The Argonauts

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

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"Ridiculous! Ah, what an amusing baby you are! Why should I not
like him? He is our old and good acquaintance." And returning to
her usual formality, she added: "Besides, you know that I do not
like anyone very much."

"Not me?" asked Cara, fondly touching with her red lips the pale
cheeks of her sister.

"You? A little! But go away. You hinder my reading."

"I will go. Come Puffie--come!" And with the dog on her arm she
went off, but she stopped at the door, and turning to Irene, she
bent forward a little, and said, in a low voice: "But I do not
like him--I do not know why this is. First I liked him, but for
some time I cannot endure him--I do not know myself why."

At the last words she turned away, capriciously, and went on.

"She does not know! does not know!" whispered Irene over her
book. "That is why she dances with the dog. What happiness in
Arcadian life!"

The little one, going on, began to hum again, but near the door
of her father's study she grew silent and stopped. The sound of a
number of men's voices in conversation reached her. She dropped
her hand, and whispered:

"Father has visitors! What shall we do now, Puffie? How shall we
go in there?"

After a moment's thought and hesitation she stepped in very
quietly under the drapery of the portiere, and in the twinkle of
an eye was sitting on a small, low stool which stood behind a
tall case of shelves filled with books, which, placed near the
door, formed with two walls a narrow, triangular space. That was
an excellent corner, a real asylum which she could reach
unobserved, and which she had selected for herself earlier. The
books on the shelves hid her perfectly, but left small cracks
through which she could see everyone. Whenever there were guests
with her father she entered directly from the door, with one
silent little step she pushed in, waited longer than the guests,
and when they were gone she could talk with her father.

At the round table, which was covered with books, maps, and
pamphlets, in broad armchairs were sitting, hat in hand, men of
various statures and ages. They had not come on business, but to
make calls of longer or shorter duration. Some were giving place
to others, who came unceasingly, or rather flowed in as wave
follows wave. Some went, others came. The pressing of hands, bows
more or less profound, polite and choice phrases, conversation,
interrupted and begun again, conversation touching important and
serious questions of European politics, local questions of the
higher order, and problems of society, especially financial and
economic.

Darvid's voice, low but metallic, filled the study, it was heard
by all with an attention almost religious; in general, Darvid
seemed to ride over that ever-changing throng of men, by his
word, by his gestures, by his eyes, with their cold and
penetrating gleam, from behind the glasses of his binocle. He was
radiant with a certain kind of power, which made him what he was,
and the world yielded to the charm of this power, for it created
wealth, that object of most universal and passionate desire. He
himself felt all its might at that moment. When at the door of
the study were heard, announced by the servant, names famous
because they were ancient, others known for high office, or for
the reputation which science and mental gifts confer, he
experienced a feeling like that which a cat must feel when
stroked along the back. He felt the hand of fate stroking him,
and the delight caused by this became very pleasing. He was
eloquent, he was gleaming with self-confidence, judgment, and
ease of utterance. Not the least pride was to be observed in him,
only the gleam of glory issuing from his smooth forehead, and the
mysterious sensation of apotheosis, which pushed an invisible
pedestal under the man, and made him seem loftier than he was in
reality.

At a certain moment a number of men entered, they seemed almost
sunk in humility, and at the same time filled with solemnity.
That was a delegation from a well-known philanthropic society in
the city; they had come to Darvid with a request to take part in
their work by a money contribution and by personal assistance. He
began by the gift of a considerable sum, but refused personal
assistance. He had not the time, he said, but even had he time,
he was opposed in principle to all philanthropic activity.
"Philanthropy gives a beautiful witness touching those who engage
in it, but it cannot prevent the misfortunes which torture the
race; nay, it strengthens them needlessly, and offers premiums to
sloth and incompetence. Only exertion of all forces in untiring
and iron labor can save mankind from the cancer of poverty which
tortures it. Were there no help behind any man's shoulders, no
hands would drop down unoccupied; each man would exercise his own
strength, and misery would vanish from this earth of ours."

Among those present, a guarded and immensely polite opposition
rose, however.

"The weak, the cripples, lonely old men and children?"

"Philanthropy," answered Darvid, "cannot stop the existence of
these social castaways, it merely continues and establishes
them."

"But they have hungry stomachs, sad souls and hearts--like our
own."

