The Argonauts
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Eliza Orzeszko (AKA Orzeszkowa) >> The Argonauts
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"It would be better to avoid this and proceed to the point
directly," said Darvid, throwing his eyeglasses on his nose with
a nervous movement.
"No, father, permit me to take a few minutes of time, I beg you.
This is necessary. Every man has in himself a soul, so-called,
personal to him, unlike others."
She halted for a moment, shrugged her shoulders:
"For that matter, am I sure of this? The soul may be a painted
pot also. But it is the usual name given to our various feelings
and inclinations. So pour le commodite de la conversation, I
shall use this word." She smiled and continued: "There are
various souls, some as hard as steel, others soft as wax, some
inaccessible to sentiment, others sentimental. Mamma's soul is
soft and sentimental. Tenderness, care, confidence are as needful
to her as air is to breathing. Do I know, for that matter, the
various ingredients which make up the so-called love, attachment,
etc. You, father, have a soul of steel and immensely great
business power--we were children--Cara had barely begun to speak
then. Well, a moment came--do I know when? I do not
know--but--finally that happened which must have happened more
than once to you in your very numerous, remote, and prolonged
journeys. Do I not speak the truth?"
In the high plates of her dark ruff her face was in a blush, but
she smiled a little, and with strangely flashing eyes looked
directly into the face of her father.
"For," added she, "one would need to have mental rheumatism to
believe that you loved only mamma all the time, and even that you
loved her in general--mamma, of course, did not think that you
did."
"Irene!" cried Darvid.
But she did not permit interruption.
"Allow me, I beg you, to say that I am not criticising. I am not
in any sense. There is not a shade of criticism in what I say. I
only state and expose facts and causes. That is all. This is
requisite. Without this it would be impossible to understand
mamma's request and mine which I will tell you quickly. And now I
return to the question of the individual soul. That is a thing of
capital importance. Offences, so-called, rise from so-called mean
souls, or from noble ones. Of the first I know little, but if an
offence comes from a noble soul it is to that soul a great and
terrible torment--I have looked at such a torment, and while
looking at it I have been brought to name the so-called love, and
the so-called happiness, painted pots. Idyls! There may be idyls
somewhere, but that which I saw--I assure you, father, did not
encourage--did not encourage me to look at things from the
idyllic angle."
Darvid rose with an impulsive movement.
"To the question, Irene, to the question! Say what the request is
for which you have come. And from what does your mother suffer so
greatly? It would be better were you to tell your wish at once,
and without these introductions. Do reproaches of conscience
trouble your mother? I have no time for psychological analysis,
and should like to finish this conversation more quickly. Well,
was it that besides conscience and other things like it--she did
not find in her lover the man whom her sentiment imagined? I am
ashamed to speak with you of this. Tell quickly what your wish
is."
With a trembling hand he approached the end of his cigarette to
the candle burning on the desk; his face now grown smaller, was
contracted from the wrinkles which covered his forehead, and the
countless quivers which passed across his face. Irene, very pale
now, followed her father with her eyes; her lips were almost
blue.
"Yes, father," answered she, "in mamma's soul that which we call
conscience is greatly developed. Moreover, a feeling of shame in
presence of us, and humiliation that everything which she has
comes from you."
At this moment something rustled again, somewhere in a corner,
but no one turned attention to it.
Darvid, who passed through the room a number of times, hastily,
stopped again:
"Speak more quickly," said he, "I cannot understand what it is
that your mother wishes. I left her in the position of a
respected wife, of a mother, and mistress of a house. She is
surrounded with luxury, she shines in society, and enjoys life."
Irene opened her arms with a movement indicating pity:
"This which you consider as the highest favor for mamma is just
what she does not wish. She does not wish to enjoy the respect of
society, which she does not deserve, as she thinks; nor to make
use of the luxury which comes from you, and which is bound up
with speechless contempt. Mamma desires to leave this house; in
general, to abandon society-life, with all its luxury and
brilliancy. I have known for a considerable time of this, and
therefore had the plan of marrying soon and withdrawing from here
with mamma."
Darvid put an end to his emotion; his daughter's words approached
facts, and facts demanded cool blood.
