Alexander Grin. The seeker of adventure
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(translated by Barry Scherr)
Origin: "Iskateli priklyuchenij"
Alexander Grin, "The Seeker of Adventure, Selected Stories",
M., Progress, 1978, 484 s.
OCR: Ivi
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...Denn eben wo Begriffe
fehlen,
Da stellt ein Wort zur rechten
Zeit sich ein.
(Faust)
The traveller Ammon Root returned to his native land after an absence
of several years. He stayed with Tonar, an old friend of his, who was the
director of a joint-stock company and a person with a shady past-but also a
fanatic for decorum and probity. On the very day of his arrival Ammon
quarrelled with Tonar over a newspaper editorial, called his friend a minion
of the minister, and stepped outside for a walk.
Ammon Root was one of those people who are more serious than they
appear at first glance. His travels were not mentioned by the newspapers,
nor did they cause a single map to make the slightest change in its
depiction of the continents, but they were still absolutely necessary for
him. "To live means to travel," he would say to those people who were
attached to life just on the side of it that is most warm and steamy, like a
hot pie. Ammon's eyes-two eternally greedy abysses-ransacked heaven and
earth in their search for new spoils; abysses-everything he saw plunged
headlong into them and was packed away once and for all in the fearful crush
at the bottom of his memory, to be kept for his own use. In contrast to
tourists Ammon saw far more than the museums and churches where the viewers,
pretending to be experts, seek ethereal beauty in poorly-executed paintings.
Out of curiosity Ammon Root stopped in at a cafeteria that served
vegetarian food. About a hundred people were sitting in the large rooms,
which smelled of varnish, paint, freshly-dried wall-paper, and some other
particularly abstinent odour. Ammon noticed the absence of any old people.
An extraordinary silence, which was out of keeping with even the concept of
food, inspired the appetite of anyone coming in to be prayerfully delicate
and bodiless, like the very idea of herbivority. The pious but ruddy faces
of the health fanatics cast indifferent glances at Ammon. He sat down. The
dinner, served to him with a ceremonial and somewhat accentuated solemnity,
consisted of a repulsive gruel called "Hercules", fried potatoes, cucumbers,
and some insipid cabbage. Ammon poked around with his fork in this
gastronomical paltriness, ate a piece of bread and a cucumber, and drank a
glass of water; then he snapped open his cigarette case, but he remembered
that smoking was prohibited and looked around gloomily. At the tables mouths
were chewing sedately and delicately in a death-like silence. Ammon was
hungry and sensed opposition welling up within him. He well knew that he
could just as easily have not stopped in here -- nobody had asked him to do
so -- but' it was hard for him to resist his chance whims. Staring at his
plate, Ammon said in a low voice, as though to himself, but clearly enough
so that he could be heard:
"What garbage. I'd love to have some meat now!" At the word "meat" many
people gave a start, and several dropped their forks; all pricked up their
ears and looked at the impudent visitor.
"I'd really like some meat!" Ammon repeated with a sigh.
Somebody coughed emphatically, and another person began to breathe
noisily in the corner.
Ammon grew bored and went out into the foyer. A servant handed him his
coat.
"I'll send you a turkey," said Ammon, "eat to your heart's content."
"Oh, sir!" objected the emaciated old servant, sadly shaking his head.
"If only you were used to our regimen...."
Ammon went out without listening to him. "Now the day's been spoiled,"
he thought, as he walked along the shady side of the street. "That cucumber
has stuck in my throat." He wanted to return home and did so. Tonar was
sitting in the living room at the open piano; he had finished playing his
favourite bravura pieces but was still under the spell of their great
liveliness. Tonar liked everything that was definite, absolute, and clear:
for example, milk and money.
"Admit that the article is stupid!" said Ammon as he entered. "I'd like
to give that minister of yours my boot in the ... but the police inspector
is an efficient fellow."
"We," retorted Tonar without turning around, "we businessmen look at
things differently. Loafers like you, corrupted by travels and a romantic
outlook, admire anyone who plays at being a Harun al-Rashid. To be sure,
instead of harassing the speculators who finagle us on the stock market, it
is much easier to don a false beard, hang around various dens, and booze it
up with petty thieves."
"But if somebody's an interesting person," said Ammon, "then I
appreciate him for that alone. You have to appreciate truly interesting
people. I've known a lot of them. One, a hermaphrodite, was wed to a man and
then, after getting divorced, married a woman. A second, who was once a
priest, invented a machine that sang bass; he grew rich, killed a circus
snake with his teeth on a bet, kept a harem in Cairo, and now is a cheese
merchant. A third is remarkable for being a true phenomenon. He possessed a
startling ability to concentrate the attention of all those around him
exclusively on himself; everyone was silent in his presence, and only he
spoke-a little more intelligence, and he could have done whatever he
pleased. A fourth blinded himself of his own volition, so as not to see
people. A fifth was a sincere, forty-year-old fool; when people asked him
what he was, he answered that he was a fool and laughed. Interestingly, he
was neither a madman nor an idiot, but simply a classical fool. A sixth ...
the sixth ... is myself."
"Yes?" Tonar asked ironically.
"Yes. I'm against false humility. I have seen a lot during the
forty-five years of my life; I have experienced a lot, and I have
participated a lot in others' lives."
"But.... No!" said Tonar after a silence. "I know a truly interesting
person. You bundles of nerves live in want. You always have too little of
everything. I know a person who leads an ideally beautiful normal life, who
is perfectly well-bred and possesses outstanding principles, and who lives
in the healthy atmosphere of farm work and nature. By the way, that is my
ideal. But I am not a person of one piece. You ought to have a look at him,
Ammon. His life is to yours as that of a juicy red apple is to a rotten
banana."
