Cleveland Moffett - "The Conquest of America"

Ferdinand Raimund - "Der Alpenkonig und der Menschenfeind"

Robert L. Taylor - "Gov. Bob. Taylor's Tales"

Clinton Scollard - "From The Lips of the Sea"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Argonauts

E >> Eliza Orzeszko (AKA Orzeszkowa) >> The Argonauts




"Enough of these secrets, of things partly said, and of barriers
raised between our hearts and lips."

This hurried whisper burst from her like a current from a covered
vessel filled with heat and opened suddenly.

"Let us tell each other everything--or no, say no word, I know
everything and neither will I speak--but let us counsel--let us
meditate together--Oh, mamma!"

Her form, usually erect and distinguished, bent, and trembled
like a reed, and her lips, famous for irony and coldness,
scattered a shower of kisses on the hands and face of her mother,
whose chalky paleness was covered by a flame of blushes.

"Ira!" she exclaimed, "forgive. May God forgive me."

Unable to utter more than these words she dropped on her knees
and touched the yellow cushion of the low sofa with her head. She
seemed shattered, annihilated. Then Irene grew cold again. Sober
thought and strong will shone in, her eyes. She bent over her
mother, placed her delicate hand on her shoulder, and began
almost with the movement of a guardian:

"Mamma, I beg you not to despair, and above all not to torture
yourself with that which you consider a reproach and a sin. Never
say to your children 'forgive,' for we cannot be your judges--I,
least of all. You have ever been kind to us and as loving as an
angel; we have lived with you; we love you--I most of all.
Remember at all times that a loyal heart is near you and--a
kindred one--for it is the heart of a daughter. You must stand
erect, have will, think out something, frame something, have
decision, save yourself."

Looking into her mother's face with a strange smile, she added:

"And save me, perhaps, for I, too, am a poor, unwise creature; I
know not myself what to do."

Malvina raised her head, straightened herself, and rose from her
knees slowly.

"True," whispered she. "You--you, so long and so earnestly have I
wished to speak--of you--and had not the courage."

"Well, let us speak now," said Irene.

And again putting her hand under her mother's arm, she led her to
the ottoman, which stood in the tempered lamplight.

"The door is bolted, no one can disturb us; we will have a talk,
a long one. Only we must be reasonable, calm. Look at things and
ourselves clearly; know definitely what we want; try to bring our
plans into action; know how to wish."

At these last words she imitated the nasal voice of Baron Emil,
laughed at it, and dropped down on the carpet before Malvina had
seated herself on the low ottoman. Irene, taking her mother's
hands in her own, fixed her eyes on her eyes, and began:

"Mamma, if you wish I shall become very soon the wife of the
famous Mediaevalist, Baron Emil, and we shall all three of us go
to America--beyond the seas--"

"Oh, no! no! no!" exclaimed Malvina, who bent toward her
daughter, and put her arms around the young woman with such
terror as if she were shielding her from a falling house. "Not
that! Not that! Something different--entirely different."

At that moment some impulsive, or impatient, hand shook the
door-latch.

"Not permitted!" cried Irene, and she asked:

"Who is there?"

There was no answer, but the latch moved again, though in a
timid, and, as it were, imploring manner.

"You cannot come in," repeated Irene.

There was a rustle against the sofa outside, a light and quick
step moved away.

"Cara!" whispered Malvina.

"For her as well as for ourselves there is need to end this
position at the earliest," said Irene, with a sudden frown.

It was Cara; she had left the door of her mother's room with
drooping head, with a great frown on her forehead, and no thought
for the little dog, tugging at her skirt as usual. Half an hour
before, when Maryan and Miss Mary had risen from chess, she rose,
too, pushed her hand under her brother's arm and said:

"I have something to say to you."

Her seriousness was so evident that Maryan answered, with a
smile:

"If your speech is to be as solemn as your face is we shall have
little joy. What have you to tell me?"

Without answering she led him through the blue drawing-room to
the next one more faintly lighted. Here she halted, looked
around, and, seeing only inanimate objects, asked:

"Why have you quarrelled with father?"

This question in her mouth astonished him, and he asked in turn:

"Why do you wish this information? You might dream of the role of
peacemaker."