"What is to be done," inquired Darvid, with outspread palms which
indicated regret. "There must be victors and vanquished in the
world, and the sooner the latter are swept from existence the
better for them and for mankind."

A look of displeasure was evident on the faces of some, but they
were silent, the oldest man rose, and smiling most agreeably,
ended the argument:

"But if philanthropy had many patrons like you its activity would
correct the injustice of fate very frequently."

"Let us not call fate unjust," retorted Darvid with a smile,
"because it favors strength and crushes incompetence. On the
contrary its action is beneficent, for it strengthens all that is
worthy of life, and destroys that which is useless."

"It has been just to you, and in this case we all owe it
gratitude," concluded the oldest man in the delegation, ending
the dispute hurriedly. Holding, meanwhile, Darvid's hand in his
two palms he shook it with a cordial pressure, and his gray head,
and face, furrowed with wrinkles, were bent in a profound
obeisance. For those whom his honest heart pitied he carried a
gift so considerable that, in spite of words which were not to
his mind, the homage and gratitude which he gave came from
perfect sincerity.

At last Darvid's study was deserted, and on his lips was fixed a
smile which resembled a pricking pin. Why had he poured out such
a great handful of money for an object which to him was
indifferent, the need of which he did not recognize? Why? Habit,
relations, public opinion, expressed orally, and by the printed
word. A comedy! Misery! He frowned, the wrinkles between his
brows were growing, when he heard a slight rustle behind. He
looked around, and exclaimed:

"Cara! How did you come in? Ah! you were sitting in the corner
behind the books! Only a reed such as you are could squeeze in
through that cranny! What is your wish, my little daughter?"

He smiled at his daughter, though his glance turned to the clock
standing in the corner of the room. But Cara, with seriousness on
her rosy face, stretched out to him the little dog, which had
just wakened and was still sleepy.

"First of all, I beg father to stroke Puffie--Puffie is pretty,
and he is good, stroke him just once, father."

Darvid drew his palm a number of times, absent-mindedly, over the
back of the dog.

"I have stroked him. But now if you have nothing else to say--"

"I have no time!" added she, finishing her father's sentence. She
laughed, and dropping Puff on the armchair, she caught her father
in both her arms:

"I will not let you go!" cried she; "father must give me a
quarter of an hour, ten minutes, eight minutes, five minutes, I
will speak quickly, quickly. 'If I have nothing more to say.' I
have piles of things to say! I was sitting in the corner looking
and listening, and I don't understand, father, why so many men
come to you. When one looks at it all from a corner, it is so
funny! They come in and bow--"

Here she ran to the door and began with motions and gestures to
enact that of which she was talking. Puff sprang after his
mistress, and, stopping in the middle of the room, did not take
his eyes from her.

"They come in, they bow, they press your hand, father, they sit
down, they listen."

She sat on the chair in the posture of a man, and gave her
delicate features an expression of profound attention. Puff fixed
his eyes on her and began to bark.

"Or in this way." She changed her expression from attention to
gaping. Next she sprang up from the chair. Puff sprang up, too,
and caught the end of her skirt in his little teeth. "They rise,
they bow again, they all say the same things: I have the honor! I
shall have the honor! I wish to have the honor!"

She bowed man-fashion, knocking her heels together, and then
pushing apart her little, slippered feet, and Puff tugged at the
edge of her dress, sprang away, barked repeatedly, and seized her
dress in his teeth again.

"Puffie, don't hinder me! Puffie, go away! Some go out, others
come. Again: 'I have the honor! I wish to have the honor!'
Puffie, go away! They press your hand, father. Oh, I have tired
myself!"

Her breath had become hurried from quick motions and rapid
speaking, a bright flush covered her face, she coughed and
coughed again, she seized her father's arms.

"Do not run away, father! I have much to tell you. I will talk
quickly."

Darvid had been standing in the middle of the room, and following
her quick movements with his eyes, at first with an indulgent,
and then with a more gladsome smile. That child was beaming with
exuberant life, with wit also, which had the power to penetrate
things and people; a most delicate sensitiveness, which made her
an instrument of many strings, and these never ceased quivering.
She reminded him marvellously of Malvina in her youth. When she
began to cough he caught her, and said:

"Do not hurry so; do not speak so much; talk less; sit down
here."