"For God's sake!" exclaimed Ammon. "Show me this monster!"
"As you wish. He's from our circle."
Ammon laughed when he tried to imagine a peaceful and healthy life.
Eccentric, hot-tempered, and brusque-at times he felt vaguely attracted to
such an existence, but only in his imagination; monotony crushed him. There
was so much appetizing mental lip-smacking in Tonar's account that Ammon
became interested.
"If it's not ideal," he said, "I won't go, but if you assure...."
"I guarantee that the most immoderate claims...."
"I've never yet seen such a person," interrupted Ammon. "Please write
me a letter of recommendation by tomorrow. Is it very far?"
"A four-hour ride."
Ammon, who was pacing up and down the room, stopped behind Tonar's
back; carried away by the impressions that were in store, he put his hand on
his friend's bald spot, as though on a lectern, and recited:
My native fields! To your serenity,
To sparkling moonlight shining pensively,
To languid mists meandering through winding vales,
To the naive allure of ancient myths and tales,
To rosy cheeks and eyes with hearty gleam,
I have returned; and now your features seem
Unaltered, while the very soul of grace
Preserves my dream amidst this native place!
"Are you really forty-five years old?" asked Tonar, settling heavily
into his armchair.
"Forty-five." Ammon approached the mirror. "Who is there to pull out my
grey hairs for me? And will I indeed be travelling, travelling, travelling
for a long time yet-perhaps forever?"
Early in the morning Ammon saw the blue and white snow of mountains
from his train window; their jagged thrust stretched in a semicircle around
a hilly plain. A sunny stripe of the sea was shining in the distance.
The white station-building, with wild grape vines entwined about its
walls, cordially came running up to the train. Emitting puffs of exhaust
steam, the engine came to a halt; the cars clanged, and Ammon disembarked.
He saw that Liliana was a truly beautiful place. The streets along
which Ammon drove, in the carriage that he had hired to go to Dogger's, were
not impeccably straight; their gentle winding caused the eye to constantly
expect extensive vistas. Meanwhile Ammon was quite diverted by the
buildings' gradually unfolding diversity. The houses were dotted with little
balconies and stucco moulding, or they displayed semi-circular towers; grey
arches against a white facade and roofs turned up or down, like the brim of
a hat, provided diverse welcomes to the onlooker. All of this had quite an
attractive appearance, immersed as it was in the majestically blooming
gardens, the flower-beds, the sunlight, and the sky. The streets were lined
with palms; their umbreJla-like tops cast blue shadows onto the yellow
midday earth. Now and then in the middle of a square there would be a
fountain, as ancient as a granddad and full of water that rippled from the
falling spray; in places a winding stone staircase rose in a side-street,
and above it, shaped like an eyebrow, would arc a small bridge, as light as
the arm of a girl held akimbo.
III DOGGER'S HOUSE
When he had ridden through the town Ammon caught sight of a garden and
a tiled roof in the distance. The gravel-covered road led along an avenue of
trees to a simple entrance that was in keeping with the entire house, which
was built of light-coloured, unpainted wood. Ammon
walked up to the house. It was a one-storey log building with two
projections on the sides and a terrace. The climbing greenery filled the
facade's piers with flowers and leaves; there were many flowers everywhere --
carnations, tulips, anemones, holly-hocks, asters, and gilly-flowers.
Dogger, who had been standing by a tree, approached Ammon with the
relaxed, effortless steps of a powerful man. He was hatless; his strong
neck, pink from sunburn, was hidden by his curly blond hair. Dogger was as
powerful as a broad-chested statue of Hercules that had come to life, and he
produced an impression of indestructible health. Ammon very much liked the
bold features of his hearty face, his warm grey eyes, and his small beard
and moustache. Dogger's outfit consisted of a canvas shirt and pants, a
leather belt, and high boots of soft leather. His handshake was firm but
quick, while his deep voice rang out clearly and freely.
"I'm Ammon Koot," said Ammon, bowing, "if you've received Tonar's
letter, I'll have the honour of explaining to you the reason why I came."
"I received his letter, and you are first and foremost my guest," said
Dogger with a courteous smile. "Let's go in; I'll introduce you to my wife.
Then we'll talk about everything you wish to discuss."
Ammon followed him into a very simple living room with high windows and
modest furniture. Nothing stuck out; on the contrary, everything was
designed for subtle comfort. Here and in the other rooms that Ammon visited
the furnishings were forgotten, as the body forgets pieces of clothing that
have long since become familiar. There were no paintings or prints on the
walls. Ammon did not notice this at first: the piers' emptiness seemed to be
casually draped with the folds of the window curtains. The tidiness,
cleanliness, and light imparted a nuance of tender solicitude for the things
with which, like with old friends, people live their entire lives.
"Elma!" said Dogger, opening the hall door. "Come here."
Ammon was impatient to meet Dogger's wife. He was interested in seeing
them as a couple. Before a minute had gone by a beautiful smiling woman in a
smart open-sleeved house-dress emerged from the dim light of the hall. Her
every movement spoke of overflowing good health. A blonde of about
twenty-two, she sparkled with the refreshing calm of contented young blood,
with the gaiety of a well-rested body, and with the majestic good nature of
enduring happiness. Ammon thought that everything must be just as
harmonious, beautiful, and joyful on the inside, where her body worked in
mysterious ways: her heart of steel meticulously pumped scarlet blood
through her blue veins, while her pink lungs vigorously inhaled air to
refresh the blood, warmed amidst white ribs beneath the white breast.
