Now, on the bench of the garden, Kranitski raised his face from his palms and looked at the exchange. The porch with its broad steps was empty, but Darvid's carriage was there yet, showing a spot of gleaming sapphire in the sunny air, the horses stood in trained fixedness, like statues cast from bronze. Kranitski's lips were awry with distaste.
With a bitterness to which his mild nature came rarely, he whispered:
"Labor! iron labor!"
With lips full of gall, not thinking now of straightening his shoulders or giving his steps an appearance of elasticity, he dragged along from street to street, halting sometimes for a moment before the gates of the grandest houses. Each one of these reminded him of something, of some brilliant or happy moment, of some fragment of the past. This one he had entered while going to one of the smaller or greater "stars of his existence;" out of that one he had gone when taking the ailing Count Alfred to Italy; through this one he had hurried daily to do some kindness for Prince Zeno; that one brought to him the memory of a certain ball, so brilliant that it bordered upon fairy-land. Now all these gates and those mansions are for him like that hall which guests have deserted, in which the lights are extinguished, and through which a man finds his way with a night-lamp—remembering, as he passes, a spot where had gleamed the naked shoulders of a beauty; or another, where the faces of joyous comrades had smiled at him; a third, where had risen the odor of flowers, or the odor of roast pheasants.
At last, late in the afternoon, Mother Clemens heard a ring in the antechamber, and ran along the floor in her clattering old overshoes, hastening to answer the door-bell. On her broad shoulders was a barred kerchief, in her hand was a needle with a thick thread, and above her eyes, now growing dim, a second pair of eyes, which were glass, in spectacles raised to the woman's wrinkled forehead.
"Hm!" commenced she immediately, "I thought that thou hadst fastened for the day in some pleasant company; but, Arabian adventure! thou hast returned before evening. This is well, for guests have been here, and they will come again shortly."
"Guests?" inquired Kranitski, and his face cleared somewhat, but briefly, because Clemens snorted.
"Yes, one of them was very important. Be pleased with the honor! Berek Shyldman! He said that next week, as God is God, he would sell thy furniture."
Seeing, however, that Kranitski, after he had removed his coat, dragged his feet through the little drawing-room, and that red wrinkles came out above his brows, she grew mild and spoke in better humor:
"But thou mayst take delight in two other guests who came. Great dandies, and of thy company, though young enough to be thy sons."
"Who were they? who? who? Speak, mother!"
"How can I remember those Arabian names? But they left cards—wait, I'll bring them this minute—I put them in the kitchen."
She turned toward the kitchen, but right behind her, stepping almost on her heels went Kranitski, delighted and impatient, he almost snatched from her hand two visiting cards, on which he read the names: Maryan Darvid and Baron Emil Blauendorf.
"Ah!" cried he, "those dear children! The baron has returned then! And his first thought after returning was of me! What a heart! I go; I run!"
And, indeed, he ran to the door of the antechamber, radiant, rejuvenated, but Mother Clemens stood in his way, squaring out her shoulders in the checkered kerchief.
"Whither art thou going? What for? Is it to meet them on the steps, or at the gate? They said that they would come again in an hour. To each other they said that they would go to see the Nazarene—"
"What Nazarene?" asked Kranitski, with astonishment. "WhatNazarene?"
"But how should I know what Nazarene? It may be an image of the Lord Jesus of Nazareth. They only said that they would go to look at it, and come back here."
"Come back," repeated Kranitski, "that is well. We shall have a talk—it is so long since I have had a talk with anyone—and I shall see Maryan, the dear, dear boy!"
Kranitski rubbed his hands; he walked with springy step, and erect shoulders, through the little drawing-room, but not even delight could round his cheeks, which had dropped during recent days somewhat; neither could it freshen the yellow tint on them. Mother Clemens halted in the middle of the room and followed him with her two pair of eyes.
"See, my lords! He is as if born again, as if called back to life!"
He stopped confused before her.
"Knowest what? Let mother run for a pate de foie gras, and a bottle of liqueur."
Mother Clemens dropped back to the wall.
"Jesus of Nazareth! Hast thou gone mad, Tulek? BerekShyldman—thy furniture—"
"What do I care for Berek Shyldman! What do I care for furniture!" cried Kranitski, "when those noble hearts remember me—"
"Hearts have no stomachs; there is no need of stuffing something into them the first minute."
"What does mother know? Mother is an honest woman, but her level is earth to earth—she only thinks of this cursed money!"
"But is pate de foie gras holy? Arabian adventure!"
Both voices were raised somewhat. Kranitski threw himself on the sofa, pressed his right side with his palm, groaned.
Then Clemens turned her face toward him; she had grown mild and seemed frightened.
"Well, has pain caught thee?"
It was clear that he was suffering. An old affliction of the liver, and something of the heart in addition. Mother Clemens approached the sofa in her clattering overshoes.
"Well, do not excite thyself. What is to be done? How much money will that Arabian pate cost?"
"And the liqueur!" put in Kranitski.
When he had grown calm he explained that the baron was fond of liqueur, and that Maryan was wild for pate and black coffee.
"Let mother prepare black coffee—thou knowest how to do it perfectly."
"What more!" snorted she. "Perhaps it would be well to take the panes from the windows, and throw the stove down?"
Kranitski spread out his arms.
"Why speak of the window-panes and the stove? What meaning can the stove and the glass have? There is no comparison between black coffee and window-panes, or the stove. Mother irritates me."
Again his face changed and he groaned; the old woman surrendered, but the question of money remained. Kranitski took a bill out of his pocketbook, held it between two fingers, and thought. This is too small. That kind of liqueur which the baron drinks is very expensive. Vexation was evident on his face. Clemens spoke up:
"Well, stop thinking, for if thou hast not a rouble thou wilt not think out one in a hundred years. Be calm. Only write all on a card for me; I will go and buy what is needed."
Kranitski struggled on the sofa.
"With what money wilt thou buy it, mother?"
But she was already in the doorway of the neighboring room, and gave no answer.
"Is it with thy own?" cried Kranitski, "surely with thy own! I know that mother is spending her capital this good while—"
She came back with the checkered kerchief over her head, without spectacles, and ready for the errand.
"Well, what if I do spend it? Hast thou not Lipovka? Thou hast, and what I lend thou wilt return. Oi, oi! I stand with one foot in the grave, and should I fight about a rouble when thou art in need of it?"
Kranitski raised his hands and his eyes:
"What a heart!" whispered he; "what attachment! No one can equal the old servants of our ancient families!"
After a few minutes steps were heard in the antechamber of people coming in, and the fresh voice of a man cried:
"May one see the master of this place?"
Kranitski ran to the antechamber.
"Of course, my dears! You make me happy, altogether happy!"
And indeed he had the face of a man made happy, and also tilled with emotion; for, taking his place in one of the armchairs opposite Maryan, who sat in another, he listened to the baron's narrative, which gave details of his recent expedition. Baron Emil was uncommonly vivacious, but at the same time he feigned to be more nervous and excited than usual.