Without a shade of laughter, with forehead somewhat wrinkled
beneath bright curls of hair, she repeated the question:

"Why have you quarrelled with father? Do you not love him? Why
can you not love him? For me, father is an ideal! He is so wise,
noble, great. When he was so long away I dreamed about him,
wanted his return, imagined how happy we should all be when he
came. But that is not the case in any way. All in the house seem
to be at variance, angry, disappointed--I see this well, but I
cannot understand why. Why? why is it?"

Maryan fixed his eyes on her attentively and laughed, but his
laugh was not sincere, it was forced.

"Curiosity," said he, "is the first step toward hell, and the
surest road to premature age. You will grow old before your time,
little one."

"This is not curiosity!" interrupted Cara. "There is some kind of
trouble here, I know not what it is; but something so unpleasant
and--dreadful. Sometimes it seems to me that someone will die, or
that something will vanish, and that, in general, something
awfully bad will happen to somebody--I--know not what it is, but
it is very bad. I know not what it is, but it is something--it is
something--"

Maryan frowned and interrupted her:

"Since you know not what it is, nor to whom it will happen, nor
how, what do you ask me for? Am I a master of the cabala, to
interpret childish dreams for you?"

"This is not a dream; it is something of the sort that wanders in
the air, touches, breathes, goes away and comes again, like a
haze--or the wind. You are grown up, and all say that you are
clever. I beg you to explain this--I think, too, that, if you
wished, you might so arrange matters that all would go better. It
is your duty to do this. Do you not love mamma, father, Ira? I
love them immensely--I would give up everything for them. I do
not understand even how any person could live without loving
somebody with full heart, and all strength--I could not. But what
use--I am not grown up, not wise, I cannot even understand
anything. With you it is different, but you have quarrelled with
father. You do not even love him, I see that well. For what
reason? Why? My brother, you might, at least, tell me something
to explain."

She stopped, and he stared at her, a look of indecision increased
on his face. Something of concern, and a trifle of tenderness
gleamed in his eyes. It might have seemed for some seconds that
he would put his arm around her, or stroke her with his palm and
smooth away the wrinkles from her childish forehead.
But--"Arcadian" feelings were in the past, so he began to speak
coldly and deliberately:

"My dear, you are torturing your little head for nothing with
affairs of this world; you are not equal to them yet. I cannot
tell anything to you, or explain anything, for you and I are at
the two opposite poles of thought. You speak of devotion, duty,
and love, like a governess, for you have a governess yet. As to
my disagreement with father, you know nothing of what caused it;
but, to be a kindly brother, I will answer a few words. Two
developed and energetic individualities have met in this case and
come into collision, like two planets. Two egotisms also--do not
show such frightened eyes. Stupid nurses frighten children with a
beggar, a gypsy, or an egotist, but mature people know that
egotism is a universal right; and, moreover, good business. Be an
egotist. Take no trouble about what does not concern your own
self and strive to develop your own individuality. Keep this in
view, play joyously with Puffie, and go to sleep early, for long
watching spoils the complexion of young ladies. Begin to think
to-morrow of the dress which you will wear at that brilliant
ball--planned by our father to torment mamma--and you will have
success. Do not mind those mists, dreams, and other visions which
come and go. They are conditions of mind which are very much
subject to fancy, and other painted pots. This is all that I,
your great-grandfather, can tell you, or mention as advice. Look
at Ira and imitate her wisdom, which knows how to make sport of
the world around her. Good-night to you, little one!"

He pressed her hand in such a friendly manner that he hurt it,
and then went away, disappearing at the other end of the chamber.

Cara stood for a time with her eyes fixed on the floor, then she
raised her head and looked around at the void in which silence
had fixed itself. The globe-lamps burning, here and there, at the
walls, filled the drawing-room with a hazy, half-light, in which,
here and there, glittered golden reflections, and the features of
faces, and landscapes flimmered on pictures. Farther on, from the
shady corner of the other drawing-room, slender and swelling
vases appeared, partially; portions of white garlands on the
walls; the delicate dimness of dulled colors on Gobelin tapestry.
Farther still, in the small warm and bright drawing-room, lights
were burning in the candelabra, and a crown of glittering
crystals were hanging like icicles, or immense frozen tears.
Farthest off, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a
great lamp, in its hanging bronze, like a point of light, above
the table. This point seemed very far from where Cara was
standing, and in all the space between her and it there was not a
voice, not a rustle, nothing living. Only once a waiter, dressed
in black, passed on tip-toe through the dining-room, emerged into
the full light of the lamp, and disappeared behind a door. After
that there was no voice, no step, no noise--nothing living. All
at once a clock began to strike nine. Its metallic sound inclined
to bass, and was heard clearly in the silence which had settled
in the vacant chambers. One, two, three--at the fourth stroke
another clock was heard in a distant study. Its sound was thinner
and more like singing--these two seemed to be a voice and its
echo; the sounds from these resembled a mysterious conversation
carried on by things that were inanimate.

