The Argonauts

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

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Irene's words and sententious, hard tones were in marvellous
contrast with the maiden-roundness of her arms, which were bare
in the broad sleeves of her dressing-gown, with the fresh red of
her delicate lips, and the gleam of her blue eyes.

"Besides," added she, "I feel a sympathy for the baron; a certain
kind of sympathy." Malvina, after a moment's silence, asked in a
low voice:

"What kind of sympathy is it?"

After a little hesitation Irene answered with a harsh, abrupt
laugh:

"What kind of sympathy? A kind very common, it seems known
universally. Sometimes his way of looking at me, or his pressure
of the hand, moves me. But he pleases me most by his sincerity;
he makes no pretence. He has never told me, like those three or
four other suitors of mine, that he loves me. He has for me, as I
have for him, a certain kind of sympathy; he considers me
financially an excellent match, and for these two reasons he
wishes to share with me his title of baron, and his relationship
with certain families of counts and princes. And as I, on my
part, need independence at the earliest, and my own house, so one
thing for another, the exchange of services and interests is
accomplished. We do not hide from each other these motives of
ours, and this creates between us sincere and comrade-like
relations, quite agreeable, and leading to no tirades or elegies
in which there is not one bit of truth, or to any exaltation or
despair which has no title to the future. This is all."

"Ira!" whispered Malvina after a long silence.

"What, mamma?"

"If I could--if I had the right--" Both were silent.

"What, mamma?"

"If I could believe in spite of--"

The gilded and artistic clock ticked among the pinks and lilies:
tick-tack, tick-tack.

"What is it, mamma?"

"A cake, Ira!"

As Irene took a cake from the silver basket with her trembling
hand, she cried, with glad laughter:

"At last you will eat even a cake! You have changed immensely,
mamma. I cannot call you now as I once did, a little glutton,
since for some time past you eat so little that it is nearly
nothing."

Malvina smiled fondly at the name which on a time her daughter
had given her jestingly, and Irene continued in the same tone:

"Remember, mamma, how you and I, with one small assistant in
Cara, ate whole baskets of cakes, or big, big boxes of
confectionery. Now that is past. I notice this long time that you
eat almost nothing, and that you dress richly only because you
must do so. At times, were it possible, you would put on
haircloth instead of rich silks, would you not? Have I guessed
rightly?"

While a faint blush covered her forehead and cheeks again,
Malvina answered:

"Rightly."

Irene grew thoughtful; without raising her eyes to her mother she
inquired in a low voice:

"What is the cause of this?"

"Returning currents of life are the cause," answered Malvina
after a rather long silence, and she continued, thoughtfully:
"You see, my child, currents of a river when once they have
passed never come back again, but currents of life come hack. My
early youth was poor, as you know, calm, laborious, brightened by
ideals, from which I have deviated much! That was long ago, but
it happened. In life so many years pass sometimes, that events
which precede those years seem a dream, but they are real and
come back to us."

Irene listened to this hesitating, low conversation with drooping
eyelids and forehead resting on her hand. She made no answer.
Malvina, sunk in thought, was silent also.

A few minutes later the tea things vanished from the table,
removed without a sound almost, and borne out by the young
waiting-maid.

With eyelids still drooping, as if she were finishing an idea
circling stubbornly in her head, Irene said with pensive lips:

"A haircloth!" She rose then, and, suppressing a yawn, said: "I
am sleepy. Good-night, mamma, dear!" She placed a brief kiss on
her mother's hand: "Shall I call Kosalia?"

"No, no! Tell her to go to sleep. I will undress myself and go to
bed unattended."

"Good-night!"

Stepping quietly along the carpet Irene passed out. Malvina
followed the young lady to the door with her eyes, and the moment
she was alone she threw her arm over her head, turned her face
upward, and repeated a number of times, audibly: "God! God!" Then
she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, covered her face
with both palms, the broad sleeves of her dress fell from her
arms like broken wings. Thus, altogether motionless, she dropped
into an abyss of regrets, reminiscences, and fears. The night
flowed on. The clock among the flowers in that study struck the
first hour after midnight, then the second hour, and each time in
the darkness of the drawing-rooms another clock answered in tones
which were deeper and more resonant. The syringa and hyacinths
gave out a still stronger odor, though the cold increased in that
chamber. The frosty winter night was creeping in, even to
dwellings which were carefully heated, and was filling them with
darkness penetrated with cold; along Malvina's shoulders, which
were bent over the arm of the chair, shivers began to pass.