He did not sit down for one instant.
"Merci, merci" said he to the master of the house who indicated a chair to him; "I am in such a condition, that really, I cannot sit in one place. Something within me is toiling, and crying, and biting. I am full of trembling of hopes, and of anger—" A brick-colored rosy blush appeared on his yellow cheeks; as usual, he spoke through his nose and through his teeth, but more quickly than common. While walking through the drawing-room he said, that in smaller and greater country residences which he had visited he had found a few remnants of former wealth, specimens of art, and of ornamental industry, which were of considerable, and sometimes even of high, value. A multitude of these rich things had been acquired by the English, who had circled about through the country more than once in pursuit of them; but much remained yet, and the only need was to inquire, seek, examine, and it was possible to find real treasures, even, often most unexpectedly. He halted before Maryan.
"I say this because who, for example, could hope or expect to find in possession of a schoolmaster, a teacher of geography, an absolute Arcadian, a picture by Steinle hung behind a door, smoked befouled by flies—an undoubted, a genuine Steinle—Edward Steinle—"
"But is it undoubted?" interrupted Maryan; "once more I turn thy attention to certain traits which seem to speak in favor of Kupelweiser."
"What, Kupelweiser!" cried the baron, walking still more quickly through the drawing-room. "No Kupelweiser, my dear; not a shadow of a Kupelweiser. Kupelweiser, though the teacher of Steinle was considerably inferior to him in drawing—that firmness and elegance of outline, that harmony of composition, that piety, that genuine compunction which is dominant in the faces of the saints—that is Steinle, the purest Steinle, undoubted Steinle, whose collection of cartoons in Frankfort—"
"Was Steinle, for I do not recollect, pre-Raphaelite?" put inKranitski timidly, somewhat ashamed of his ignorance.
"Yes, if you like," answered the baron, "we may reckon among the pre-Raphaelites the German school of Nazarenes. But this school is distinct."
"Then surely you examined this Steinle to-day, my dears, before you came to me?"
"Yes, we heard of it by chance; we went to examine it, and imagine, we found this pearl in the possession of an Arcadian who has neither a conception, nor the shadow of a conception of the Nazarenes, or who Steinle—"
"But perhaps we should pardon him," laughed Maryan, "for the Germans themselves know almost nothing of Steinle, who fell into disfavor among his successors."
"On the contrary!" exclaimed the baron, "I beg pardon, my dear, real judges always value him highly, and he is greatly sought for by museums. His cartoons when placed at the side of Overbeck's Triumph of Religion in Art lose nothing; on the contrary, that compunction distinguishes his figures."
"But thou canst not compare him with Overbeck!" said Maryan, with indignation.
"I can, I can! I make him equal to Overbeck; and I consider him superior to Fuhrich and Veit—"
"I will give thee Veit, but as to Overbeck, that marvellous melancholy which fills the eyes of his women—"
"It is earthly, earthly, rather than that perfect expression from beyond which is dominant in Steinle's figures. In this regard Steinle is the only man whom we may compare with Fra Angelico—"
"I would rather compare him with Lippo-Mani."
"Perhaps," said the baron, half agreeing, "as Fuhrich, whenever I look at him, reminds me of Buffalmaco."
"And me, of Piero di Cosimo."
"No, no," objected the baron, "Piero di Cosimo in coloring is different from Fuhrich and Buffalmaco."
"I can compare Buffalmaco, to-day, with Rossetti alone."
In this manner they conversed some time longer of the Italian painters of the epoch preceding Raphael, and of their modern followers. At times disputing slightly; at times growing enthusiastic in company, till they agreed in one opinion; namely, that the greatest master of painting, whom it was impossible to compare with anyone among contemporaries, was Dante Gabriel Rossetti, an Englishman, but that the school of German Nazarenes, to which Overbeck, Steinle, Fuhrich, and others belonged, was, in spite of certain inequalities and weaknesses, altogether pure Quatrocento.
"Yes, Quatrocento," finished the baron; "who knows even if they are not purer, more perfect Quatrocento than Rossetti and Morris."
Kranitski listened, spoke rarely, while something within him began to weep. He, too, loved art, but how far was he now from its loftiest caprices. How much would he give if those dear boys there, those noble hearts, would speak of something else to him, of something nearer. After a time he remarked with a smile to which he brought himself with effort:
"Then you have the first parts of that golden fleece which you are to bear beyond the sea?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the baron, "the golden fleece! splendidly said! In truth, we shear the sheep, or, if you like, the shepherds, for you cannot imagine what a rheumatism of thought in this matter prevails throughout the country. No man knows the value of what he has; no man knows what he possesses. There is no conception of art; no aesthetic knowledge. In my journey I felt as if wandering through ancient Scythia. All are related to me, or are old neighbors of my parents; they greeted me with open arms. Kisses with saliva, and chops cooked in buckwheat-grits! Their rooms are filled with progeny, who look as though they might grow up without trousers. The parents we may almost call, now, the shirtless. From this cause comes a genuine fury of turning all things to money. My proposition brought to their eyes tears of gratitude. They saw in me a saviour. Had I wished, I might have won the glory of a patriot bringing salvation to his countrymen. But glory is a painted pot. I am not a man to be covered with labels. I buy cheap to sell dear, that is my game. And, though I told them this, they kissed me. I filled their mouths, which were suffering from that hunger which goes before harvest. They opened old cupboards before me, also storehouses; one man even opened a chapel in which I found church-cloths of incomparable antiquity. I suspect that one of these is of Flemish make, and reaches back to Robert the Pious, just such a one did I see in the museum at Cluny. Finally, a number of images; some girdles and brocades; some old weapons, which would befit John of Dresden very well; this is my booty. Here we have discovered one Overbeck and one Steinle; but Maryan, during my absence, found, somewhere, Saxon porcelain, of incredible age, in perfect preservation. But this is only the beginning. There will be a whole harvest of these things, a whole harvest!"
"A golden fleece!" whispered Kranitski.
He grew more and more gloomy, and felt in his right side a pain which was well-nigh unendurable. The tone in which the baron gave account of his journey in regions about his birthplace, roused almost instinctive disgust in Kranitski. He looked at Maryan. Was he the same also? After a while he asked:
"Has the American project crystallized thoroughly? Is it settled?Are you going to America surely?"
"It has crystallized this far," answered Maryan, "that I start no later than to-morrow. Emil will remain here some weeks yet. I, to become acquainted with the people and the country, leave here to-morrow."
Kranitski straightened himself and sat there dumb for a time, with fixed look, then he repeated:
"To-morrow?"
"Absolutely," confirmed Maryan; and, when the baron sat down after long walking, he rose, and began in turn to walk through the drawing-room, declaring that he had come to-day purposely to take farewell of Kranitski.
"I could not go without taking farewell of my good, old man," said he.
