HIS HARVEST
"No Ivan, you'll do better alone. You have influence with him.--Good
God! a year ago he worshipped you! I believe there was something you
told him--some pointer you gave him at one time about work, that made an
immense impression on him.--You mean something to him. Me, he dislikes.
He knew months ago that I--well, saw something of his infirmity. But,
while I don't believe in him, this affair mustn't go on. The fellow
_could_ have learned to paint. He's killing himself now, not physically,
but mentally and morally.--The whole city's waked up to him. His pace is
unprecedented.
"Come, there's nothing more to say, Ivan Mikhailovitch. Go and pull your
protégé out of the mire--if you can!"
The two men rose, simultaneously. Ivan was very pale. He was still in
the first shock of full revelation; and it was a moment or two before he
put his hand into that of Nicholas, and answered, simply: "Yes, I will
go."
"Soon?"
"Oh yes." The reply had a weary tone. "Yes. I will go to-day."
Rubinstein nodded with satisfaction. His self-imposed mission was
accomplished. A moment later, after a close hand-clasp, he was gone.
It was the first Wednesday of the new year. For the past three months
Ivan, who had been on a distant country estate, engrossed in his
father's affairs, had heard nothing of the gossip of Moscow. Two days
after his return, Nicholas came to him with the story of Joseph's
disgrace and disaster; the tale over which the malignant city was now
holding its sides with amusement. Ivan, sick with amazement and regret,
had promised his old friend to seek the young fool out and--and what?
Remonstrate--with madness? Right, in an hour or two, a situation that
was the climax of months of wrong? Impossible! All Ivan's instincts
rebelled against the idea. Nevertheless, as Nicholas had clearly pointed
out, something must be done. Yet who but he, Joseph's first friend in
Russia, had the faintest chance of success: of once more setting those
purposeless feet on the upward path?--Thus, in the end, with his mood an
indecisive mixture of pity and revolt, Ivan prepared himself for the
necessary visit.
Nicholas and he had been lunching together in the Gregoriev palace. The
brief midwinter day was still bright when the Prince's sleigh set its
owner down in the Academy Quarter, a door or two away from the tall
house in which Joseph still retained his rooms. Ivan knew his way well
enough; but he stood in the empty hall before the closed door for some
seconds before he could bring himself to knock, so strong was his
feeling of impotence, his dread of intruding into these two, alien
lives. At length, stifling his thoughts, he hastily clacked the brass
knocker of the door.
A moment. Then came the sound of a woman's voice, muffled, but
startlingly familiar:
"C'est toi, Joseph?"
Instantly, all the blood in Ivan's body rushed to his brain. Then,
fiercely seizing the door, he thrust it open, strode into the studio,
and found himself face to face with Irina Petrovna.
Irina was garbed very much _en negligée_, but Ivan's profound
amazement, (by some freak of chance the woman's name had never been
mentioned to him) for a few seconds prevented his noticing that she was
standing beside a trunk half filled with her own garments, more of which
were scattered about the room. Looking from her dishevelled figure to
the box, the significance of her evident occupation was suddenly borne
in upon him.
The question which had risen to his lips was prevented by the woman's
exclamation, made in a voice whose usual velvet tones--how long familiar
to him!--were now broken and harsh and strained by her palpable emotion:
"_You_ here, Ivan!--_You!_"
He raised his eyes to hers, looking her calmly in the face; for,
suddenly, by her confusion, his self-control had returned to him, and he
felt his power. "Yes, Irina; I have come for a special purpose.
But--you--" he looked doubtfully from her to the trunk, "you--and
Joseph--are leaving this house?"
"No!--Ah, wait, wait, I will tell you!--Will you sit down?"
Ivan turned to obey her, and, an instant later, found himself alone.
Irina had disappeared into the adjoining bedroom, whence she emerged, in
a very short space of time, clad in a tea-gown that bore the air--and
the name--of the greatest of Parisian _couturières_. Her appearance
corresponded with the garment; for Irina's dramatic instinct for effect
was unfailing; and, penniless and debt-laden though she was, no Duchesse
of St.-Germain could have surpassed her now in beauty and in _chic_.