In the darkness and cold a slight rustle was heard, and on the
background of this darkness, in the doorway, appeared Irene. She
wore a short, embroidered dress of cambric, and her fiery tresses
were on her shoulders. She stood in the doorway with neck
extended toward her mother, then walking in soft slippers
silently she passed through the room like a shadow, and vanished
beyond the opposite door. There was something ghostlike in those
two women; one passed, without the slightest rustle, by the
other, who was sleeping in a low chair, without making the least
movement. Outside that mansion the streets of the city were
entering into a deeper and longer silence.

The clock in the study struck three, in the darkness three
strokes, remote and deep, answered. In the air the volatile and
languid odor of syringas was overcome by the narcotic and
stronger odor of hyacinths. The increasing cold flowed around
them with painful contrast. In the door, beyond which she had
vanished, Irene appeared again, just as silently as before. She
passed through the room and placed a shawl upon her mother's
shoulders. Malvina, feeling the soft stuff, woke as if from a
dream.

"What is this?" exclaimed she, raising her face, the cheeks of
which were gleaming in the light of the lamp; but when she saw
her daughter she smiled with relief immediately.

"That is you, Ira? Why are you not asleep?"

"I cannot sleep, and I came for the book which we began to read
together. It is growing cold, so I brought a shawl. Good-night."

She went aside but did not leave the room. She had no book in her
hand; perhaps she was looking for it in the beautifully carved
ease filled with books, for she opened the case and stood before
it with arms raised toward the upper shelves, her hair lying
motionless on the white cambric covering her shoulders.

Malvina was looking at her daughter, in her eyes was impatience;
she was waiting for her to go.

"Is it late?" asked she.

"Very late," answered Irene, without turning her head.

"Does Cara cough to-night?"

"I have not heard her cough to-day." Malvina rose, but tottered
so much that she was forced to rest her hand on the edge of the
table. She seemed greatly wearied.

"Go to sleep. Good-night!" said she, passing her daughter.

Irene looked at her tottering step and followed her quickly a
number of paces.

"Mamma!" cried she.

"What, Ira?"

Irene stood before her mother a moment, her lips were quivering
with words which she withheld, till she bent, kissed her mother's
hand gently, and said in her usual manner:

"Good-night!"

Then she stood a while longer before the open case, listening to
the rustle made by her mother while going to bed, and when that
had ceased she closed the case and moved quietly into the
darkness behind the outer door.

At that same time a carriage thundered in the silence and passed
through the gateway. Restrained movement rose in the antechamber
from which one servant ran out into the dimly lighted stairway,
and another rushed to the study and bedroom of the master of the
mansion to increase quickly the light of the lamps there. Darvid
went up the stairs quickly and with sprightliness; he threw into
the hands of the servant his fur, which was costly and original,
since it was brought from the distant North, and began at once to
read at the round table, through an eyeglass, that which he had
jotted down recently in his pocket notebook. The book was in
ivory binding with a gold monogram, and a pencil with a gold
case. While reading Darvid put a brief question to the servant:

"Has Pan Maryan returned?"

The answer was negative. Large and heavy wrinkles appeared
between Darvid's brows, but he continued to read his notes.
Almost a quarter of an hour later he wrote something more while
bending over the desk, and standing. Soon in the bedchamber,
furnished by the most skillful decorator of the capital, a
night-lamp on the mantel of a chimney illuminated a bed adorned
with rich carving; a white and lean hand stretched out on a silk
coverlet, and a face also, which was like ivory, and shining with
two blue sleepless eyes, keenly glittering. Darvid cast an
inattentive glance through the room, over which, in the pale
lamplight, two beautiful female heads seemed to hover, reflected
and multiplied in mirrors standing opposite each other. This was
a most beautiful work--a genuine Greuze. To win this masterpiece
Darvid outbid a number of men of high standing; he triumphed and
was delighted. But now his sleepless glance passed over that
pearl of art inattentively. His night at the club instead of
diverting and calming had bored and irritated. His honorable
partner was annoying, and rude in addition. Never would he have
forced himself to play with the man, had not that relation been
an honor, and--what was more--had it not been needful. Women say:
one must suffer to be beautiful; men need to change only the last
word and say: one must suffer to be powerful. But that was
beginning to be repulsive, and, above all, to be wearisome. Only
when in bed did he feel that he was weary. He could not sleep. He
had slept badly for some weeks--since the time of that wretched
letter. At thought of that letter the serpents stirred in
Darvid's breast, but he shut them down in their den by hissing:
"Stupidity!" And he fell into long and uneasy thought about that
man whom he had sent on weighty business, but who had not
returned yet.