It may be that he would not have gone so soon had not certain details made his life impossible. One of these details was, that the week before his father had withdrawn the allowance paid up to that time. A certain period had ended just a week earlier, and, through commands from above, the treasury had withheld payment.
In speaking of this Maryan grew red in the face; the vein in his forehead swelled like a blue cord; his eyes glittered brightly. He was wounded to his innermost heart by the last conversation which he had had with his father. It was brief, but decisive; he had told it to Kranitski. From the narrative it was possible to divine that Darvid had shown at first an inclination to milden the demands on his son, but afterward despotic habits and practical views had won the victory. He demanded that in one of the factories belonging to him, Maryan should begin a course of self-restraint, obedience, and labor.
"Our two individualities," said Maryan, "came into collision, and sprang back in a state of complete inviolability—not the least dint was made on Mm or on me. Our wills remained unbroken. He, of course, is a man with a mighty will. It seemed at first that the death of that poor little Cara crushed him, but he straightened quickly, and now again he is going through genuine orgies of his iron labor. I admire that integrity of will in him, and I confess that it is a power of the highest quality; but I have no thought of abdicating my own personality because my father, with all his undoubted endowments, has a head badly ventilated. It may be that one of my great-grandfathers said, that if one child gave itself as food to worms, another should give itself to be crushed by its father's chariot. But I am not my own great-grandfather, and I know that every yielding of one's self to be tormented by Pavel to amuse Gavel is a painted pot."
"It is a darned sock!" added the baron.
Another reason why Maryan had to leave the city without delay was the impression produced on him by the death of that poor little girl. But he did not admit that so many atavistic instincts were at work in him. He was a man of the new style, but he experienced now the spiritual condition of his great-grandfather, which affected him so that, like Maeterlinck's Hjalmar, he wished to throw handfuls of earth at night-owls. The death of that little one, and all that was happening and going on in the house, had made his soul pale from weakness. He understood now Maeterlinck's expression, to sink to the very eyelids in sorrow. When that Intruder, who is ever mowing grass beneath life's windows, came for that little girl, Maryan had the question in mind continually: "Why do the lamps go out?" Now, like Hjalmar in "Princess Malenia," he feels every moment like exclaiming: Someone is weeping here near us! He had moments in which such nervous impotence attacked him that he did not feel capable of stirring a finger, or moving an eyelid. Accompanying this condition was a perfect understanding that all sentimental family-tenderness is a painted pot. It is known, of course, that in the world a multitude of maidens are always dying; that each life is a gate before which grave-diggers are waiting; and that this does not furnish the slightest reason why those, under whose window the Intruder has not begun to mow grass yet, should have pale and sickly souls.
He must flee from expiring lamps, and night-owls; from nervous impotence and spleen of spirit; he must rush out for new contacts and horizons; for new spaces, where there are fresh worlds which are free from the fifty defilements of past centuries.
He concluded and took a seat. Kranitski had tears in his eyes, and after a rather long silence, he added:
"Thou art going away I see!"
And then, with hesitating voice, he inquired:
"Thou hast said: 'that which is happening and going on in the house.' What is going on there?"
To this the baron answered, with growing blushes:
"How? Do you not know that Pani Darvid and Panna Irene set out in a few days—for a retreat?"
"To Krynichna," said Maryan, completing the information. "Father has made Irene the owner of Krynichna, and they are going there."
Kranitski grew very pale, and only after great red spots had appeared above his eyes did he look at the baron, and begin:
"Then—"
"Then," added the baron, quickly, "everything is ended between Panna Irene and me. I am glad, for how could my bite and her idyl agree? That would have been like the odor of ether on a sunny day in Maeterlinck's hot-houses. Naturally, I represent the ether, and Panna Irene the sunny day."
The smile with which he said this grew ever more jeering and malicious.
"But I know not how they will succeed in the retreat. In spite of her idyl Panna Irene has much in her, very much of the cry of life, of that beautiful impulse toward—what Ruysbrook called love in action, toward ecstatic impressions, and with such a disposition, as far as my skill extends in this matter, it is difficult to halt at the mere spectacle of sparrows making love outside one's window—"
"A truce to malicious phrases, Emil," interrupted Maryan. "Thou art not threatened with the fate of Werther because my sister has broken with thee—"
"Of course not!" laughed the baron.
And Maryan added quickly:
"And thou shouldst even offer up to her that painted pot, called gratitude, because she has not closed to thee the road to some daughter of a multi-millionnaire Yankee. America possesses men of 'iron toil,' whose daughters are far richer than the daughters—alas! than the only daughter of my father."
"Perhaps! perhaps!" agreed the baron; "the daughters of the richest American fathers pay very high prices for European titles. In this way, or another, or both together, I may make a colossal fortune. Yes, wealth is a door before which the heralds of life have their station—I am not a man pasted over with labels. I confess that this perspective entices me; what I possess now is merely a little crumb for my hunger of life. I shall leave here greedy for new sensations and new profits—eager for love in action and for gain."
After a moment's silence Kranitski whispered:
"They are going!"
"They are going: Then glancing along the faces of the two young men, he added:
"You are going!"
"Yes," said the baron, "and therefore we make a certain proposition. Perhaps you would take upon yourself to be one of our agents."
He presented in detail a plan of the enterprise—to carry out this there would be agents disposed through the whole country to discover and purchase.
"We need aesthetic persons, a company of developed men, and it is difficult, very difficult to find them. In this country sterility reigns throughout the whole region of gray matter in the brain—it is sterility in the great gray substance—if you wish—"
Kranitski was silent. It was not long since he had desired this position, perhaps, and something which might attach him to people and to life. But now—during this discourse with his two friends—an increasing disgust had seized hold of him. The sarcasm of the baron about shirtless parents who kissed him with lips suffering from hunger before harvest pierced his heart cruelly. In his mind hovered the words "departure, death!" and before his imagination rose the vision of a flock of birds flying in every direction.
To buy cheap to sell dear! That was vile! At the same time he felt that the pains in his side and his heart had grown keener, and a feeling of faintness possessed him. After a moment's thought, he said:
"No, my dear friends; it seems that I shall not be able to serve you. I am sick—I am growing old—besides, my dears, I must tell you openly—"
He hesitated, and took from the table his gold case, which he had opened before the guests. He meditated a moment, and then said:
"Your undertaking has sides which wound my sense of propriety somewhat. This business will always be buying in a temple, even in temples, I might say, for art is sacred, and so is the fatherland. You are both too clever to require explanation on this point. The loneliness in which I shall be when you are gone frightens and pains me—pains me immensely, but I am forced to say that I shall not be with you in this matter; no, decidedly, I shall not be of your company."
