muffled sound of rubber-bound wheels halted before
the bank entrance. The footman sprang from the box, stood at the
door, and taking a card from his master's hand hurried into the
building. Five minutes had not passed when out came two serious
persons who approached the carriage hastily, and began to
converse with the man sitting in it. Surely officials, even
dignitaries of the bank, whom he had summoned by two words
outlined on the card. To go to them, to ascend the high steps, he
had not time perhaps, so they ran down those steps to him. They
did not walk down, they ran, and now, with the most courteous
smiles in the world and with raising of hats above their
important heads, these men seemed to counsel with him about
something, to indicate some point, to promise. While he, ever
unchanged, perfectly polite though cold, with a shade of sarcasm
on his lean face, rather listened than spoke, and with a golden
spark in his glasses, against a background of bright sapphire
damask, had the seeming of a demi-god.
In five minutes' time the conversation was over. Darvid inclined
with befitting profoundness; the officers bowed much lower their
hats above their heads. With the muffled sound of rubber tires,
with the slow and important gait of the splendid horses, that
carriage moved on, described a large circle and stopped at the
long and broad steps leading up to the edifice opposite. Here the
footman opened the carriage door; Darvid alighted and began to
ascend the steps where a dense throng of men, dressed in black,
opened before him as a wave opens to an oncoming vessel. That
must be no common craft; for, along the wave of men, quivers
passed as they pass through one living organism at the touch of
an electric current. The opening throng formed eddies, whispered,
was silent; a number of hands were raised toward heads, and hats
or caps hung in the air; a multitude of faces were turned toward
that one face, and fixed their eyes on it. These movements had in
them an expression of timid curiosity, an expression which seemed
almost humble. The most confident stepped forth from the throng
with bared heads, and with steps which were either too slow or
too hurried, but never such steps as they made habitually. These
men approached the newly arrived and spoke to him of something;
they were doubtless inquiring, taking counsel, perhaps
petitioning; for all those acts were expressed in their
movements, and on their faces. Thus was formed something like
that retinue of the elite who surround a demi-god, and between
the two walls of people, along the splendid steps of the stairway
they went up with him higher and higher to the entrance of the
temple, and vanished there with him. The heads of the common
crowd were covered with hats and caps now, but many eyes, unable
to gaze on Phaeton himself, turned to his chariot, and were fixed
for a long time yet on its sapphire-colored damask, which was
warmed by the sunrays, and on those two splendid animals which,
standing there in trained fixedness, seemed like bronze steeds of
the sun before the gates of that money mart.
Kranitski, sitting on the garden bench, had grown rigid in the
posture described above--his mouth awry, his eyes gleaming. So
this is what has happened! In a few weeks after the death of the
hapless Cara he is active and triumphant; he hurls his lariat on
the golden calf and captures new millions. A demi-god! A Titan!
The king of markets! He sweeps forward in seven-league boots over
roads, at the crossing-points of which are Americans with
milliards, they are millionnaires no longer, but masters of
milliards. He is the man who, as Baron Emil said, knows how to
will.
Still, how small he seemed and devoid of desire at the hour when
he stood near the corpse of his daughter, joined with the silent
smoke of the censer, which rose like light mist in the air. How
petty he appeared at that juncture, crushed, as it were, by some
giant hand--not a demi-god in any sense, or a Titan, but rather
an insect, pushing into some narrow cranny to hide from a bird of
prey. Kranitski had seen Darvid then, for, on hearing of the
misfortune, no power on earth or in hell could have stopped him
from running, from flying to the house where it had happened.
That misfortune had pierced his heart. And straightaway he felt,
also, those inward and other pains which for some time had
attacked him without pity and more frequently; but, in spite of
his pains, he ran on without a thought that he had been forbidden
that house, or a thought of what might meet him within it. He
entered, and by well-known ways went directly to the chambers of
the lady. Happen what might, he must see, in such a terrible
moment, that woman, that saint, that mild and noble being. She
was surrounded by many; there was a throng of people about her,
but he did not see who they were, nor did he think what they
might say of him. Before his eyes was a mist which veiled all
things in front of him, save the face of that woman so dreadfully
changed and grown old recently; that woman who no longer had the
bright aureole of pale, golden hair above her forehead, but on
that forehead and across the whole width of it was the dark
furrow of a deep wrinkle. Without seeing, or greeting a person,
he walked up to her directly, and, dropping on his knees, pressed
to his lips the hem of her mourning garment. He did this without
the trace of a plan, without forethought; he did it through an
impulse which threw him at the feet of the woman. That action
came from his heart, and from his heart only. For never was
anyone like her, he thought. Many a time he had had fortune with
women. In life he had been loved, and had loved in various
fashions, but as he had loved her, never had he loved woman.
