The Argonauts
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Eliza Orzeszko (AKA Orzeszkowa) >> The Argonauts
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"Whither art thou going? What for? Is it to meet them on the
steps, or at the gate? They said that they would come again in an
hour. To each other they said that they would go to see the
Nazarene--"
"What Nazarene?" asked Kranitski, with astonishment. "What
Nazarene?"
"But how should I know what Nazarene? It may be an image of the
Lord Jesus of Nazareth. They only said that they would go to look
at it, and come back here."
"Come back," repeated Kranitski, "that is well. We shall have a
talk--it is so long since I have had a talk with anyone--and I
shall see Maryan, the dear, dear boy!"
Kranitski rubbed his hands; he walked with springy step, and
erect shoulders, through the little drawing-room, but not even
delight could round his cheeks, which had dropped during recent
days somewhat; neither could it freshen the yellow tint on them.
Mother Clemens halted in the middle of the room and followed him
with her two pair of eyes.
"See, my lords! He is as if born again, as if called back to
life!"
He stopped confused before her.
"Knowest what? Let mother run for a pate de foie gras, and a
bottle of liqueur."
Mother Clemens dropped back to the wall.
"Jesus of Nazareth! Hast thou gone mad, Tulek? Berek
Shyldman--thy furniture--"
"What do I care for Berek Shyldman! What do I care for
furniture!" cried Kranitski, "when those noble hearts remember
me--"
"Hearts have no stomachs; there is no need of stuffing something
into them the first minute."
"What does mother know? Mother is an honest woman, but her level
is earth to earth--she only thinks of this cursed money!"
"But is pate de foie gras holy? Arabian adventure!"
Both voices were raised somewhat. Kranitski threw himself on the
sofa, pressed his right side with his palm, groaned.
Then Clemens turned her face toward him; she had grown mild and
seemed frightened.
"Well, has pain caught thee?"
It was clear that he was suffering. An old affliction of the
liver, and something of the heart in addition. Mother Clemens
approached the sofa in her clattering overshoes.
"Well, do not excite thyself. What is to be done? How much money
will that Arabian pate cost?"
"And the liqueur!" put in Kranitski.
When he had grown calm he explained that the baron was fond of
liqueur, and that Maryan was wild for pate and black coffee.
"Let mother prepare black coffee--thou knowest how to do it
perfectly."
"What more!" snorted she. "Perhaps it would be well to take the
panes from the windows, and throw the stove down?"
Kranitski spread out his arms.
"Why speak of the window-panes and the stove? What meaning can
the stove and the glass have? There is no comparison between
black coffee and window-panes, or the stove. Mother irritates
me."
Again his face changed and he groaned; the old woman surrendered,
but the question of money remained. Kranitski took a bill out of
his pocketbook, held it between two fingers, and thought. This is
too small. That kind of liqueur which the baron drinks is very
expensive. Vexation was evident on his face. Clemens spoke up:
"Well, stop thinking, for if thou hast not a rouble thou wilt not
think out one in a hundred years. Be calm. Only write all on a
card for me; I will go and buy what is needed."
Kranitski struggled on the sofa.
"With what money wilt thou buy it, mother?"
But she was already in the doorway of the neighboring room, and
gave no answer.
"Is it with thy own?" cried Kranitski, "surely with thy own! I
know that mother is spending her capital this good while--"
She came back with the checkered kerchief over her head, without
spectacles, and ready for the errand.
"Well, what if I do spend it? Hast thou not Lipovka? Thou hast,
and what I lend thou wilt return. Oi, oi! I stand with one foot
in the grave, and should I fight about a rouble when thou art in
need of it?"
Kranitski raised his hands and his eyes:
"What a heart!" whispered he; "what attachment! No one can equal
the old servants of our ancient families!"
After a few minutes steps were heard in the antechamber of people
coming in, and the fresh voice of a man cried:
"May one see the master of this place?"
Kranitski ran to the antechamber.
"Of course, my dears! You make me happy, altogether happy!"
And indeed he had the face of a man made happy, and also tilled
with emotion; for, taking his place in one of the armchairs
opposite Maryan, who sat in another, he listened to the baron's
narrative, which gave details of his recent expedition. Baron
Emil was uncommonly vivacious, but at the same time he feigned to
be more nervous and excited than usual.
He did not sit down for one instant.