Dogger, without ceasing to smile -- which seemed to be more of a need
than an effort for him -- introduced Root to his wife; she began to speak
freely and lustily, as though she had known Ammon for a long time.
"Being a traveller, you will be a little bored at our place, but that
will only be good for you ... yes, good."
"I'm touched," said Ammon, bowing.
Everyone sat down. Dogger, like Elma, sat in silence, smiling
ingenuously, and gazing directly into Ammon's face; their expressions said:
"We see that you are also a very homely person; it is an easy matter to sit
silently with you and not be bored." Despite the winning simplicity of his
hosts and the furnishings, Ammon did not trust what he saw.
"I very much want to explain the purpose of my visit to you," he said,
getting down to the necessary lie. "In the course of my travels I have
become a zealous photographer. In my opinion this pastime can involve quite
a bit of artistry."
"Artistry," Dogger nodded.
"Yes. Every landscape passes through hundreds of phases every day. Each
time the sun, the time of day, the moon, the stars, or a human figure make
it different: they either add to it or take something away. Tonar tempted me
with his description of Liliana's charms: the city itself, the surroundings,
and your marvelous estate. I feel that my camera is stirring impatiently in
my suitcase and that the shutter is snapping by itself from impatience. Have
you known Tonar for long, Dogger?"
"For a very long time. We became acquainted while we were both
negotiating to buy this estate, but I outbid him. We're on most excellent
terms, and sometimes he drops by. He likes country life very much."
"It's strange that he doesn't live like this himself," said Ammon.
"You know," rejoined Elma, putting her head onto her arms and her arms
onto the back of the chair, "to do that you have to be born a person like
myself and my husband. Am I right, dear?"
"You're right," said Dogger pensively. "But, Ammon, I'll show you the
farm while dinner is being perepared. Will you come along, Elma?"
"No," the young woman refused with a laugh, "I'm the hostess, and I
must look after things."
"In that case..." Dogger stood up. Ammon did so as well. "In that case
we'll set off on our trip."
"A true seeker of adventure," Ammon said to himself as he walked
alongside Dogger, "differs from a tritely curious person in that he
thoroughly explores any obscure situation. Now I have to look into
everything. I don't believe Dogger." Without further introspection he
surrendered himself to his impressions. Dogger led Ammon along the garden's
vaulted avenues to the backyard. Their conversation touched on nature, and
Dogger, with a subtlety that one would not expect from his appearance,
penetrated to the very core of the chaotic and contradictory feelings-as
slight as the flicker of an eyelash -- produced by natural phenomena. He
spoke rather phlegmatically, and yet any general concept of nature suddenly
ceased to exist for Ammon. Nature, like a house made of blocks, collapsed
before his very eyes into its constituent parts. Then, just as carefully and
imperceptibly, as though playing, Dogger restored what had been destroyed;
he harmoniously and methodically fused the disintegrated concept back into
its original form, and Ammon again saw the momentarily lost aggregate of the
world's beauty.
"You are an artist, or you ought to be one," said Ammon.
"Now I'll show you the cow," said Dogger animatedly, "it's of a good
breed and a healthy specimen."
They emerged into the cheery, spacious yard, where a lot of poultry was
wandering about: variegated hens, fiery roosters, motley ducks, irritable
turkeys, baby chickens as yellow as dandelions, and several pairs of
pheasants. A huge chained dog was lying in a green kennel with his tongue
hanging out. Pigs that looked like pink logs glittered within an enclosure;
a donkey flapped its ears and cast a good-natured sidelong look at a
rooster, which was rummaging with his claw in some manure under the donkey's
very hoof; and flocks of blue and white pigeons flew through the air-this
bucolic sight indicated so much peaceful joy that Ammon smiled. Dogger
surveyed the yard with a satisfied air and said:
"I very much like animals that are of a congenial nature. Tigers, boa
constrictors, snakes, chameleons, and other anarchists are unpleasant to me.
Now let's look at the cow."
Ammon saw four giant cows in the barn, where small but clear windows
let in plenty of light. Dogger approached one of the cows, which had
crescent-shaped horns and was the colour of yellow soap; the beast exuded
strength, fat, and milk; the huge, pink, black-spotted udder hung almost to
the ground. The cow, as though realising that she was being inspected,
turned her heavy, thick muzzle towards the men and flicked her tail.
Dogger stood with arms akimbo-which made him look like a peasant-and
looked at Ammon, the cow, and again at Ammon; then he gave the cow a solid
slap on the rump with the palm of his hand.
"A beauty! I call her Diana. She's the best specimen in the district."
"Yes, she's impressive," Ammon affirmed.
Dogger took down a red copper bucket that was hanging in a row with
some others and began to roll up his sleeves.
"Watch me do the milking, Ammon. Then try the milk."
Suppressing a smile, Ammon put on an expression of keen attention.
Dogger squatted, placed the bucket beneath the cow, and by skillfully
squeezing the teats caused streams of milk to strike forcefully against the
resonant copper. Very soon the bucket contained a couple of inches of milk,
all frothy from the spray. Dogger's serious face, his motherly treatment of
the cow, and the sight of a man doing the milking so convulsed Ammon that he
could not restrain himself and began to roar with laughter. Dogger stopped
milking, looked at him with amazement, and finally burst out laughing
himself.
"I can tell you're a city-dweller," he said. "You don't find it
ridiculous when morbidly excited people jump about in front of each other
and lift their feet in time to music. But healthy pursuits directly related
to nature make you laugh."