He did not remember; he was unconscious of what happened after
that; but it seemed that Irene seized in her arms the loudly
weeping lady; that Maryan was there also, and many other persons,
who, going in and passing out with silent tread and low words,
produced a sound something like the rustle of leaves when they
are falling. In some corner of the chamber he sat down, or stood
up, he cannot tell which, he only remembers that he was
surrounded by the odor of alder-blossoms which filled the
chamber, till, finally, he felt that it was late, that he had to
go out just as had others. He could not be with that beloved
being in her suffering; of all pains that was the most
unendurable. But life contains sometimes such cruelties. Life at
times is atrocious! He went once again to look at the "little
one," he saw her, and with her the demi-god, in such a position
that he thought: Here, too, is a man who is ended! At this point
of meditation Kranitski rested his elbow on the arm of the bench,
shaded his eyes with his palm, and placed before his imagination
that wonderful sight which seemed a fable, a dream to him.
What luxury, what originality of thought and taste! What a
mountain of gold was poured out there! The plan and the taste
were seemingly Maryan's. The grand drawing-room had been turned
into a grotto, which, from floor to ceiling, was covered with
soft folds of white crape and muslin, meeting above in a gigantic
rosette resembling the mystic four-leafed roses painted on Gothic
church-windows, save that this one at which the wavy drapery met
and hid walls and ceiling was as white and soft as if formed by
the fantastic play of cloud substance. But everything in that
chamber, the walls, the arch, the rosette, seemed made up of
clouds and of snow, on which had fallen an immense rain of white
flowers, white only. In garlands, woven together, or cast about
without order by the movement of hands, they clung to the walls
and the vault, covered the floor, were scattered over everything,
were visible everywhere, and seemed to have fallen out of every
place. Aside from them and among them, there was nothing but
abundance of light; stars, bunches, columns were formed of
lights, burning in branch-holders and candlesticks. It is unknown
where they were invented, so uncommon were these holders and
candlesticks, so fantastic. They were so peculiar in style that
it would seem as if they had been brought from the dream-world of
an excited fancy to the world of existence. There was no color,
no tinsel, no emblem of death, nothing in that sea of snowy
whiteness save an avalanche of snow-covered flowers and the
dazzling gleam of burning tapers, with the odor of
lilies-of-the-valley, roses, alder-blossoms, hyacinths, to which
was added incense of some kind, as peculiar as was everything in
that chamber. This incense, burning it was unknown in what place,
sent hither and thither through the air, from time to time, small
grayish cloudlets of smoke amid the gleam of the lights and
tinged by the gold of them. In that chamber were virginity, with
an atmosphere of mysticism, inventiveness unwilling to recognize
the impossible--a chapter of magic, a strophe of a poem, and in
it, as a central point for all else, was the slender form of Cara
on a lofty place, fallen asleep calmly, arrayed as in a bridal
robe, with her delicate face, which, in the pale, golden hair,
with a shade of whiteness barely discernible, emerged from the
flood of snowy crape and flowers. In that flood of snowy white,
in that gleaming brilliance of the tapers, in that richness of
intoxicating odors, in that atmosphere of haze moving from the
burning censer, Cara was sleeping calmly, with the smooth arches
of her dark brows below the Grecian outline of her forehead; on
her closed lips was a smile which was almost gladsome.
It must have been late at night when Kranitski rose from his
knees and found himself alone in that chamber. Outside the words
and prayers of watchers were heard murmuring beyond the doors and
the walls, but there the sleep of death seemed to reign alone.
After a while, however, something rustled near one of the walls.
Kranitski looked around and saw a man who seemed at first to be
an undefined patch on the snowy background. After a few seconds
he recognized Darvid's features in ruddy side-whiskers, but he
strained his eyes rather long inquiring whether he was not
mistaken. Neither sorrow nor despair, commonly roused by death in
the living, but something still greater and beyond that was
depicted in the look and the posture of Darvid. His eyes, usually
so clear, so positive, so like glittering steel, had in them now
an abyss of thought at the bottom of which terror was secreted,
while the form of the man seemed shrunk and crushed down. Neither
irony, nor energy, nor bold certainty of self was in it now. He
looked smaller than usual, and in the manner of bending his head
forward there was something of the vanquished. The soft folds at
which he stood surrounded him in such a way that he seemed
flattened and recalled definitely, like an insect in flight which
was trying to push through a narrow crack to escape before
something immense which was swooping down suddenly. He turned his
eyes toward Kranitski, recognized the man, and casting an
indifferent glance at him, gazed again in another direction at
the enormous something. He had no feeling of hatred, or contempt,
or offence. Kranitski on his part had none of those feelings
either. He thought that various tales and dramas represent mortal
enemies who, in moments like that, reach their hands to one
another and are reconciled. Pathos is not truthful! It has no
sufficient reason. What are men's quarrels or agreements in
presence of--this? He looked a little longer at the maiden
sleeping under the shower of white blossoms, and whispered:
"Death! yes, yes! death! eternal sleep!" then, with drooping
head, he went forth from that grotto, which was snow-white and
gleaming with lights. He was so broken that he dragged himself
out of it rather than walked.