"Merci, merci" said he to the master of the house who indicated a
chair to him; "I am in such a condition, that really, I cannot
sit in one place. Something within me is toiling, and crying, and
biting. I am full of trembling of hopes, and of anger--" A
brick-colored rosy blush appeared on his yellow cheeks; as usual,
he spoke through his nose and through his teeth, but more quickly
than common. While walking through the drawing-room he said, that
in smaller and greater country residences which he had visited he
had found a few remnants of former wealth, specimens of art, and
of ornamental industry, which were of considerable, and sometimes
even of high, value. A multitude of these rich things had been
acquired by the English, who had circled about through the
country more than once in pursuit of them; but much remained yet,
and the only need was to inquire, seek, examine, and it was
possible to find real treasures, even, often most unexpectedly.
He halted before Maryan.
"I say this because who, for example, could hope or expect to
find in possession of a schoolmaster, a teacher of geography, an
absolute Arcadian, a picture by Steinle hung behind a door,
smoked befouled by flies--an undoubted, a genuine Steinle--Edward
Steinle--"
"But is it undoubted?" interrupted Maryan; "once more I turn thy
attention to certain traits which seem to speak in favor of
Kupelweiser."
"What, Kupelweiser!" cried the baron, walking still more quickly
through the drawing-room. "No Kupelweiser, my dear; not a shadow
of a Kupelweiser. Kupelweiser, though the teacher of Steinle was
considerably inferior to him in drawing--that firmness and
elegance of outline, that harmony of composition, that piety,
that genuine compunction which is dominant in the faces of the
saints--that is Steinle, the purest Steinle, undoubted Steinle,
whose collection of cartoons in Frankfort--"
"Was Steinle, for I do not recollect, pre-Raphaelite?" put in
Kranitski timidly, somewhat ashamed of his ignorance.
"Yes, if you like," answered the baron, "we may reckon among the
pre-Raphaelites the German school of Nazarenes. But this school
is distinct."
"Then surely you examined this Steinle to-day, my dears, before
you came to me?"
"Yes, we heard of it by chance; we went to examine it, and
imagine, we found this pearl in the possession of an Arcadian who
has neither a conception, nor the shadow of a conception of the
Nazarenes, or who Steinle--"
"But perhaps we should pardon him," laughed Maryan, "for the
Germans themselves know almost nothing of Steinle, who fell into
disfavor among his successors."
"On the contrary!" exclaimed the baron, "I beg pardon, my dear,
real judges always value him highly, and he is greatly sought for
by museums. His cartoons when placed at the side of Overbeck's
Triumph of Religion in Art lose nothing; on the contrary, that
compunction distinguishes his figures."
"But thou canst not compare him with Overbeck!" said Maryan, with
indignation.
"I can, I can! I make him equal to Overbeck; and I consider him
superior to Fuhrich and Veit--"
"I will give thee Veit, but as to Overbeck, that marvellous
melancholy which fills the eyes of his women--"
"It is earthly, earthly, rather than that perfect expression from
beyond which is dominant in Steinle's figures. In this regard
Steinle is the only man whom we may compare with Fra Angelico--"
"I would rather compare him with Lippo-Mani."
"Perhaps," said the baron, half agreeing, "as Fuhrich, whenever I
look at him, reminds me of Buffalmaco."
"And me, of Piero di Cosimo."
"No, no," objected the baron, "Piero di Cosimo in coloring is
different from Fuhrich and Buffalmaco."
"I can compare Buffalmaco, to-day, with Rossetti alone."
In this manner they conversed some time longer of the Italian
painters of the epoch preceding Raphael, and of their modern
followers. At times disputing slightly; at times growing
enthusiastic in company, till they agreed in one opinion; namely,
that the greatest master of painting, whom it was impossible to
compare with anyone among contemporaries, was Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, an Englishman, but that the school of German Nazarenes,
to which Overbeck, Steinle, Fuhrich, and others belonged, was, in
spite of certain inequalities and weaknesses, altogether pure
Quatrocento.
"Yes, Quatrocento," finished the baron; "who knows even if they
are not purer, more perfect Quatrocento than Rossetti and
Morris."
Kranitski listened, spoke rarely, while something within him
began to weep. He, too, loved art, but how far was he now from
its loftiest caprices. How much would he give if those dear boys
there, those noble hearts, would speak of something else to him,
of something nearer. After a time he remarked with a smile to
which he brought himself with effort:
"Then you have the first parts of that golden fleece which you
are to bear beyond the sea?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the baron, "the golden fleece! splendidly
said! In truth, we shear the sheep, or, if you like, the
shepherds, for you cannot imagine what a rheumatism of thought in
this matter prevails throughout the country. No man knows the
value of what he has; no man knows what he possesses. There is no
conception of art; no aesthetic knowledge. In my journey I felt
as if wandering through ancient Scythia. All are related to me,
or are old neighbors of my parents; they greeted me with open
arms. Kisses with saliva, and chops cooked in buckwheat-grits!
Their rooms are filled with progeny, who look as though they
might grow up without trousers. The parents we may almost call,
now, the shirtless. From this cause comes a genuine fury of
turning all things to money. My proposition brought to their eyes
tears of gratitude. They saw in me a saviour. Had I wished, I
might have won the glory of a patriot bringing salvation to his
countrymen. But glory is a painted pot. I am not a man to be
covered with labels. I buy cheap to sell dear, that is my game.
And, though I told them this, they kissed me. I filled their
mouths, which were suffering from that hunger which goes before
harvest. They opened old cupboards before me, also storehouses;
one man even opened a chapel in which I found church-cloths of
incomparable antiquity. I suspect that one of these is of Flemish
make, and reaches back to Robert the Pious, just such a one did I
see in the museum at Cluny. Finally, a number of images; some
girdles and brocades; some old weapons, which would befit John of
Dresden very well; this is my booty. Here we have discovered one
Overbeck and one Steinle; but Maryan, during my absence, found,
somewhere, Saxon porcelain, of incredible age, in perfect
preservation. But this is only the beginning. There will be a
whole harvest of these things, a whole harvest!"
"A golden fleece!" whispered Kranitski.
He grew more and more gloomy, and felt in his right side a pain
which was well-nigh unendurable. The tone in which the baron gave
account of his journey in regions about his birthplace, roused
almost instinctive disgust in Kranitski. He looked at Maryan. Was
he the same also? After a while he asked:
"Has the American project crystallized thoroughly? Is it settled?
Are you going to America surely?"
"It has crystallized this far," answered Maryan, "that I start no
later than to-morrow. Emil will remain here some weeks yet. I, to
become acquainted with the people and the country, leave here
to-morrow."
Kranitski straightened himself and sat there dumb for a time,
with fixed look, then he repeated:
"To-morrow?"
"Absolutely," confirmed Maryan; and, when the baron sat down
after long walking, he rose, and began in turn to walk through
the drawing-room, declaring that he had come to-day purposely to
take farewell of Kranitski.
"I could not go without taking farewell of my good, old man,"
said he.
It may be that he would not have gone so soon had not certain
details made his life impossible. One of these details was, that
the week before his father had withdrawn the allowance paid up to
that time. A certain period had ended just a week earlier, and,
through commands from above, the treasury had withheld payment.
In speaking of this Maryan grew red in the face; the vein in his
forehead swelled like a blue cord; his eyes glittered brightly.
He was wounded to his innermost heart by the last conversation
which he had had with his father. It was brief, but decisive; he
had told it to Kranitski. From the narrative it was possible to
divine that Darvid had shown at first an inclination to milden
the demands on his son, but afterward despotic habits and
practical views had won the victory. He demanded that in one of
the factories belonging to him, Maryan should begin a course of
self-restraint, obedience, and labor.
"Our two individualities," said Maryan, "came into collision, and
sprang back in a state of complete inviolability--not the least
dint was made on Mm or on me. Our wills remained unbroken. He, of
course, is a man with a mighty will. It seemed at first that the
death of that poor little Cara crushed him, but he straightened
quickly, and now again he is going through genuine orgies of his
iron labor. I admire that integrity of will in him, and I confess
that it is a power of the highest quality; but I have no thought
of abdicating my own personality because my father, with all his
undoubted endowments, has a head badly ventilated. It may be that
one of my great-grandfathers said, that if one child gave itself
as food to worms, another should give itself to be crushed by its
father's chariot. But I am not my own great-grandfather, and I
know that every yielding of one's self to be tormented by Pavel
to amuse Gavel is a painted pot."
"It is a darned sock!" added the baron.
