A rather long series of days had passed when Darvid entered his
clear, brightly lighted study, after winning one of the very
greatest triumphs of his life. In the antechamber he had thrown
into the hands of a footman, not his fur, but a somewhat light
overcoat; for that day, which for him had been lucky, was
succeeded by a warm, spring evening. Whoever might have seen him
when he was leaving the lofty threshold of the highest dignitary
in that city must have said to himself: "Happy man!" Though he
had grown evidently thin during recent days; gladness and pride
were beaming from his smile; from his eyes; from his serene
forehead. He possessed now that for which he had striven long in
vain: he held in his hand the colossal enterprise; before him was
a broad arena for iron toil and a great vein, of gold. It is
true, that while making ready for that moment of triumph, he had
spent days and nights like a Benedictine over piles of books and
documents, calculating, combining, covering many folios of paper
with arguments and figures. He had toiled immensely, thinking of
nothing save the toil; and now, when he stood at his object as a
conqueror, all people said: he is happy! He had received a
multitude of congratulations already; in the eyes of men he had
read much admiration. He had just returned from a meeting where,
by accurate and fluent speech, he had convinced and won over a
numerous assembly of men of uncommon keenness and significance.
Thus had he passed the day; now, in the middle of the evening, he
returned to his house; and when he had given the servant in
attendance the brief command: "Receive no one!" he asked:
"Where is the little dog?"
After that he dropped into a deep armchair near the round table,
and had the face, for a while, of a man who is waking from sleep.
For a number of days he had been so buried in thought over this
weighty enterprise, and that day from early morning he had been
so absorbed by the feeling of that victory which he had won, that
he had had no time to think of any other thing; now, after a long
time, in the first moment of inactivity which had fallen to him,
he felt as if waking from sleep, and he was brought to thinking
by the question:
"Well? What is it for?"
Just this question was to him at that moment reality, while every
other thing was accomplished by the power of habit. He had
toiled, calculated, triumphed, just as a round body rolls over an
inclined plane by the force of acquired motion. Under this
surface-life, which had been the one which he had led so long
exclusively, was now another one which seized a continually
increasing area; this new life, a mystery to every other man, had
become for him more tangible than the entire visible universe.
Out of it was growing an irresistible, importunate riddle,
enclosed in the brief words: What for?
These two brief words kept returning to his mind during every
moment of rest, so that hours of noise and movement seemed to him
a dream, and only those two words--unceasingly recurrent--the one
true reality over which there was reason to be anxious.
Why had he taken on his head and hands this new burden of toil,
which was greater than all the others? Why, in general, this
climbing a sky-touching ladder with exertion of all his strength
of nerve and brain? To what kind of heaven could he climb upon
that ladder? New profits, ever-increasing wealth? But he had
ceased to desire these! Although that seemed marvellous to the
man himself, he had ceased really. Why? Did he own little? He was
the possessor of enormously much. He had never been of those who
make a golden chariot so as to sit in it with Bacchantes and with
Bacchus. But pride? He laughed. Yes, pride, but that was before
he had known, intimately, those giants who sit in various corners
of the earth. He knows them now; he knows what they can do; and
he knows his own power. Why toil? What for? But his worth; that
worth which people esteem so immensely that they almost cast
themselves at his feet, or do they cast themselves before his
golden chariot? For, if that chariot were to shoot away from
under him, would he retain the title of modern Cid, Titan,
superhuman? It was wonderful with what clearness he saw then
Maryan, sitting in that chair, and how distinctly he heard his
voice inquiring: "What is the object of your toil, father? The
object; the object? That decides everything. What was the object?
Of course, not this world's salvation!" He laughed again. What
cause was there for long thought here! His object had been to win
new profits continually; to gain ever-increasing wealth; and now,
since he had ceased to desire these, the question was--what for?
But the genius of that Maryan with his questions! He had gone
down so deeply into his father's being that those questions
remained there and continued their inquisitorial labor. A
beautiful and genial fellow! A young prince; almost a sage. But
what does that signify if--he lacks something? What is it that he
lacks, and so lacks that he is as if he had nothing? What is it
that he lacks?