Now, on the bench of the garden, Kranitski raised his face from
his palms and looked at the exchange. The porch with its broad
steps was empty, but Darvid's carriage was there yet, showing a
spot of gleaming sapphire in the sunny air, the horses stood in
trained fixedness, like statues cast from bronze. Kranitski's
lips were awry with distaste.
With a bitterness to which his mild nature came rarely, he
whispered:
"Labor! iron labor!"
With lips full of gall, not thinking now of straightening his
shoulders or giving his steps an appearance of elasticity, he
dragged along from street to street, halting sometimes for a
moment before the gates of the grandest houses. Each one of these
reminded him of something, of some brilliant or happy moment, of
some fragment of the past. This one he had entered while going to
one of the smaller or greater "stars of his existence;" out of
that one he had gone when taking the ailing Count Alfred to
Italy; through this one he had hurried daily to do some kindness
for Prince Zeno; that one brought to him the memory of a certain
ball, so brilliant that it bordered upon fairy-land. Now all
these gates and those mansions are for him like that hall which
guests have deserted, in which the lights are extinguished, and
through which a man finds his way with a night-lamp--remembering,
as he passes, a spot where had gleamed the naked shoulders of a
beauty; or another, where the faces of joyous comrades had smiled
at him; a third, where had risen the odor of flowers, or the odor
of roast pheasants.
At last, late in the afternoon, Mother Clemens heard a ring in
the antechamber, and ran along the floor in her clattering old
overshoes, hastening to answer the door-bell. On her broad
shoulders was a barred kerchief, in her hand was a needle with a
thick thread, and above her eyes, now growing dim, a second pair
of eyes, which were glass, in spectacles raised to the woman's
wrinkled forehead.
"Hm!" commenced she immediately, "I thought that thou hadst
fastened for the day in some pleasant company; but, Arabian
adventure! thou hast returned before evening. This is well, for
guests have been here, and they will come again shortly."
"Guests?" inquired Kranitski, and his face cleared somewhat, but
briefly, because Clemens snorted.
"Yes, one of them was very important. Be pleased with the honor!
Berek Shyldman! He said that next week, as God is God, he would
sell thy furniture."
Seeing, however, that Kranitski, after he had removed his coat,
dragged his feet through the little drawing-room, and that red
wrinkles came out above his brows, she grew mild and spoke in
better humor:
"But thou mayst take delight in two other guests who came. Great
dandies, and of thy company, though young enough to be thy sons."
"Who were they? who? who? Speak, mother!"
"How can I remember those Arabian names? But they left
cards--wait, I'll bring them this minute--I put them in the
kitchen."
She turned toward the kitchen, but right behind her, stepping
almost on her heels went Kranitski, delighted and impatient, he
almost snatched from her hand two visiting cards, on which he
read the names: Maryan Darvid and Baron Emil Blauendorf.
"Ah!" cried he, "those dear children! The baron has returned
then! And his first thought after returning was of me! What a
heart! I go; I run!"
And, indeed, he ran to the door of the antechamber, radiant,
rejuvenated, but Mother Clemens stood in his way, squaring out
her shoulders in the checkered kerchief.
"Whither art thou going? What for? Is it to meet them on the
steps, or at the gate? They said that they would come again in an
hour. To each other they said that they would go to see the
Nazarene--"
"What Nazarene?" asked Kranitski, with astonishment. "What
Nazarene?"
"But how should I know what Nazarene? It may be an image of the
Lord Jesus of Nazareth. They only said that they would go to look
at it, and come back here."
"Come back," repeated Kranitski, "that is well. We shall have a
talk--it is so long since I have had a talk with anyone--and I
shall see Maryan, the dear, dear boy!"
Kranitski rubbed his hands; he walked with springy step, and
erect shoulders, through the little drawing-room, but not even
delight could round his cheeks, which had dropped during recent
days somewhat; neither could it freshen the yellow tint on them.
Mother Clemens halted in the middle of the room and followed him
with her two pair of eyes.
"See, my lords! He is as if born again, as if called back to
life!"
He stopped confused before her.
"Knowest what? Let mother run for a pate de foie gras, and a
bottle of liqueur."
Mother Clemens dropped back to the wall.
"Jesus of Nazareth! Hast thou gone mad, Tulek? Berek
Shyldman--thy furniture--"
"What do I care for Berek Shyldman! What do I care for
furniture!" cried Kranitski, "when those noble hearts remember
me--"
"Hearts have no stomachs; there is no need of stuffing something
into them the first minute."
"What does mother know? Mother is an honest woman, but her level
is earth to earth--she only thinks of this cursed money!"
"But is pate de foie gras holy? Arabian adventure!"
Both voices were raised somewhat. Kranitski threw himself on the
sofa, pressed his right side with his palm, groaned.