By nature Kranitski was averse to disputes, and for various reasons unused to them, hence he had begun to speak with hesitation and dislike; but afterward he rested his shoulder against the arm of the sofa, and with head somewhat raised, twirling the cigarette-case in his hand, he had the look of a great lord, especially if compared with the baron, who always seemed somewhat like a mosquito preparing to bite. And this time he began with a sneering smile:
"You are always painted in the color of romantic poetry of sacred memory. While you were speaking I seemed to be listening to 'a postillion, playing under the windows of incurable patients,' and—"
But Mary an rose from his armchair, and broke in:
"As for me, I respect individuality; and since that of our beloved Pan Arthur is developed in his way, we have no right to insist on attacking him with ridicule. To be ridiculous proves nothing. 'Thou art ridiculous,' is no argument. I may be ridiculous in the eyes of another man, though right in my own. But a truce to discussion; I remind thee, Emil, of our porcelain—"
"Yes, yes!" replied the baron, and he rose also. "We must take farewell of our beloved friend here—"
At that moment, through the open door of the sleeping-room, entered Mother Clemens with a great tray. Since she had gratified her favorite she wished to do it in the best manner possible. On her head was a cap as white as snow; the clattering overshoes were no longer on her feet; and a checkered kerchief was arranged neatly, even with elegance, across her bosom. On the tray were small glasses, a bottle of liqueur, a pate de foie gras, and three cups from which rose the excellent odor of coffee. All this she placed on a table before the sofa, and left the little drawing-room with gloomy eye, but firm foot.
Kranitski sprang up from the sofa.
"My dearest friends, I beg you—take a glass of liqueur, that which thou lovest, baron—Maryan, a little of the pate de foie gras—"
But they touched their watches simultaneously.
"No, no!" began the baron, refusing, "we have only three minutes left."
"We lunched at Borel's, who, as my father says, gives us Lucullus feasts."
Kranitski did not cease to urge them. Certain habits or instincts of a noble brightened his eyes, and shaped his arms in gestures of entreaty. But they resisted. In five minutes they must be in that apparently wretched antiquarian shop, where Maryan had discovered the amazing porcelain. The baron, giving his hand to Kranitski in parting, said:
"We shall see each other again. You will visit me. I do not leavefor a number of weeks—I doubt if this porcelain comes fromMeissen as Maryan insists. In what year was the factory inMeissen?"
"In 1709," answered Maryan, and to Kranitski he said:
"Adieu, my good friend, adieu; be well, and write to me sometimes. Thou wilt find the address with Emil."
He turned to the door; Kranitski held him by the hand, however, and looked into his face with eyes which were mist-covered.
"Then it has come to this; for long years! It may be forever!"
"Well, well! See, thou art growing tender," began Maryan, but he stopped, and over his rosy face passed something like a shade of feeling.
"Well, my old man, embrace me!"
And when Kranitski had held him long in his arms, he said:
"La! La! leave regrets! Some ancient poet has told us that man is a shadow that is dreaming of shadows. We have been dreaming, my good friend-.The only cure is to jest at every thing, come what may!"
With these words, Maryan went to the anteroom and put on his overcoat; meanwhile, the baron said:
"That cannot have come from Meissen, nor be of the year 1709.That is much more recent. It comes from the Ilmenau factory—"
"How so? Say rather that it comes from Prankenthal?"
The baron, looking around from behind his cane, remarked:
"It is too smooth and shining for such an old date."
Maryan answered, with his hand on the lock:
"It is polished with agate."
And he went out. But the baron, after crossing the threshold, began:
"And as to the ruddy-brownish biscuit—"
The door closed; the voices ceased. Kranitski stood some time in the antechamber, then he turned toward the little drawing-room, and whispered:
"'Polished with agate'—'Biscuit,' and those are their last words!"
Some minutes later, in a Turkish dressing-gown with patched lining and mended sleeves, Kranitski lay on his long chair, opposite his collection of pipes, and, in deep thought, twirled his golden cigarette-case. In vain did Mother Clemens urge him to eat a little of that Arabian pate and drink a glass of liqueur; he tried, but could swallow nothing. Sorrow had closed his throat; he was sunk in reminiscences. He felt with perfect tangibleness that breath of cold air which was blowing around him. In this manner did Time blow on the man—Time, that merciless jester, who had always circled about playing various pranks on him; but Kranitski had never looked into the face of that jester, with attention. Occasionally, sorrow and grief had come to him in company with the trickster, but they were transient, not of the kind which go into the depth of the heart, but such as slip along over the surface. He grew gloomy; was sorry for having lost someone, or having missed something, and passed on with springy, lightly swaying gait, with his long continued youth, humming some fashionable ditty; or, with tender smile on his lips, living easily and joyously in endless pursuit of agreeable trifles. But, now, he has the first look at Time, face to face and near by. The current has borne away; the abyss has swallowed; people, houses, relations, feelings, and nothing comes back from them but one word in a ceaseless murmur: "Gone! gone! gone!" That which is ended to-day calls to the man's mind all things that have been. That past is to him something in the form of a mighty grave, or rather a catacomb, composed of a host of graves, through the openings of which are visible the absent; not only those snatched away by death, but also those gone through separation, removal, oblivion. Dead were faces once dear; faded were moments once precious; portions of life had dropped into dust; and Time, standing before the catacomb, his cheeks swollen in jeering, puffs his cold breath of the grave on that man who is calling up the past.
Kranitski wrapped himself closely in his dressing-gown; hung his head so low that the bald spot, whitening on his crown, became visible; his lower lip dropped; red furrows came out above his black brow. Mother Clemens stood in the kitchen doorway.
"Wilt thou eat dinner now?" inquired she.
He made no answer. She withdrew, but returned in half an hour bringing a cup of black coffee.
"Drink," said she, "perhaps thou wilt grow cheerful, and I will tell the news from Lipovka."
She pushed a small table to the long chair, sat down with hands on her knees, and with immense attention in the expression of her quick and shining eyes, fell to repeating the substance of a letter just received from her godson, the tenant of Lipovka. He wrote that he had repaired the dwelling; that he was living himself in a building outside; that he had put the place in order most neatly, as if for the arrival of the owner. The furniture was the same as in the time of the former master; though old, it was sound yet, and beautiful, because repaired and cleaned. The garden was larger than of old, for many fruit-trees had been added. The bees, brought in recently, were thriving. It was quiet there; calm, green in summer; white in winter; not as in that cursed city of throngs and shouting—
She laughed.
"And there is no Berek Shyldman there."
Then she added:
"Be at rest about debts. Thou wilt sell thy pipes and cupids, and if they do not bring enough, I will give all my own things. All that I have I will give, and I will drag thee out of this hell. Oh, Arabian adventure! If this lasts longer, thou wilt lose the last of thy health; thou wilt go deeper in debt, and die in a hospital. Tulek, dost thou hear what I say? Why not answer?"
And since he made no answer even then, she continued:
"But rememberest thou that Lipovka grove beyond the yard? It is there yet. Stefan has not cut it down; God forbid! And dost thou remember how beautifully the sun sets behind that grove?"
When the sun had gone down in the world it began to grow dark in Kranitski's room. And Mother Clemens continued in the thickening twilight:
"And rememberest thou how quiet the evenings are there? In summer, the nightingales sing; in autumn, the bagpipes play; in winter, God's winds rush outside the wall and roar; but, inside, it is honest, and quiet, and safe."