"If you wish to speak of your intention to marry the baron, I
must tell you--"
"You have no need to speak of that, father. I have abandoned that
intention. I had it, but I have dropped it. Another plan entirely
different has taken its place. You own a village in a remote
province which came to you from your parents. I wish to ask you
to give me that village, to endow me with it, but immediately. I
suppose, I know, even, that it was your intention to give me a
dowry ten times as valuable. Now, I am ready to renounce
nine-tenths, orally, in writing, in every form and every manner
indicated by you, but I beg you, as a favor, I beg you earnestly,
for this one-tenth, and beg that I may receive it without delay."
She bent her whole form low, and her eyes, which she raised to
her father, were filled with tears; these, however, she
restrained immediately. Darvid answered after a moment of
silence:
"Though I do not understand this whim of yours, I do not see in
it anything impossible, or harmful. On the contrary, I shall be
glad to do something which pleases you, and to-morrow, if you
like, you shall be the owner of that wretched hole. But of what
use can it be to you?"
Irene rose, went around the table, and, bending, pressed her
father's hand to her lips; and then she returned to her former
place:
"I thank you, father," said she; "you satisfy my most ardent
desire. That 'wretched hole,' as you call it, is just the place
that mamma desires. We shall go from here, and settle down there
as quickly as possible."
"What?" cried Darvid, bending forward with astonishment, but soon
he began to speak calmly:
"I come to the conclusion that when talking with my children I
should not be astonished at anything. I must be ready for any
surprise."
"That is natural, father, for we hardly know each other,"
interrupted Irene. "In reproaches of conscience," continued she,
"and various other feelings of that sort, mamma goes to
exaggeration, she goes so far as to desire penance, punishment,
voluntarily accepted. If time and circumstances were favorable
she would enter a cloister assuredly, and put on a hair shirt.
That is an exaggeration, but what is to be done? Characters are
various; hers is of that kind. But the desire which mamma has of
withdrawing from the noise and show of the world, I understand
perfectly; for, first of all--"
She made a gesture of contempt with her hand.
"All the honors, the glitter, the luxury, etc., are gates 'before
which men with spades are standing;' this means that behind them
we find dust, emptiness, nothing."
"Great God!" exclaimed Darvid.
"What do you say, father?" inquired she.
"Your age, the brilliant position in which you have lived since
childhood--and this disenchantment."
"Just this brilliant position, father--just because of this
brilliant position, perhaps. We are not talking of me,
however--but because of this, which in me you call
disenchantment, I am able to understand mamma's wish to leave
society, all the more because, if I were in her position, all
homage, show, luxury, amusements would for me be as impossible as
they are for her. This depends on character. Moreover, mamma
remembers that everything which she uses is yours, and the use of
it attended by your contempt, and the evident impossibility of
ever coming to any understanding is such a poison--so I beg you
to give me Krynichna. I am your daughter, and, as it seems to me,
you have no thought of disinheriting me, so if I own Krynichna,
mamma will live with me and receive everything from me alone."
Her voice grew weaker, and her posture less constrained, in her
whole form there was an expression of suffering. Everything which
she said cost her, in spite of appearances to the contrary, much
effort and suffering. Darvid was silent a while, then he said:
"It seems to me that I am Ali Baba, listening to the tales of
Sheherazade. If I should agree to your plan what would you do
there?"
"I do not know clearly as yet. This is mamma's idea; her wish;
she will discover more and tell me. We will examine; we shall
see. Into mamma's plans, besides quiet obscurity, and modesty of
life, labor enters also."
She spoke in a low, wearied voice:
"An idyl!" laughed Darvid.
"An idyl, father; I used to laugh at all idyls without knowing
that I had one in myself. It has saved me from many, and,
perhaps, dreadful things. Yes, I have an idyl: I love mamma."
Then her thin lips, famous in society for their precocious,
bitter irony, quivered as do those of children when preparing to
cry.
Darvid turned to her quickly, and said with a prolonged hiss:
"Why?"
She raised sad eyes to him, and with a voice in which Malvina's
sweet tones were heard, she answered:
"I am not sure that anyone could tell why he or she loves. Mamma
has always been kind--but I do not know--she is very pleasant,
and she and I have been together always--I do not know--it may
be, besides, that often I have seen her so unhappy. You see,
father, that I am sincere; I answer all your questions as far as
I am able. Have regard to mamma's scruples, I beg, and my
request; do not oppose our plans."
Darvid stood in the middle of the room, he raised his head, his
eyes had the flash of steel.
"No," said he. "My daughter shall not wither away in a remote
corner with my consent, because it pleases her mother to hide
her--shame there."