"Excuse me," said Ammon, "I imagined myself in your place and.... And
I'll always be ashamed of myself for this."
"Forget it," Dogger calmly rejoined, "it's just nerves. Try some."
He brought an earthenware mug from the depths of the barn and poured
out some of the thick, almost hot milk for Ammon.
"Ah," said Ammon when he had drunk it, "your cow has nothing to be
ashamed of. I positively envy you. You've discovered life's simple wisdom."
"Yes," Dogger nodded.
"Are you very happy?"
"Yes," Dogger nodded.
"I couldn't be wrong, could I?"
"No."
Dogger unhurriedly took the empty mug from Ammon and unhurriedly took
it back to its former place.
"It's ridiculous," he said when he returned, "it's ridiculous to boast,
but my life is truly filled with joyful peace."
Ammon offered him his hand.
"I salute you with all my heart," he uttered slowly, in order that he
might detain Dogger's hand a while longer. But Dogger, smiling ingenuously,
likewise pressed Ammon's hand and did so without a trace of impatience-even
willingly.
"Now let's go have lunch," said Dogger, as he walked out of the shed.
"We'll be able to look at the rest this evening, if you're interested: the
meadow, the kitchen-garden, the greenhouse, and the seedbeds."
They returned along the same road. On the way Dogger said:
"Those who seek ugliness and disease in nature, rather than health and
beauty, lose a great deal."
No words could have been more appropriate than these amidst the
sweetbriar and jasmine that lined the fragrant pathways, along which Ammon
Root walked and observed Dogger out of the corner of his eye.
V. THE DRAGON AND THE SPLINTER
Ammon Root had rarely experienced so robust and pure and simple a life
as that with which fate had brought him into contact at Dogger's estate. A
remnant of suspiciousness stayed with him until the end of lunch, but the
Doggers' affable manner and the natural simplicity of their movements,
smiles, and glances enveloped Root with a winning aroma of happiness. The
hearty lunch consisted of butter, milk, cheese, ham, and eggs. Ammon also
liked the servant who brought in and cleared away the food; she was a sedate
woman and, like everyone in the house, healthy.
At Elma's request Ammon spoke a little about his travels. Through a
sense of inner opposition that a born city person characteristically
experiences in the country, where he is somewhat of an alien, he then began
to speak of the season's novelties.
"There's a new operetta by Rastrelli- The Pink Gnome-which is worse
than his last piece. Rastrelli is repeating himself. But Sedir's concerts
are enchanting. His violin-playing is powerful, and I think that a violinist
like Sedir could rule an entire kingdom with the help of his bow."
"I don't like music," said Dogger, breaking an egg. "May I offer you
some goat's-milk cheese?"
Ammon bowed.
"And you, madam?" he said.
"My tastes coincide with those of my husband," Elma answered, reddening
a little. "I don't like music either; I'm indifferent to it."
Ammon did not immediately find anything to say in reply, since he
believed what he had heard. These calm and self-possessed people had no
reason to pose for effect. But Ammon began to feel a little like he did when
he was sitting in the cafeteria that served vegetarian food.
"Well.there's no point in arguing the matter," he said. "A small
painting by Alar, 'The Dragon with a Splinter in His Paw', fascinated me at
an exhibition in the spring. The efforts which the dragon makes while
rolling on his back like a dog in order to get rid of the wood sliver are
very convincing. It is impossible to doubt that dragons exist after you look
at this painting depicting their everyday life. However, my friend found
that even if this dragon had been drinking milk and licking its chops...."
"I don't like art," Dogger remarked curtly.
Elma looked at him, then at Ammon, and smiled.
"That's enough of that," she said. "When were you last in the tropics?"
"No, I want to explain," Dogger softly interrupted. "Art is a great
evil-I'm speaking, of course, about real art. The theme of art is beauty,
but nothing causes so much suffering as beauty. Imagine the most perfect
work of art. There is more cruelty lurking in it than a person could bear."
"But there is also beauty in life," Ammon rejoined.
"The beauty of art is more hurtful than the beauty of life."
"What is your conclusion, then?"
"I feel a loathing for art. I have, as they say, the soul of a
philistine. I stand for order in politics, for constancy in love, and for
inconspicuous but useful work in society. And on the whole for
industriousness, honesty, responsibility, serenity, and moderate self-esteem
in one's personal life."
"I cannot disagree with you," Ammon said guardedly. Dogger's assured
tone had finally persuaded him that Tonar was right. Dogger was a rare
example of a person who had created a special world of indestructible
normalcy.
Suddenly Dogger laughed merrily.
"There's nothing to discuss," he said. "I'm a cheerful and simple
person. Elma, will you come for a ride with us? I want to show our guest the
kitchen-garden, the meadows, and the surroundings."
"Yes."
VI. THE PIT IN THE FOREST
Except for the pit in the forest Ammon did not learn anything new from
the ride. Dogger rode on the right-hand side of Elma, and Ammon on the left;
Ammon did not make any further mention of Dogger's conviction and spoke
about himself, his meetings, and his observations. He sat in a simple black
saddle atop a beautiful, well-fed, and gentle horse. They came across
several people who were engaged in clearing ditches and in digging the earth
up around the young trees; these were Dogger's workers, stocky young fellows
who took off their hats respectfully. "A beautiful couple," Ammon thought,
looking at his hosts. "Adam and Eve were probably like this before the
Fall." Impressionable, like all wanderers, he began to be imbued with their
austerely indulgent attitude towards everything that was not part of their
own lives. The inspection of Dogger's holdings compelled him to utter
several compliments: the kitchen-garden, like the entire estate, was a
model. The lush meadow, sown with choice grasses, was a joy to behold.
