The Argonauts

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

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His indignation was genuine and heartfelt; it brought out a deep
flush on his still shapely face. A stony amazement fell on
Darvid. True, true, that man spoke the truth.

He, Darvid, had used him for his purposes; he had liked the man,
almost loved him; he had given him great confidence. He had not
looked into his character; he had not tried to know him, though
he had found time to analyze and know men who took no part in his
business. But the fact in this case was, that whatever had
happened, had happened with his own will. From the depth of his
bosom, from out their mysterious den, came a coil of snakes, and
a repulsive coldness and slime rose toward his throat, still he
reared his head.

"There is much truth in what you say; still my decisive and
repeated wish is that you cease to appear in my house."

Kranitski's forehead was flushed with blood, and the words were
hissing on his lips when he cried:

"In view of such feelings of yours toward me, how am I to explain
the service rendered just now?"

"As pay for service which you have rendered me, or my family. I
pay, we are at quits, and part forever."
"You are not the only power in this world!" cried Kranitski; "not
your will alone can open or close the doors of this house to me."

Darvid, so pale that even his thin lips did not seem to possess a
drop of blood, took from a letter-case and showed Kranitski,
between two fingers, a letter in a small elegant envelope,
bearing the address of Pani Malvina Darvid.

The dark flush vanished from Kranitski without a trace; he became
very pale and rested his hand on the arm of the chair; his eyes
opened widely. Silence lasted some seconds; between those two men
with faces as pale as linen hung the terror of a discovered
secret. Darvid, with a voice so stifled that it was barely
audible, was the first to speak.

"How this letter came into my hands we need not explain! Simply
by chance. Such chances are very common, and they have in them
only this good, that at times they put an end to deceit
and--villainy!"

Kranitski, still very pale except that red spots were coming out
on his forehead, looked very old all at once; he advanced some
steps and stood before Darvid, the round table alone was between
them. With stifled voice, but fixing his black, flashing eyes
boldly on Darvid's face, he said:

"Deceit! villainy! those words are said easily! Do you not know
that in early youth your wife was almost my betrothed?"

Darvid's lips were covered with irony, and he said:

"You deserted her at command of your mother, when she sent you to
this capital in search of the golden fleece."

"And when you went to the ends of the earth for it," answered
Kranitski, "you thought proper to place me to guard the woman
whom I loved formerly. You considered yourself invincible, even
when separated by hundreds or thousands of miles from her--"

"Let us stop this ridiculous discussion," said Darvid.

"As for me," put in Kranitski, with animation, "I will finish it
by offering you any satisfaction which you may demand. I await
your seconds."

Darvid laughed loudly and sharply.

"A duel! Do you think that the world would not know the cause of
it? Your former betrothed would appear in the matter. For that I
should care less, though I must care, for she bears my name, but
I have daughters, and I have business--"

He was silent a while, then he finished:

"A scandal might injure my business, and most assuredly would
injure the future of my daughters; therefore I will neither
challenge you to a duel, nor will I direct my servants to thrash
you!"

A trembling shook Kranitski from head to foot, as if from the
effects of a blow; he straightened himself, he became manful, and
crushing in his hand the bank check which he had received, hurled
that paper bullet into Darvid's face so directly that it hit him
at the top of his bronze colored whiskers and fell to his feet.
Then with elastic movement, and with a grace which was
unconscious and uncommon, he turned toward the door and strode
out. Darvid remained alone. In that spacious, lofty chamber,
richly furnished, in the abundant light of a costly lamp, he
remained alone. Clasping his inclined head with both hands, he
squeezed it with his white, lean fingers, as with pincers. How
many vexations and troubles had met him here after an absence of
years! There was something greater still than even these
vexations and troubles. The coil of serpents rose in his breast
and crawled up to his very throat.

That was torture mixed with a feeling of unendurable disgust. But
Darvid avoided high-sounding phrases, and would never think or
say: torture, disgust. That was a manner of speaking for idlers
and poets. He, a man of iron industry, knew only the words
vexation, trouble. What is he to do now with that woman? Throw
her out like a beast which, bathed in milk and honey by its
owner, has bitten him to the blood? Impossible. His children,
especially his daughters, his business, his position, his
house--scandals are harmful in every way. So he must live on
under the same roof with her; meet the sight of her face, her
eyes--those eyes which on a time were for him--yes, it cannot be
otherwise.