"Father," answered Irene, "I must explain that your resistance
will only give a more permanent, and, for you, a more
disagreeable, form to our withdrawal."
She rose, and again on her face, surrounded by the high ruff, was
an expression of resolve and energy. A moment before she was full
of emotion and pain, now with the need of defence she found
energy.
"Do you suppose, father, that you can understand what happened,
forgive, to use the general phrase, and restore your esteem and
friendship to mamma?"
With a form as rigid as iron, and with an evil smile on his lips,
Darvid answered immediately:
"No. I am very sorry that I cannot play a comedy of
noble-mindedness, for this is perhaps a popular comedy. But that
of which you speak is forever and altogether impossible."
Irene moved her head affirmatively.
"Then mamma and I must withdraw; if not to Krynichna to some
remote place abroad--I know four European languages well, I know
how to paint, and I know a few other things. Mamma possesses a
real genius in several rare accomplishments, and you remember
well her beautiful music. We will give lessons, and do something
else--I know not what--we shall find means of existence. But I
beg you, father, to believe that in no case shall we remain in
this house."
With pale, almost with blue lips, she laughed and added:
"Either as inhabitants of Krynichna, or making our own living in
some distant place--which do you prefer, father? In the last
instance it depends on you. One of these two things we shall do
most certainly; that is, properly speaking, I shall do it; I, who
am mamma's only defence. I became of age some months ago. I have
finished my twenty-first year, and--no one can hinder me from
acting in this way."
Whoever had seen her at that moment would have believed,
perforce, that no man and no thing would have power to hinder her
in carrying out her resolve. Omitting differences of age and sex,
she seemed the living portrait of her father. The same cold
self-confidence as in him; the same clear penetrating glance as
of steel; the same enigmatical smile on impressionable and also
cold lips. As if involuntarily, and lowering her voice, she said
in addition:
"It is our duty to put a radical stop to the family idyl out of
regard also to Cara. She is innocent yet--she knows nothing--she
loves all, and not only loves but worships. Life has not touched
her, even with the tip of one of its angel feathers. Just imagine
what would happen if, into that little volcano of lofty feeling,
a spark of this knowledge were to fall. And this may happen any
moment. If we do not change the condition of affairs it will
happen."
She was silent, and Darvid was silent also. It might seem that he
recognized only Irene's last argument as worthy of attention. The
two voices had grown silent, one after the other; then, somewhere
in the corner of the room, was heard a rustle, not so low as
before, far stronger, a low knocking rather than a rustle, and
almost at the same time a servant in the open door of the
antechamber called:
"The horses are ready."
Irene, who had turned her face toward the rustle, or knocking,
thought some of the countless papers in the room had dropped from
the furniture, or that some book had fallen. Darvid, who also had
heard the knocking, or rustle, forgot it while looking at his
watch.
"I shall be late," said he. "You have told me things over which I
must meditate. I cannot deny that they possess considerable
importance. Hence, I delay, and shall beg you soon to continue
this conversation. Good-night, and perhaps till to-morrow."
"Let it be only till to-morrow. I beg you, father. Tomorrow."
Miss Mary was sitting in her pupil's bedroom, a beautiful nest
which wealth had formed as a symbol of the springtime of life.
From the top of the walls to the bottom, cretonne, interchanged
with muslin, formed succeeding folds on which the freshest
flowers of spring seemed to have been scattered. The walls, the
windows, the furniture were covered with a shower of
forget-me-nots and rosebuds, strewn on grounds of yellow as pale
as if sunlight had penetrated them slightly. Groups of green
plants at the windows looked like little groves made ready for
the songs of nightingales; artistic playthings, porcelain
figures, suggested a child amused with dolls yet; but a multitude
of large books in gilt bindings suggested the active and
methodical development of a young mind, which surely had dreams
of Paradise on that lace and satin bed which covered a bedstead
inlaid with mother-of-pearl. On all the furniture: small
arm-chairs, tables, screens, which reminded one of
butterfly-wings, mother-of-pearl rainbow-tints passed into
milk-white. Spring tones, joyous motives, light and graceful
forms, filled the room of that little daughter of a millionnaire
with an atmosphere of childish innocence and tenderness; it was
lighted, from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall, with a
cheering light, poured from the rosy tulip-shaped shade of a
grand lamp.
