The Argonauts Part 35

"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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+rtless. From this cause comes a genuine fury of turning all things to money. My proposition brought to their eyes tears of grat.i.tude. 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 gra.s.s 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 mult.i.tude 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 gra.s.s 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 s.p.a.ces, 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 grat.i.tude, 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 t.i.tles. 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!"