Then Clemens turned her face toward him; she had grown mild and
seemed frightened.
"Well, has pain caught thee?"
It was clear that he was suffering. An old affliction of the
liver, and something of the heart in addition. Mother Clemens
approached the sofa in her clattering overshoes.
"Well, do not excite thyself. What is to be done? How much money
will that Arabian pate cost?"
"And the liqueur!" put in Kranitski.
When he had grown calm he explained that the baron was fond of
liqueur, and that Maryan was wild for pate and black coffee.
"Let mother prepare black coffee--thou knowest how to do it
perfectly."
"What more!" snorted she. "Perhaps it would be well to take the
panes from the windows, and throw the stove down?"
Kranitski spread out his arms.
"Why speak of the window-panes and the stove? What meaning can
the stove and the glass have? There is no comparison between
black coffee and window-panes, or the stove. Mother irritates
me."
Again his face changed and he groaned; the old woman surrendered,
but the question of money remained. Kranitski took a bill out of
his pocketbook, held it between two fingers, and thought. This is
too small. That kind of liqueur which the baron drinks is very
expensive. Vexation was evident on his face. Clemens spoke up:
"Well, stop thinking, for if thou hast not a rouble thou wilt not
think out one in a hundred years. Be calm. Only write all on a
card for me; I will go and buy what is needed."
Kranitski struggled on the sofa.
"With what money wilt thou buy it, mother?"
But she was already in the doorway of the neighboring room, and
gave no answer.
"Is it with thy own?" cried Kranitski, "surely with thy own! I
know that mother is spending her capital this good while--"
She came back with the checkered kerchief over her head, without
spectacles, and ready for the errand.
"Well, what if I do spend it? Hast thou not Lipovka? Thou hast,
and what I lend thou wilt return. Oi, oi! I stand with one foot
in the grave, and should I fight about a rouble when thou art in
need of it?"
Kranitski raised his hands and his eyes:
"What a heart!" whispered he; "what attachment! No one can equal
the old servants of our ancient families!"
After a few minutes steps were heard in the antechamber of people
coming in, and the fresh voice of a man cried:
"May one see the master of this place?"
Kranitski ran to the antechamber.
"Of course, my dears! You make me happy, altogether happy!"
And indeed he had the face of a man made happy, and also tilled
with emotion; for, taking his place in one of the armchairs
opposite Maryan, who sat in another, he listened to the baron's
narrative, which gave details of his recent expedition. Baron
Emil was uncommonly vivacious, but at the same time he feigned to
be more nervous and excited than usual.
He did not sit down for one instant.
"Merci, merci" said he to the master of the house who indicated a
chair to him; "I am in such a condition, that really, I cannot
sit in one place. Something within me is toiling, and crying, and
biting. I am full of trembling of hopes, and of anger--" A
brick-colored rosy blush appeared on his yellow cheeks; as usual,
he spoke through his nose and through his teeth, but more quickly
than common. While walking through the drawing-room he said, that
in smaller and greater country residences which he had visited he
had found a few remnants of former wealth, specimens of art, and
of ornamental industry, which were of considerable, and sometimes
even of high, value. A multitude of these rich things had been
acquired by the English, who had circled about through the
country more than once in pursuit of them; but much remained yet,
and the only need was to inquire, seek, examine, and it was
possible to find real treasures, even, often most unexpectedly.
He halted before Maryan.
"I say this because who, for example, could hope or expect to
find in possession of a schoolmaster, a teacher of geography, an
absolute Arcadian, a picture by Steinle hung behind a door,
smoked befouled by flies--an undoubted, a genuine Steinle--Edward
Steinle--"
"But is it undoubted?" interrupted Maryan; "once more I turn thy
attention to certain traits which seem to speak in favor of
Kupelweiser."
"What, Kupelweiser!" cried the baron, walking still more quickly
through the drawing-room. "No Kupelweiser, my dear; not a shadow
of a Kupelweiser. Kupelweiser, though the teacher of Steinle was
considerably inferior to him in drawing--that firmness and
elegance of outline, that harmony of composition, that piety,
that genuine compunction which is dominant in the faces of the
saints--that is Steinle, the purest Steinle, undoubted Steinle,
whose collection of cartoons in Frankfort--"
"Was Steinle, for I do not recollect, pre-Raphaelite?" put in
Kranitski timidly, somewhat ashamed of his ignorance.
"Yes, if you like," answered the baron, "we may reckon among the
pre-Raphaelites the German school of Nazarenes. But this school
is distinct."
"Then surely you examined this Steinle to-day, my dears, before
you came to me?"
"Yes, we heard of it by chance; we went to examine it, and
imagine, we found this pearl in the possession of an Arcadian who
has neither a conception, nor the shadow of a conception of the
Nazarenes, or who Steinle--"
"But perhaps we should pardon him," laughed Maryan, "for the
Germans themselves know almost nothing of Steinle, who fell into
disfavor among his successors."