With a slow movement, in which weariness was evident, Darvid
turned his head toward the desk, which was lighted abundantly
with tapers burning on lofty candlesticks. What did those
candlesticks bring to his mind? Ah, yes, he remembers! On a time
he gave one of them, in the inner drawing-room, to Cara, so that
the candle burning in it might light the way to her. He remembers
how her slender arm bent beneath its weight when her small hand
took it, and how beautifully the flame of the candle was
reflected in the dark pupils gazing at him with such--with such
what? With such exaltation! But how wonderful, how intense was
his happiness when that child lived and loved him as she did!
That was his only happiness! Then, holding the light in the heavy
candlestick straight on before her rosy face, she went on into
the darkness.
Again he looked around, not with a wearied movement as before,
but abruptly. He looked around at the door beyond which thick
darkness was hiding, impenetrably, a series of drawing-rooms.
This darkness was like a black wall outside the door. Along
Darvid's shoulders ran a movement of the skin, the same as a man
feels when something heavy from behind is placed upon his
shoulders, or rides onto him. That black wall, in which an
enchanted row of empty drawing-rooms stood silent, seemed to put
itself down on him. But again he looked toward the desk; there,
among a multitude of papers, lay a letter from Maryan, received
many days before. Darvid had not destroyed or put away this
letter, and not knowing himself the reason why, had left it on
the desk there. The letter, in that great study, appeared
definitely with its white color on the green of the malachite
writing utensils. Moreover, it was not a letter. A number of
lines merely. He had written that, wishing to spare his father
and himself a new personal interview; he gives notice, in
writing, of his trip to America. But as he is slow to write
letters he confines himself to a few words. Since an
incomprehensible lack of logic in directing his life had forced
him to become a laborer, he desired to choose the field and the
manner according to his own individuality. He had turned his
personal property into money; this had brought him a considerable
sum; he had borrowed another sum; he did not ask pardon for
acting thus, since this borrowing was the natural outcome of a
position of which he was not the cause, but on the contrary the
victim. He makes no reproaches, since he is ever of opinion that
all such things as offences and services, crimes and virtues, are
soup prepared from the bones of great-grandfathers, and served in
painted pots to Arcadians. All this was concluded with a
compliment which was smooth, rounded, exquisite as to style,
plan, and execution.
Lack of logic. Those three words had fixed themselves in Darvid's
memory, and after the words "what for?" appeared in it most
frequently. Could they really relate to him? Had he in fact
committed an error in logic? Yes, it seemed so. In that case his
clear, sober, logical reason had deceived him. He rose, and with
his profile toward the door, felt again, rather than saw, a black
wall of darkness beyond. Again a shiver ran along the skin of his
shoulders, which quivered and bent somewhat. He went to the desk,
from which he took another letter, thrown down a moment before,
and unread yet. Something in the room was moving; certain little
steps ran along the carpet quietly. Puffie had woke; had run to
the man, and begun to squirm at his feet.
"Puffie!" said Darvid, and he began to read the letter. It was an
invitation from Prince Zeno to a grand farewell ball. The prince
and his family were going abroad, and wished to take farewell of
their acquaintances in the first rank of them with the "modern
Cid." Prince Zeno had often given this title to Darvid. But
to-day the "modern Cid" read the letter of invitation while his
mouth was awry from disgust. It had not the famous smile
bristling with pin-points, but simply that disfigurement of the
lips which accompanies the swallowing of something which is
nauseating and repugnant. He placed before his mind the society
in which some time before he had passed a few days at the hunting
trip. This society would fill the prince's drawing-rooms on that
day, and not only did he note in himself an utter absence of
desire to be in that society, but a repulsion for it. Not that he
cherished hatred toward those people, but they were perfectly
indifferent to him. He did not reproach that society; but when he
thought of it he was conscious again of a boundless space and a
vacuum, which divided him from those who formed it. He imagined
to himself Prince Zeno's drawing-rooms filled with faces,
costumes, conversations, card-tables; and, it seemed to him, that
it all existed at an immense distance--on the other side of a
space that was infinite and empty--on one edge of this space was
he; on the other were they; between him and them lay a vacuum; no
bond between them; not even one as slender as a spider-web.
In the midst of the lofty chamber, above the round table, burned
the lamp with a great and calm light; on the desk, in massive
candlesticks, burned candles. In that abundant light Darvid stood
near the desk, with bent shoulders; a number of wrinkles between
his brows; his face inclined low toward the paper which he held
in his hand. At his feet, on the rug, like a tiny statue, sat the
motionless Puffie; with upraised head, and through silken hair,
the dog looked into the face of the man. But Darvid did not see
the little animal, and did not read the flattering phrases on the
paper; he only repeated the words which, on a time, he had heard
from his daughter:
"What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do
they love you? What comes of this? Pleasure or profit? What is it
all for?"
