The Argonauts | Page 7

chair; his eyes opened widely.
Silence lasted some seconds; between those two men with faces as pale
as linen hung the terror of a discovered secret. Darvid, with a voice so
stifled that it was barely audible, was the first to speak.
"How this letter came into my hands we need not explain! Simply by
chance. Such chances are very common, and they have in them only
this good, that at times they put an end to deceit and--villainy!"
Kranitski, still very pale except that red spots were coming out on his

forehead, looked very old all at once; he advanced some steps and
stood before Darvid, the round table alone was between them. With
stifled voice, but fixing his black, flashing eyes boldly on Darvid's face,
he said:
"Deceit! villainy! those words are said easily! Do you not know that in
early youth your wife was almost my betrothed?"
Darvid's lips were covered with irony, and he said:
"You deserted her at command of your mother, when she sent you to
this capital in search of the golden fleece."
"And when you went to the ends of the earth for it," answered Kranitski,
"you thought proper to place me to guard the woman whom I loved
formerly. You considered yourself invincible, even when separated by
hundreds or thousands of miles from her--"
"Let us stop this ridiculous discussion," said Darvid.
"As for me," put in Kranitski, with animation, "I will finish it by
offering you any satisfaction which you may demand. I await your
seconds."
Darvid laughed loudly and sharply.
"A duel! Do you think that the world would not know the cause of it?
Your former betrothed would appear in the matter. For that I should
care less, though I must care, for she bears my name, but I have
daughters, and I have business--"
He was silent a while, then he finished:
"A scandal might injure my business, and most assuredly would injure
the future of my daughters; therefore I will neither challenge you to a
duel, nor will I direct my servants to thrash you!"
A trembling shook Kranitski from head to foot, as if from the effects of
a blow; he straightened himself, he became manful, and crushing in his

hand the bank check which he had received, hurled that paper bullet
into Darvid's face so directly that it hit him at the top of his bronze
colored whiskers and fell to his feet. Then with elastic movement, and
with a grace which was unconscious and uncommon, he turned toward
the door and strode out. Darvid remained alone. In that spacious, lofty
chamber, richly furnished, in the abundant light of a costly lamp, he
remained alone. Clasping his inclined head with both hands, he
squeezed it with his white, lean fingers, as with pincers. How many
vexations and troubles had met him here after an absence of years!
There was something greater still than even these vexations and
troubles. The coil of serpents rose in his breast and crawled up to his
very throat.
That was torture mixed with a feeling of unendurable disgust. But
Darvid avoided high-sounding phrases, and would never think or say:
torture, disgust. That was a manner of speaking for idlers and poets. He,
a man of iron industry, knew only the words vexation, trouble. What is
he to do now with that woman? Throw her out like a beast which,
bathed in milk and honey by its owner, has bitten him to the blood?
Impossible. His children, especially his daughters, his business, his
position, his house--scandals are harmful in every way. So he must live
on under the same roof with her; meet the sight of her face, her
eyes--those eyes which on a time were for him--yes, it cannot be
otherwise.
He must endure that and master himself; master himself mightily, so as
not to let things reach a scene, or reproaches, or explanation. Naturally,
no scenes, disputes, or explanations. For, first of all, what can they
profit? Nothing save a useless expense of energy, and he needs energy
so much.
Besides, the very best punishment for that woman is unbroken silence,
which will raise between her and him an impenetrable wall. From
words, even though they be as sharp as sword-edges, some sound may
be got, some slight hope of salvation; but silence, concealing hidden
knowledge of a deed, is a coffin in which, from the first hour of each
day to the end of it, that woman's pride will be placed with all that in

her may still be human. Contempt as silent as the grave! She will eat of
his millions, seasoned with his contempt. She will array herself in his
millions, interwoven with his hatred. Hatred? Oh, beyond doubt he
hates her with passion, and only at times