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 h.e.l.l.

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; G.o.d 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, G.o.d's winds rush outside the wall and roar; but, inside, it is honest, and quiet, and safe."

CHAPTER X

What Maryan had told Kranitski about Darvid was true. The man was engaged in real orgies of labor. His a.s.sistants and a.s.sociates 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 mult.i.tudes 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 surpa.s.sed 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 amus.e.m.e.nt; 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 gra.s.s 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 c.r.a.pe 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 ba.s.s, 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 c.r.a.pe. 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 c.r.a.pe; the black dress of men mixed with glittering white; hands folded sadly on knees, or crossed on b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 a.s.sembly, from which he was separated by half the chamber, and felt that he was divided from those people by a s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce which the eye could not take in, a s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce, with notes clear and resonant. Invisible movements of air pa.s.sed along the c.r.a.pes, 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 pa.s.sing 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 p.r.o.nounced 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: