The Argonauts
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Eliza Orzeszko (AKA Orzeszkowa) >> The Argonauts
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Darvid seemed to hear this speech out, only mechanically; and
when Maryan, with a short and somewhat sharp laugh, pronounced
the last words and was silent, the following words broke from him
more quickly than words had ever left his mouth before:
"Not true. You are greatly mistaken. I think and act differently
from what you say. I have not had time to meditate over the
theory of principles; but all my life has rested on one of
them--on labor. Skilled and iron labor was my principle, and it
has made me what I am--"
"Pardon me for interrupting," exclaimed Maryan. "I beg you
earnestly, but permit one question: What was the object of your
labor? What was the object? That will settle everything; for a
principle can be found only in the object, not in the labor,
which is only the means of obtaining an end. What was your
object, my father? Of course, it was not the salvation of the
world, but the satisfaction of your own desires--your own--not
any put on you beforehand, and accepted obediently; but your own
individual desires. The object of them was great wealth--a high
position. Through labor you strive to acquire these, and I do not
see here any principle except that which I myself
possess--namely: it is necessary to know how to will. In the very
essence of things we agree; only I, with the sincerest homage,
have recognized in you a master. Frequently have I thought with
what perfect logic, with what unbending will, you have freed
yourself from the labels which other men, even wise ones for the
period, have never ceased from pasting on their persons. If in
your career you had knocked against painted pots, labelled:
birthplace, fatherland, humanity, charity, etc., you would have
gone at considerably less speed, and not gone so far. But you
were astonishingly logical. With amazing strength and
unsparingness you have known how to will. It is from this point
precisely that I looked, and I was filled with real admiration.
During your absence, of more than three years, I called you
frequently, in thought, a superhuman. Friederich Nietsche
imagined such men as you when--"
He stopped here, raising a glance full of astonishment at his
father's face. Darvid, very pale, with quivering temples, stood
up, leaned firmly on the table, and said:
"Enough!"
Unable to conceal the violent emotion which he felt, under an
ironical tone and laugh, he continued:
"Enough of this mockery of reasoning and argument, and of all
this empty twaddle. If it was your intention to pass an
examination before me, I give you five with plus. You have fluent
speech, and quite a rich vocabulary of words. But I have no time
for those things and proceed to facts and figures. The life which
you are leading is impossible, and you must change. You must
begin another life."
He put emphasis on the word must. Maryan looked at his father
with an amazement which seemed to take away his speech.
"You have not ended your twenty-third year yet, and the history
of your romances has acquired broad notoriety in the world a
number of times--"
Maryan recovered from his amazement slowly.
"Affairs so completely personal--" began he with a hesitating
voice.
Darvid, paying no attention to the interruption, continued:
"The sum which you lost in betting at the last races was, even
for my fortune, considerable--thirty thousand."
Maryan had now almost recovered his balance.
"If this shrift is indispensable I will correct the
figures--thirty-six thousand."
"The suppers which you give to friends, male and female, have the
fame of Lucullus feasts."
Maryan, with sparks of hidden irritation in his eyes, laughed.
"An exaggeration! Our poor Borel has no idea of Lucullus, but
that he plunders us, unmercifully, is true."
"He knows how to will!" threw in Darvid.
Maryan raised his eyes to him, and said:
"He is making a fortune."
This time, in his turn, astonishment was depicted on the face of
Darvid, indignant to that degree that a slight flush appeared on
cheeks generally pale.
"Folly!" hissed he, and immediately restrained himself.
"You are incurring enormous debts; on what security?"
Maryan, at least apparently, had regained perfect confidence in
himself. With eyes slightly blinking he seemed to look at a
picture on the wall.
"That is the affair of my creditors," said he. "They must have
this in view, that I am your son."
"But if I should wish not to pay your debts?"
Maryan smiled with incredulity.
"I doubt that. Such a smash-up, as refusal to pay my debts, would
injure you also, my father. Besides, the sums are not fabulous."
"How much?"
"I cannot tell the exact figure, but approximately they are--"
He mentioned figures. Darvid repeated them indifferently.
"About a quarter of a million. Very good. I shall be far from
ruin this time, but in future--I make no reproaches; for to do so
would be to lose time. What has dropped into the past is lost.
But the future must be different."