"I do not love them, little one, and they do not love me. Profit
comes to me from this--significance in society."
"But what is significance to you, father? What do you want of
significance? Does it give you happiness?"
This time there appeared on his lips the smile full of pinpoints,
which was famous in society.
"It has not given it, little one!"
His child had let down on her question his thought to the basis
of life, as if on threads. Now he looked around, and his smile
was bristling with pin-points of irony, increasing in sharpness.
He thought a long time before he said, aloud:
"What comes of this?"
And afterward, in an inquiring tone, he almost cried:
"An error?"
In the light of this thought that his life with its toils, its
conflicts, and its triumphs could be an error, he saw, again,
that Medusa-face, pale with terror.
Puffie, perhaps frightened by the cry which had been rent from
his master, fell to barking. Darvid turned from the desk, and his
glance met the black wall beyond the door.
"Was it an error?" he repeated.
The darkness was silent, and a face without eyes seemed to gaze
at him persistently, with attention. He moved forward a few steps
quickly, and pressed the bell-knob. To the incoming servant he
indicated the door, and said:
"Light up the drawing-rooms!"
After a few moments the series of drawing-rooms emerged from the
darkness, and stood in the light of blazing lamps and candles.
Globe-lamps, burning at the walls, cast a hazy half-light, in
which glittered, here and there, golden gleams, and appeared the
features of painted faces and landscapes.
From shady corners emerged, partially, the forms of slender and
swelling vases; portions of white garlands on the walls; the
delicate mists of dim colors on Gobelin tapestry; the bright
scarlet and blue of silk drapery. Farther on, in the small
drawing-room, burned, in two chandeliers, a bundle of tapers,
beneath which hung a crown of crystals, glittering like icicles,
or immense congealed tears. Farther on still, in the dining-room,
with its dark walls, gleamed a bright spot in the grand lamp of
pendant bronze above the table. This point seemed very distant
from Darvid's study; but on the whole expanse which divided him
from it there was neither voice nor sound--there was nothing
living. Notwithstanding the multitude of objects scattered, or
collected, this was a desert on which silence had imposed itself.
From the threshold of the study to that door, beyond which the
largest of the lamps was suspended as a shining object in its
bronze above the table, Darvid moved, stepping with inclined
face; at his lips the fire of a lighted cigarette; now, as it
were, extinguished; and, now, shining up again. Behind him, right
there near his feet, with the end of its snout almost touching
the floor, rolled along little Puffie, like a bundle of raw silk.
After a while, the step of the advancing man grew more hurried
and uneven; increasing disquiet was expressed in him; now the
light scattering along the unoccupied and silent space the extent
of that space, and he himself wandering along through it. What
did all this signify? Here and there, in the gildings and
polished surfaces, quivered flashes like playful gnomes; at other
points, on bluish backgrounds, pale faces looked from tapestry
thrown over furniture; still, farther, a great mirror reflects
two clusters of lights, beneath which hang crystal pendants, and,
increasing the perspective, made the space still greater, and the
light more peculiar; in another place, from behind bluish folds
depending from a door, appears a vase of Chinese porcelain; and,
at that moment, it assumes, in Darvid's eyes, a strange
appearance. Large, covered with blue decorations, it has a form
which is swollen in the middle, but slender above, with a long
neck, and not altogether visible; it seems to lean forward from
behind the curtains, gaze at the passing man, follow his steps,
and laugh at him. Yes, the Chinese vase is laughing--its body
seems to swell more and more from laughter, and in the blue
painting the white background has, here and there, a deceptive
similarity to grinning teeth. Darvid strives not to look at the
vase, and hastens on; behind him Puffie's shaggy feet tread the
floor more hurriedly, but as he returns, the porcelain monster
thrusts out its long neck again from behind the curtain, jeers,
bares its teeth, and seems ready to burst from laughter. At the
opposite side of that drawing-room, on a blue background, is the
pale face of an old man, and from above a gray beard the sad and
inquisitive eyes of the patriarch are settled on Darvid.
