The Argonauts

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

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All at once Darvid raised himself in bed, and, with his elbow on
the pillow, gazed upward. Higher on the wall was the face of a
maiden, small, oval, rosy, with thick, bright hair scattered
above her Grecian forehead, and by a movement of her eyes she
seemed to summon the man gazing at her. She smiled, with rosy
lips, at him, lovingly, and moved her eyelids, inviting him.
Darvid, with raised brows, and with his forehead gathered in a
number of great wrinkles; with eyes turned to that picture above
him bent forward still more, and, with trembling lips, whispered:
"My little one." But immediately after he rubbed his eyes, and
smiled. It was a picture by Greuze! There were two of them: one
almost invisible in the shade; the other that one emerging from
the shade into a half light in such fashion that the head of the
maiden seemed to stand out from, the canvas as it were suspended.

"It is like Cara; very like her. The same type--the very same
lips, hair, and forehead--"

He knew that that was a painted face; still, with his head on the
pillow, he raised his eyes to it frequently, and as often as he
raised them he saw a loving smile on the rosy lips and the
distinct movement of the eyes which seemed to call and invite
him.

He thought that he was ill, unnerved; that he must summon in
physicians. Next morning Darvid heard, in the study of a famous
doctor, that his nerves were unstrung remarkably; suffering from
a blow which had struck him--over-work. He had toiled beyond
measure. There was only one cure: complete and long rest. A
journey abroad. A change of impressions, after hard and special
toil; life in the midst of splendid scenery and works of art.

Meditating afterward on this advice of the doctor, he thought
that he had not the slightest wish to follow it. Neither nature
nor art attracted him in any way. During his whole life he had
not had the time for them, and it was too late now for new
studies. Why was he to undertake a journey if not for that
purpose? He had travelled much in his lifetime, but always on
business, and with a clearly defined object; without business and
an object, travelling through the world seemed to him exactly
like that walking in the night through his empty, lighted
mansion; something akin to madness.

What then? Days passed again in toil, amidst consultations and
reckonings. The arranging of balances and reports--the round body
rolled on by the power of impetus. At appointed hours he received
visits. He received also Prince Zeno, who came to take farewell
of him for many months, till the following winter.

"We are scattering, all of us," said the prince. "Like birds in
autumn we are flying to places where the sun shines most
beautifully. You, too, will go, of course. Whither? To the South
or the East? Perhaps to that estate where your wife and daughter
are passing the sad time of family mourning? But apropos of the
country. You know that poor Kranitski; well, he came to take
farewell of me. He has left the city; left it never to come back
again. He has gone to the country. He is to remain on his
estate--a small one, not over-pleasantly situated. I was there
once on a visit to his mother, with whom I was connected by
blood-bonds. A tiresome little hole, that place! But what is to
be done? This handsome and once charming man has grown dreadfully
old; the conditions of his life were difficult--so he has gone.
Your son is making a long journey. Is he in the United States
already? Baron Blauendorf is going there also; only yesterday he
bade good-by to us. We scatter through the world; but, till we
meet again? For I should be in despair were I to lose an
acquaintance so precious and dear to me as yours is."

Ah, how indifferent it was to Darvid whether he should keep or
lose acquaintance with Prince Zeno. He saw and recognized in the
man many fine and agreeable qualities, but he would rather not
see him, just as he would rather not see others. All seemed
strange to him and distant. Conversation, even with the most
agreeable and worthy, both wearied and annoyed him. "What do you
want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do they love
you?"

One thought now devoured him. That "poor Kranitski" had left the
city to live on his estate permanently, or rather in his poor
village, situated in that same district as Krynichna, not very
near, but in the same region. Of course, he will be a frequent
guest at Krynichna--but, maybe not; even, surely not. Indeed, she
had broken with him, and, in truth, she felt immense shame and
pain--he laughed. A penitent Magdalen! He finished with the
thought: Unhappy woman!

But what more had he to do that day? Ah! he had an appointment to
meet that young sculptor at the cemetery toward evening, and
agree on a monument for Cara. That was to be a monument of great
cost and beauty--a mountain of gold above the "little one."

The great cemetery was in the bright green of leaves which had
recently unfolded on the trees, and in the intoxicating odor of
violets over Cara's grave-mound, which was covered with a carpet,
not of modest violets, but of exquisite exotic flowers. Darvid
spoke long with the young sculptor, and with a number of other
men, giving, agreeably and fluently, opinions and directions
concerning the erection of the monument. While doing this, his
eyes dropped, at moments, to the grave, and were fixed with such
force on it as if he wished to pierce through that carpet of
flowers; through the stratum of brick; through the coffin, and
look at that which was under the lid. At last, with a polite
elevation of his hat, he took farewell of them, and passed on by
a path, amid columns and statues intwined with a lace of bright
leaves, into the centre of that broad city of the dead. That was
his first acquaintance with such a city. He had seen a multitude
of other such cities, but had never become acquainted with one of
them. He had looked into them sometimes, but briefly, and because
he was forced to it--his head was ever filled with thoughts
altogether foreign to such places. Now he passed the interior of
the cemetery with this thought. So all ends here! He did not go
out for a long time. His carriage, with cushions of
sapphire-colored damask, and his pair of splendid horses stood
long before the cemetery gate, obedient and motionless. In the
chapel tower the silver music of the vesper-bell sounded, and
ceased to sound. Darkness had begun to fall on the fresh green of
the trees, and the urns, columns, and statues standing thickly
between them, as Darvid drove away from the cemetery.