A forest stretched beyond the meadow, which abutted a mountain-side,
and when the riders had reached the edge of the woods they came to a halt.
From this high spot Dogger serenely examined his holdings. He said:
"I like property, Ammon. And now, have a look at the pit."
Dogger rode into the forest and stopped next to a dark damp pit beneath
a canopy formed by the thick foliage of old trees. Light percolated through
to this place with reluctance; it was chilly here -- as in a well -- and
hushed. Wind-fallen branches filled the pit; roots extended into it; and a
tree trunk, snapped off by a storm, had been tossed over the chaos of forest
litter and ferns. A pungent odour of mushrooms, mould, and earth came from
the vast hollow,, and Dogger said:
"You can feel the presence of mysterious creatures and beasts here. I
sense the wary steps of polecats, the swishing of snakes, and the protruding
eyes of toads that look like a person with dropsy. Bats circle about here in
the moonlight, and the round eyes of owls glitter in the darkness. It seems
to be some sort of a night club."
"He's dissembling," thought Ammon, and his distrust of Dogger flared up
anew, "but what's at the bottom of it?"
"I want to go home," said Elma. "I don't like the forest."
Dogger looked at his wife tenderly.
"She objects to the dark," he told Ammon, "and so do I. Let's return. I
feel good only at home."
At eleven-thirty Ammon took leave of his hospitable hosts and headed
for the room which he had been assigned in the house's left wing; the room's
windows looked out into the yard, which was separated from the house by a
narrow garden filled with flowers. The furnishings exuded the same health
and fresh coziness as the entire house: a metal washstand; furniture made
out of unpainted light wood; clean curtains, sheets, and pillows; a warm
grey blanket; a mirror in a simple frame and flowers on the window-sill; a
massive desk and a cast-iron lamp. There was nothing superfluous; everything
was necessary and purely functional.
"So this is the kind of place I have landed in!" said Ammon, taking off
his vest. "Rousseau would have envied Dogger. The speeches by Dogger about
nature and the pit in the forest were beautiful; they run counter to the
abominable triviality in the rest of what he says. There's nothing else for
me to do here. I'm convinced that it's possible to vegetate sensibly.
However, let's have a bit more of a look."
He sat down on the bed and fell to thinking. The steel table-clock
struck twelve. Dampness from the meadows and the smell of flowers wafted in
through the wide-open window. Everything slept; the stars were shining above
the black roofs like the lights of a distant city. Ammon grew sadly troubled
as he thought about people's constant dreams of a good, joyous, and healthy
life; he could not understand why the most impressive efforts of this
sort-like, for instance, Dogger's life -- lacked the wings of enchantment.
Everything was admirable, tasty, and clean; delicate and useful; beautiful
and honest-but insignificant, and one felt like saying: "Ah, I was at an
exhibition again! There's an exemplary person on view there...."
Then he mentally began to sketch the possibilities of another order. He
imagined a fire, the crackling of beams, the fire's tempestuousness, Elma's
love for a worker, and Dogger's becoming a drunkard, a lunatic, a drug
addict; he fancied him a religious fanatic, an antiquary, a bigamist, and a
writer, but none of this fitted the owners of the estate in Liliana. The
trepidation of a nervous, destructive, or creative life was out of character
for them. The house was so well-equipped that the possibility of a fire was,
of course, completely out of the question, and Dogger was fated never to
experience the fear and chaos of a burning building. Two young lives, the
acme of creation, pass through year after year, hand in hand -- sensibly,
intelligently, carefully, and happily.
"And so," said Ammon, "I'm going to bed." He had folded back the
blanket and was about to turn out the light, when he suddenly heard a man's
quiet steps in the corridor; someone was walking past his room and was
walking as people usually do when everyone in the house is asleep at night:
tautly and lightly. Ammon listened attentively. The steps faded away at the
end of the corridor; five, ten minutes passed, but no one returned, and
Ammon carefully opened the door.
A fixture suspended from the ceiling illuminated the corridor with an
even nocturnal light. There were three doors in the passageway: one, closer
to the centre of the house, led to the servants' quarters and was opposite
Ammon's room; a second was directly to the left of Ammon's and, judging from
the padlock on it, was the door to a pantry or an uninhabited room. To the
right, at the end of the wing, there were no doors at all -- it was a dead
end with a high closed window looking out onto the garden; yet that was
precisely where the steps had died away.
"He couldn't have vanished into thin air!" said Ammon. "And it could
hardly have been Dogger: he said that he sleeps as soundly as a soldier
after battle. There's no reason for a worker to enter the house. The window
at the end of the corridor leads into the garden; even if Dogger, for
reasons beyond my knowledge, had taken it into his head to go for a walk,
there are three doors at his service that all lead outside, and besides, I
would have heard the frame slam, but I didn't."
Ammon turned around and closed the door.
He half believed the steps to be significant and half did not. His
thoughts wandered in the realm of wonderful superstitions and legends about
human life, whose purpose is to glorify the name of man and raise it from
the swamp of the everyday into the world of mysterious fascination, where
the soul obeys its own laws, like God. Ammon again made himself imagine the
sound of steps. Suddenly it seemed to him that an unknown "someone" could
peer into his open window; he quickly put out the light and pricked up his
ears.
"Oh, how stupid I am!" said Ammon when he did not hear anything else.
"Any number of people could be walking about in the night for whatever
reason!... I'm simply a narrow professional, a seeker of adventure, and
nothing more. What kind of secret could there be amidst the scent of hay and
hyacinths? One has only to look at Elma's homey beauty to discard these
stupidities."