Cara hurried then, and hastened through the drawing-rooms on
tip-toe toward her mother's boudoir. Through her widely opened
eyes looked fear, and under bright curls her forehead was thickly
wrinkled.



CHAPTER VIII

Because of his absence of ten days Darvid, on his return from the
hunting scenes, which had passed noisily and splendidly at Prince
Zeno's, rushed into the whirl of business--of labors and visits
which even for him, who was so greatly trained, proved to be
wearisome and difficult. He drove out; he received for long
hours, both alone and with the assistance of others; he wrote,
reckoned, counselled, discussed, concluded contracts, with a
multitude of men. Sometimes, in the very short intervals between
occupations, in his carriage, after a noisy and laborious night,
or at the almost sleepless end of it, while putting himself to
bed, he thought, that in every case the amusement from which he
had returned a few days before had cost him more than the worth
of it. His life was a belt of toil and duties, so closely woven
that every interruption brought to a new point an accumulation of
these toils and duties that might surpass even his powers. And
what had his object been? Why had he gone? Had he found pleasure
in that place? What pleasure? Those full-grown, or even old men,
who found their delight, or disappointment in this, that they had
hit or had missed a shot; those great lords, spending their time
at a recreation which, by the uproar, the style of conversation,
the spectacle of bloodshed, reminded him of the mental and
physical condition of wild men--seemed to him children which were
sometimes annoying and sometimes ridiculous. Such frivolous
amusement, idle, somewhat savage, somewhat knightly, found no
access to his brain, which had been occupied so long with the
seriousness of dates and figures. He had met there, it is true,
though only once, a man in a lyric mood. A youthful person, who
was riding one day at his side, and who afterward, when they
halted, strove to incline him to enthusiasm because of the
snow-covered field; the fresh breezes blowing over that field;
the deep perspective of the forest, etc. That man was lyric. He
confessed openly that the hunting was to him indifferent; that he
took part in it not for game, but for nature. He loved nature.
Yes, yes, Darvid knew that many people loved nature. Art and
nature must be powers, since a multitude of men bow down to them.
Perhaps he, too, would have done so if the career of his life had
led him into their presence, but the path of his life led him in
another direction, far from nature and art, hence he did not know
them; he had not had the time. He looked at a field, at snow, at
a forest--and he saw a field, snow, a forest--nothing higher,
nothing more. He was of those who call a cat a cat, a rogue a
rogue, and hold every hyperbole, ode, and enthusiasm in silent
contempt. He listened to his lyric companion, at first with
curiosity, investigating in the man a certain kind of people
little known to him. When he had finished he listened only
through politeness, and with concealed annoyance. He concealed
his annoyance, and tried openly to pretend that he shared the
enthusiasm, the rapture, and the gladness. He was, of course, in
an assembly of very wealthy persons, standing very high. He
sailed in a sea of blood purely blue, so he hid away irony,
contempt, and yawning, and had on the outside only smoothness
itself, affability, and general pleasantness of manner, speech,
and smiles. That was also a labor, rewarded at once with a
certain degree of lively enjoyment. In lordly drawing-rooms,
himself the equal of the highest, while passing the time in a
friendly manner and conversing with princes he was unconscious at
first that he raised his smooth, lofty forehead and gave himself
out as greater than he was in reality, and inhaled with distended
nostrils the odor of that grandeur which surrounded him as well
as that which was his own. But soon this condition yielded to
something embarrassing, not quite clearly defined, but causing
this, that he did not feel altogether certain of himself and the
fitness of his whole self to the surrounding. For though the
politeness of those about him was unquestioned and most
exquisite, though words of praise in recognition of his services
and labor struck his hearing, though his strong feet had under
them a foundation carved from gold; he felt strange in that
position, involved in phenomena which were new to him, and
bristling with difficulties. Sometimes the guests mentioned
things of which he was ignorant, they used expressions which were
strange to him, and referred to degrees of relationship, and
events with which he was unacquainted. He began to stand guard
over his own words and movements, with a mysterious fear lest
something of his might come out too emphatic, or high colored for
the background before which he found himself. In spite of
everything which connected the man with that background, he began
to feel a broad vacuum between him and it himself.