What Maryan had told Kranitski about Darvid was true. The man was engaged in real orgies of labor. His assistants and associates were bending beneath it, and losing breath; he seemed more untiring than ever: Counsels, meetings, accounts, balances, correspondence, discussions with functionaries of the government, of finance, and of industries, banks, bureaus, exchanges, auctions, etc. And in all this appeared order, sequence, punctuality, logic, lending to the course of these gigantic interests the seeming of a machine with multitudes of wheels moved by a force elemental, invincible. For even those who had known him longest and most intimately, Darvid had become this time a surprise; he had surpassed himself. The number of men was continually increasing who began to look on him as on a rare phenomenon of nature. Whence did the man get such uncommon mental and physical vigor? From mid-day till hours which were far beyond midnight he was unceasingly active. When has he time to sleep and take rest? What is he seeking to reach? What will he reach? This last question brought out before the imagination of men certain summits of financial might, to be reared to such dizzy heights for the first time in the history of the country. A giant of mentality and energy. Some said: He is superhuman.
But in the immense number of men connected with Darvid by a net of most varied relations there were some to whom he seemed a curious enigma, representing a certain inveterate struggle, the motives of which rested on the mysterious bases of his being. That hurling of himself with greater force than at any time hitherto into the whirl of occupations and business; that exertion to the remotest limits of the possible, directed toward one object of thought and energy, seemed to penetrating eyes, not merely a thirst for acquisition and profit, but a desperate conflict with something undiscovered and invisible. At that moment of his life it seemed to some that Darvid was like a man running straight forward and with all his might, because he felt that were he to halt, something awful would seize him. Others said, that he called to mind a man into whose ear some buzzing insect had crept, and who was hiding in a factory filled with uproar which was to drown the unendurable buzzing of the insect.
The truth was, that Darvid was building at that time, and with iron labor, a wall between himself and the giantess whom, for the first time in life, he had seen face to face, and very closely. It was clear enough that he had always known, not merely of her existence, but of this, that there was no power in the world more familiar than that giantess; still, this knowledge of his had been in a comatose condition, something separated altogether from the every-day substance of life, and touching which there had never been any need of thinking. Someone dies—a certain acquaintance; a comrade in amusement; a famous, or unknown power in the world—what do people say? A pity that he is gone! or, no help for it! Well, what influence can the disappearance of that man exercise on a given sphere of human action; on the course of men's relations and interests? Life, like a rushing river, tears all living men forward, and behind them, ever more distant, remains that misty region, which is filled with the vanished and forgotten. Who are they who, at any time, think of that misty region, and look at the face of the giantess who reigns in it? Priests, perhaps, devotees it may be; a few poets at times; or people who sail on a slow and sad stream in life. Darvid had never had time for such thoughts. The stream which bore him on was rushing and roaring, glittering and turbulent.
But the giantess, because of her power, sprang over all golden mountains—and came! He was thinking of this at the moment when Kranitski saw him standing at the wall and squeezing into its snowy drapery, just as a frightened insect might squeeze itself into a cranny. That was a cranny in one more of his golden mountains. In the great city, people had spoken with amazement of the cost, well-nigh fabulous, of that last chamber of the millionnaire's little daughter. He had means to do that and much more. What are those means to him? He had vanquished enormously great things in life, and he had immense power at that moment. But of what use is that power to him, since something has come which he cannot overthrow; something against which he can do nothing, and which has struck him doubly—struck his heart with pain, and his head with anxiety? What virtue is there in power which cannot shield a man from suffering? And even suffering is not important, since man can battle with it; but to shield against annihilation! That, at which he was looking then so nearly, was a sudden and merciless annihilation of life, blooming in all its charm and with great fullness. Something out of the air, something out of space, and from beyond boundaries attainable by human thought, had rushed in and trampled down that life fresh and beautiful. A power invincible—not to be bribed by wealth, persuaded by reason, or vanquished by energy. A mysterious power—the beginning and object of which were unknown, which had flown in on silent wings and swept from the earth everything that it wished to take; and, against this, there were no means of resistance, or rescue. It seemed to him that the gloomy rustle of giant wings was filling that snowy chamber of the dead from edge to edge; and, for the first time in life, he felt things beyond mankind and the senses. His breast, which had breathed with pride; his head, which held one faith, the might of reason, and that which reason can accomplish, were struck now by an incomprehensible secret, which roused in him for the first time a feeling of his own inconceivable insignificance. He felt as small as an earth-worm must feel when on the grass along which it is crawling—the shadow of a vulture falls as it sweeps through the azure sky—and as the worm hides in the crack of a stone, so he sank into the snowy folds of crape and muslin which veiled the walls of that chamber. He felt as weak as if he were not a man of strong will and splendid labor, but a little child which is unable to push aside with its tiny fingers the terror which is standing out in front of it. With his shoulders and one half of his head sunk in the snowy folds, with his glance fixed on the sleeping face of Cara, which was visible among the white flowers, he said to her, mentally: "I can do nothing, nothing for thee, little one! I can do much, almost anything; but for thee I can do nothing!" Slender, grayish bits of smoke passed above her sleeping face, and, impelled by invisible movements of air, stretched in waving threads from her to him. Just at that moment he saw Kranitski come from an inner apartment of the house and kneel at the steps strewn with flowers. He looked; he recognized the man, and felt none of those emotions which his name alone had roused in him previously. What were human anger, hatred, disagreement in presence of that immense something into whose face he was gazing at that moment? What could Kranitski, hitherto hateful to Darvid, be to him now, when he said to himself: "I know not; I understand not; it is impossible to comprehend this; and still it is real; since I—I can do nothing for thee, my little daughter."
But this was not the only discovery which he was to make on that occasion. He knew not how many hours he had passed in that chamber, but he saw the dawn, which drew a blue lining beyond the snowy folds which covered the windows, and then he saw the sun which flooded it with molten gold; he heard clocks striking a number of times in a chamber; one of these clocks was bass, and announced the hours slowly somewhere behind him, while another before him answered in a thinner and more hurried voice, till, all at once, beyond the closed doors, in one of the drawing-rooms, music was heard. Darvid knew what the meaning of that was: another golden mountain which he had reared for the "little one."
Much gold had been poured out in bringing those voices, the chorus of which raised a hymn of prayer and sorrow above his dead daughter. But previously the door was opened, and the white chamber was half filled with the highest of the most brilliant society in that city, showing signs of profound respect and sympathy. Prince Zeno escorted Malvina Darvid, who was all in tears and black crape. Maryan brought in the princess. Irene entered, leaning on the arm of a young prince, celebrated for beauty; next came stars of these three powers: birth, money, and reputation. They were not many, since summits are always few in number; slight sounds were heard of bringing, giving, and moving chairs; there were whispers and the rustle of silk garments.
