The Argonauts Part 36

"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 s.h.i.+rtless 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 gla.s.ses, 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 gla.s.s 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 n.o.ble 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 leave for a number of weeks--I doubt if this porcelain comes from Meissen as Maryan insists. In what year was the factory in Meissen?"

"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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed on with springy, lightly swaying gait, with his long continued youth, humming some fas.h.i.+onable 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 s.h.i.+ning eyes, fell to repeating the substance of a letter just received from her G.o.dson, 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."