"On the contrary!" exclaimed the baron, "I beg pardon, my dear,
real judges always value him highly, and he is greatly sought for
by museums. His cartoons when placed at the side of Overbeck's
Triumph of Religion in Art lose nothing; on the contrary, that
compunction distinguishes his figures."
"But thou canst not compare him with Overbeck!" said Maryan, with
indignation.
"I can, I can! I make him equal to Overbeck; and I consider him
superior to Fuhrich and Veit--"
"I will give thee Veit, but as to Overbeck, that marvellous
melancholy which fills the eyes of his women--"
"It is earthly, earthly, rather than that perfect expression from
beyond which is dominant in Steinle's figures. In this regard
Steinle is the only man whom we may compare with Fra Angelico--"
"I would rather compare him with Lippo-Mani."
"Perhaps," said the baron, half agreeing, "as Fuhrich, whenever I
look at him, reminds me of Buffalmaco."
"And me, of Piero di Cosimo."
"No, no," objected the baron, "Piero di Cosimo in coloring is
different from Fuhrich and Buffalmaco."
"I can compare Buffalmaco, to-day, with Rossetti alone."
In this manner they conversed some time longer of the Italian
painters of the epoch preceding Raphael, and of their modern
followers. At times disputing slightly; at times growing
enthusiastic in company, till they agreed in one opinion; namely,
that the greatest master of painting, whom it was impossible to
compare with anyone among contemporaries, was Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, an Englishman, but that the school of German Nazarenes,
to which Overbeck, Steinle, Fuhrich, and others belonged, was, in
spite of certain inequalities and weaknesses, altogether pure
Quatrocento.
"Yes, Quatrocento," finished the baron; "who knows even if they
are not purer, more perfect Quatrocento than Rossetti and
Morris."
Kranitski listened, spoke rarely, while something within him
began to weep. He, too, loved art, but how far was he now from
its loftiest caprices. How much would he give if those dear boys
there, those noble hearts, would speak of something else to him,
of something nearer. After a time he remarked with a smile to
which he brought himself with effort:
"Then you have the first parts of that golden fleece which you
are to bear beyond the sea?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the baron, "the golden fleece! splendidly
said! In truth, we shear the sheep, or, if you like, the
shepherds, for you cannot imagine what a rheumatism of thought in
this matter prevails throughout the country. No man knows the
value of what he has; no man knows what he possesses. There is no
conception of art; no aesthetic knowledge. In my journey I felt
as if wandering through ancient Scythia. All are related to me,
or are old neighbors of my parents; they greeted me with open
arms. Kisses with saliva, and chops cooked in buckwheat-grits!
Their rooms are filled with progeny, who look as though they
might grow up without trousers. The parents we may almost call,
now, the shirtless. From this cause comes a genuine fury of
turning all things to money. My proposition brought to their eyes
tears of gratitude. They saw in me a saviour. Had I wished, I
might have won the glory of a patriot bringing salvation to his
countrymen. But glory is a painted pot. I am not a man to be
covered with labels. I buy cheap to sell dear, that is my game.
And, though I told them this, they kissed me. I filled their
mouths, which were suffering from that hunger which goes before
harvest. They opened old cupboards before me, also storehouses;
one man even opened a chapel in which I found church-cloths of
incomparable antiquity. I suspect that one of these is of Flemish
make, and reaches back to Robert the Pious, just such a one did I
see in the museum at Cluny. Finally, a number of images; some
girdles and brocades; some old weapons, which would befit John of
Dresden very well; this is my booty. Here we have discovered one
Overbeck and one Steinle; but Maryan, during my absence, found,
somewhere, Saxon porcelain, of incredible age, in perfect
preservation. But this is only the beginning. There will be a
whole harvest of these things, a whole harvest!"
"A golden fleece!" whispered Kranitski.
He grew more and more gloomy, and felt in his right side a pain
which was well-nigh unendurable. The tone in which the baron gave
account of his journey in regions about his birthplace, roused
almost instinctive disgust in Kranitski. He looked at Maryan. Was
he the same also? After a while he asked:
"Has the American project crystallized thoroughly? Is it settled?
Are you going to America surely?"
"It has crystallized this far," answered Maryan, "that I start no
later than to-morrow. Emil will remain here some weeks yet. I, to
become acquainted with the people and the country, leave here
to-morrow."
Kranitski straightened himself and sat there dumb for a time,
with fixed look, then he repeated:
"To-morrow?"
"Absolutely," confirmed Maryan; and, when the baron sat down
after long walking, he rose, and began in turn to walk through
the drawing-room, declaring that he had come to-day purposely to
take farewell of Kranitski.
"I could not go without taking farewell of my good, old man,"
said he.
It may be that he would not have gone so soon had not certain
details made his life impossible. One of these details was, that
the week before his father had withdrawn the allowance paid up to
that time. A certain period had ended just a week earlier, and,
through commands from above, the treasury had withheld payment.