Black silks, laces, and crape; the black dress of men mixed with glittering white; hands folded sadly on knees, or crossed on breasts, with seriousness; faces sunk in thought—solemn stillness. Meanwhile, out of silence in the adjoining chamber, to the accompaniment of instrumental music, rose a grand funeral hymn, given by a chorus of the most famous artists in the city. The solemnity of the mourning, with its character of high life and unusualness, roused admiration for the man who had given such magnificent homage to his departed daughter. From out the mountain of gold gushed a fountain of enchanting music, on which that child sailed away beyond the boundaries of earthly existence.
Darvid did not greet those who entered; and, for the first time in life, perhaps, failed to meet the demands of society; they also, respecting a frame of mind which they divined in him, troubled the man in no way. He remained resting against the wall, and, from a distance, resembled a silhouette outlined on it darkly, as on a background. He looked on the brilliant assembly, from which he was separated by half the chamber, and felt that he was divided from those people by a space as great as if they were at one end of the world and he at the other end. Those shadows there whose names he knew, but who were nothing to him, and he nothing to them. They might exist, or not; that was all one to Darvid. Why had they come? Why were they there? Never mind, he knew only this, that they did not exist for him, as he did not for them. He was struck by the feeling of an immense vacuum, which divided him from men. This vacuum was something like a space which the eye could not take in, a space with two edges, on one of which he was found, and they on the other. They were by themselves, he was by himself.
The singing of the chorus rose in power, in thunders, then became like nightingale voices heard in space, with notes clear and resonant. Invisible movements of air passed along the crapes, and the immense number of tapers, causing the flames on them to quiver.
Darvid had not paid attention to music; he had never had time to learn and to love it; but he felt that those tones were passing into his vitals, moving the secret strata of his being, and bringing them into movements unknown to him till that moment. He looked at Cara's face, rising up among the white blossoms, and he thought, or rather felt that, while those others seemed removed by boundless space, she alone was very near to him. "Mine!" he whispered. She alone. He did not know precisely how that could happen, but mentally he placed that little head with golden hair upon his shoulders, and said to it:
"Let us flee, little one! Thou didst ask me once what those people were to me. Now I will tell thee that they are nothing. I do not need them; they are strangers to me; with me they have no relations whatever; thou alone art needful to me; thou alone, such a sunray as I once saw on a journey and forgot, bright and warm. Thou alone art mine! Let us go; let us flee together from all and from everyone, for everything and all people are nothing to you and me; they are strange, and distant."
Here he remembered that never and nowhere would he be able to go with her, or to flee with her. He was joint possessor of a number of railroads; he had the power to employ for himself alone a number of trains passing over those roads; in the East, on a gigantic river, his own vessels were sailing, in clouds of steam; in one capital and another, and in this great city, swarms of people inhabited his houses—still he could not take that sleeping girl by land or by water, to any city, or to any house. To his eyes, which were raised toward her, a biting moisture began to come, and gathered into drops, a number of which flowed down his cheeks, and were shaken in every direction by quiverings of the skin.
But at that moment appeared on his lips the smile, which, as people said, was bristling with pin-points.
"What is this? Is it exaltation?"
He discovered exaltation in himself. A few days before, nay, down to that very night, he would have laughed at the supposition that in him it could darken judgment and clear vision. He thought, however, that a man is at times to himself the most marvellous of all surprises. Under various influences forces spring up in him, the presence of which he is farthest from suspecting. Darvid discovered, now in himself, the thing most unexpected: exaltation. The habit of a life-time; that which he had always considered as an unshaken conviction, rose now with loud laughter at itself. Will he begin now as a poet to write a threnody over his dead daughter, or like a monk yield himself to thoughts about death? Misery! Earlier, that word had occurred more than once to him, but only now does it career through his head freely. Still, he will not let exaltation master him. He must stand erect and look at things soberly.
He straightened himself; removed his shoulders from the wall; calmed his face and glance; by strength of will brought a greeting smile to his lips; and moved toward his guests. The moment the hymn stopped he gave his hand to those present, in very polite welcome, and thanked them with a few, but pleasant phrases. This was the beginning of one of those herculean struggles, the like of which he had fought many times in the past. This, in its farther course, had an orgie of labor, which he continued for a number of weeks, and which roused admiration, or curiosity, in every on-looker.
One day, between his return from the city and the hour of reception, he was standing in the blue drawing-room at the window, thinking: What that peculiar movement was which on returning from the city he noted while walking up the stairway. Porters were bearing out articles of some sort, which he did not examine, but which seemed to him pictures, and other things also. Was Maryan leaving the house? Perhaps. It was impossible to foresee what that self-sufficient and stubborn youth was capable of doing. But whatever happened he would not yield, and he would permit no longer that vain method of life, with its mad excesses, excesses which are costly. But in those recent hours everything, not excepting Maryan, had concerned him considerably less than before. Why was this? He did not answer that question, for he heard a noise of steps, and a whisper:
"Aloysius!"
He looked around. It was Malvina greatly changed. Beneath her hair, dressed with stern simplicity, her forehead was furrowed with a dark, deep wrinkle; the corners of her pale mouth were drooping; on the back of her head a heavy roll of hair, coiled carelessly, dropped to her dress of black material, which was almost like the robe of a religious. She stood in the descending darkness, some steps from him. She had pronounced his name, but was unable to go further. Her white hand, resting on a small table, trembled; her head was inclined, and she raised to him eyes which were dim but had a painfully timid and anxious expression. They looked at each other for a moment, and then he inquired:
"In what can I serve?"
The question was polite and formal. After a moment of hesitation, or of collecting her strength, she began:
"Irene and I are to leave here in a few days. It is impossible for me to do this without speaking to thee, Aloysius. I have waited for a convenient moment, and seeing thee here, I have come."
She was silent again. She breathed quickly, and was excited. Standing toward her in profile, the definite and sharp outline of his face was fixed on the background of the window, beyond which was darkness; he inquired:
"What is the question?"
She answered in a whisper:
"Be patient—this is hard for me—"
And as if fearing to exhaust that patience for which she was begging, the woman began hurriedly, and therefore without order, to say:
"A common misfortune has struck us—thou hast been, Aloysius, so kind, so immensely loving to our poor Cara—when I go from here with, thou wilt be so much alone—Maryan has some project of travel—so perhaps—if it were possible—if thou couldst forget the past—I do not know even—forgive—if thou shouldst wish, I and Irene would remain—"
While speaking she gained some courage; some internal motive was to be felt in her, which forced her to speak.
"I will not try to justify myself before thee, Aloysius, nor to deny that I am guilty—I will say only this, that I, too, was unhappy, and that my fault has caused me dreadful suffering. I wished to say to thee, Aloysius, that, perhaps, even on thy part also, for thou didst not know me—that is, thou didst know my face, my eyes, my hair, the sound of my voice, and they pleased thee, hence thou didst make me thy wife, but thou didst not know my soul, and didst not wish to be its confidant, or its defender. This soul was not devoid of good desires; not without some small beginning of heartfelt happiness—though it was the unfortunate soul of a woman attacked by wealth and idleness. But thou, Aloysius, didst make a rich woman of a girl who, though poor and a toiler, held her head high—thou didst make her a rich and unoccupied woman, who—was left to herself at all times. Still, it was thy wish and demand that I should represent thy name in society with the utmost effect; thy name; thy firm, as thou didst call it."