Nevertheless, instinct took issue with logic. For half an hour Ammon
stood by the door and peered through the keyhole, waiting for new sounds as
a person in love awaits a rendezvous. Through this small opening, which
looked like a boot-sole stood on end, he saw the pine panelling on the wall
and nothing more. His spirits fell; he yawned "and was about to go to bed,
when the same steps again resounded clearly. Ammon held his breath, like a
swimmer who has dived beneath the water, and looked through the keyhole.
Dogger was coming from the dead end and was walking past Ammon's door on
tiptoe. His head was above Ammon's field of vision; he had on trousers and a
shirt with unbuttoned sleeves -- he was not wearing a jacket. The steps faded
away, there was the muffled sound of an inside door closing and Ammon
straightened up; despite the situation's logic, irrepressible suspicions
churned within him. Too prudent to assign them any specific form, for the
time being he was satisfied to keep on repeating one and the same question:
"Where could Dogger have kept himself at the end of the corridor?" Ammon
circled about the room, now grinning and now pondering; he ran through all
the possibilities: a love intrigue, somnambulism, insomnia, and a walk, but
everything was left up in the air owing to the closed window and the dead
end; and although the window, of course, could be opened, it seemed
inexcusably flippant to think that a solid and respectable person like
Dogger would use it as a means of exit into the garden.
Ammon decided to examine the hall thoroughly; he put on felt slippers
and went out of his room, but he left his revolver, since he saw no need for
it. The tranquil silence of the brightly lit corridor had a sobering effect
on him; he felt ashamed and wanted to return, but the past day, which had
been filled to excess with the humdrum simplicity that waries a lively soul,
nudged Ammon towards artificial invigoration of his unsatisfied fantasies.
He quickly walked to the end of the corridor and up to the window, making
certain that it was closed tightly and fastened by solid upper and lower
bolts; he looked around and saw a small door that lacked posts and was flush
with the wall -- this small door, knocked together from thin boards, was
apparently cut out and installed after the house had been built. Looking at
the door, Ammon thought that it probably led to some steps that had been
constructed in order to enter the garden next to the house from inside the
corridor. Now that he had found out where Dogger had disappeared, Ammon
quietly reached out, flipped the latch and opened it.
It opened into a corridor. It was dark beyond the door, although
several steep steps, leading up and not down, were visible. The staircase
was bordered by the narrow walls; in order to enter, it was necessary to
bend low. "Is it worth it?" thought Ammon. "This is probably the passage to
an attic where clothes are dried or pigeons live.... However, Dogger is not
a pigeon fancier, and he obviously does not take in laundry. Why did he come
here? Oh, Ammon, Ammon, instinct tells me that there is game about. So what
if I just fire a blank-if I go up, then at least it will be all over, and
I'll sleep until tomorrow's yoghurt with a conscience as clear as a calf's.
If for whatever reason Dogger takes it into his head to visit the attic and
finds me, I'll pretend that I heard steps there; after all, thieves are
always an excellent pretext in cases like this."
Ammon took a look around, closed the door tightly behind himself, and,
illuminating the staircase with a match, began to ascend. At a small landing
the staircase turned left; on the upper end there proved to be a somewhat
more spacious landing, where, beneath the roof's steep pitch, was a door
leading to the attic. Like the lower door, it was not locked. Ammon listened
in order to make sure that there was nobody behind the door. The silence
reassured him. He boldly lifted the latch, and the match was extinguished by
a rush of air. Ammon stepped over the threshold into darkness; the rather
stuffy air of a habitable room frightened him. In a hurry to make sure that
he had not ended up in a worker' or a servant's cubbyhole, Ammon lit a
second match, and the shadows raced away from its yellow light into the
corners, making the surroundings distinct.
The first thing Ammon saw was a candle on a huge table in the centre of
the room, he lit it, and as he looked around retreated to the door. A white
curtain on the back wall hung down to the floor; similar curtains were
hanging on the walls to the right and the left of the entrance. A screen
window in the slanted ceiling let in the light of distant stars. Ammon
hastily examined the corners without further scrutinizing the table, which
was piled high with a miltitude of various objects. He found only neglected
litter, crumpled paper, and broken pencils. Ammon straightened up, walked to
the back wall where the cords for the curtain were hanging on a nail, and
pulled them. The curtain rose.
Ammon stepped back at a sudden flash of daylight-the ground rose to the
level of the attic, and the wall disappeared. Three paces from the traveller
a woman with small bare feet was standing on a path that led to some hills
and had her back turned to him. A simple black dress, which inexplicably
laced any hint of mourning, emphasised the whiteness of her bare neck and
arms. All the lines of her young body were distinguishable beneath the thin
fabric. A thick bun of bronze hair covered the back of her neck. The
picture's supernatural, painful veracity went beyond the bounds of the
human; a live woman stood before him in the wondrous void of the distant
prospect; any moment, Ammon felt, she would turn and look at him over her
shoulder. He smiled in perplexity.
But at this point the brilliant brush's triumph was terminated and at
the same time intensified. The woman's pose, her slightly drawn back left
hand, her temple, the cheek's shape, the fleeting exertion of her neck in
turning, and numerous mute traits that were beyond analysis gripped the
viewer with the expectation of a miracle. The artist had fixed the instant
for eternity; it lasted and remained the same as ever-as if time had
disappeared but at each following instant would resume its flight, and the
woman would glance over her shoulder at the shaken viewer. In overpowering
expectation Ammon looked at the head, which was fearful in its readiness to
reveal its mysterious features; his heart was pounding like that of a child
who had been left in a dark room; and with an unpleasant feeling of
impotence before an unrealisable but clear threat, he let go of the cords.