He must endure that and master himself; master himself mightily,
so as not to let things reach a scene, or reproaches, or
explanation. Naturally, no scenes, disputes, or explanations.
For, first of all, what can they profit? Nothing save a useless
expense of energy, and he needs energy so much.

Besides, the very best punishment for that woman is unbroken
silence, which will raise between her and him an impenetrable
wall. From words, even though they be as sharp as sword-edges,
some sound may be got, some slight hope of salvation; but
silence, concealing hidden knowledge of a deed, is a coffin in
which, from the first hour of each day to the end of it, that
woman's pride will be placed with all that in her may still be
human. Contempt as silent as the grave! She will eat of his
millions, seasoned with his contempt. She will array herself in
his millions, interwoven with his hatred. Hatred? Oh, beyond
doubt he hates her with passion, and only at times does her name
move marvellously through his brain with such sounds as if they
were the echo of things very dear, things lost forever and
irreplaceable. Can it be? Is it possible that she did that?
Malvina, once an ideal maiden, and ten years later a woman so
loving that when he was going on a journey she threw herself on
her knees and wept, and then besought him not to go from her! He
remembers the scene perfectly.

Her hair of pale gold, dropping then in disorder to her shoulders
and bosom--her magnificent hair, surrounded by which the tears
flowing down her face glistened like diamonds! He raised his
head, straightened himself. What stupidity! On what sentiment and
exaltation is he losing time and energy! He needs them for
something else. He needs to concentrate all his forces to bring
his new designs to the desired culmination. Why does "that hound"
not show himself and bring the answer needed? Ah, if he could
only get one hour of that conversation, he would convince; he
would capture; he would overcome rivals, and seize into his own
sole possession new fields of industry and speculation! There are
hindrances, intrigues, dangerous rivalries, he knows of them, and
these oppositions it is precisely which attract him most of all.
Now especially, with those vexations and troubles, victory and
the new work would be as a spoonful of hashish to him, or a glass
of strong, invigorating wine. He must go to the club. A game of
cards, to which he devotes some night hours frequently, is not
specially pleasant, but he plays with persons of high position in
society, or with those who are needed in his business. He will
find perhaps, also, that man for whom he has been waiting,
vainly, some days.

He was extending his hand to the button of the electric bell when
from behind the portieres which half hid the door opening to the
interior of the mansion a thin and timid voice came; one could
hardly tell whether it was the voice of a child or a young lady:

"Is it permitted to enter?"

Darvid went to the door hurriedly, saying, also hurriedly:

"It is! It is!"

At that moment, from the darkness which filled the adjoining
room, into the abundant light of the study, came a maiden of
fifteen years, in a bright dress; she was tall and very slender,
with a small waist and narrow breast. An immense wealth of pale,
golden hair seemed to bend back with its weight her small,
shapely head somewhat; her oval face, with its delicate features,
had the blush of spring on it; her lips were like cherries, and
under the arches of her dark brows were large dark eyes. Right
behind the bright dress of the girl came a small shaggy creature,
a ball of ash colored silk, a little dog.

"Cara!" cried Darvid, "well, you are here, little one! How often
have I asked you to come always boldly. How do you feel to-day?
You have not coughed much, I think? Have you taken your daily
walk? With whom did you go? With Miss Mary, or Irene? Come, come,
sit here in this armchair."

He held her small hand in his and led her toward the table, which
was surrounded with armchairs. In his movements there was
something polished and exquisite, as it were delicacy toward a
person who was very dear and not much known, pushed to the degree
where it might be called gallantry. Joined with this was a
feeling of delight. She was pleased and smiling, but she was
blushing and embarrassed. Advancing with short steps at his side,
she bent to his hand every moment and kissed it. Her act was full
of a timid charm, half capricious. They both looked like persons
who were greatly pleased at meeting, but who remained on a
footing of ceremony with each other. He received her in his study
as a queen; he seated her in an armchair, then, sitting very
near, he held her hands in his. Between them, on the edge of his
mistress's skirt, sat the dog with the ash-colored coat, in a
posture of disquiet and uncertainty; it was evident that he was
not accustomed to visit that room. Cara also, with an expression
of timid happiness on her lips which were open, cast her glance
with a smile on the vases and the walls, uncertain whether she
was to speak, not knowing if she might say something; she bore
herself very simply; her small hands rested without motion
between her father's palms. At last she said, in a very low
voice:

"I was so anxious to see you, father, dear; I wished so much to
speak with you that I have come."