"I have no time, father, to talk slowly--I cannot sit down--for
you will run away that moment. I must hold you and hurry. I want
you to tell me why so many men come to you, and why you go to
their houses. Do you love them? Do they love you? Is it agreeable
and pleasant for you in their company? What do they want? What
comes of these visits, pleasantness or profit? And whose profit,
theirs or yours? or the profit of someone else, perhaps? What is
all this for? Do not these visits remind you of the theatre?
Though I have never been in the theatre. Here, as in the theatre,
every man plays some part, pretends, puts on a face, does he not?
Why does he do so? Do you like this, father? I beg you to tell,
but only tell me everything, everything; for father, I want you
to be my master, my light--you are so wise, so respected, so
great!"

"Enthusiasm put sparks into her dark eyeballs which were turned
up to her father's face. Darvid stroked her pale, golden hair.

"My dear child," said he, "my little one!" After a while he
added: "Are you a wild girl from Australia or Africa to ask me
such questions? You have seen visits from childhood. Have you not
seen your mother receiving many visitors, also?"

"Yes, yes, father; but mamma amuses herself with them, and is
taking Ira into society. But what are visits to you? Are you
amusing yourself, also?"

"How amuse?" laughed Darvid, "they annoy me oftenest of all,
though an odd time they give me pleasure."

"What pleasure?"

"You do not understand this yet. Relations, position in the
world, significance."

"What do you want of significance, father; why do you wish for a
high position in society? What profit does significance give?
Does it give happiness? See, father, I know one little
history--Miss Mary's father, an English clergyman, has a parish
in a poor, far-away corner, where there are no people of
significance, and no rich men, but there are many poor and
ignorant people there; and he has significance only among those
poor people--that is, he has no significance whatever, still he
is so happy, and all those people are so happy. They love one
another, and live together. It is so warm and bright in that
pastor's house, there, among the old trees. Miss Mary came away
from there to get a little money for her youngest sister, whom
she loves dearly. She lives pleasantly here, but she yearns for
her family, and has told me so much of them; and some time,
father, I will beg you to let me go with Miss Mary to England, to
that poor country parish, and see that great, warm, bright
happiness which exists in it."

Tears glittered like diamonds in her gleaming eyes, and Darvid,
with his arm around her slender waist, stood silent, in deep
meditation. That child, by her questions, had let his thoughts
down, as if by a string, to the bottom of things, at which he had
never looked before--he had had no time. He might tell her that
high significance in the world tickles vanity, flatters pride,
helps, frequently, to carry business to a profitable
conclusion--that is to pecuniary profit. He might confess to
himself, also, that that English clergyman, in his quiet
parsonage, under his ancient trees, seemed to him a very happy
man all at once in that moment. After a while, he said:

"It must be so. Happiness and unhappiness are one thing for poor
people, and another for the rich."

He looked at the clock.

"But now--"

"Now, I have no time!" laughed Cara. "No, no, father, two minutes
more, a minute more--I will ask about something else."

"You will ask more!" exclaimed he, with such a laugh as he had
hardly ever given.

"Yes, yes--something even more important than the last. I am
troubled about it--it pains me so--"

She changed from foot to foot, and embraced her father with all
her strength, as if fearing that he might run away.

"Did father mean really to say that one should not uphold the
poor, the hungry, the sorrowful, the sad, nor comfort them; that
it is only necessary to leave them so that they may die as soon
as possible? When father said that I felt sick in some way. Mamma
and Ira this long time support two old men, so gray and nice,
whom Miss Mary and I visit often. Do mamma and Ira do badly?
Should we let them die as soon as possible from hunger? Brrr! it
is terrible! Does father think so really, or did he only say what
he did to get rid of those gentlemen the more quickly? Father you
are good, the best, a dear, golden father. Do you really believe
what you said, or was it to get rid of those men? I beg you to
answer me, I beg you!"

This time her eyes were fixed on his face, with a gleam which was
almost feverish, and again he stood in silence, filled with
astonishment. Why could his mouth not open to tell that girl his
profoundest conviction?

With all the wrinkles between his brows, he said, without a
smile:

"I said that to get rid of them; I wished to be rid of those
gentlemen as quickly as possible." The soles of Cara's feet
struck the floor time after time with delight.

"Yes, yes! I was sure of that! My best, dearest father--"

Stroking her hair, he added:

"We must be kind. Be kind always. Keep the life in gray-haired,
nice old men. You will never lack money for that."