In speaking of this Maryan grew red in the face; the vein in his
forehead swelled like a blue cord; his eyes glittered brightly.
He was wounded to his innermost heart by the last conversation
which he had had with his father. It was brief, but decisive; he
had told it to Kranitski. From the narrative it was possible to
divine that Darvid had shown at first an inclination to milden
the demands on his son, but afterward despotic habits and
practical views had won the victory. He demanded that in one of
the factories belonging to him, Maryan should begin a course of
self-restraint, obedience, and labor.
"Our two individualities," said Maryan, "came into collision, and
sprang back in a state of complete inviolability--not the least
dint was made on Mm or on me. Our wills remained unbroken. He, of
course, is a man with a mighty will. It seemed at first that the
death of that poor little Cara crushed him, but he straightened
quickly, and now again he is going through genuine orgies of his
iron labor. I admire that integrity of will in him, and I confess
that it is a power of the highest quality; but I have no thought
of abdicating my own personality because my father, with all his
undoubted endowments, has a head badly ventilated. It may be that
one of my great-grandfathers said, that if one child gave itself
as food to worms, another should give itself to be crushed by its
father's chariot. But I am not my own great-grandfather, and I
know that every yielding of one's self to be tormented by Pavel
to amuse Gavel is a painted pot."
"It is a darned sock!" added the baron.
Another reason why Maryan had to leave the city without delay was
the impression produced on him by the death of that poor little
girl. But he did not admit that so many atavistic instincts were
at work in him. He was a man of the new style, but he experienced
now the spiritual condition of his great-grandfather, which
affected him so that, like Maeterlinck's Hjalmar, he wished to
throw handfuls of earth at night-owls. The death of that little
one, and all that was happening and going on in the house, had
made his soul pale from weakness. He understood now Maeterlinck's
expression, to sink to the very eyelids in sorrow. When that
Intruder, who is ever mowing grass beneath life's windows, came
for that little girl, Maryan had the question in mind
continually: "Why do the lamps go out?" Now, like Hjalmar in
"Princess Malenia," he feels every moment like exclaiming:
Someone is weeping here near us! He had moments in which such
nervous impotence attacked him that he did not feel capable of
stirring a finger, or moving an eyelid. Accompanying this
condition was a perfect understanding that all sentimental
family-tenderness is a painted pot. It is known, of course, that
in the world a multitude of maidens are always dying; that each
life is a gate before which grave-diggers are waiting; and that
this does not furnish the slightest reason why those, under whose
window the Intruder has not begun to mow grass yet, should have
pale and sickly souls.
He must flee from expiring lamps, and night-owls; from nervous
impotence and spleen of spirit; he must rush out for new contacts
and horizons; for new spaces, where there are fresh worlds which
are free from the fifty defilements of past centuries.
He concluded and took a seat. Kranitski had tears in his eyes,
and after a rather long silence, he added:
"Thou art going away I see!"
And then, with hesitating voice, he inquired:
"Thou hast said: 'that which is happening and going on in the
house.' What is going on there?"
To this the baron answered, with growing blushes:
"How? Do you not know that Pani Darvid and Panna Irene set out in
a few days--for a retreat?"
"To Krynichna," said Maryan, completing the information. "Father
has made Irene the owner of Krynichna, and they are going there."
Kranitski grew very pale, and only after great red spots had
appeared above his eyes did he look at the baron, and begin:
"Then--"
"Then," added the baron, quickly, "everything is ended between
Panna Irene and me. I am glad, for how could my bite and her idyl
agree? That would have been like the odor of ether on a sunny day
in Maeterlinck's hot-houses. Naturally, I represent the ether,
and Panna Irene the sunny day."
The smile with which he said this grew ever more jeering and
malicious.
"But I know not how they will succeed in the retreat. In spite of
her idyl Panna Irene has much in her, very much of the cry of
life, of that beautiful impulse toward--what Ruysbrook called
love in action, toward ecstatic impressions, and with such a
disposition, as far as my skill extends in this matter, it is
difficult to halt at the mere spectacle of sparrows making love
outside one's window--"
"A truce to malicious phrases, Emil," interrupted Maryan. "Thou
art not threatened with the fate of Werther because my sister has
broken with thee--"
"Of course not!" laughed the baron.
And Maryan added quickly:
"And thou shouldst even offer up to her that painted pot, called
gratitude, because she has not closed to thee the road to some
daughter of a multi-millionnaire Yankee. America possesses men of
'iron toil,' whose daughters are far richer than the
daughters--alas! than the only daughter of my father."
"Perhaps! perhaps!" agreed the baron; "the daughters of the
richest American fathers pay very high prices for European
titles. In this way, or another, or both together, I may make a
colossal fortune. Yes, wealth is a door before which the heralds
of life have their station--I am not a man pasted over with
labels. I confess that this perspective entices me; what I
possess now is merely a little crumb for my hunger of life. I
shall leave here greedy for new sensations and new profits--eager
for love in action and for gain."