The curtain fell, but it still seemed to him that if he reached out he would
encounter a warm, live shoulder beyond the canvas.
"Genius knows neither moderation nor limits!" he said excitedly. "So,
Dogger, this is where you leave to milk the cows? My powerful instinct has
guided my discovery. I'll shout it to the whole world; I'm ill from ecstasy
and fear! But what's over there?"
He rushed to the curtain which hung to the left of the entrance. His
hand became tangled in the cords; he impatiently tore at them, pulled them
down, and raised the candle over his head. The same woman-in the same
charming vivacity that was deepened still further by her face's
radiance-stood before him having fulfilled her exquisite threat. She had
turned around. The artist had put into this face the total essence of
maternal tenderness and feminine caress. The fire of pure, proud youth shone
in the tender but resolute eyes; the bronze silk of her hair above her
finely etched eyebrows appeared to be a diadem. Her mouth, with its noble
and youthful features, exuded love and intelligence. She stood half-turned
but had revealed her entire face, and she sparkled with the youthful
strength of life and with a joy as disturbing as sleep filled with
passionate tears.
Ammon looked at the picture mutely. It seemed to him that he had only
to utter a single word in order to break the paints' silence, and then the
woman would approach him with lowered eyelashes, still more beautiful in her
movements than in the distressing immobility of the miraculously created
living body. He saw the dust on her legs, which were ready to move on, and
the individual hairs behind her little ear were like the radiant attire on
heads of grain. Joy and yearning held him in tender captivity.
"Dogger, you're a despot!" said Ammon. "Could anyone strike a more
painful blow to the heart?" He stamped his foot. "I must be delirious,"
cried Ammon. "To paint like that is impossible; no one on earth could or
would dare to do this!"
And the actual eyes of a woman gazed at him still more expressively,
more intently, and more deeply.
Ammon was almost frightened, and with his heart beating violently he
pulled the curtain over the painting. Something held him to the spot; he
could not bring himself to pace up and down, as he usually did when he was
disturbed. He was afraid to stir or to look around; the silence, in which
only his breathing and the crackling of the burning candle were audible, was
as unpleasant as the smell of fumes. Finally, overcoming his numbness, Ammon
walked up to the third canvas, uncovered the painting ... and the hair on
his head bristled.
What had Dogger done in order to produce a nightmarish effect that
could rekindle superstitions? The woman stood before Ammon in the same pose,
with her head turned around while she continued walking; but her face was
unaccountably transformed, and yet it was the same -- down to the last
feature-as the one at which Ammon had just looked. The mocking eyes met his
with an inscrutable vividness, and the effect was fearsome. Now, at a closer
range, their gaze was sombre; the pupils glittered differently; the mouth,
which had an evil and base expression, was prepared to bestow a loathsome
smile of madness; and the beauty of her wondrous face had become repulsive:
it exuded a ferocious, greedy fire and was capable of strangling a person or
of sucking someone's blood; a reptile's lust and a demon's passion
illuminated its vile oval, which was full of aroused voluptuousness, gloom,
and frenzy; and an infinite agony seized Ammon when he looked closely and
discerned in this face a readiness to begin speaking. The half-opened lips,
between which her teeth shone repulsively, seemed to be whispering; the
figure's former soft femininity emphasised still further the horrible
aliveness of the head, which all but nodded from the frame. Ammon sighed
deeply and let go of the cord; the curtain rustled as it sped down, and he
fancied that a diabolical face had winked at him and hidden itself beneath
the falling folds.
Ammon turned around. A large and thick folder lying on the table drew
his distracted attention; when he opened it, he found it full of drawings.
But they were strange and wild.... Ammon examined one after the other and
was struck by the superhuman skill of fantasy evidenced in them. He saw
flocks of ravens flying over fields of roses; hills that were covered, as
though by grass, with electric lights; a river, dammed up by green corpses;
hirsute, interlaced hands that were gripping bloodied knives; an inn, full
to overflowing with drunk fish and lobsters; a garden in which gallows with
executed men had taken strong root; the huge tongues of execution victims
hung to the ground and children were swinging on them and laughing; corpses,
which were reading yellowed tomes in their graves by the light of
luminescent pieces of rotten wood; a swimming pool, full of bearded women;
scenes of depravity, such as a feast of cannibals who were skinning a fat
man; in the same drawing, a hand jutted out of a cauldron which hung over
the fire; weirdly hideous figures, who had red whiskers and blue heads of
hair, and who were one-eyed, three-eyed, and blind, paraded before him one
after the other-one was eating a snake, another was playing dice with a
tiger, a third cried, and jewels fell from his eyes. In almost all the
drawings gold sequins were strewn over the clothes of the figures; they had
been done with care, as in general any beloved work is done. Ammon leafed
through the drawings with a terrible curiosity. The door slammed; he jumped
away from the table and saw Dogger.
Even at the most dangerous moments Ammon never lost his
self-possession; however, taken unawares, he experienced momentary
confusion. Dogger had apparently not expected to see Ammon; he stopped at
the door irresolutely and looked around, but soon he grew pale and then
flared up so that his bare neck reddened with anger.
"By what right did you come here?" he shouted, striding over to Ammon.
"How am I to regard this? I didn't expect such a thing! Eh? Ammon!"