This timidity, a thing entirely new, entirely unknown to Darvid
from his earliest years, was an oppression which, during the last
days of the hunt, fell on him together with weariness, and some
third thing--a feeling of the difference between himself and
those who surrounded him. Nothing could help him: neither the
iron labor which they praised audibly, nor the millions piled up
by that labor--millions for which they felt unconcealed
reverence. Among those men into whose society he had always
desired to enter as an integral part thereof, on that social
height to which he had been climbing in imagination and with
effort, he felt as if he were in some uneasy chair, put out in a
cold wind, and deprived of every outlook. He found nothing there
on which to rest his eye, or his thought. Emptiness, emptiness,
weariness. A little humiliation which, like a tiny, but venomous
worm, was boring into the bottom of his heart. It was not
wonderful, therefore, that when he thought of how he had used his
time, and of all that he had seen, heard, and passed through,
there was on his lips one of those smiles most bristling with
pins points, while in his mind he repeated the expression:
"Wretchedness!"

He was too wise not to give this name at times to many things of
the world which he desired and toward which he was struggling.

After some days of labor, so intense that it astonished those who
saw it, and which weakened those who assisted in it, he received
at an hour before evening, as customary, in his study, all men
who came either on business, or with visits. He knew no
exceptions for anyone, nor indulgence for himself. He received
all, conversed with all, for it was impossible to foresee what a
given man might contribute, or what he might be good for, if not
at the moment, some time, if not much, then a little. But his
cheeks seemed thinner than usual, and at moments his speech was
less fluent. That hunting trip, and all which he had experienced
at it, and afterward, days of activity and unparalleled exertion,
were reflected on his face in an expression of suffering. And
sometimes even a slight hesitation in speech arose from this,
that his mind ran to a subject which tortured him, and raised in
his breast a lump of slimy serpents. Some hours before he had
inquired of his secretary, who, in spite of youth, zeal, and wit,
was bending beneath the burden of labor imposed on him, whether
everything was ready for the ball to be given soon, and whether
he had received directions from the lady of the house during his,
Darvid's, recent absence. The secretary showed great
astonishment. How was that? Then the project had not been
abandoned? On the morning after the departure of his principal
the secretary sought to come to an understanding with Pani Darvid
on this subject, but was able to see only Panna Irene, who
declared that he would receive no instructions, and that his
assistance would not be needed. After that there was silence in
the house, undisturbed by preparations of any kind.

"Then," said Darvid, "my wife must be out of health. She has
neuralgia frequently. What is to be done? A woman's nerves are a
force majeure."

But now, while receiving visits and speaking of business, he
avoided thinking of the unexpected resistance. How was this!
She--the woman for whom the highest favor, the pinnacle of
happiness had been the possibility of remaining at the head of
his house, in the brilliancy of wealth and general respect,
dared--had the shamelessness to oppose his will! He felt such
contempt that, in thought, he threw that woman on the ground to
trample her; in spite of this, that, almost unconsciously, he
ascribed the blame not to her, but to Irene. Almost unconsciously
he saw the tall young lady; she stood before his eyes, cold and
distinguished; she, who at the foot of the stairway, in the down
of her black fur cloak, with an almost hard glitter in her eyes,
under the fantastic hat, had said: "That ball will not be given."

That was Irene. The other woman could not have risen to this act.
Did he not know her? She had always been so mild and
weak--powerless, pitiable! She could not command such energy! It
was Irene!

With these thoughts he pressed the hand of the last guest, and
said to him at the threshold, that there was absolute need for
the commercial company of which they had been talking to gain a
broader foundation of activity by obtaining more and surer
sources of credit.

"Credit, my dear sir, credit is the first letter in the alphabet
of contemporary finance. Send some man to the capital--some
man--"

He hesitated here, thinking "It was Irene!" Then he finished:

"Some man with proper authority and weight--best of all that
person of whom we have been speaking. Such is my advice."