Another reason why Maryan had to leave the city without delay was
the impression produced on him by the death of that poor little
girl. But he did not admit that so many atavistic instincts were
at work in him. He was a man of the new style, but he experienced
now the spiritual condition of his great-grandfather, which
affected him so that, like Maeterlinck's Hjalmar, he wished to
throw handfuls of earth at night-owls. The death of that little
one, and all that was happening and going on in the house, had
made his soul pale from weakness. He understood now Maeterlinck's
expression, to sink to the very eyelids in sorrow. When that
Intruder, who is ever mowing grass beneath life's windows, came
for that little girl, Maryan had the question in mind
continually: "Why do the lamps go out?" Now, like Hjalmar in
"Princess Malenia," he feels every moment like exclaiming:
Someone is weeping here near us! He had moments in which such
nervous impotence attacked him that he did not feel capable of
stirring a finger, or moving an eyelid. Accompanying this
condition was a perfect understanding that all sentimental
family-tenderness is a painted pot. It is known, of course, that
in the world a multitude of maidens are always dying; that each
life is a gate before which grave-diggers are waiting; and that
this does not furnish the slightest reason why those, under whose
window the Intruder has not begun to mow grass yet, should have
pale and sickly souls.
He must flee from expiring lamps, and night-owls; from nervous
impotence and spleen of spirit; he must rush out for new contacts
and horizons; for new spaces, where there are fresh worlds which
are free from the fifty defilements of past centuries.
He concluded and took a seat. Kranitski had tears in his eyes,
and after a rather long silence, he added:
"Thou art going away I see!"
And then, with hesitating voice, he inquired:
"Thou hast said: 'that which is happening and going on in the
house.' What is going on there?"
To this the baron answered, with growing blushes:
"How? Do you not know that Pani Darvid and Panna Irene set out in
a few days--for a retreat?"
"To Krynichna," said Maryan, completing the information. "Father
has made Irene the owner of Krynichna, and they are going there."
Kranitski grew very pale, and only after great red spots had
appeared above his eyes did he look at the baron, and begin:
"Then--"
"Then," added the baron, quickly, "everything is ended between
Panna Irene and me. I am glad, for how could my bite and her idyl
agree? That would have been like the odor of ether on a sunny day
in Maeterlinck's hot-houses. Naturally, I represent the ether,
and Panna Irene the sunny day."
The smile with which he said this grew ever more jeering and
malicious.
"But I know not how they will succeed in the retreat. In spite of
her idyl Panna Irene has much in her, very much of the cry of
life, of that beautiful impulse toward--what Ruysbrook called
love in action, toward ecstatic impressions, and with such a
disposition, as far as my skill extends in this matter, it is
difficult to halt at the mere spectacle of sparrows making love
outside one's window--"
"A truce to malicious phrases, Emil," interrupted Maryan. "Thou
art not threatened with the fate of Werther because my sister has
broken with thee--"
"Of course not!" laughed the baron.
And Maryan added quickly:
"And thou shouldst even offer up to her that painted pot, called
gratitude, because she has not closed to thee the road to some
daughter of a multi-millionnaire Yankee. America possesses men of
'iron toil,' whose daughters are far richer than the
daughters--alas! than the only daughter of my father."
"Perhaps! perhaps!" agreed the baron; "the daughters of the
richest American fathers pay very high prices for European
titles. In this way, or another, or both together, I may make a
colossal fortune. Yes, wealth is a door before which the heralds
of life have their station--I am not a man pasted over with
labels. I confess that this perspective entices me; what I
possess now is merely a little crumb for my hunger of life. I
shall leave here greedy for new sensations and new profits--eager
for love in action and for gain."
After a moment's silence Kranitski whispered:
"They are going!"
"They are going: Then glancing along the faces of the two young
men, he added:
"You are going!"
"Yes," said the baron, "and therefore we make a certain
proposition. Perhaps you would take upon yourself to be one of
our agents."
He presented in detail a plan of the enterprise--to carry out
this there would be agents disposed through the whole country to
discover and purchase.
"We need aesthetic persons, a company of developed men, and it is
difficult, very difficult to find them. In this country sterility
reigns throughout the whole region of gray matter in the
brain--it is sterility in the great gray substance--if you
wish--"
Kranitski was silent. It was not long since he had desired this
position, perhaps, and something which might attach him to people
and to life. But now--during this discourse with his two
friends--an increasing disgust had seized hold of him. The
sarcasm of the baron about shirtless parents who kissed him with
lips suffering from hunger before harvest pierced his heart
cruelly. In his mind hovered the words "departure, death!" and
before his imagination rose the vision of a flock of birds flying
in every direction.