"You have done excellently, my little one. Why not come oftener?
Your coming gives me great pleasure."

While speaking he looked all the time into her face, which was
almost that of a little child. She was so like her mother, that
Malvina's youth was simply renewed in Cara.

But Malvina, when he made her acquaintance, was considerably
older; the hair was just the same, very bright, and the eyes with
dark brows and pupils, the same shape of forehead. With a
deepening of the wrinkles between his brows he repeated:

"Why not come offener?"

"You are always so occupied, father," whispered she.

"What of that?" answered he hurriedly and abruptly.

"There is reproach in your voice. Are my occupations a crime? But
labor is service, it is the value of a man. My children should
esteem my labor more than others, since I toil for them as much,
or even more, than for myself."

He did not even think of speaking to that child with a voice so
abrupt, and with such a cloud on his forehead; but that cloud
came to him from some place within, from a distant feeling of
something which he had never looked at directly before. But he
hardly knew the girl! When he went away the last time she was a
child; now she was almost full grown. But she, in the twinkle of
an eye, slipped from the low armchair to the carpet, and kneeling
with clasped hands began to speak passionately and quickly:

"Your child is on her knees before you, father. When you were far
away she revered you, did you homage, longed for you; when you
are here she loves you greatly, above everything--"

Here she turned and removed from her dress the ball of
ash-colored silk, which was climbing to her shoulder.

"Go away, Puffie, go away! I have no time for thee now."

She pushed away the little dog, which sat on the carpet some
steps distant. Darvid felt a stream of pleasant warmth flooding
into his breast from the words of his daughter; but on principle
he did not like enthusiasm. In feelings and the expression of
them he esteemed moderation beyond everything. He raised with
both hands the girl's head, which was bending toward his knees.

"Be not excited, be not carried away. Repose is beautiful, it is
indispensable; without repose no calculation can be accurate, no
work complete. Your attachment makes me happy; but compose
yourself, rise from your knees, sit comfortably."

She put her hands together as in prayer.

"Let me stay as I am, father, at your knee. I imagined that on
your return I should be able to talk often and long with you; to
ask about everything, learn everything from you."

She coughed. Darvid took her in his arms, and, without raising
her from her knees, he drew her to his breast.

"See! your cough lasts! Do you cough much? Well, do not speak, do
not speak! let it pass. Does this cough pass quickly?"

It had passed. She stopped coughing, laughed. Her teeth glittered
like pearls between her red lips. A gleam of delight shot through
Darvid's eyes.

"It has gone already! I do not cough often, only rarely. I am
perfectly well. I was very sick when I got chilled at an open
window while you were away, father."

"I know, I know. Your enthusiastic little head thought of opening
the window on a winter night, so as to peep out and see how the
garden looked covered with snow in the moonlight."

"The trees, father, the trees!" began she, smiling and with
vivacity; "not the whole garden, just the trees, which, covered
with snow and frost in the moonlight, were like pillars of
marble, alabaster, crystal, set with diamonds, hung with laces;
and whenever the slightest breeze moved, a rain of pearls was
scattered on the ground."
"Great God!" exclaimed Darvid, "marbles, alabasters, laces,
diamonds, pearls! But there was nothing of all this in fact!
There was nothing but dry trunks, branches, snow, and hoar-frost.
That is exaltation! And you see how destructive it may be! It
brought you acute inflammation of the lungs, the traces of which
are not gone yet."

"They are!" answered she, in passing, and then she spoke
seriously. "My father, is it exaltation to worship something
which is very beautiful, or to love some one greatly with all our
strength? If it is--then I am given to exaltation, but without
exaltation what could we live for?"

An expression of wonder, meditation, thoughtfulness filled her
eyes and covered her finely cut face with a freshness like that
of a wild rose. With a movement of wonder she opened her arms,
and repeated:

"What do we live for?"

Darvid laughed.

"I see that your head is turned a little, but you are a child
yet, and your trouble will pass."

Stroking her pale, golden hair, he continued:

"Homage, love, and like things of the sensational sort, are very
nice, very beautiful, but should not occupy the first place."

Cara listened so eagerly that her mouth was open somewhat, and
she became motionless as a statue.

"But what should stand in the first place, father?"