What does all this mean? Darvid halted in the centre of one of
the drawing-rooms, right there behind him the bundle of raw silk
halted also, and stood on its shaggy paws. What was he doing in
those empty drawing-rooms; why had he commanded to light them?
This act seems like madness. He called to mind recent acts of an
insane king, who, in a brilliantly lighted edifice, listened
alone to the rendering of an opera. Is he also becoming insane?
Why is he not at work? He has so much to do! Darvid advanced
quickly, and halted again. The Chinese vase inclined half way
from behind the curtain, it seemed bursting from laughter. Work?
What for? The object? The object? That decides everything! He
turned his glance from the gnashing teeth of the Chinese monster,
and it met the pale face of the patriarch, whose eyes, looking
out at him from the blue background, and from above a gray beard,
said with sadness, and inquiringly: "The wrong road!"
He had lost the road! Only the habit of restraining internal
impulses, and the expression of them, kept him from crying
"Help!" But he had the cry within him, and with a quick and
uneven tread he went toward the great lamp burning at the end of
the perspective, in the centre of the open space between the
walls of the dining-room. Behind him ran along Puffie, with all
the speed of his shaggy feet.
Meanwhile, in one of the drawing-rooms, the clock began to strike
eleven--one, two, three. Its deep sounds penetrated slowly the
empty space on which silence had imposed itself, until somewhere,
at the other end of the perspective, a second clock began to
strike, as if answering this one in a thinner voice and more
hurriedly. This seemed a voice, an echo, a conversation carried
on by things that were inanimate.
Darvid returned to his study, and pressing the knob of the bell
again, said to his servant:
"Put out the lights!"
He sat in one of the armchairs at the round table, and felt an
unspeakable weariness from the crown of his head to his feet.
Some light body sprang to his knee. He placed his hand on the
silky coat of the creature nestling up to him, and said:
"Puffie!"
He considered that he must renounce absolutely that colossal
affair to obtain which he had struggled so long, because
strength, and especially desire for such immense toil, seemed to
fail him. He was so tired. But if he abandons toil what will he
do; what is he to live for? What is the object of life? The
darkness was silent, and as a face without eyes seemed to gaze on
him with stubbornness and attention.
A few hours later, in a sleeping-room, furnished by the most
skilled of decorators in the capital, a night-lamp, placed on the
mantle, cast its light on a bed adorned with rich carving; a
hand, white and thin, stretched forth on the silken coverlet, and
a face, also thin, with ruddy side-whiskers, itself as if carved
out of ivory, and gleaming with a pair of blue, sleepless eyes,
which wandered through that spacious, half-lighted, chamber with
a tortured and heavy expression.
All at once Darvid raised himself in bed, and, with his elbow on
the pillow, gazed upward. Higher on the wall was the face of a
maiden, small, oval, rosy, with thick, bright hair scattered
above her Grecian forehead, and by a movement of her eyes she
seemed to summon the man gazing at her. She smiled, with rosy
lips, at him, lovingly, and moved her eyelids, inviting him.
Darvid, with raised brows, and with his forehead gathered in a
number of great wrinkles; with eyes turned to that picture above
him bent forward still more, and, with trembling lips, whispered:
"My little one." But immediately after he rubbed his eyes, and
smiled. It was a picture by Greuze! There were two of them: one
almost invisible in the shade; the other that one emerging from
the shade into a half light in such fashion that the head of the
maiden seemed to stand out from, the canvas as it were suspended.
"It is like Cara; very like her. The same type--the very same
lips, hair, and forehead--"
He knew that that was a painted face; still, with his head on the
pillow, he raised his eyes to it frequently, and as often as he
raised them he saw a loving smile on the rosy lips and the
distinct movement of the eyes which seemed to call and invite
him.
He thought that he was ill, unnerved; that he must summon in
physicians. Next morning Darvid heard, in the study of a famous
doctor, that his nerves were unstrung remarkably; suffering from
a blow which had struck him--over-work. He had toiled beyond
measure. There was only one cure: complete and long rest. A
journey abroad. A change of impressions, after hard and special
toil; life in the midst of splendid scenery and works of art.
Meditating afterward on this advice of the doctor, he thought
that he had not the slightest wish to follow it. Neither nature
nor art attracted him in any way. During his whole life he had
not had the time for them, and it was too late now for new
studies. Why was he to undertake a journey if not for that
purpose? He had travelled much in his lifetime, but always on
business, and with a clearly defined object; without business and
an object, travelling through the world seemed to him exactly
like that walking in the night through his empty, lighted
mansion; something akin to madness.