She was silent, for her eyes met his smile which was bristling with pin-points.
"It seems to me," said he, "that in this tragic piece which it pleases thee to play, the role of villain will fall to me."
"Oh, no!" cried she, clasping her hands. "Oh, no! I did not wish to complain of thee in any way, or to make reproaches—I have not the right—but—I think that since all of us in this world are guilty in some way, and life is so sad, and all is so—poor, it would perhaps be better to forgive each other—to yield, to renounce. This is what I think, and though my pride is wounded this long time because all that I must use is thine, I yield, and I will use it, though my only wish is to go from here, to withdraw from the world, to vanish forever in some lonely corner—"
Her voice quivered, shaken by sobbing, but she restrained herself and finished:
"I will renounce this desire, and remain, if—only thou wish—if only thou wilt not despise me—"
With his profile outlined more and more sharply on the window-pane, which grew darker from the gloom, he answered, after a moment of silence:
"I have not the strength for it. I am very sorry; but in me is not stuff to make the hero of a Christian romance. Thou hast perfect freedom of movement; Krynichna belongs to thy daughter. Thou mayst vanish with her in that 'lonely corner,' in which I cannot wish pleasant lives to you, or remain and live here as hitherto, which I could understand better; but in no case—"
He stopped suddenly, and was silent.
While speaking with that woman he had felt beneath his throat a coil of snakes stifling him, but in his brain certain memories were sounding, as it were voices, the echo of something distant. This echo issued from that woman's features, changed and faded, though the same in which on a time he had fixed his eyes with rapture, from the sound of her voice, which, at all times, had possessed for him a charm beyond description. His head, as if pressed by something above him and invisible, dropped with an almost indiscernible movement. Shall he forgive? And what would the result be? An idyl? Harmony? A return to family happiness? Folly!
That can never be. Only one thing in this world is undoubted and indestructible: a fact. A fact has taken place, and there is no power in existence to cause that fact not to be. All views except this are exaltation! After a moment of silence he finished coldly and with deliberation:
"In no case can my feelings, or our relations be subject to change."
She rested her hand against the table more firmly, and bent her head lower—through that head were still wandering certain thoughts of a return to pure womanly honor through expiation, through yielding obediently to the will of the offended.
Then she began in a very low voice:
"Can I aid thee in any way?"
After a moment of silence he answered:
"No."
"Can I be of use to thee in anything?"
He was silent a little longer, and said:
"No," a second time.
The profile which had been turned to her was looking now through the window-pane to a ruddy cloud, which was moving on in darkness above the roof opposite, that cloud reminded him of something. She looked at him, and, after a moment, added:
"Our daughter will write to thee, Aloysius."
He interrupted her, hurriedly:
"Thy daughter!"
She began in astonishment:
"Irene—"
He knew now that that ruddy cloud moving over the darkening sky reminded him of Cara. He turned his face toward the face of the woman standing there.
"Irene is thy daughter," said he—"for what meaning have blood-bonds when there are no others? I had a child who was my own—"
At that moment desire for revenge boiled up in him; the desire to crush, so he finished:
"And I lost her—through thee!"
"Through me?"
Her questioning cry was full of amazement.
"Thou knowest of nothing then? They have hidden it from thee? A proper regard for the delicate nerves of a woman! But my rude nerves of a man feel the need of sharing this knowledge with thy nerves."
Slowly and emphatically he uttered his words; words which, from moment to moment, were hissed through his pallid lips, and thus he concluded:
"Once thy daughter had an interesting conversation with me; a very interesting conversation about—everything which took place in our family idyl. The little girl, hidden behind some furniture, heard the conversation, and became mentally disordered—oh! temporarily, of course, and this would have passed, but under its influence she exposed herself to the cold night air so as to die. Inflammation of the lungs was complicated by mental disorder. Her death—was suicide."
The last words went out of his straitened throat in a suppressed whisper, still they were so definite as to be heard in every part of the great chamber. They were deadened, however, by the overpowering shriek of the woman and the noise made as her body fell to the floor. Pani Darvid's knees bent under her, and dropping, with her face in her hands, her head struck the corner of the table near which she had been standing. At that moment Irene shot into the chamber; like a skylark, flying forward to defend its little ones, she ran to her mother, and surrounding her bent form with both arms, she raised to her father a face covered with a flood of tears.
"A needless cruelty, father," cried she. "Ah, how I hid this from her; how I tried to hide it! This is a needless cruelty! I thought that a man as wise as thou would do nothing so uncalled for. But thou hast committed a vileness!"
Darvid made an abrupt movement, but restrained himself, and with his face toward the window he heard the retreating footsteps of the two women. There was a second of time during which he turned his head, and his lips moved as if some word, a name was to escape from him. At that moment the two women, holding to each other, moved slowly through the next drawing-room, advanced in the increasing darkness, and vanished. He uttered no word. What was his feeling when she shrieked and struck her head against the edge of the table? Was it pity? Perhaps. Was it a quiver of sorrow for that past which had left him forever, and for that daughter who went out with the word "vileness" hanging on her lips? Perhaps. But he said nothing; he uttered no name. He remained alone. It was silent around him and empty. Emptiness occupied that part of space beyond the window, for the rosy cloud which had passed there a while before had vanished. The figure of Darvid standing at the window became darker in that gloom, which, growing denser, dimmed and then concealed the white, the blue, and the gilding of the great drawing-room. By degrees the lines of his face became invisible; his trembling hands and the quiver of the skin on his cheeks were no longer to be distinguished, and Darvid appeared on the gray background of the window as a narrow and perfectly black line. He did not go away, for he was riveted there, fixed in thought, filled with amazement. In this way, in this manner then, all things on earth are ended. Those invisible giants, Death, Insanity, Anguish, Rage, go about the world trampling, crushing, rending, and no man has power to arrest them! He had never thought about those giants. How could he? Was he a philosopher? He had not had time to think. Now he was thinking, and at the bottom of his stony meditation he beholds a pale, dreadful visage. Something which recalls a Medusa-head, which he had seen some time in a picture. It has struggled out of raging waves, and is resting on them face upward; its hair is torn; its gaze has endless depth; and on its blue lips is a jeering smile. What is it jeering at? Perhaps at the grandeur of the man who appears as a narrow line on the gray background of that window, black, and alone as he is, in the gathering gloom and the silence?
Now something soft and timid touches his feet, and he sees a little dark point moving. He stoops and calls:
"Puffie!"
At the floor was heard thin barking. Puffie had always barked that way to call the attention of his mistress.
Darvid bent low with his hand on the silky coat, and repeated:
"Puffie!"