Perhaps chance will not favor him this time, and another hand
will seize the field of action and the great profits. He knows
that he has enemies and rivals who envy, who undermine him. Well,
he will win also in this case, only he would like something
afterward--what? He himself does not know what--perhaps rest. To
go for a time to Switzerland or Italy. For what purpose? He is
not over curious about art and nature, he has no time to fall in
love with them. Without occupation he would be bored in all
places, and besides he must finish these family questions. He
must tame Maryan, and hinder Irene's marriage to the baron. He is
fighting a battle with his own son and daughter. Cara is the only
one with whom he has no trouble. She is mild and beautiful. Her
head is turned also, but in another, a more agreeable direction.
She is greatly attached to him, the dear child! She is frail. He
must speak to the doctor about her. Perhaps send her to Italy.
With whom? With her mother? He would never permit that. The child
is his. He will go himself with Cara. But in that case what will
become of his enterprise?

In the interior of the mansion were heard deep, metallic sounds.
The clock struck five.

In that same mansion, at the distant end of it, in a chamber
lighted by a blue night-lamp, was heard a low, dry cough, and a
frail, tall maiden, in night-clothing covered with lace, sat up
in a blue and white bed.

"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!" cried she, with fear in her voice.

From the adjoining chamber came a voice of agreeable tone and
somewhat drowsy:

"You are not asleep, Cara?"

"I have slept. The cough woke me, but that is well, for I had a
dreadful dream. I dreamed that papa and mamma--"

She stopped suddenly, and, though no one was looking at her, she
hid her delicate face in the blue coverlet. So only in a whisper
did she tell the end of her dream:

"They were angry at each other--so awfully angry--Ira put her
arms around mamma--Maryan went away hissing. I hung to papa, and
cried so, and cried."

In fact her eyes were then filled with tears from the dream. But
she stretched in the bed, and, with her head on the pillows,
thought, till she called again:

"Miss Mary! Are you sleeping?"

"No, dear; do you wish anything?"

Cara began in a loud voice:

"I wish immensely, immensely, Miss Mary, to go with you to
England, to your father and mother. Oh, how I should like to be
in that parsonage a while, where your sisters teach poor children
and nurse the sick, and your mother makes tea at the grate for
your father when he comes home after services. Oh, Mary, if you
and I could go to that place! It is so pleasant there." In the
blue light and in the silence her thin voice recalled the
twittering of a lark.

"We will go there sometime, dear. Your parents will permit, and
we will go. But sleep now."

"Very well, I will sleep. Good-night, Miss Mary--my dear, good
Miss Mary."

She lay some minutes quietly thinking, till she sat up again in
bed coughing. When the cough had passed, she called in a low
voice:

"Miss Mary! Miss Mary!"

There was no answer.

"She is sleeping," whispered Cara, and after a while she looked
around, and, in a lower voice, called:

"Puffie! Puffie!"

At this call the little dog sprang from a neighboring chair, and
in the twinkle of an eye was on the bed.

Cara stroked the silken coat of the dog, and bending toward him
whispered:

"Puffie! Puffie! dear, little dog! lie here, sleep for thyself!"

She put him on her breast almost at her chin; with her hand on
his coat, and with the whisper: "Puffie! good Puffie!" she fell
asleep.

Then was heard the sound of a drozhky, coming quickly, with
uproar in front of the house, and again there was an end to
voices and movement. Two men ascended the stairway, one much
older than the other, with a carefully brushed, but somewhat worn
hat, in a fashionable but somewhat worn fur. He spoke in a low
voice:

"Yes, yes! c'est quelque chose d'inoui! he commanded me to break
off all relations with you, and to stop visiting his house."

"A thousand and one nights! Why is it? What is it for?" exclaimed
the other.

Suddenly he stopped part way on the stairs, and asked with a half
jeering, half pitying look at his companion:

"If he should find out?"

Kranitski turned his face away.

"My Maryan--with you--of that--"

"Painted pots!" laughed Maryan. "Do you take me for my
great-grandfather? Well, has he found it out?"

With red spots on his cheeks and forehead Kranitski blinked
affirmatively.