What then? Days passed again in toil, amidst consultations and
reckonings. The arranging of balances and reports--the round body
rolled on by the power of impetus. At appointed hours he received
visits. He received also Prince Zeno, who came to take farewell
of him for many months, till the following winter.
"We are scattering, all of us," said the prince. "Like birds in
autumn we are flying to places where the sun shines most
beautifully. You, too, will go, of course. Whither? To the South
or the East? Perhaps to that estate where your wife and daughter
are passing the sad time of family mourning? But apropos of the
country. You know that poor Kranitski; well, he came to take
farewell of me. He has left the city; left it never to come back
again. He has gone to the country. He is to remain on his
estate--a small one, not over-pleasantly situated. I was there
once on a visit to his mother, with whom I was connected by
blood-bonds. A tiresome little hole, that place! But what is to
be done? This handsome and once charming man has grown dreadfully
old; the conditions of his life were difficult--so he has gone.
Your son is making a long journey. Is he in the United States
already? Baron Blauendorf is going there also; only yesterday he
bade good-by to us. We scatter through the world; but, till we
meet again? For I should be in despair were I to lose an
acquaintance so precious and dear to me as yours is."
Ah, how indifferent it was to Darvid whether he should keep or
lose acquaintance with Prince Zeno. He saw and recognized in the
man many fine and agreeable qualities, but he would rather not
see him, just as he would rather not see others. All seemed
strange to him and distant. Conversation, even with the most
agreeable and worthy, both wearied and annoyed him. "What do you
want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love
you?"
One thought now devoured him. That "poor Kranitski" had left the
city to live on his estate permanently, or rather in his poor
village, situated in that same district as Krynichna, not very
near, but in the same region. Of course, he will be a frequent
guest at Krynichna--but, maybe not; even, surely not. Indeed, she
had broken with him, and, in truth, she felt immense shame and
pain--he laughed. A penitent Magdalen! He finished with the
thought: Unhappy woman!
But what more had he to do that day? Ah! he had an appointment to
meet that young sculptor at the cemetery toward evening, and
agree on a monument for Cara. That was to be a monument of great
cost and beauty--a mountain of gold above the "little one."
The great cemetery was in the bright green of leaves which had
recently unfolded on the trees, and in the intoxicating odor of
violets over Cara's grave-mound, which was covered with a carpet,
not of modest violets, but of exquisite exotic flowers. Darvid
spoke long with the young sculptor, and with a number of other
men, giving, agreeably and fluently, opinions and directions
concerning the erection of the monument. While doing this, his
eyes dropped, at moments, to the grave, and were fixed with such
force on it as if he wished to pierce through that carpet of
flowers; through the stratum of brick; through the coffin, and
look at that which was under the lid. At last, with a polite
elevation of his hat, he took farewell of them, and passed on by
a path, amid columns and statues intwined with a lace of bright
leaves, into the centre of that broad city of the dead. That was
his first acquaintance with such a city. He had seen a multitude
of other such cities, but had never become acquainted with one of
them. He had looked into them sometimes, but briefly, and because
he was forced to it--his head was ever filled with thoughts
altogether foreign to such places. Now he passed the interior of
the cemetery with this thought. So all ends here! He did not go
out for a long time. His carriage, with cushions of
sapphire-colored damask, and his pair of splendid horses stood
long before the cemetery gate, obedient and motionless. In the
chapel tower the silver music of the vesper-bell sounded, and
ceased to sound. Darkness had begun to fall on the fresh green of
the trees, and the urns, columns, and statues standing thickly
between them, as Darvid drove away from the cemetery.
"When church-bells sound, as this has, people pray," thought he.
"Do they think that God hears them? Does God exist? Perhaps he
does. It is even likely that he does, but that he occupies
himself with men and their entreaties!--I am not sure. I have
never given time to this, and it seems to me that no one knows.
Men have wrangled over this question for ages and--know nothing.
It is a mystery. All places are full of mystery, but men think
that reason is a great power. That is an error! Whatever ends
thus is misery. Everything ends in stupidity. All things are
foolishness! Foolishness!"