After a moment's silence Kranitski whispered:
"They are going!"
"They are going: Then glancing along the faces of the two young
men, he added:
"You are going!"
"Yes," said the baron, "and therefore we make a certain
proposition. Perhaps you would take upon yourself to be one of
our agents."
He presented in detail a plan of the enterprise--to carry out
this there would be agents disposed through the whole country to
discover and purchase.
"We need aesthetic persons, a company of developed men, and it is
difficult, very difficult to find them. In this country sterility
reigns throughout the whole region of gray matter in the
brain--it is sterility in the great gray substance--if you
wish--"
Kranitski was silent. It was not long since he had desired this
position, perhaps, and something which might attach him to people
and to life. But now--during this discourse with his two
friends--an increasing disgust had seized hold of him. The
sarcasm of the baron about shirtless parents who kissed him with
lips suffering from hunger before harvest pierced his heart
cruelly. In his mind hovered the words "departure, death!" and
before his imagination rose the vision of a flock of birds flying
in every direction.
To buy cheap to sell dear! That was vile! At the same time he
felt that the pains in his side and his heart had grown keener,
and a feeling of faintness possessed him. After a moment's
thought, he said:
"No, my dear friends; it seems that I shall not be able to serve
you. I am sick--I am growing old--besides, my dears, I must tell
you openly--"
He hesitated, and took from the table his gold case, which he had
opened before the guests. He meditated a moment, and then said:
"Your undertaking has sides which wound my sense of propriety
somewhat. This business will always be buying in a temple, even
in temples, I might say, for art is sacred, and so is the
fatherland. You are both too clever to require explanation on
this point. The loneliness in which I shall be when you are gone
frightens and pains me--pains me immensely, but I am forced to
say that I shall not be with you in this matter; no, decidedly, I
shall not be of your company."
By nature Kranitski was averse to disputes, and for various
reasons unused to them, hence he had begun to speak with
hesitation and dislike; but afterward he rested his shoulder
against the arm of the sofa, and with head somewhat raised,
twirling the cigarette-case in his hand, he had the look of a
great lord, especially if compared with the baron, who always
seemed somewhat like a mosquito preparing to bite. And this time
he began with a sneering smile:
"You are always painted in the color of romantic poetry of sacred
memory. While you were speaking I seemed to be listening to 'a
postillion, playing under the windows of incurable patients,'
and--"
But Mary an rose from his armchair, and broke in:
"As for me, I respect individuality; and since that of our
beloved Pan Arthur is developed in his way, we have no right to
insist on attacking him with ridicule. To be ridiculous proves
nothing. 'Thou art ridiculous,' is no argument. I may be
ridiculous in the eyes of another man, though right in my own.
But a truce to discussion; I remind thee, Emil, of our
porcelain--"
"Yes, yes!" replied the baron, and he rose also. "We must take
farewell of our beloved friend here--"
At that moment, through the open door of the sleeping-room,
entered Mother Clemens with a great tray. Since she had gratified
her favorite she wished to do it in the best manner possible. On
her head was a cap as white as snow; the clattering overshoes
were no longer on her feet; and a checkered kerchief was arranged
neatly, even with elegance, across her bosom. On the tray were
small glasses, a bottle of liqueur, a pate de foie gras, and
three cups from which rose the excellent odor of coffee. All this
she placed on a table before the sofa, and left the little
drawing-room with gloomy eye, but firm foot.
Kranitski sprang up from the sofa.
"My dearest friends, I beg you--take a glass of liqueur, that
which thou lovest, baron--Maryan, a little of the pate de foie
gras--"
But they touched their watches simultaneously.
"No, no!" began the baron, refusing, "we have only three minutes
left."
"We lunched at Borel's, who, as my father says, gives us Lucullus
feasts."
Kranitski did not cease to urge them. Certain habits or instincts
of a noble brightened his eyes, and shaped his arms in gestures
of entreaty. But they resisted. In five minutes they must be in
that apparently wretched antiquarian shop, where Maryan had
discovered the amazing porcelain. The baron, giving his hand to
Kranitski in parting, said:
"We shall see each other again. You will visit me. I do not leave
for a number of weeks--I doubt if this porcelain comes from
Meissen as Maryan insists. In what year was the factory in
Meissen?"
"In 1709," answered Maryan, and to Kranitski he said:
"Adieu, my good friend, adieu; be well, and write to me
sometimes. Thou wilt find the address with Emil."
He turned to the door; Kranitski held him by the hand, however,
and looked into his face with eyes which were mist-covered.
"Then it has come to this; for long years! It may be forever!"
"Well, well! See, thou art growing tender," began Maryan, but he
stopped, and over his rosy face passed something like a shade of
feeling.