As she entered the room and seated herself on the couch with a manner
and a smile that affected him powerfully, a great discouragement came
upon the man. He was here on man's business: to fight with a weak man
against that man's weakness. How was he to cope with a woman: and, above
all, such a woman as this?
As the question passed through his mind, Irina herself answered it:
"Eh bien, Monsieur le Prince, you have come, I am sure, to help that
poor Joseph! Is it not so?--Let us forget the acquaintance which we have
had, you and I. Let us speak of that little one who, in his heart,
worships you, monsieur, though you have not come to him. Well, you hear
of his debts? of his disgrace? his fever for play?--So, at last, you
yield: you come!--Good!--You find me here. I embarrass you. Néanmoins, I
tell you, monsieur, that I, also, in my way--I, who have so hurt him,
pauvre enfant! am at last wishful for his repentance and recovery.
"You have asked me if _we_, _Joseph et moi_, were leaving this place. I
tell you no. _I_ am leaving it. _I!_ To-night, when that boy comes back
from the 'Masque,' he shall find himself once more unencumbered.--Well,
I have allowed myself the luxury of explanation with you. But now I must
finish--_that_, and go."
"And where do you go, Irina Petrovna?" inquired Ivan, in the deep, calm
voice that suddenly bereft the woman of all her easy impertinence.
Unquestionably, she flushed. "Do not ask me. There is a refuge that is
mine for the asking--"
"Ah!--Well, about Joseph. I have been listening to his story as told by
a man--my friend. But I wish also to hear it from you, who know it
all.--How was it that you met?--And what has become of his real work: of
his talent?"
Irina did not immediately reply. Picking a small, gold case from a heap
of baubles at her side, she drew therefrom a cigarette, lighted it, with
that innate coquetry that was her bane, and believed that Ivan did not
see how the match trembled. After three puffs she suddenly turned her
great eyes on the man, and smiled, joyously:
"You embarrassed me, monsieur! Of my meeting with Joseph, of our life
here, I shall say nothing. His--fall, you may impute to me, wholly. And
yet--and yet, Ivan, in the face of all I have done, I still say to you,
Joseph's own weakness would have killed him in the end.--You, who are a
great artist, who have labored through poverty, through injustice,
through calumny, through the jealousy of friends and the libel of
enemies, and have conquered them all, you know well in your heart that
great ignorance, great vanity, great self-indulgence, belong not to the
characters of the truly great.--Oh I, I, Irina, the outcast, know that
well! Did I tempt _you_?--Those traits were Joseph's. I, who have loved
him, say it. For love of me and of himself, he degraded his art. For
himself, he has played and played and played, at the 'Masque,' till even
I bade him stop.--Roulette--baccarat--trente et quarante:--all he has,
is gone; and he has borrowed again and again from every one.--Oh bah!
You, mon Prince, can do nothing with or for him. Leave these rooms.
Return to your beautiful, calm life. This is not for you.--And as for
me"--she suddenly flung the cigarette away and leaped to her feet--"I,
also, am going!" And, throwing herself down beside the trunk, she began
to stuff the litter of the room into its capacious trays.
In the dim light, Ivan saw not the unsteadiness of her hand; nor knew
that her heart was throbbing, wildly; nor that she was fighting back an
impulse to crawl to him, miserably, on hands and knees, and beg for the
generosity of his great heart.
No, Ivan suspected nothing. He merely sat, rigid, silent, white-faced,
tossing aside stub after stub of cigarettes, and gazing, vacantly, into
the spaces of past and future, trying to reconstruct the broken life of
that starving boy whom he once had fed.
The trunk was packed, and locked. Ivan did not look up. Not, indeed,
until a tall woman, in a severely-cut cloth costume, entered the studio
from the inner chamber bearing with her a lighted lamp, did he come back
to himself, and offer to help her into the fur coat that hung over one
arm.
This act of courtesy accomplished, Ivan mechanically held out his hand.
"You are leaving now?"
"Yes."
"I shall wait here for--him. Do you know when he will come?"
"By seven, probably. We usually dine at that hour."
"Thank you.--Good-bye."
"Ivan!"--The word was a strange whisper. Ivan started. When his eyes met
hers, she was looking at him almost steadily. The next instant she had
uttered a hoarse: "Good-bye!" and--was gone.