Then he straightened himself, and, leaving the window, called several times in succession:
"Puffie! Puffie!"
The black line moved on, in the gray darkness, through two drawing-rooms, and behind it, on the floor, rolled the dark small ball-like object, till a space of bright light gleamed before them. This was the widely open door of his clearly lighted study.
In the door the footman pronounced loudly a name, at the sound of which Darvid's step quickened. At last the man had returned—the envoy, the agent, the hound had come hack! Beyond doubt he brings favoring news, otherwise he would have no cause to come. Hence, that colossal business; that immense arena of toil and struggle, through which an enormous vein of gold runs, may belong to Darvid. How timely this is! The business will freshen him; snatch him out of the evil dreams into which he has fallen for some time past. Indeed, all these exaltations, all these elements of feeling, which have risen in him with such power, are an unwholesome and nervous dream, out of which he must shake himself and return to clear, sober, sound reality.
A rather long series of days had passed when Darvid entered his clear, brightly lighted study, after winning one of the very greatest triumphs of his life. In the antechamber he had thrown into the hands of a footman, not his fur, but a somewhat light overcoat; for that day, which for him had been lucky, was succeeded by a warm, spring evening. Whoever might have seen him when he was leaving the lofty threshold of the highest dignitary in that city must have said to himself: "Happy man!" Though he had grown evidently thin during recent days; gladness and pride were beaming from his smile; from his eyes; from his serene forehead. He possessed now that for which he had striven long in vain: he held in his hand the colossal enterprise; before him was a broad arena for iron toil and a great vein, of gold. It is true, that while making ready for that moment of triumph, he had spent days and nights like a Benedictine over piles of books and documents, calculating, combining, covering many folios of paper with arguments and figures. He had toiled immensely, thinking of nothing save the toil; and now, when he stood at his object as a conqueror, all people said: he is happy! He had received a multitude of congratulations already; in the eyes of men he had read much admiration. He had just returned from a meeting where, by accurate and fluent speech, he had convinced and won over a numerous assembly of men of uncommon keenness and significance. Thus had he passed the day; now, in the middle of the evening, he returned to his house; and when he had given the servant in attendance the brief command: "Receive no one!" he asked:
"Where is the little dog?"
After that he dropped into a deep armchair near the round table, and had the face, for a while, of a man who is waking from sleep. For a number of days he had been so buried in thought over this weighty enterprise, and that day from early morning he had been so absorbed by the feeling of that victory which he had won, that he had had no time to think of any other thing; now, after a long time, in the first moment of inactivity which had fallen to him, he felt as if waking from sleep, and he was brought to thinking by the question:
"Well? What is it for?"
Just this question was to him at that moment reality, while every other thing was accomplished by the power of habit. He had toiled, calculated, triumphed, just as a round body rolls over an inclined plane by the force of acquired motion. Under this surface-life, which had been the one which he had led so long exclusively, was now another one which seized a continually increasing area; this new life, a mystery to every other man, had become for him more tangible than the entire visible universe. Out of it was growing an irresistible, importunate riddle, enclosed in the brief words: What for?
These two brief words kept returning to his mind during every moment of rest, so that hours of noise and movement seemed to him a dream, and only those two words—unceasingly recurrent—the one true reality over which there was reason to be anxious.
Why had he taken on his head and hands this new burden of toil, which was greater than all the others? Why, in general, this climbing a sky-touching ladder with exertion of all his strength of nerve and brain? To what kind of heaven could he climb upon that ladder? New profits, ever-increasing wealth? But he had ceased to desire these! Although that seemed marvellous to the man himself, he had ceased really. Why? Did he own little? He was the possessor of enormously much. He had never been of those who make a golden chariot so as to sit in it with Bacchantes and with Bacchus. But pride? He laughed. Yes, pride, but that was before he had known, intimately, those giants who sit in various corners of the earth. He knows them now; he knows what they can do; and he knows his own power. Why toil? What for? But his worth; that worth which people esteem so immensely that they almost cast themselves at his feet, or do they cast themselves before his golden chariot? For, if that chariot were to shoot away from under him, would he retain the title of modern Cid, Titan, superhuman? It was wonderful with what clearness he saw then Maryan, sitting in that chair, and how distinctly he heard his voice inquiring: "What is the object of your toil, father? The object; the object? That decides everything. What was the object? Of course, not this world's salvation!" He laughed again. What cause was there for long thought here! His object had been to win new profits continually; to gain ever-increasing wealth; and now, since he had ceased to desire these, the question was—what for? But the genius of that Maryan with his questions! He had gone down so deeply into his father's being that those questions remained there and continued their inquisitorial labor. A beautiful and genial fellow! A young prince; almost a sage. But what does that signify if—he lacks something? What is it that he lacks, and so lacks that he is as if he had nothing? What is it that he lacks?
With a slow movement, in which weariness was evident, Darvid turned his head toward the desk, which was lighted abundantly with tapers burning on lofty candlesticks. What did those candlesticks bring to his mind? Ah, yes, he remembers! On a time he gave one of them, in the inner drawing-room, to Cara, so that the candle burning in it might light the way to her. He remembers how her slender arm bent beneath its weight when her small hand took it, and how beautifully the flame of the candle was reflected in the dark pupils gazing at him with such—with such what? With such exaltation! But how wonderful, how intense was his happiness when that child lived and loved him as she did! That was his only happiness! Then, holding the light in the heavy candlestick straight on before her rosy face, she went on into the darkness.
Again he looked around, not with a wearied movement as before, but abruptly. He looked around at the door beyond which thick darkness was hiding, impenetrably, a series of drawing-rooms. This darkness was like a black wall outside the door. Along Darvid's shoulders ran a movement of the skin, the same as a man feels when something heavy from behind is placed upon his shoulders, or rides onto him. That black wall, in which an enchanted row of empty drawing-rooms stood silent, seemed to put itself down on him. But again he looked toward the desk; there, among a multitude of papers, lay a letter from Maryan, received many days before. Darvid had not destroyed or put away this letter, and not knowing himself the reason why, had left it on the desk there. The letter, in that great study, appeared definitely with its white color on the green of the malachite writing utensils. Moreover, it was not a letter. A number of lines merely. He had written that, wishing to spare his father and himself a new personal interview; he gives notice, in writing, of his trip to America. But as he is slow to write letters he confines himself to a few words. Since an incomprehensible lack of logic in directing his life had forced him to become a laborer, he desired to choose the field and the manner according to his own individuality. He had turned his personal property into money; this had brought him a considerable sum; he had borrowed another sum; he did not ask pardon for acting thus, since this borrowing was the natural outcome of a position of which he was not the cause, but on the contrary the victim. He makes no reproaches, since he is ever of opinion that all such things as offences and services, crimes and virtues, are soup prepared from the bones of great-grandfathers, and served in painted pots to Arcadians. All this was concluded with a compliment which was smooth, rounded, exquisite as to style, plan, and execution.