"When church-bells sound, as this has, people pray," thought he.
"Do they think that God hears them? Does God exist? Perhaps he
does. It is even likely that he does, but that he occupies
himself with men and their entreaties!--I am not sure. I have
never given time to this, and it seems to me that no one knows.
Men have wrangled over this question for ages and--know nothing.
It is a mystery. All places are full of mystery, but men think
that reason is a great power. That is an error! Whatever ends
thus is misery. Everything ends in stupidity. All things are
foolishness! Foolishness!"

Reaching the steps of his mansion he thought that he felt greatly
wearied. Is this old age? not long before he felt perfectly
youthful. But, evidently, this is the way--Age comes and seizes a
man. One giantess more--it seems to him that he is a hundred
years old. The same with Malvina. How changed she was when he
spoke last to her. She had preserved her youth so long, and on a
sudden she was aged. She must have suffered greatly. Hapless
woman!

He entered his study; sat down at his desk. Puffie sprang onto
his knee immediately. He put one hand on the coat of the little
dog, and with the other opened a drawer, looked into it, pushed
the drawer back, and, resting comfortably against the arms of the
chair, gazed into space with a fixed, torpid look.

He was too wise not to see standing, earlier or later, before
him, the stern irony existing in human affairs. It had been
standing before him for a long time, but, standing behind veils,
such as labor, success--the eternal lack of time. Now the veils
had fallen. He beheld the irony clearly. It was embodied in the
swollen vase of Chinese porcelain, which, though not standing in
that chamber, seemed to bend forward from the corner, with
sloping eyes painted in sapphire. The figure leered at him; bared
its white teeth, and with swollen body seemed to burst from
laughter. What could he place against that monster? how was he to
cover it?--he knew not. He understood well that at the bottom of
this all lay an error. On the road of life there was something
which he had not noted; something which he had not recognized; he
had let something slip from his hands which still were so
rapacious; he, an architect, observing with mighty diligence the
law of equilibrium in buildings reared by him, had not preserved
that equilibrium in his own house; so that now it was hard for
him to dwell there, and he wished to depart from it.

When he goes it will be better for all. Better for him and for
them. That unhappy woman will be free, and may become happy.
Maryan will return from the end of the earth to receive his
inheritance, if for no other reason. Irene will reappear in
society. Irene, what a strange character!--so deeply tender, and
so insolent. How savagely she hurled at him the word "vileness!"
But she was right. He had committed that moment a vile act, just
as in general he was forced to commit many follies--but "useless
cruelty" will give reward--Irene will learn that he was not
so--no, neither she nor anyone will know the nature of his act.
He raised his head, in which he felt once more an access of
pride. No, he will not give account of his motives to anyone; nor
confess on his knees, like a penitent sinner; nor will he take
the pose of a hero. Let them think what they like. How can that
concern him? Nothing concerns him.

By chance he raised his eyes and saw, hanging in the air, the
face of a maiden, oval, rosy, and bright-haired which smiled at
him lovingly, and made a clear motion, inviting him. Greuze's
picture was not there, still the vision was present. With eyes
raised toward it Darvid smiled.

"Yes, little one, quickly."

He took a pen and began a telegram to Irene. He penned the
address, and then wrote: "Come as quickly as possible for
Puffie." He put the pen down, rang, and told the footman to send
the telegram immediately. Then, passing his hand over the coat of
the sleeping little dog, he sat long, sunk in thought. The world
appeared before him with all that he had ever seen, owned, or
used in it. Countries, cities, nations, their dwellings and
languages, banks, exchanges, markets, offices, noise, throngs,
struggles, horse-races, movements, uproar, life. This vision did
not halt there before him, but sailed away, as it were, on a
giant river, ever farther from him; farther, till it was on the
opposite shore of a great space, entirely cut off and entirely
indifferent. When he considered that he might spring over that
space and mingle again in all those things, repulsion came on
him, and also fear; he shook his head in refusal, and said to
himself: "I do not want them!"

He was very calm; an expression of happiness began to spread over
his features. If anyone had seized him then and tried to hurl him
to the side of that broad space on which this life is situated,
he would have resisted with all his might, and, if need be, would
have begged to remain on that other side.

He looked up and smiled.

"Now, my little one, I am coming!"

He opened the drawer.

Next morning news flew through the city like a thunderbolt, that
the renowned financial operator and millionnaire, Aloysius
Darvid, had, during the night, in his study, taken his own life
with a revolver. The first and universal thought was of
bankruptcy. But no. Soon it became clear and most certain that
his ship, in full canvas, was sailing on the broad stream of
success, and was bearing an immense, glittering golden fleece.
The Argonaut, however, no man knew for what reason--through
causes hidden altogether from everyone--had sprung from the deck
into the dark and mysterious abyss.

THE END.

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