The Argonauts Part 29

"You have come in your mother's name and your own," said he. "Why this solemnity and decision? You wish, of course, to explain the reasons why your mother and you have seen fit to oppose my will."

"No, father," answered she, "but I intend to announce to you mamma's will and mine."

"As to that ball?" asked he, quickly.

"No, the question is immensely more important than the ball."

Both were silent for a moment. If the words exchanged had been less emphatic, and had followed one another less quickly, Darvid and his daughter might, perhaps, have heard, in a corner of the room, behind a wall of books arranged on highly ornamented shelves, a slight rustle which lasted a short time. Something had moved there, and then stopped moving.

"It touches an affair of immensely greater importance than the ball," repeated Irene; "namely, my mother's peace, honor, and conscience."

"What pomposity of expression!" exclaimed Darvid, with a slight smile. "I observe more and more that exaggeration is a disease in my family. I should prefer simple speech from you."

"The question before us is not a simple one, so I use a style fitted to the subject," answered Irene, and she sat down in one of the armchairs, erect, her hands on her knees, motionless, between the wide and heavy arms of the chair.

"The subject of which I have to speak with you, father, is much involved and delicate. Do you not share my opinion, that one may commit what is commonly called an offence and still possess a n.o.ble heart, and suffer greatly? In common opinion this suffering is a just punishment, or penance for the offence committed, but I consider this opinion as a painted pot, for everything in this world is so involved, so vain, and relative."

She spoke with perfect calmness, but at the last words she shrugged her shoulders slightly. Darvid looked at her with dazed eyes.

"How is this?" began he, in a low voice. "You--you--have you come to talk to me--about this? Do you know? Do you understand? And have you come to talk about--this?"

"My father," answered Irene, "to bring our conversation to any result we must first of all push away painted pots from between us."

"What does that mean?" asked Darvid.

"What does it mean? What are painted pots? They are little dabs of wretched clay, but painted in beautiful colors; they are just what naivete, bashfulness, modesty, and darned socks like them would be to-day in my case."

She laughed.

"I have known all that has happened this long time. I was a little girl, in a corner of a room, dressing a doll, when a certain conversation between you and mamma struck my ears, and helped me considerably to understand what took place afterward.

Because of business and difficulties which swallowed your time you were ever absent, father. Oh, I have no thought of criticising you, no thought whatever. Here a question of logic presents itself, simple logic. You were chasing after that which was your happiness, the delight of your life, while mamma--poor mamma stooped to pick up also for herself a little happiness and delight. But your happiness and delight were open, brilliant, triumphant, while mamma's were always full of darkness, poison, and shame."

For the first time in that conversation her voice quivered; and, inclining her face, she brushed away from her dress, with the rosy tips of her fingers, some bit of dust that had dropped on it; then again she gazed with a look clear and calm at her father, who had sat down in front of her.

"To convince you, father," continued she, "that our conversation has a perfectly important and definite meaning I permit myself to open before you the secret, but for me, the visible springs which caused the so-called offence, and present disposition of mamma."

"It would be better to avoid this and proceed to the point directly," said Darvid, throwing his eyegla.s.ses on his nose with a nervous movement.

"No, father, permit me to take a few minutes of time, I beg you.

This is necessary. Every man has in himself a soul, so-called, personal to him, unlike others."

She halted for a moment, shrugged her shoulders:

"For that matter, am I sure of this? The soul may be a painted pot also. But it is the usual name given to our various feelings and inclinations. So pour le commodite de la conversation, I shall use this word." She smiled and continued: "There are various souls, some as hard as steel, others soft as wax, some inaccessible to sentiment, others sentimental. Mamma's soul is soft and sentimental. Tenderness, care, confidence are as needful to her as air is to breathing. Do I know, for that matter, the various ingredients which make up the so-called love, attachment, etc. You, father, have a soul of steel and immensely great business power--we were children--Cara had barely begun to speak then. Well, a moment came--do I know when? I do not know--but--finally that happened which must have happened more than once to you in your very numerous, remote, and prolonged journeys. Do I not speak the truth?"

In the high plates of her dark ruff her face was in a blush, but she smiled a little, and with strangely flas.h.i.+ng eyes looked directly into the face of her father.

"For," added she, "one would need to have mental rheumatism to believe that you loved only mamma all the time, and even that you loved her in general--mamma, of course, did not think that you did."

"Irene!" cried Darvid.

But she did not permit interruption.