On the word must he laid emphasis again. With a quick movement he
put his glasses on his nose, and taking a cigarette from a
beautiful box, he put the end of it at the flame of one of the
candles burning on the desk. He seemed perfectly calm; but behind
his eyeglasses steel sparks flew, and the cigarette did not
ignite, held by fingers which trembled somewhat. Turning from the
desk to the table, he said:
"I will pay your debts at once; and the pension which, three
years ago, I appointed to you--that is six thousand yearly--I
leave at your disposal. But you will leave the city two weeks
from now, and go to--"
He named a place very remote, situated in the heart of the
Empire.
"In that place is an iron mill, and also glass-works; in these
two establishments I am one of the chief shareholders. You will
take the office designated by the director, who is a shareholder,
and a friend of mine; under his guidance and indications you will
begin a life of labor."
In Maryan's eyes again appeared amazement without limit; but on
his lips quivered a smile somewhat incredulous, somewhat jeering.
"What is this to be?" asked he. "Penance for sins? Punishment?"
"No," answered Darvid; "only a school. Not a school for
reasoning, for you have too much of that already; but for
character. You must learn three things: economy, modesty, and
labor."
Quenching in the ash-pan the fifth or sixth cigarette, Maryan
inquired:
"But if--perchance--I should not agree to enter that school?"
Darvid answered immediately:
"In that case you will remain here, but without means of
independent existence. You will be free to live under my roof,
and appear at the parental table; but you will not receive a
personal income of any kind. At the same time, I will publish in
the newspapers that I shall not pay your debts hereafter. What I
have said, I will do. Take your choice."
That he would do what he had said any man who saw him then might
feel certain.
The bloom on Maryan's cheeks took on a brick color; his eyes
filled with steel sparks.
"The system of taking fortresses through famine," said he, in an
undertone; and, then with head inclined somewhat, and eyes fixed
on the carpet, he said:
"I am astonished. I thought, father, that in spite of my seeing
you rarely, I knew you well; now I find that I did not know you
at all. I admired in you that power of thought which was able to
strike from you the bonds of every prejudice; now, I have
convinced myself that your ideas are not only patriarchal, but
despotic. This is a deception which pains. I wonder myself, even,
that this affects me so powerfully; but in falling from heights
one must always hurt, even the point of the nose. This is one
lesson more not to climb heights. I have in me a cursed
imagination which leads me astray. One more mirage has vanished;
one more painted pot has lost its colors. What is to be done?"
He said this in a low voice, biting his lower lip at times; he
was pained in reality, and deeply. After a while he continued:
"What is to be done? I must be resigned to the disappointment
which has met me; but as to disposing of my person so absolutely,
I protest. Had it been your intention, my father, to make a
mill-hand of me, you should have begun that work earlier. My
individuality is now developed, and cannot be pounded in through
the gate of a given cemetery. To rear me as a great lord and
permit--even demand--during a rather long period that I should
use all the good things of society, and be distinguished most
brilliantly for your sake, and then thrust into a school of
economy, modesty, and labor is--pardon me if I call the thing by
its name--illogical and devoid of sequence. I might even add,
that it lacks justice; but I do not wish to defend myself with
arguments taken from painted pots. One thing is certain--namely
this: that I shall not be the victim of patriarchal despotism."
He rose, took his hat from the carpet, and calmly, elegantly, but
with a brick-colored flush on his cheeks, and a blue, swollen
vein on his forehead, he added:
"I know not what I shall do. It may happen me to be the creator
of my own destiny. I know how to be this; and I shall decide more
readily to be a workman at my own will than at the will of
another. I shall surely leave this place. Expatriation has come
to my mind more than once, but not in the direction in which you
have seen fit to indicate. Besides, I do not know yet, for this
has fallen suddenly. I shall look into myself; I shall look
around me. Meanwhile, I must go; for I have promised one of my
friends to be at a certain collector's place at a given hour, to
examine a very curious picture. It is an original; an authentic
Overbeck. A rare thing; a real find--I take farewell of you, my
father."
He made a low bow and went out. Exquisite elegance did not desert
him for an instant; still, in the expression of his face, and
especially his excited complexion, and his voice, too,
indignation and distress were evident in a degree which bordered
on suffering.
The door of the antechamber opened and closed. Darvid was as if
petrified. What was this? What had happened? Was it possible that
this should be the end of the conversation, and that such a
conversation should end in Overbeck, and a perfectly elegant bow?