In that rosy lamp-light Miss Mary seemed full of care. Under her
smooth hair her forehead was smooth and calm, but in her
thoughtful eyes, and in the way that her head rested on her hand,
anxiety was evident. Conscientiously devoted to the duties
undertaken by her, she retained the warmth and purity which
permeated the house of an Anglican pastor; chance had committed
to her care, in a strange atmosphere, a rare spirit, one of those
which come to the world in the form of a flame. Even three years
earlier, Cara had seemed to her, at first glance, one of those
souls for whom life is love, worship, trust, and--nothing more.
No ambitions or imaginings beyond those. All her thoughts and
wishes issued from her heart and went back to it. Her innate
sensitiveness was inexplicable in its source, just as genius is
in other persons. Sensitiveness in her demanded the
accomplishment of her wishes as imperiously as, in organisms of
another sort, hunger claims satisfaction for the body. She was by
nature a flame and a bird. The riddle of her existence was
involved in two words: to blaze and to fly. Besides, she had
impulse and caprice; she loved to twitter, and to laugh quietly
in a corner. From the thoughtfulness into which she dropped
oftener and oftener, she woke up as a gladsome and petted child;
that room was filled with her quick speech, her thin voice, her
gestures, almost theatrical, her laughing, her humming, and at
times all the drawing-rooms were filled with them.
This day she woke up full of twittering, and before dressing
threw her bare arms around Miss Mary, looking into her eyes,
declaiming verses, telling childish dreams.
"Why are you so delighted?" inquired Miss Mary. "Is it at the
coming ball?"
Cara pouted her scarlet lips contemptuously, and answered:
"The ball! What do I care? I do not want the ball! Mamma and Ira
do not want it either, so I will go to-day and beg father to
defer it. But I am delighted this morning! The sun is so
pleasant! Do you see how the rays quiver; how they slip among the
leaves, like little snakes, or spring, like golden butterflies?"
With outstretched finger she showed the play of sunrays among the
clumps of green at the windows; herself in white muslin which
covered her slender neck and childish breast, and with naked
arms, she might remind one of a butterfly escaping from the
chrysalis of childhood.
In the evening (of that day) Cara circled about the room; her
mouth filled with historical names, and lines of poetry, with
which she had been occupied all day. Finally, she caught Puffie
in her arms, and, courtesying so low before Miss Mary that she
touched the floor, announced that she was going to her father.
From time immemorial she had not talked with him a moment.
Sometimes he was going out, or had not the time. But to-day she
would watch him, she would wait till all his business was
finished, all his guests gone; she would seize her father and
bring him to her mother's study. Miss Mary would go there;
perhaps Maryan would be there too.
Her idyllic heart, like a bird in a grove, was eternally dreaming
of quiet retreats, of confidential talks, of the attachment of
hearts and the pressure of hands. Her picture of the Anglican
rectory taken from Miss Mary's narrative, and situated in a grove
of old oaks, smiled at her like a bit of Paradise. "But mamma's
study is so quiet, and full of fragrant flowers--"
An hour had passed since she had skipped away with Puffie in her
arms, and with the reflection of a bit of Paradise in her eyes.
Miss Mary felt alarmed. For some time she had felt continual
alarm. She observed carefully the change taking place in Cara's
disposition, and discovered in it causes for anxiety. But she
could do nothing. While she was friendly to the family to which
fate had brought her, and while she experienced from it kindness
mingled with respect, it was to her a stranger. She observed
everything, and said nothing. She strove, more and more, to be
inseparable from Cara, and to turn her attention toward things of
remote interest. That was a splendid mansion, but terrors were
roaming around in its drawing-rooms, among plushes, mirrors,
damasks, satins, and gold.
From the gates of the mansion, the rumble of a carriage went
forth, grew faint in the street, and was lost in the distance.
The master of the mansion was in that carriage which sank in the
uproar of the city, to return, barely, at daybreak. A quarter of
an hour passed, Cara did not return. Maybe she went to her
mother? Another quarter of an hour. Miss Mary rose up, took a
small candlestick in her hand with a candle, which she lighted to
use in her wandering through the series of drawing-rooms. But
among the soft folds of cretonne and muslin the lofty door,
ornamented with gilded arabesques and borders, opened slowly, and
Cara walked into the chamber holding Puffie at her bosom. Her
face was so bent that the lower part of it was hidden in the
silky coat of the little animal. Miss Mary, sitting down again,
inquired:
"Where were you, Cara, after your father went away? With mamma?"