Darvid did not answer at once. What? What should stand in the
first place?

"Duty," said he.

"What duty, father?"

Again he was silent a while. What duty? Yes, what kind of duty?

"Naturally the duty of labor, hard labor."

The flush on Cara's face increased; she was all curiosity, all
eagerness to hear her father's words.

"Labor, for what, father, dear?"

"How? for what?"

"For what purpose? For what purpose? because no one labors for
the labor itself. For what purpose?"

For what purpose? How that child pushed him to the wall with her
questions! With hesitation in his voice, he answered:

"There are various purposes--"

"But you, father, for what are you working?" continued she, with
eager curiosity.

He knew very well for what purpose he wished now to undertake the
gigantic labor of erecting a multitude of buildings for the
residence of an army, but could he explain that to this child?
Meanwhile the dark eyes of the child were fastened on his face,
urging him to an answer.

"What is it?" said he. "I--labor gives me considerable, sometimes
immense profits."

"In money?" asked she.

"In money."

She made a motion with her head, signifying that she knew that
this long time.

"But I," began she, "if I wanted to work, should not know what to
work for, I should not know for what object I could work."

He laughed.

"You will not need to work; I will work for you, and instead of
you."
"Well, father!" exclaimed she, with a resonant laugh, "what can I
do? To worship, to love, is exaltation--duty is labor, but if I
may not labor, what am I to do?"

Again she opened her small hands with astonishment and inquiry;
her eyes were flashing, her lips trembling.

Darvid, with marks of disagreeable feeling on his face, reached
for his watch.

"I have no time," said he; "I must go to the club."

At that moment the servant announced from the antechamber,
through the open door:

"Prince Zeno Skirgello."

Delight burst forth on Darvid's face. Cara sprang up from her
knees, and looking around, called:

"Puff! Puff! Come, let us be off! doggy."

"Where is the prince?" asked Darvid, hurriedly. "Is he here, or
in the carriage?"

"In the carriage," answered the servant.

"Beg him to come in, beg him to come in!"

In the delight which the unexpected arrival of the prince caused
him at that time, he did not notice the expression of regret on
Cara's face. Raising the little dog from the floor and holding
him in her arms, she whispered:

"This is the third time, or the fourth--it is unknown which time
it is!" Darvid sprang toward her.

"You may remain! You know the prince--"

"Oh, no, father, I flee--I am not dressed!"

Her white robe with blue dots had the shape of a wrapper, and her
hair was somewhat dishevelled. With the dog on her arm she ran to
the door beyond which was darkness.

"Wait!" cried Darvid, and he took one of the candles which were
burning on the desk in tall candlesticks. The prince was coming
up the stairs slowly. "I will light you through the dark
chambers."

Saying this he walked with her to the second chamber, and when
passing through that, she, while going at his side with the dog
on her arm, and with her short step, which gave her tall form the
charm of childhood, repeated:

"This is the fourth time, perhaps--it is unknown how many times
it will be in this way!"

"What will be in this way?"

"Just when I begin to talk with you. Paf! something hinders!"

"What is to be done?" answered he, with a smile; "since your
father is not a hermit, nor a small person on this world's
chessboard."

They went hurriedly, and passed through the second chamber. The
flame of the candle which Darvid carried cast passing flashes on
the gold and polish of the walls, and the furniture. These were
like tricky gnomes, appearing and vanishing in the silence,
darkness, and emptiness.

Darvid thought:

"How dark it is here, and deserted!" Cara divined this thought,
as it were, and said:

"Mamma and Ira are invited to dine to-day at--"

She gave the name of one of the financial potentates, and added:

"After dinner they will come to dress for the theatre."

"And thou?" inquired Darvid.

"I? I do not go into society yet, and so far the doctor forbids
me to go to the theatre. I will read or talk with Miss Mary, and
amuse myself with Puff."

She stroked with her palm the silky head of the little dog.
Darvid halted at the door of the third chamber, and gave Cara the
light, from the weight of which her slight arm bent somewhat.

"Go on alone; I must hurry to the prince."

She bent down to his hands, covered them with hurried, ardent
kisses. With the flame of the candle before her rosy face, with
the dog at her breast, and the pale, golden hair pushed back on
her shoulders, she advanced in the darkness. Darvid returned
through that darkness in the opposite direction, and when he had
passed the two spacious chambers hastily, he felt in the twinkle
of an eye as if from behind, from that interior, some weight had
been placed on his shoulders. He looked around. There was nothing
but vacancy, obscurity, and silence.