"Sapristi!" imprecated Maryan, and immediately he laughed again.
"And why? for what reason? Did he also believe in painted pots? I
thought him modern."

"Alas!" sighed Kranitski.

They advanced in silence, passed the first story of the house.
Maryan's bachelor chambers were on the second story.

"My dear old man, I am sorry for you, enormously sorry," began
young Darvid again. "I have grown so accustomed to you. You will
have to suffer, and poor mamma, too. Where did he get all this? A
man of such sense! I thought that his head was better
ventilated--"

He could not finish, for Kranitski threw himself on his neck at
the very door of his apartments. He wept. Drying his eyes with
his perfumed cambric handkerchief, he said:

"My Maryan, I shall not survive this blow! I love you all so
much--you are--for me--as a younger brother--"

He tried to kiss him, but Maryan broke away from his embrace, and
his tears, the moisture of which he felt on his face, with
discomfort.

"But it is absurd!" exclaimed he. "Are we to break our relations
because they displease someone? Are we slaves? Laugh at that, my
dear. Come to me as before, but pass the night now with me, for
it would be difficult for you to go home at this hour."

He touched the button of the electric bell, and when the door
opened at once, he said to his companion on the threshold:

"Bianca sings that aria from the 'Cavalier' gloriously, does she
not? La, la, la----"

He tried to give the music, but his voice failed. So he
disappeared behind the closing door, humming the aria of the
splendid singer which he had just heard at supper.

Below, two clocks, one after the other, sounded out six. Through
the great windows light began to enter from the snow-covered
streets. That seemed the gradual and slow drawing aside of a dark
curtain, from behind which came out with increasing distinctness,
furniture, pictures, mirrors, candlesticks, vases, rugs, plushes,
velvets, polish, gilt, mosaics, ivory, porcelain. Until all
standing forth in the full light of that winter morning began
like a pearl shell to interchange various colors and lustres, and
to drop from the walls and ceilings reflections of gold on the
shining floor.

CHAPTER III

Kranitski ascended a carpeted stairway, which was adorned with
lamps and statues. His fur coat with a costly collar was over
worn somewhat; his hat was shining; his step free, and there was
a cheerful smile under his mustaches, which were turned up at the
ends carefully. The stairway was almost a street. People were
passing up and down on it, and whenever you met them and caught
their eyes you noted freedom, self-confidence, elegance; you saw
the eleventh commandment of God, which Moses, only through some
inconceivable forgetfulness, neglected to add to the Decalogue.

Entering the antechamber he threw the servant his fur, from which
issued the odor of excellent perfumes. From the pocket of his
coat peeped the edge of a handkerchief. He arranged before a
mirror his hair, thick yet above his forehead, but showing from
behind a small, circular, bald spot. Hat in hand, and with a
springy, self-confident tread, he entered the drawing-room. Only
two red spots above his brow interrupted the whiteness of his
forehead, which was slightly wrinkled; his eyes, usually gleaming
or affable, were mist-covered.

In a door, opposite that by which Kranitski entered, stood Irene,
under a crimson drapery of curtains, with an open book in her
hand. Kranitski, with that light-swaying of the body, with which
elegants are accustomed to approach ladies, approached Irene and,
bending easily before her, kissed her hand.

"May one enter?" inquired he, indicating with his eyes the door
of an adjoining; chamber.

"I beg you to enter, mamma is in her study."