Wonderful man! Yes, for that was no petulant child, with childish
requests, evasions, outbursts; but a premature man, almost an old
man. A reasoner; a pessimist; a sceptic. A genial head! What
elegance! What command of self. A princely exterior. Marvellous
man! What could he do with him? If he had asked for forgiveness;
had promised, in part, even to accommodate himself to his
father's wishes; even to change his life a little. But this iron
persistence and unshaken confidence in himself, joined with
perfect politeness, and with reason which would not yield a step!
What was to be done with him? Fortresses are taken sometimes
through famine; but, suppose it is resolved on everything except
yielding. Well, he would try; he would keep his word; he would
see.
A servant at the door announced:
"The horses are ready."
He was invited to dine at the house of one of the greatest
dignitaries in the city. He would have given much to remain that
day in quiet. But he had to go. In his position--with his
business--to offend such a personage might involve results that
would be very disagreeable. Besides, he would meet someone there
whose good will also was necessary. He did not wish to go; but he
would do violence to himself and go. Is not that the firm and
strict observance of principle? What had that milksop said? That
he did not recognize principles, and would not observe them? Who
could treat himself more sternly and mercilessly than he? How
many of the most beautiful flowers of life had he east aside; how
many sleepless nights had he passed, and borne even physical toil
for the principle of untiring labor--merciless iron labor!
In a dress-coat, his bosom covered with the finest of linen, and
with glittering diamond buttons, with ruddy side-whiskers, a pale
and lean face, unbending, irreproachable in dress, and correct in
posture, he stood in the middle of his study, and was drawing on
his light gloves very slowly. Taking his hat he thought that he
felt a decided sourness and a bitterness in his person, which
would make the most famous dishes, on the table of the dignitary,
ill-tasting. What was to be done? He had to go. Principle beyond
all things else!
When he was descending the stairway, in his fur-coat and hat, he
heard the rustle of silk garments on the first landing, and a
rather loud conversation in English. He recognized the voices of
his elder daughter and Baron Emil; but he saw Malvina first; she
was in front of the young couple. With elegant politeness he
pushed up to the wall so that his wife might have more room, and
raising his hat, with the most agreeable smile which his lips
could give, he asked:
"The ladies are coming from visits, of course?"
There were witnesses of the meeting. Malvina, wrapped in a fur,
the white edges of which appeared from under deep black velvet,
answered, also with a smile:
"Yes, we have made some visits."
But Irene, who was standing some steps lower, caught up the
conversation with a vivacity unusual for her.
"We are coming just now from the shops, where we met the baron."
"What are your plans for the evening?" inquired Darvid again.
"We shall remain at home,'" answered Malvina.
"How is that?--but the party at Prince and Princess Zeno's!"
"We had no intention--" said Malvina, in an attempt at
self-defence; but she saw the look of her husband, and the voice
broke in her throat.
"You and your daughter will go to that party," said he, with a
low whisper, which hissed from his lips. And immediately he added
aloud, with a smile: "Ladies, I advise you to be at that party."
Malvina became almost as white as the fur which encircled her
neck, and at that moment Irene asked:
"Will you be there, father?"
"I will run in for a while. As usual, I have no time."
"What a pity," said Baron Emil, "that I cannot offer you a part
of mine as a gift. In this regard I am a regular Dives."
"And I a beggar! For this reason I must take farewell of you."
He raised his hat and had begun to descend when he heard Irene's
voice behind him, calling:
"My father!"
She told her mother and the baron that she wished to exchange a
few words with her father, and ran down the steps. The splendid
entrance was empty and brightly lighted with lamps; but the
liveried Swiss, at sight of the master of the house, stood with
his hand on the latch of the glass door. At the foot of the
stairs a tall young lady, in a black cloak lined with fur, very
formal and very pale, began to speak French:
"Pardon me, that in a place so unfitting, I must tell you that
the ball, of which you have spoken to Cara, cannot take place
this winter."
Darvid, greatly astonished, inquired:
"Why?"
Irene's blue eyes glittered under the fantastic rim of her hat,
as she answered:
"Because the very thought of that ball has disturbed mamma
greatly."
After a moment of silence Darvid asked, slowly:
"Has your mother conceived a distaste for amusements?"
"Yes, father, and I need not enlighten you as to the cause of
this feeling. There are people who cannot amuse themselves in
certain positions."
"In certain positions? In what position is your mother?"