In answer, a few steps from the door, the sound of a fall was
heard. That was Puff, he had dropped from her arms to the floor.
She had let him slip down along her dress. Cara had never treated
her favorite with such indifference, or so carelessly. Leaning
forward, Miss Mary fixed her eyes on the young girl. Oh, my God!
What has happened? Who can tell, but something has happened, that
is certain. Cara's cheeks, recalling usually the leaves of a full
rose, were as white as the soft muslin covering her chamber, and
her lips, always scarlet, formed a barely visible line, pale and
narrow. Tall, slender, and erect, without the slightest movement
of hand or head, with dry eyes looking somewhere into remoteness,
she passed through the room, and with automatic movement dropped
into a low chair near Miss Mary, who touched her hand and felt
the cold of ice in it.
"What is the matter, my dear? Are you ill?"
Instead of giving an answer Cara rose and went to the cluster of
green plants at the window. With her shoulders turned toward Miss
Mary, she seemed to be looking at the plants; but, after a few
minutes, she turned, and making some steps stopped, with her eyes
fixed on the floor.
"Cara, come to me!" cried Miss Mary.
She went, and sat down at her side. The English girl looked at
her sharply, and asked in a low voice:
"Have you met anything disagreeable? Or anyone? Or has anyone--"
She did not finish, for the delicate, pale face turned from her
with quick movement, and said very hurriedly:
"No! no! no!"
Then the slender form of the girl slipped slowly from the chair
to the carpet, and her head rested heavily on the knees of her
governess. But barely had the soft hand of the English girl
touched her hair, when Cara rose and went to the other side of
the room, where the light screen, struck by her skirt, tottered
and fell with a clatter. Without noticing the noise Cara turned
now toward the lamp, and with a face which was growing ever paler
she sat down opposite Miss Mary and opened one of the books lying
on the table. Her brows were raised, this brought many wrinkles
to her forehead; for a time it seemed as though she were reading,
then she closed the book with a sudden gesture, stood up again,
and went toward the door leading to the drawing-rooms.
"Are you going to your mamma?"
She made no answer, but sat on a low stool near the door. Puff
went up, and, putting his forepaws on her knees, licked her hand.
But that hand, usually so fondling, pushed the little dog far
away with a sudden movement. Miss Mary rose, and was going to the
stool, but she had hardly reached the middle of the room when
Cara rose again and went to meet her. The English girl seized
both her hands.
"My dear," began the governess, "you frighten me. What has
happened? What is your trouble? You should have confidence in
me--I am your friend, and a friend of your family--perhaps, I can
explain, or help you in some way. Has anything happened? Has
there been an accident? What is it that troubles you?"
The dry, dark eyes of the girl, looking, as it were, from some
distant depth, met the kindly glance of her friend, and this
whisper came from her lips:
"Nothing! Nothing!"
Then going some steps, she stopped at the table with the lamp on
it, and again opened one of the books there. Miss Mary followed,
put her arm around Cara, and wished to draw her near, but she,
with an alarmed and supple movement, slipped from her embrace,
put the book down, and turning, started to go somewhere. Miss
Mary faced toward the door, and said:
"I will go for your mother."
But that instant she was frightened; for Cara, recovering her
voice at once, screamed:
"No!"
Her eyes grew wild, and she began to tremble.
There was no doubt: In the row of empty drawing-rooms which
stretched beyond that door, ornamented with arabesques and gilded
borders, the girl had seen some horror. But what the horror was,
and whence it had crept forth, Miss Mary did not know. She sat
down, and pale with fear, placed her helpless hands upon her
knees. What could she do in presence of those blue lips, which
were as silent as if shut by some seal, either sacred or
infernal? What could she do? Cara's father was not at home, and
to call her mother, when the very mention of that mother brought
a cry of terror from the girl's breast, would have been a useless
cruelty. Her brother? Her elder sister? Miss Mary's hand moved in
a manner indicating doubt. It was necessary to wait, to leave her
some time to herself. She might grow calm, overcome her fear,
speak.
Left to herself Cara went to the bed, knelt by it, and buried her
face in the coverlet; but a few minutes later she wound her lithe
form like the twist of a serpent, and turned her face toward the
ceiling. She remained in this posture rather long, only changing,
from time to time, the position of her head, which rested on the
coverlet.
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