After the last bow of the guest they closed the door of the
anteroom. Darvid turned and saw Irene standing at the round
table. That day, while passing on the stairs, when she was
returning from a trip to the city, and he was hastening to the
carriage waiting for him, they had greeted each other hurriedly
and in passing. He had not a moment's time then to talk with her;
she, too, was in a hurry, for she ran up the stairs quickly.

"Bon jour, pere!" said she, inclining her head with swift
movement.

"Bon jour, Irene," answered he, touching his hat. Behind him
moved the secretary, carrying a heavy portfolio of papers; after
her went some merchant's servant with packages. No greeting was
necessary now. Irene, standing at the table, began to speak at
once:

"I have come, father, to beg you in mamma's name and my own for a
half-an-hour's conversation, but to-day, now, absolutely."

Her bodice, which was dark and close fitting, had a very
high-standing ruff, which enclosed her slightly elongated and
very pale face, just as the half-open shield of a leaf encloses a
white flower-bud. Her whole person, in that chamber, with its
very high ceiling and massive furniture, seemed smaller and less
tall than elsewhere. However, the words "now and absolutely" were
spoken with such solid emphasis, that Darvid halted in the middle
of the room and fixed a sharp glance on her.

"You have come in your mother's name and your own," said he. "Why
this solemnity and decision? You wish, of course, to explain the
reasons why your mother and you have seen fit to oppose my will."

"No, father," answered she, "but I intend to announce to you
mamma's will and mine."

"As to that ball?" asked he, quickly.

"No, the question is immensely more important than the ball."

Both were silent for a moment. If the words exchanged had been
less emphatic, and had followed one another less quickly, Darvid
and his daughter might, perhaps, have heard, in a corner of the
room, behind a wall of books arranged on highly ornamented
shelves, a slight rustle which lasted a short time. Something had
moved there, and then stopped moving.

"It touches an affair of immensely greater importance than the
ball," repeated Irene; "namely, my mother's peace, honor, and
conscience."

"What pomposity of expression!" exclaimed Darvid, with a slight
smile. "I observe more and more that exaggeration is a disease in
my family. I should prefer simple speech from you."

"The question before us is not a simple one, so I use a style
fitted to the subject," answered Irene, and she sat down in one
of the armchairs, erect, her hands on her knees, motionless,
between the wide and heavy arms of the chair.

"The subject of which I have to speak with you, father, is much
involved and delicate. Do you not share my opinion, that one may
commit what is commonly called an offence and still possess a
noble heart, and suffer greatly? In common opinion this suffering
is a just punishment, or penance for the offence committed, but I
consider this opinion as a painted pot, for everything in this
world is so involved, so vain, and relative."

She spoke with perfect calmness, but at the last words she
shrugged her shoulders slightly. Darvid looked at her with dazed
eyes.

"How is this?" began he, in a low voice. "You--you--have you come
to talk to me--about this? Do you know? Do you understand? And
have you come to talk about--this?"

"My father," answered Irene, "to bring our conversation to any
result we must first of all push away painted pots from between
us."

"What does that mean?" asked Darvid.

"What does it mean? What are painted pots? They are little dabs
of wretched clay, but painted in beautiful colors; they are just
what naivete, bashfulness, modesty, and darned socks like them
would be to-day in my case."

She laughed.

"I have known all that has happened this long time. I was a
little girl, in a corner of a room, dressing a doll, when a
certain conversation between you and mamma struck my ears, and
helped me considerably to understand what took place afterward.
Because of business and difficulties which swallowed your time
you were ever absent, father. Oh, I have no thought of
criticising you, no thought whatever. Here a question of logic
presents itself, simple logic. You were chasing after that which
was your happiness, the delight of your life, while mamma--poor
mamma stooped to pick up also for herself a little happiness and
delight. But your happiness and delight were open, brilliant,
triumphant, while mamma's were always full of darkness, poison,
and shame."

For the first time in that conversation her voice quivered; and,
inclining her face, she brushed away from her dress, with the
rosy tips of her fingers, some bit of dust that had dropped on
it; then again she gazed with a look clear and calm at her
father, who had sat down in front of her.

"To convince you, father," continued she, "that our conversation
has a perfectly important and definite meaning I permit myself to
open before you the secret, but for me, the visible springs which
caused the so-called offence, and present disposition of mamma."

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