"Stupid! I must have the house lighted!" thought Darvid, and he
hurried into the study, where, with movements a little too
vivacious, with a fondling smile, and with repeated declarations
that he felt happy, he greeted the prince, a man of middle age,
of agreeable exterior, affable and pleasant in speech. When they
had sat down in armchairs, the prince declared the object of his
visit, which was to invite Darvid to a hunt which was to take
place soon on one of his estates. Darvid accepted the invitation
with expressions of pleasure, a little too prompt and hearty. But
he was never so well able to measure his words and movements in
presence of those high-born people as in presence of others. He
felt this himself, still he had not the power to refrain. In
presence of them he found himself under the influence of one of
his passions, and it carried him too far. The prince spoke of the
sculptor, whose gifts he esteemed highly; the young man had gone
directly from Darvid to him and told of all that he had heard,
and what he had experienced.

"I was really affected by your kindness toward this youthful
genius, and am delighted that he found in you a patron so
magnanimous."

Darvid thought that in every case his arrows always struck the
mark. To that act of his he was surely indebted for this unusual
visit of the prince, and the invitation. With a smile, in which
honey was overflowing, he said:

"That young man seems very ill. A visit to more favorable
climates might save him. I must try that he does not reject the
means which I shall offer him for that purpose. I foresee
resistance, but I shall do what I can to overcome it, out of
regard for art, and through good-will for a young man who,
besides many sympathetic traits, has this on his side, that he
rejoices in the exceptional favor of Prince Zeno."

Had he been able, Darvid would have kissed himself for that
phrase, he felt so well satisfied with it; especially when the
prince answered with animation:

"This, in the full sense of the words, means speaking and acting
beautifully! You use the gifts of fortune in a manner truly
noble."

"Not fortune, prince, not fortune!" exclaimed Darvid, "but iron
labor."

"Such toilers as you are the knights of the contemporary world,"
answered the prince, with vivacity; "the Du Guesclins and Cids of
the present century."

He rose and, while pressing the hand of that Cid, fixed again in
his memory the date of the hunt, which was not distant. Prince
Zeno was an aristocrat of the purest blood, possessing a wide
popularity which was fairly well deserved.

Darvid was radiant. While accompanying the prince to the door of
the antechamber he looked as if no coil of serpents had ever
crawled up in his bosom, which was now beating with delight and
with pride. The prince halted still a moment at the door, as if
to recall something.

"Pardon me an indiscreet question, but this interests me
immensely. Is there truth in the reports which are circulating in
the city, that Baron Blauendorf is to have the honor in the near
future of receiving the hand of your elder daughter?"

The expression of Darvid's face changed quickly, it became sharp
and severe.

"Were there any truth in the report," answered he, "I should try
to destroy it together with the report."

"And you would be right, perfectly right!" exclaimed the prince.
Then he bent his lips almost to Darvid's ear and whispered:

"There is no Pactolus which such a young buck as Baron Emil would
not drink up. He is a genuine devourer of fortunes. He has
swallowed one already and the half of another."

He laughed and added at once, with immense affability:

"I see your son frequently--that worthy Kranitski presented him a
year ago to us; I and my wife are very, very thankful. He is
sympathetic, handsome, and a highly intellectual young man, who
does you honor."

He went out. Darvid stood at the round table sunk in thought,
with pins of irony in his smile and his eyes, with a cloud of
wrinkles between his brows. That young sculptor, the favorite of
Prince Zeno, with clothing almost in tatters, brought consumption
on himself unhindered, till a parvenu appeared with his money-bag
and rescued the pocket of the aristocrat, receiving in return a
visit and an invitation to hunt. "Behold the significance of
money! Almost infinite power--ha! ha! ha!"

Internal laughter bore him away, and in his brain sounded the
word: "Wretchedness! Wretchedness!"

What was it specially that he called wretchedness? He was not
clearly conscious himself of this, but the feeling of it
penetrated him. Again he heard the prince saying "that honest
Kranitski," and a wave of blood rushed to his forehead.
Everything that he had forgotten a moment earlier returned to his
mind; the prince's voice roared in his ears: "That honest
Kranitski." He repeated a number of times to himself, in a
hissing whisper, "honest! honest!" And then he said:

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