The inclination of head, and sound of Irene's voice, contained
only that measure of cordiality which was absolutely demanded by
politeness, but that was her way always and with every one. Cold
radiated from her, and such indifference that it was sometimes a
contemptuous disregard for people and things. But when Kranitski,
hat in hand, passed two drawing-rooms she followed him with her
glance, in which, besides disquiet, there was a kindly feeling,
and more, perhaps, a feeling of pity. She was accustomed from
childhood to see him; he was gentle, as ready as a slave to
render service, as ready as a friend to oblige; he noted the
wants not only of the lady of the house, but of each of her
children. He had the subdued manner and pliancy of people who do
not feel that they merit what they have, and are ever trembling
lest they lose it. He had, besides, the gift of reading
beautifully in various languages. For a number of years Irene
could not remember pleasanter evenings than those which, free
from society demands, she had passed in her mother's study when
Kranitski was present. Sometimes Cara and her governess took part
in these domestic gatherings; sometimes, also, though more and
more rarely, they were enlivened by the presence of Maryan, who,
in the intervals of reading, chaffed with his sister and mother,
and argued with Kranitski about various tendencies in taste and
literature. Most frequently, however, Cara was occupied with
lessons, and Maryan by society, and only she and Malvina, with
artistic work in hand, listened in silence and thoughtfully to
that resonant, manly voice, which rendered masterpieces of
thought and poetry with perfect appreciation and feeling. During
such evenings Irene was seized at moments by a dream of certain
grand solitudes, pure, surrounded by cordial warmth, remote from
the uproar of streets, the rustle of silks, the noise of vain
words, whose emptiness and falsehood she had measured; but
straightway she said to herself: "Painted pots, ideals! these
have no existence!" and she made a gesture, as if driving from
above her head a beautiful butterfly, feeling convinced that that
butterfly was merely a phantom. To-day, from minute observation,
the conjecture rose in her that something uncommon had happened,
and that something more must happen, also; she was colder and
more formal than ever, with a burning spark of fear in the depth
of her blue, clear eyes. Her dress was of cloth, closely fitting,
somewhat masculine in the cut of the waist, and on the top of her
head was a Japanese knot of fiery hair, pierced by a pin with
steel lustres. In her hand was an open book, and she walked along
slowly through the two spacious drawing-rooms. She did not raise
her eyes from the book, though she did not turn a page in it. At
one door she turned immediately, at the other, which was closed,
she stopped for a few seconds when she caught the sound of
conversation, carried on beyond the door, in low voices, by two
people. She did not wish to hear that conversation. Oh, she did
not! How long ago was it since she had striven to be deaf as well
as blind, and frequently so deal that no glance of the eye, no
movement of the face might betray that she had sight or hearing.
But now, as often as a louder sound struck her ears from beyond
the closed door she stood immovable, and her eyelids quivered
like leaves stirred by wind. For a long time it had seemed to her
that something terrible might happen in that house some day,
something to which she would not be able to remain deaf and
blind. Might it not happen just that day? With slow, even step
along the gleaming floor, between purple, azure, and various
shades of white, which filled the drawing-rooms, she walked, in
her closely-fitting dress, from one door to the other, her eyes
fixed on the book, her manner colder, more formal than ever, her
delicate motionless face, above which the long pin threw out
metallic gleams. Suddenly an outburst of silver laughter was
heard at another door. Till that moment two female voices had
been heard, speaking English, beyond this door, now thrown open
with a rattle. Golden strips of light, cast in by the winter sun,
were lying on the purple and white of the drawing-room. Into this
drawing-room rushed a strange pair; a maiden of fifteen, in a
bright dress, golden-haired, rosy, and tall, bent low; she held
by the forepaws a little ash-colored dog, and with him went
waltzing around the furniture of the room, humming as she moved
the fashionable: La, la, la! La, la, la! A pair of small feet, in
elegant slippers, and a pair of shaggy, beast paws, whirled over
the gleaming inlaid floor, around long chairs, tables, columns
holding vases; swiftly, swiftly did she go till she met Irene at
the door of the next drawing room. Cara raised the little dog
from the floor, straightened herself, her eyes met the strange
glance of her sister. Irene blinked repeatedly, as if some
disagreeable light had struck her eyes.

"Always so gladsome, Cara!"

"I?" cried the girl. "Oh, so! Puffie made me laugh--and--the sun
shines so nicely. The day is beautiful, isn't it, Ira? Have you
noticed how diamond sparks glitter on the snow? The trees are all
covered with frost. Let us go with Miss Mary for a walk. I will
take Puffie, but I will cover him with that blanket which I
finished embroidering yesterday. Is mamma well?"

"Why do you ask about mamma?"

"Because, when I gave her 'good-morning,' I thought that she was
ill, she was so pale--pale. I asked her, but she said: 'Oh, it is
nothing, I am well.' Still it seems to me--"

"Let nothing seem to you!" Irene interrupted her almost angrily.
"The surmises of children like you have no sense in them most of
the time. Where are you going?"

"To father."

She pointed with her eyes to her mother's rooms.

"Is that--that man there?"

It was not to be discovered why she spoke in lowered tones, but
Irene's voice sounded almost harsh when she inquired:

"What man?"

"Pan Kranitski."

Now Cara's red, small lips, in the twinkle of an eye, formed a
crooked line in spite of her; then, bending toward her sister,
she said, almost in a whisper:

"Tell me, Ira, but tell the truth. Do you like that
man--Kranitski?" Irene laughed aloud, freely, almost as she had
never laughed.

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