He returned to his seat, wondering a little about her destination:
surmising, indeed, the costly equipage that awaited her in the street,
with its two men on the box, and its eager occupant.--Faugh! The reverie
was broken by the appearance of a man who came to take away the trunk.
Her plans had been well laid. But--suppose, as she had imagined when he
entered, _he_ had been Joseph, returned early? Well, she had doubtless
carried things off high-handedly more than once. Why should she hesitate
this time?
Heart-sick, Ivan returned to his seat in the lamp-light. Odd that he
should have come hither on this day of crisis! Was it well, or ill, that
this was so? Would Joseph, overwhelmed by his loss, prove
pliable?--Would his weakness be guided by another's reason?--Who could
tell? If strength is always consistent, weakness should be as often
incalculable.
The silent minutes crept along. Ivan, who, in the face of Nicholas'
tale, had eaten little luncheon, began to grow faint for food. Seven
o'clock had already been rung by the myriad bells of Moscow. Joseph did
not come.--The half-hour.--Eight.--Still no Joseph. Well, since he was
here Ivan would wait the night through, if necessary. Another hour. The
watcher's eyelids grew leaden; a great emptiness, a lonely dread, crept
through him. He shivered in the growing chill of the room. At last, a
little before ten, there came the sound of shuffling steps in the hall,
followed by a fumbling at the door, which presently swung back as Joseph
appeared on the threshold and paused, blinking at the light.
It was at this moment that Ivan caught his most memorable glimpse of the
young man, white-faced, unshorn, ill-clothed, his eyes bloodshot, his
whole person shambling and loose-jointed: his long fingers working,
tremulously. After a moment's anxious gaze he said, in a muffled voice:
"Irina!--Here, Irina!--I forgot about supper! I forgot I promised, this
time. But you should have seen! Eleven times during the hour, seven came
up!--I was playing your number.--How could any one have dreamed--Irina!"
"She is not here," said Ivan, quietly, as he rose.
"What!--Th--Thou!" Joseph straightened, but his jaw fell.
Ivan made no reply. Presently the other shut the door and came forward,
peering, eagerly. "Thou!" he muttered again, as if to himself. And then:
"Ivan!--I saw him!"--Finally, aloud: "But Irina!--I want Irina, you
know."
For answer, Ivan took the broken man by the arm and put him into a
chair. Then he said, very gently: "When did you eat last, Joseph?"
"Eat!" The upturned face, with its varnished eyes, gleamed ghostlike in
the yellow light. "This morning I--"
"You've been at the 'Masque' all day?"
"Oh, you see, I--you know she needs a great deal.--Sometimes I--I have
hardly enough.--Perhaps, now, Ivan Mikhailovitch, you--would lend--"
"You must have some food, at once," broke in Ivan, harshly.
To his surprise, Joseph suddenly sprang to his feet, crying, angrily:
"See here, what the devil are you doing here?--And where is Irina?--I
want her! She knows me.--Where has she gone?"
"I don't know."
"Don't--Rot! She's at a restaurant. I'm late.--Well, I'll wait." He
stumbled backward into the chair, again; but Ivan stood close before
him, his face now as white as Joseph's own.
"Irina is not at a restaurant. She left these rooms early this
afternoon, and took her things with her." And, as he spoke, Ivan
stiffened his every muscle, and instinctively clinched his hands.
For the moment, Joseph stared, stupidly. Then, all at once, he was up
and at Ivan, lurching forward upon him, clutching, impotently, at his
throat, breathing gutturally, while he uttered inarticulate syllables in
the tongue of a serf.
Ivan, even in his disgust at this revelation of the man's lowest self,
his unquestionable bad blood, held him off, easily. In a moment or two,
indeed, he had the half-drunken, wholly exhausted creature back in his
chair, panting and helpless.
Even now, it seemed, Joseph could meet his eyes. A long look passed
between them, and Ivan perceived that the painter had come enough to
himself to try to analyze his position. He was, however, wholly
unprepared when the fellow sprang at him again, this time with a wild
shriek:
"Ah! You devil!--You devil!--It was you, you who have taken her from
me!--My God!--_You!_"
"Kashkarin, listen!--Be silent.--You can't hurt me.--Listen!"
There was too much quiet mastery in that voice for disobedience. Joseph
became suddenly quiet.