"Well, my old man, embrace me!"
And when Kranitski had held him long in his arms, he said:
"La! La! leave regrets! Some ancient poet has told us that man is
a shadow that is dreaming of shadows. We have been dreaming, my
good friend-.The only cure is to jest at every thing, come what
may!"
With these words, Maryan went to the anteroom and put on his
overcoat; meanwhile, the baron said:
"That cannot have come from Meissen, nor be of the year 1709.
That is much more recent. It comes from the Ilmenau factory--"
"How so? Say rather that it comes from Prankenthal?"
The baron, looking around from behind his cane, remarked:
"It is too smooth and shining for such an old date."
Maryan answered, with his hand on the lock:
"It is polished with agate."
And he went out. But the baron, after crossing the threshold,
began:
"And as to the ruddy-brownish biscuit--"
The door closed; the voices ceased. Kranitski stood some time in
the antechamber, then he turned toward the little drawing-room,
and whispered:
"'Polished with agate'--'Biscuit,' and those are their last
words!"
Some minutes later, in a Turkish dressing-gown with patched
lining and mended sleeves, Kranitski lay on his long chair,
opposite his collection of pipes, and, in deep thought, twirled
his golden cigarette-case. In vain did Mother Clemens urge him to
eat a little of that Arabian pate and drink a glass of liqueur;
he tried, but could swallow nothing. Sorrow had closed his
throat; he was sunk in reminiscences. He felt with perfect
tangibleness that breath of cold air which was blowing around
him. In this manner did Time blow on the man--Time, that
merciless jester, who had always circled about playing various
pranks on him; but Kranitski had never looked into the face of
that jester, with attention. Occasionally, sorrow and grief had
come to him in company with the trickster, but they were
transient, not of the kind which go into the depth of the heart,
but such as slip along over the surface. He grew gloomy; was
sorry for having lost someone, or having missed something, and
passed on with springy, lightly swaying gait, with his long
continued youth, humming some fashionable ditty; or, with tender
smile on his lips, living easily and joyously in endless pursuit
of agreeable trifles. But, now, he has the first look at Time,
face to face and near by. The current has borne away; the abyss
has swallowed; people, houses, relations, feelings, and nothing
comes back from them but one word in a ceaseless murmur: "Gone!
gone! gone!" That which is ended to-day calls to the man's mind
all things that have been. That past is to him something in the
form of a mighty grave, or rather a catacomb, composed of a host
of graves, through the openings of which are visible the absent;
not only those snatched away by death, but also those gone
through separation, removal, oblivion. Dead were faces once dear;
faded were moments once precious; portions of life had dropped
into dust; and Time, standing before the catacomb, his cheeks
swollen in jeering, puffs his cold breath of the grave on that
man who is calling up the past.
Kranitski wrapped himself closely in his dressing-gown; hung his
head so low that the bald spot, whitening on his crown, became
visible; his lower lip dropped; red furrows came out above his
black brow. Mother Clemens stood in the kitchen doorway.
"Wilt thou eat dinner now?" inquired she.
He made no answer. She withdrew, but returned in half an hour
bringing a cup of black coffee.
"Drink," said she, "perhaps thou wilt grow cheerful, and I will
tell the news from Lipovka."
She pushed a small table to the long chair, sat down with hands
on her knees, and with immense attention in the expression of her
quick and shining eyes, fell to repeating the substance of a
letter just received from her godson, the tenant of Lipovka. He
wrote that he had repaired the dwelling; that he was living
himself in a building outside; that he had put the place in order
most neatly, as if for the arrival of the owner. The furniture
was the same as in the time of the former master; though old, it
was sound yet, and beautiful, because repaired and cleaned. The
garden was larger than of old, for many fruit-trees had been
added. The bees, brought in recently, were thriving. It was quiet
there; calm, green in summer; white in winter; not as in that
cursed city of throngs and shouting--
She laughed.
"And there is no Berek Shyldman there."
Then she added:
"Be at rest about debts. Thou wilt sell thy pipes and cupids, and
if they do not bring enough, I will give all my own things. All
that I have I will give, and I will drag thee out of this hell.
Oh, Arabian adventure! If this lasts longer, thou wilt lose the
last of thy health; thou wilt go deeper in debt, and die in a
hospital. Tulek, dost thou hear what I say? Why not answer?"
And since he made no answer even then, she continued:
"But rememberest thou that Lipovka grove beyond the yard? It is
there yet. Stefan has not cut it down; God forbid! And dost thou
remember how beautifully the sun sets behind that grove?"
When the sun had gone down in the world it began to grow dark in
Kranitski's room. And Mother Clemens continued in the thickening
twilight:
"And rememberest thou how quiet the evenings are there? In
summer, the nightingales sing; in autumn, the bagpipes play; in
winter, God's winds rush outside the wall and roar; but, inside,
it is honest, and quiet, and safe."