She kissed his hands; suddenly her glance fell on her father's
desk, and she cried:

"Puffie! Puffie! where have you climbed to? There you are, you
have crawled on to the desk and done so much mischief!"
The ash-colored little dog was on the great desk of the
celebrated financier, on the top of a huge pile of papers; he was
sitting with his nose against a window pane, growling at crows
that were flying past and cawing. In that study, which was so
dignified as to be almost solemn, Cara's laughter was heard in
silver tones:

"Look, father, how angry he is! He is angry at the crows! Oh, how
he sticks his little nose up when one of them flies past. Do you
see, father?"

"I see, I see! Never has such a dignified assistant been in
charge of my desk. Oh, you little one!"

He put his arm around her and pressed her to his bosom, briefly,
but heartily. Through his head passed at that moment the
recollection of something unimportant which he had seen on a
time: a golden sun-ray, which, flashing from behind clouds, had
torn them apart, and disclosed a strip of clear azure beyond. He
saw this through a window of a railroad car, mechanically, as we
see things to which we are indifferent. Now he remembered it.

"The carriage is ready!" called the servant from the anteroom.

"You are a little giddy-head," said Darvid, looking at the clock.
"I should have left the house a quarter of an hour ago."

She ran to bring his hat, and gave it with a low bow. Stooping
quickly she raised a glove which he had dropped.

"Don't forget to leave Puffie here to keep my papers in order!"

With this jest on his lips he went to the antechamber, but, while
putting on his fur and descending the stairway, he thought of the
auction, where he was to buy a house sold for debt--an excellent
investment.

"Is Pan Maryan at home?" asked Darvid of the Swiss at the street
door.

The Swiss learned from servants that the young master was
sleeping yet.

"What a miserable method of life! I must put a curb on this wild
buck immediately. Well, lack of time, a chronic lack of time!"

"Quickly! as quickly as possible!" called he to the driver, while
entering the carriage.

He had left the house too late, his daughter had broken in on him
with her twittering and fondling--but she is a ray of sunlight!

Cara removed Puff from her father's papers, and, putting him on
her breast, almost under her chin, as usual, passed through the
drawing-rooms hurriedly. She was late for her lessons with Miss
Mary. In one of the drawing-rooms she passed Irene. The slow
promenade of the tall and formal young lady, with an open book in
her hand, continued yet. Cara, while passing, and without
stopping, said, with evident gladsomeness:

"But I talked long with father to-day, long."

"You have done that trick!" answered Irene, indifferently.

Cara stopped as if fixed to the floor. In the careless voice of
her sister she heard irony; she seemed ready for conflict; her
brows contracted suddenly; her eyes were full of sparks. But
Irene, absorbed in reading, was already a good number of steps
away. After a few seconds, Cara vanished behind the door of her
own room and Miss Mary's.

Irene's features, rather meagre and elongated, continued
motionless; her paleness increased their formality. But as time
passed, weariness settled the more deeply on her drooping
eyelids. Whenever she passed a window of the drawing-rooms, the
pin in her hair east quick, sharp gleams in the sunlight.

At last the door of Malvina's room opened and out came Kranitski,
quite different from what he had been at his arrival. His
shoulders were bent; his head drooping; on his cheeks were red
spots; his forehead was greatly wrinkled. He looked as though he
had been weeping a moment before. Even his mustaches were hanging
in woefulness over his carefully shaven chin. Irene stopped, and
with the book in her two hands, which she had dropped, gazed at
the man approaching her. He hastened his step, took her hand, and
said in a low voice and hurriedly:

"I am the most wretched of beings! I was not worthy of such great
happiness as--as--your mother's friendship, so I lose it. Je suis
fini, completement et cruellement fini. I take farewell of you,
Panna Irene--so many years! so many years! I loved you all so
greatly, so heartily. Some people call me a romantic old dreamer.
I am. I suffer. Je souffre horriblement. I wish you every
happiness. Perhaps, we may never meet again. Perhaps, I shall go
to the country. I take farewell of you. So many, so many years! O
Dieu!" His eyelids were red; he was bent more than ever as he
passed out. On Irene's face great alarm appeared.