"Allow me, I beg you, to say that I am not criticising. I am not in any sense. There is not a shade of criticism in what I say. I only state and expose facts and causes. That is all. This is requisite. Without this it would be impossible to understand mamma's request and mine which I will tell you quickly. And now I return to the question of the individual soul. That is a thing of capital importance. Offences, so-called, rise from so-called mean souls, or from n.o.ble ones. Of the first I know little, but if an offence comes from a n.o.ble soul it is to that soul a great and terrible torment--I have looked at such a torment, and while looking at it I have been brought to name the so-called love, and the so-called happiness, painted pots. Idyls! There may be idyls somewhere, but that which I saw--I a.s.sure you, father, did not encourage--did not encourage me to look at things from the idyllic angle."

Darvid rose with an impulsive movement.

"To the question, Irene, to the question! Say what the request is for which you have come. And from what does your mother suffer so greatly? It would be better were you to tell your wish at once, and without these introductions. Do reproaches of conscience trouble your mother? I have no time for psychological a.n.a.lysis, and should like to finish this conversation more quickly. Well, was it that besides conscience and other things like it--she did not find in her lover the man whom her sentiment imagined? I am ashamed to speak with you of this. Tell quickly what your wish is."

With a trembling hand he approached the end of his cigarette to the candle burning on the desk; his face now grown smaller, was contracted from the wrinkles which covered his forehead, and the countless quivers which pa.s.sed across his face. Irene, very pale now, followed her father with her eyes; her lips were almost blue.

"Yes, father," answered she, "in mamma's soul that which we call conscience is greatly developed. Moreover, a feeling of shame in presence of us, and humiliation that everything which she has comes from you."

At this moment something rustled again, somewhere in a corner, but no one turned attention to it.

Darvid, who pa.s.sed through the room a number of times, hastily, stopped again:

"Speak more quickly," said he, "I cannot understand what it is that your mother wishes. I left her in the position of a respected wife, of a mother, and mistress of a house. She is surrounded with luxury, she s.h.i.+nes in society, and enjoys life."

Irene opened her arms with a movement indicating pity:

"This which you consider as the highest favor for mamma is just what she does not wish. She does not wish to enjoy the respect of society, which she does not deserve, as she thinks; nor to make use of the luxury which comes from you, and which is bound up with speechless contempt. Mamma desires to leave this house; in general, to abandon society-life, with all its luxury and brilliancy. I have known for a considerable time of this, and therefore had the plan of marrying soon and withdrawing from here with mamma."

Darvid put an end to his emotion; his daughter's words approached facts, and facts demanded cool blood.

"If you wish to speak of your intention to marry the baron, I must tell you--"

"You have no need to speak of that, father. I have abandoned that intention. I had it, but I have dropped it. Another plan entirely different has taken its place. You own a village in a remote province which came to you from your parents. I wish to ask you to give me that village, to endow me with it, but immediately. I suppose, I know, even, that it was your intention to give me a dowry ten times as valuable. Now, I am ready to renounce nine-tenths, orally, in writing, in every form and every manner indicated by you, but I beg you, as a favor, I beg you earnestly, for this one-tenth, and beg that I may receive it without delay."

She bent her whole form low, and her eyes, which she raised to her father, were filled with tears; these, however, she restrained immediately. Darvid answered after a moment of silence:

"Though I do not understand this whim of yours, I do not see in it anything impossible, or harmful. On the contrary, I shall be glad to do something which pleases you, and to-morrow, if you like, you shall be the owner of that wretched hole. But of what use can it be to you?"

Irene rose, went around the table, and, bending, pressed her father's hand to her lips; and then she returned to her former place:

"I thank you, father," said she; "you satisfy my most ardent desire. That 'wretched hole,' as you call it, is just the place that mamma desires. We shall go from here, and settle down there as quickly as possible."

"What?" cried Darvid, bending forward with astonishment, but soon he began to speak calmly:

"I come to the conclusion that when talking with my children I should not be astonished at anything. I must be ready for any surprise."

"That is natural, father, for we hardly know each other,"

interrupted Irene. "In reproaches of conscience," continued she, "and various other feelings of that sort, mamma goes to exaggeration, she goes so far as to desire penance, punishment, voluntarily accepted. If time and circ.u.mstances were favorable she would enter a cloister a.s.suredly, and put on a hair s.h.i.+rt.

That is an exaggeration, but what is to be done? Characters are various; hers is of that kind. But the desire which mamma has of withdrawing from the noise and show of the world, I understand perfectly; for, first of all--"

She made a gesture of contempt with her hand.

"All the honors, the glitter, the luxury, etc., are gates 'before which men with spades are standing;' this means that behind them we find dust, emptiness, nothing."