Reaching the steps of his mansion he thought that he felt greatly
wearied. Is this old age? not long before he felt perfectly
youthful. But, evidently, this is the way--Age comes and seizes a
man. One giantess more--it seems to him that he is a hundred
years old. The same with Malvina. How changed she was when he
spoke last to her. She had preserved her youth so long, and on a
sudden she was aged. She must have suffered greatly. Hapless
woman!
He entered his study; sat down at his desk. Puffie sprang onto
his knee immediately. He put one hand on the coat of the little
dog, and with the other opened a drawer, looked into it, pushed
the drawer back, and, resting comfortably against the arms of the
chair, gazed into space with a fixed, torpid look.
He was too wise not to see standing, earlier or later, before
him, the stern irony existing in human affairs. It had been
standing before him for a long time, but, standing behind veils,
such as labor, success--the eternal lack of time. Now the veils
had fallen. He beheld the irony clearly. It was embodied in the
swollen vase of Chinese porcelain, which, though not standing in
that chamber, seemed to bend forward from the corner, with
sloping eyes painted in sapphire. The figure leered at him; bared
its white teeth, and with swollen body seemed to burst from
laughter. What could he place against that monster? how was he to
cover it?--he knew not. He understood well that at the bottom of
this all lay an error. On the road of life there was something
which he had not noted; something which he had not recognized; he
had let something slip from his hands which still were so
rapacious; he, an architect, observing with mighty diligence the
law of equilibrium in buildings reared by him, had not preserved
that equilibrium in his own house; so that now it was hard for
him to dwell there, and he wished to depart from it.
When he goes it will be better for all. Better for him and for
them. That unhappy woman will be free, and may become happy.
Maryan will return from the end of the earth to receive his
inheritance, if for no other reason. Irene will reappear in
society. Irene, what a strange character!--so deeply tender, and
so insolent. How savagely she hurled at him the word "vileness!"
But she was right. He had committed that moment a vile act, just
as in general he was forced to commit many follies--but "useless
cruelty" will give reward--Irene will learn that he was not
so--no, neither she nor anyone will know the nature of his act.
He raised his head, in which he felt once more an access of
pride. No, he will not give account of his motives to anyone; nor
confess on his knees, like a penitent sinner; nor will he take
the pose of a hero. Let them think what they like. How can that
concern him? Nothing concerns him.
By chance he raised his eyes and saw, hanging in the air, the
face of a maiden, oval, rosy, and bright-haired which smiled at
him lovingly, and made a clear motion, inviting him. Greuze's
picture was not there, still the vision was present. With eyes
raised toward it Darvid smiled.
"Yes, little one, quickly."
He took a pen and began a telegram to Irene. He penned the
address, and then wrote: "Come as quickly as possible for
Puffie." He put the pen down, rang, and told the footman to send
the telegram immediately. Then, passing his hand over the coat of
the sleeping little dog, he sat long, sunk in thought. The world
appeared before him with all that he had ever seen, owned, or
used in it. Countries, cities, nations, their dwellings and
languages, banks, exchanges, markets, offices, noise, throngs,
struggles, horse-races, movements, uproar, life. This vision did
not halt there before him, but sailed away, as it were, on a
giant river, ever farther from him; farther, till it was on the
opposite shore of a great space, entirely cut off and entirely
indifferent. When he considered that he might spring over that
space and mingle again in all those things, repulsion came on
him, and also fear; he shook his head in refusal, and said to
himself: "I do not want them!"
He was very calm; an expression of happiness began to spread over
his features. If anyone had seized him then and tried to hurl him
to the side of that broad space on which this life is situated,
he would have resisted with all his might, and, if need be, would
have begged to remain on that other side.
He looked up and smiled.
"Now, my little one, I am coming!"
He opened the drawer.
Next morning news flew through the city like a thunderbolt, that
the renowned financial operator and millionnaire, Aloysius
Darvid, had, during the night, in his study, taken his own life
with a revolver. The first and universal thought was of
bankruptcy. But no. Soon it became clear and most certain that
his ship, in full canvas, was sailing on the broad stream of
success, and was bearing an immense, glittering golden fleece.
The Argonaut, however, no man knew for what reason--through
causes hidden altogether from everyone--had sprung from the deck
into the dark and mysterious abyss.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Argonauts, by Eliza Orzeszko (AKA Orzeszkowa)