"It is true, then. It is true!" whispered she. Springing forward
like a bird she passed through the drawing-room, quickly and
silently. Invisible wings bore her toward the closed door of her
mother's room; when entering, her manner was calm and
distinguished, as usual, but her eyes, in which there was anxious
concern, beheld the form of a woman lying in a deep armchair, her
face covered with her hands. Malvina was weeping in silence; her
sobs gave out no sound, they merely shook her shoulders at
regular intervals. These shoulders were drooping forward, and it
seemed as though an unseen weight were crushing them to the earth
and would crush them down through it.

Irene hurried, silently; brought a vial from the adjoining
bedchamber, poured some liquid on her palm, and touched her
mother's forehead and temples with it, delicately. Malvina raised
her face, which was deeply agitated by an expression of dread. At
that instant one might have thought the woman feared her
daughter. But Irene, in her usual calm voice, said:

"Insomnia always harms you, mamma. Again you have that horrible
neuralgia!"

"Yes, I feel a little ill," answered Malvina in a weak voice.

She rose, and tried to smile at Irene, but her pale lips merely
quivered, and her eyelids drooped; they were swollen from
weeping. With a step which she strove to make firm and steady she
went toward her bedroom.

Irene followed some steps behind.

"Mamma?"

"What, my child?"

Irene's lips opened and closed repeatedly; it seemed as though
some cry would come from them, but she only said in low tones:

"A little wine or bouillon might be brought?"

Malvina shook her head, advanced some steps, looked around:

"Ira!"

The daughter stood before her mother, but now Malvina in her turn
was speechless. She inclined her forehead, which covered slowly
with a blush; at last she inquired in a low voice:

"Is your father at home?"

"I heard him drive away some moments ago."

"On his return, should he wish to see me, say that I am waiting
for him."

"Very well, mamma."

In the door she turned again:

"Should someone else come--I cannot--"

Irene halted a number of steps from her mother in the formal
posture of a society young lady, and said:

"Be at rest, mamma; I shall not go a step away, and I shall not
let anyone interrupt you. Not even father if you wish--perhaps
to-morrow would be better?"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Malvina, with sudden animation. "On the
contrary, as soon as possible--beg your father to come, and let
me know at the earliest."

"Very well, mamma."

Malvina closed the bedroom door, advanced a few steps, and fell
on her knees at her richly covered bed. Amid furniture, finished
in yellow damask, on a downy bed, covered with cambric and lace,
she raised her clasped hands, and said, in whispers broken with
sobs:

"O God! O God! O God!"

She was of those weak beings who to live need heartfelt love as
much as air, and who are infected by this love without power of
resisting it. To such a love had she yielded once in the chill
and emptiness of rich drawing rooms. That was a happening of long
ago; she was the weaker at that time because she was caught by a
breeze from the spring of her life, passed in the company of that
man who was casting himself at her feet then. In that moment of
yielding a pebble had dropped on her, the weight of which
increased with the course of years and the growth of her
children. She had not thought for an instant that she was the
heroine of a drama. On the contrary, she repeated, with a face
always blushing from shame: "Weak! weak! weak!" and, from a time
rather remote, it was joined with another word, "Guilty." She was
weak, still to-day she had found strength at last to cut one of
those knots in which her life had been involved so repulsively.
Oh, that the other might be torn apart quickly; then she could go
far from the world into lone obscurity, an abyss occupied only by
her endless penitence. In her head a plan had matured. She wished
to speak with Darvid as soon as possible, and she doubted not
that in the near future he would agree with her. Her daughters?
Well, was it not better that such a mother should leave them,
vanish from their eyes?

Irene pushed to the window a small table, on which were painting
materials; she took her place at the table, and with fixed
attention in her eyes began to outline a cluster of beautiful
flowers. They were chrysanthemums, and seemed to be opening their
snowy and fiery petals to mystic kisses. Deep silence reigned in
the mansion, and only after a certain time had passed did the
sound of glasses and porcelain come from a remote apartment, and
at the door of the study a servant appeared, announcing that
lunch was served. Irene raised her head from her work:

"Tell Panna Caroline and Miss Mary that mamma and I will not come
to the table."

She added a command to bring two cups of bouillon and some rusks.
A while later she stood with a cup in her hand at her mother's
door.

"May I come in?"

She held her ear to the door; there was no answer. Her lids
blinked anxiously; she repeated the question, adding:

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