"I came here this afternoon to see what was to be done for you. When I
arrived, Mademoiselle Patrovna was on the point of departure. She was
well aware that you were being ruined through her; and so she left you.
She told me she should be cared for.--There is some one else. I let her
go, gladly, knowing it to be well for you. And now--"
The interruption this time was a burst of furious laughter, so loud, so
fierce, that Ivan was appalled. Joseph, it seemed, had become a demon.
When at last he spoke, it was only to repeat some of Ivan's words:
"Aware she was ruining me!--_Was_!--Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!--And you believed it
'_well_' for me!--'_Well!_'--Ah-ha-ha-ha!--Thou hast wit, Ivan!"
Ivan's eyes, piercing the hideous mask that hid an agony, softened. He
went impulsively forward, clasping Joseph's frail body in his own,
strong arms. "Joseph, I do not mock you. I helped you once. You know
that. Trust me again, then. You are not ruined. I have enough to pay
your debts, ten times over. Leave the matter to me. Come to my house.
There you shall rest, and wait for the strength that seems gone. With me
it shall come back to you, the old beauty, the old power of art--"
Again was Joseph seized in the grasp of his haunting devils. Extricating
himself violently from the kindly clasp, he turned away from Ivan and
stood for a moment mute. When he again faced round, his face was all
but irrecognizable. And through the tirade that followed, this demoniac
look grew more and more horrible, till Ivan felt himself overwhelmed: as
much by Joseph's appearance as by his words. For the moment, the man was
beyond sanity. And from the depths of his bemired soul poured fragments
of that understanding that still remained to him:
"Art!--Art.--You once preached it to me, starving. Art; purity;
earnestness; sincerity:--the artist-angel you described for me! And now
to me you say 'rest,' and 'wait!' Rest, for me, the accursed? Wait, to
me, devil-ridden? I have descended, of my own free will, into hell. For
five months I have wallowed there. Art and my soul I sold for the dirt
they would buy. They are gone. Can you buy them back? or the decency,
honesty, cleanliness, _youth_, I pawned, for filth and more filth? I am
saturated with it. I reek with it. It embraces me with octopus arms.
Every kopeck, every rouble, has gone to tighten that embrace. It is not
to be loosened. I am hell-bound for eternity. And you speak to me of
_art_!
"Leave me, Ivan Gregoriev, to my own. You can never know me. I hate you
now. Irina has gone away. Having brought me to this, I disgust her!--Go
thou, then, clean body, clean hands, clean heart!--Ach! I
hate--hate--_hate_!
"And there sits my devil--clothed in the scarlet.--Look on her!
Look! Look, for the last time, before I pay her her wage of
destruction!--So!--There!--And there!--And there!"
It was the canvas containing his first portrait of Irina. Seizing a
palette-knife from a neighboring tray of brushes and paints, he stabbed
thrice into the canvas, ripping the picture, wickedly, from top to
bottom, from side to side.
"Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! You see her?--I damn her there as she has damned
me!--Now you have heard my love, Ivan Mikhailovitch! Now you know!--Go,
then, out at that door, carrying your knowledge of me into the wide
world.--Take care!--Take care!--It is not only pictures I can kill!--You
don't know me yet, I tell you.--Go, I command you! Go!--Go!"
Seizing Ivan's coat and cap from the chair on which they lay, Joseph
flung them into their owner's arms. Then for the last time the two faced
each other, the sane man gazing earnestly into the other's blazing eyes.
Evidently Ivan reached his decision in that look; for, without more ado,
he donned his fur garments, and then, without a word, left the room.
* * * * *
It was barely half-past eight o'clock next morning when Ivan remounted
the stairs leading to Joseph's rooms, expecting to find the madman sunk
in the sleep of exhaustion. He found the door unlocked, and the
room--empty. Joseph was gone:--out into Moscow, into the cruelty of the
frozen city, penniless, friendless, perhaps still mad! Nor did he ever
reappear, in any of his old haunts. Search proved fruitless. Irina had
done her work thoroughly. Every effort failed to bring the wanderer up
out of the dark unknown. Ivan, bitterly rebelling, tried, in his heart,
to hope that that distant Polish hut of his youth knew him again:
sheltered, in peaceful dissolution, one of the great talents of the
age.