He made this inquiry in a voice betraying a fear which he could
not conceal. This thought was sounding in his head: "Can she know
it?" But Irene said, in a voice almost husky:
"You and I both know her position well, father--but as to this
ball--"
"This ball," interrupted Darvid, "is necessary to me for various
reasons, and will take place in our house after a few weeks."
"Oh, my father," said Irene, with a nervous, dry laugh, "je vous
adresse ma sommation respectueuse, that it should not take place!
Mamma and I are greatly opposed to it; therefore, I have
permitted myself to detain you for a moment, and say--" The smile
disappeared entirely from her lips when she finished; "and say to
you that this ball will not take place."
"What does this mean?" began Darvid; but suddenly he restrained
himself.
The Swiss stood at the door; at the top of the stairs was another
servant. So, raising his hat to his daughter, he finished the
conversation in a language understandable to the servants:
"Pardon me; I have no time. I shall be late. We will finish this
conversation another time."
When the carriage, whining on the snow, rolled along the crowded
streets of the city, in the light of the streetlamps which fell
on it, appeared Darvid's face, with an expression of terror. That
pallid, thin face, with ruddy whiskers, and a collar of silvery
fur, was visible for a moment with eyes widely open, with raised
brows, with the words hanging on his lips: "She knows
everything!--ghastly!" and after a while it sank again into the
darkness which filled the carriage.
CHAPTER VI
For the first time surely in that city, separated from England by
lands and seas, a certain number of people, very limited, it is
true, might admire small, bachelor's apartments, fitted up with
tapestry, sculpture, and stained-glass, from the London factory
of Morris, Faulkner, Marshall & Co. The drawing-room was not
large, but there was in it absolutely nothing which had its
origin elsewhere than in that factory founded by a famous poet
and member of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The famous poet and
artist, William Morris, had become a manufacturer for the purpose
of correcting aesthetic taste in the multitude, and filling
people's dwellings with works of pure beauty. The objects in this
apartment were really beautiful. The tapestry on the walls
represented a series of pictures taken from romances of
knighthood, and from marvellous legends: Tristan and Isolde, on
the deck of a ship; Flor and Blancheflor, in a garden of roses;
the monk Alberich, in a Dominican habit, descending into hell.
The tapestry on the furniture was full of winged heads and
fantastic flowers; on all sides were seen great art in weaving
and masterly borders, which recalled the margins of old
prayer-books. Dulled and dingy colors, producing the impression
of things which had emerged from the mist of ages, and only glass
window-screens, framed in columns and pointed arches, were
brilliant with the colors of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. The
window-panes were stained with roses and with the figures of
saints having pale profiles and wearing bright robes. On one of
the tables was a bronze pulpit in the form of a Gothic chapel; in
another place was a lamp-support, which represented the Triumph
of Death; Death was a woman with the wings of a bat; she was in a
flowing robe; she had curved talons on her feet, and a scythe in
her hand. This was a sculptured copy of Orcagna, from the Campo
Santo of Pisa. In the middle of the dining-room, which was seen
beyond an open door, stood a table, in the style of the
eighteenth century. Altogether simple was this table, and like
those under which, instead of carpets, men (of that century) used
to put a layer of hay. The side table (fourteenth century), with
painted carvings; a box (fourteenth century, a copy from the
Museum of Cluny), with fantastic beasts carved on its cover, and
with small figures on the front side, on very narrow niches,
figures representing the twelve peers of France; another box,
which was in the bedroom, was like this one, but the carving
which covered it represented the anointing of Louis XI at Rheims
(Museum of Orleans). It stood at the feet of Brother Alberich,
who, in his white habit, was entering the black jaws of hell; it
took the place of a sofa, there being no sofa in the room. Both
these boxes of wood and iron, immensely artistic, though merely
copies of authentic relics, served as places in which to keep
objects of art, and served as seats also. Besides these, there
were only a few stools, with arms carved in trefoil shape
(fourteenth and fifteenth century), and still fewer armchairs,
immensely deep and wide--so-called cathedras--covered with most
wonderful stuffs; but everything was there which was needed, if
the dwelling was to preserve a purely Middle Age character as to
style. In the air, slightly colored by the brightly
stained-glass, hovered something archaic and exotic--hoary
antiquity reigned--and a critical spirit with the odor of
mysticism might be felt floating around there. But all this
seemed quite comprehensible and natural to anyone who knew Baron
Emil, the owner of that dwelling--a trained and exacting
aesthete--moreover, the baron was of that school called
Mediaeval; and as a Mediaevalist he professed homage for Middle
Ages romances and legends; for subtle works of art and for
inspirations touching a world beyond the present which resulted
from them.