To buy cheap to sell dear! That was vile! At the same time he
felt that the pains in his side and his heart had grown keener,
and a feeling of faintness possessed him. After a moment's
thought, he said:
"No, my dear friends; it seems that I shall not be able to serve
you. I am sick--I am growing old--besides, my dears, I must tell
you openly--"
He hesitated, and took from the table his gold case, which he had
opened before the guests. He meditated a moment, and then said:
"Your undertaking has sides which wound my sense of propriety
somewhat. This business will always be buying in a temple, even
in temples, I might say, for art is sacred, and so is the
fatherland. You are both too clever to require explanation on
this point. The loneliness in which I shall be when you are gone
frightens and pains me--pains me immensely, but I am forced to
say that I shall not be with you in this matter; no, decidedly, I
shall not be of your company."
By nature Kranitski was averse to disputes, and for various
reasons unused to them, hence he had begun to speak with
hesitation and dislike; but afterward he rested his shoulder
against the arm of the sofa, and with head somewhat raised,
twirling the cigarette-case in his hand, he had the look of a
great lord, especially if compared with the baron, who always
seemed somewhat like a mosquito preparing to bite. And this time
he began with a sneering smile:
"You are always painted in the color of romantic poetry of sacred
memory. While you were speaking I seemed to be listening to 'a
postillion, playing under the windows of incurable patients,'
and--"
But Mary an rose from his armchair, and broke in:
"As for me, I respect individuality; and since that of our
beloved Pan Arthur is developed in his way, we have no right to
insist on attacking him with ridicule. To be ridiculous proves
nothing. 'Thou art ridiculous,' is no argument. I may be
ridiculous in the eyes of another man, though right in my own.
But a truce to discussion; I remind thee, Emil, of our
porcelain--"
"Yes, yes!" replied the baron, and he rose also. "We must take
farewell of our beloved friend here--"
At that moment, through the open door of the sleeping-room,
entered Mother Clemens with a great tray. Since she had gratified
her favorite she wished to do it in the best manner possible. On
her head was a cap as white as snow; the clattering overshoes
were no longer on her feet; and a checkered kerchief was arranged
neatly, even with elegance, across her bosom. On the tray were
small glasses, a bottle of liqueur, a pate de foie gras, and
three cups from which rose the excellent odor of coffee. All this
she placed on a table before the sofa, and left the little
drawing-room with gloomy eye, but firm foot.
Kranitski sprang up from the sofa.
"My dearest friends, I beg you--take a glass of liqueur, that
which thou lovest, baron--Maryan, a little of the pate de foie
gras--"
But they touched their watches simultaneously.
"No, no!" began the baron, refusing, "we have only three minutes
left."
"We lunched at Borel's, who, as my father says, gives us Lucullus
feasts."
Kranitski did not cease to urge them. Certain habits or instincts
of a noble brightened his eyes, and shaped his arms in gestures
of entreaty. But they resisted. In five minutes they must be in
that apparently wretched antiquarian shop, where Maryan had
discovered the amazing porcelain. The baron, giving his hand to
Kranitski in parting, said:
"We shall see each other again. You will visit me. I do not leave
for a number of weeks--I doubt if this porcelain comes from
Meissen as Maryan insists. In what year was the factory in
Meissen?"
"In 1709," answered Maryan, and to Kranitski he said:
"Adieu, my good friend, adieu; be well, and write to me
sometimes. Thou wilt find the address with Emil."
He turned to the door; Kranitski held him by the hand, however,
and looked into his face with eyes which were mist-covered.
"Then it has come to this; for long years! It may be forever!"
"Well, well! See, thou art growing tender," began Maryan, but he
stopped, and over his rosy face passed something like a shade of
feeling.
"Well, my old man, embrace me!"
And when Kranitski had held him long in his arms, he said:
"La! La! leave regrets! Some ancient poet has told us that man is
a shadow that is dreaming of shadows. We have been dreaming, my
good friend-.The only cure is to jest at every thing, come what
may!"
With these words, Maryan went to the anteroom and put on his
overcoat; meanwhile, the baron said:
"That cannot have come from Meissen, nor be of the year 1709.
That is much more recent. It comes from the Ilmenau factory--"
"How so? Say rather that it comes from Prankenthal?"
The baron, looking around from behind his cane, remarked:
"It is too smooth and shining for such an old date."
Maryan answered, with his hand on the lock:
"It is polished with agate."
And he went out. But the baron, after crossing the threshold,
began:
"And as to the ruddy-brownish biscuit--"
The door closed; the voices ceased. Kranitski stood some time in
the antechamber, then he turned toward the little drawing-room,
and whispered:
"'Polished with agate'--'Biscuit,' and those are their last
words!"
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