Part 15 (1/2)
Kranitski grew as radiant as if a sun-ray had fallen on his face.
”Very well, my dears, very well, I will go with you; it will distract me, freshen me. A little while only; will you permit?”
”Of course. Willingly. We will wait.” He hurried to his bedroom, and closed the door behind him. In his head whirled pictures and expressions: the theatre, songs, amus.e.m.e.nt, supper, conversation, the bright light--everything, in a word, to which he had grown accustomed, and with which he had lived for many years. The foretaste of delight penetrated through his grievous sorrows.
After the bitter mixture he felt the taste of caramels in his mouth. He ran toward his dressing-table, but in the middle of the room he stood as if fixed to the floor. His eye met a beautiful heliotype, standing on the bureau in the light of the lamp; from the middle of the room, in a motionless posture, Kranitski gazed at the face of the woman, which was enclosed in an ornamented frame.
”Poor, dear soul! n.o.ble creature!” whispered he, and his lips quivered, and on his forehead appeared the red spots. Maryan called from beyond the door:
”Hurry, old man! We shall be late!”
A few minutes afterward Kranitski entered the drawing-room. His shoulders were bent; his lids redder than before.
”I cannot--as I love you, I cannot go with you! I feel ill.”
”Indeed, he must be ill!” cried Maryan. ”See, Emil, how our old man looks! He is changed, is he not?”
”But a moment ago you looked well!” blurted out Emil, and added: ”Do not become wearisome, do not get sick. Sick people are fertilizers on the field of death--and sickness is annoying!”
”Splendidly said!” exclaimed Maryan.
”No, no,” answered Kranitski, ”this is not important, it is an old trouble of the liver. Returned only to-day--you must go without me.”
He straightened himself, smiled, tried to move without constraint, but unconquerable suffering was evident on his features and in the expression of his eyes.
”May we send the doctor?” asked Maryan.
”No, no,” protested Kranitski, and the baron took him by the arm and turned him toward the bedroom. Though Kranitski's shoulders were bent at that moment, his form was shapely and imposing; the baron, holding his arm, seemed small and frail; he made one think of a fly. In the bedroom he said, with a low voice:
”It is reported in the city that papa Darvid is opposed to my plans concerning Panna Irene. Do you know of this?”
For some months the baron had spoken frequently with Kranitski about his plans, taking counsel with him even at times, and begging for indications. Was he not the most intimate friend of that house, and surely an adviser of the family? Kranitski did not think, or even speak, of Baron Emil otherwise than:
”Ce brave garcon has the best heart in the world; he is very highly developed and intelligent; yes, very intelligent; and his mother, that dear, angelic baroness, was one of the most beautiful stars among those which have lighted my life.”
So through the man's innate inclination to an optimistic view of mankind, and his grateful memory of ”one of the most beautiful stars,” he was always very friendly to the baron and favorable to his plan touching Irene; all the more since he noted in her an inclination toward the baron. So, usually, he gave the young man counsel and answers willingly and exhaustively. This time, however, an expression of constraint and of suffering fell on his face.
”I know not, dear baron; indeed, I can do nothing, for to tell--for I--” A number of drops of perspiration came out on his forehead, and he added, with difficulty:
”It seems that Panna Irene--”
”Panna Irene,” interrupted the baron, without noticing Kranitski's emotion, ”is a sonnet from Baudelaire's Les fleurs du mal (The flowers of evil). There is in her something undefined, something contradictory--”
Kranitski made a quick movement.
”My baron--”
”But do you not understand me, dear Pan Arthur? I have no intention of speaking ill of Panna Irene. In my mouth the epithets which I have used are the highest praise. Panna Irene is interesting precisely for this reason, that she is indefinite and complicated. She is a disenchanted woman. She possesses that universal irony which is the stamp of higher natures. Oh, Panna Irene is not a violet unless from the hot-house of Baudelaire!
But, just for that reason she rouses curiosity, irritates, une desabusee--une vierge desabusee. Do you understand? There is in this the odor of mystery--a new quiver. But with natures of this sort nothing can ever be certain--”
”Hers is a n.o.ble nature!” cried Kranitski, with enthusiasm.
”You divide natures into n.o.ble and not n.o.ble,” said the baron, with a smile; ”but I, into annoying and interesting.”