Three years before Maryan Darvid, in company with, or more
strictly under the protection of Kranitski, entered for the first
time this dwelling, which had been recently furnished. The baron
had brought home, from one of the Mediterranean islands, the
mortal remains of his mother, who had died just before; he had
received from her a great inheritance, and to put his interests
in order he had settled in his native city for a period.
Kranitski, long a friend in the house of his father and mother,
had known him from childhood, and exhibited on greeting him an
outburst of tenderness. This amused the baron, but pleased him
also a little. "He is a trifle odd, good, poor devil--on the
whole: gentle, perfectly presentable, and active." Kranitski was
very active. He went to the boundary to take out of the
custom-house everything which had come to the baron's address
from England; and then helped him in the arrangement of the
dwelling, which was attended with considerable labor.
Upholsterers and other assistants lost their heads at sight of
those knights, ladies, monks, peers of France, and the Triumph of
Death, which came out of the boxes. Kranitski was astonished at
nothing, for he had read much, and knew many things also, but he
could not be very enthusiastic in this case. When the
installation was accomplished, with his active and skilful
assistance, he thought: "The place is funereal, and there is
little comfort here." He looked askance somewhat at the boxes
with the peers of France and Louis XI. on them. The covers of
these boxes, rough with carving, did not seem to him the most
agreeable places to sit on. He said nothing, however, for he was
ashamed to confess that he did not understand or did not favor
that which was the flower of the newest exotic fashion. He
visited the baron and spent many hours in his dwelling, and soon
he took there a second man--a young friend of his. When Maryan
Darvid found himself for the first time in the company and at the
house of a Mediaevalist, he was confused, like a man who is
standing in the presence of something immensely above him. Almost
ten years older, the baron surpassed Maryan immeasurably in all
branches of knowledge, both of books and life; and his little
dwelling was a marvel of originality and outlay. Maryan felt poor
both in body and spirit. Though a yearly allowance of six
thousand received from his father had not been enough up to that
time, it seemed to him then a chip, only fit to be kicked away.
As to the mental side, he was simply ashamed that he could still
find any pleasant thing in that world which surrounded him, and
in the life which he was leading. Commonness, cheapness,
vulgarity! The meaning of these words he understood clearly after
he had been in the baron's society. Even earlier he had begun to
feel the need of something loftier; something beyond those
pleasures of the senses--of fancy and of vanity--which he had
experienced, though these were considerable. The substance and
nature of these pleasures lay on the surface--they were
accessible to a considerable number of people. The baron, in the
manner usual with him, speaking somewhat through his nose and
teeth, said:
"We, the experienced and disenchanted, seek for new shivers, just
as alchemists of the Middle Ages sought for gold. We are in
search of the rare and of the novel."
In search of the rare and the novel in shivers, or universal
impressions: sensuous, mental, and aesthetic, Maryan went once
with the baron, and a second time alone, on a journey through
Europe. He visited many countries and capitals. To investigate
the Salvation Army, he joined its ranks for a period in England.
In Germany he was connected with the almost legendary,
politico-religious sect which bears the name Fahrende Leute; and,
again, for some time, in an immense wagon drawn by gigantic
Mechlenburgers, he wandered through the mountainous Hartz forest
and along the banks of the picturesque Saal; he spent most time
in Paris, where, with the theosophists he summoned up spirits,
and with the decadents, otherwise known as incoherents, and still
otherwise as the accursed poets; in the club of hashish-eaters he
had dreams and visions brought on by using narcotics. Besides, he
saw many other rare and peculiar things; but he was ever hampered
by slender financial means and the need of incurring great debts;
and was irritated by the impossibility of finding anything which
could satisfy him permanently, or, at least, for a long period.
He felt satisfactions, but brief ones. Everything of which he had
dreamed seemed less after he had attained it--more common, weaker
than in his imagining. The brightness was dimmed; on the glitter
there were defects; the warm inspirations which came from afar,
grew stiff when they were touched, stiffened, as oil does when
floating on water. In the taste of things, sweetness and tartness
became insipid and nauseous, the moment they reached his palate.
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