"You're right," answered Ammon calmly, without lowering his eyes. "I
had no right to enter. But I would have felt guilty only if I hadn't found
anything; now that I've seen something here, I dare think that I've thus
acquired the right to reject the charge of impudence. I'll say more: had I
found out after I left what I would have seen if I had gone upstairs, and
had I not done so -- then I would have never forgiven myself for such an
omission. My motives were the following.... I'm sorry, but the matter
demands frankness, whether you like it or not. I had vague doubts about your
cows, Dogger, and about the turnips and the well-fed pheasant hens; when I
accidentally came upon the true path to your soul, I attained my goal. The
fearful power of a genius guided your brush. Yes, my eyes stole your secret,
but I am no less proud of this thievery than Columbus was of the Western
Hemisphere, since my calling is to seek, to pursue, to make discoveries!"
"Shut up!" cried Dogger. His face did not contain a trace of placid
equanimity, but nor did it show any malice, which is out of place in people
of lofty character; it expressed distressed indignation and pain. "You still
dare.... Oh, Ammon, you, with your conversations about that accursed art,
caused me to lose sleep owing to agonies that are beyond your comprehension,
and now, bursting into here, you want me to believe that your deed is
praiseworthy. What makes you think you can take such liberties?"
"I am a seeker, a seeker of adventure," Ammon coldly retorted. "I have
a different set of morals. There would be no merit in dealing with people's
hearts and souls and never being cursed for these experiments. What good is
a soul that lays itself servilely open to view?"
"However," said Dogger, "you are daring! I don't like people who are
too daring. Leave. Return to your room and pack. You'll be given a horse at
once; there's a night train."
"Fine!" Ammon walked towards the door. "Farewell!"
He was at the door when suddenly both of Dogger's hands seized him by
the shoulders and spun him around. Ammon saw the pathetic face of a coward;
he sensed Dogger's boundless fright and, not knowing what was the matter,
grew pale with alarm.
"Not a word," said Dogger, "absolutely not a word to anyone! For my
sake, for God's sake, have mercy-say nothing to anyone!"
"I give you my word; yes, I give you my word. Calm down."
Dogger let go of Ammon. His gaze, filled with hatred, stopped on each
of the paintings in turn. Ammon walked out, descended the staircase, went
into his own room, and prepared to go. Half an hour later, accompanied by a
servant and without encountering Dogger again, he went out through the dark
entrance from the garden side, where a carriage stood; he climbed in and
rode off.
The starry dew of the sky, the agitation, the limitless, fragrant
darkness, and the breath of roadside thickets intensified his enchanted
exultation. The earth's huge, blind heart beat muffledly in time to Ammon's
exultant heart, greeting its son the seeker. Ammon groped uncertainly but
tenaciously for the true nature of Dogger's soul.
"No, you can't get away from yourself, Dogger, no," he said,
remembering the drawings.
The coachman, who was racking his brains over the guest's sudden
departure, timidly turned around and asked:
"Is there some urgent matter, sir?"
"Matter? Yes, precisely-a matter. I must go to India at once. My
relatives there have come down with the plague-my grandmother,
sister-in-law, and three first cousins."
"Is that so!" the peasant said in suprise. "Goodness me!"
IX. THE SECOND AND LAST MEETING WITH DOGGER
"My friend," Tonar said to Ammon upon opening a letter, "Dogger, whom
you visited four years ago, requests that you go to him immediately. Since
he does not know your address, he's transmitting his request through me. But
what could have happened there?"
Ammon, without concealing his surprise, quickly walked up to his
friend.
"He's asking me over? How does he express himself?"
"As they used to do at the end of the eighteenth century. 'I shall be
greatly indebted to you,'" read Tonar, '"if you inform Mr. Ammon Koot that I
would be most grateful to him if he would meet with me at once....' Won't
you explain what this is about?"
"No, I don't know."
"Really? You're a sly one, Ammon!"
"I can only promise to tell you afterwards, if things go all right."
"Very well. My curiosity's been aroused. What, are you already looking
at the clock? Take a look at the train schedule."
"There's a train at four," said Ammon, pressing the buzzer. A servant
appeared in the doorway. "Hert! High boots, a revolver, a laprobe, and a
small travelling-bag. Farewell, Tonar. I'm going to Liliana's cheery
meadows!"
Not without trepidation did Ammon heed the strange man's summons. He
still remembered the painful blow that the two-faced woman in the wondrous
paintings had dealt to his soul, and he involuntarily connected the
paintings with Dogger's invitation. But it was pointless to try and guess
what Dogger wanted from him. Undoubtedly, something serious was in store.
Deep in thought, Ammon stood at the train window. With the thoroughness of a
blind man who gropes for something that he needs, he mused upon all his
knowledge of people, of all the complex junctures of their souls, and all
the possibilities that followed from what he had seen four years ago; but,
dissatisfied, he finally refused to predict the future.
At eight o'clock in the evening Ammon stood before the quiet house, in
the garden where flowers prayed vividly, luxuriantly, and joyfully, to the
sun setting amidst silvery clouds. Elma met Ammon; the musical clarity was
missing from her movements and expression; a grieving, nervous, suffering
woman stood before Ammon and softly said:
"He wants to speak with you. You don't know-he's dying, but, he still
hopes he'll get well; please make believe that you consider his disease to
be nothing at all."
"We must save Dogger," said Ammon after a moment's thought. "Has he
kept anything secret from you?"
He looked Elma straight in the eye and imparted a cautiously
significant tone to the question.
"No, nothing. And from you?"
This was said gropingly, but they understood each other.
"Probably," said Ammon inquisitively, "you were not left in the dark
regarding the haste of my previous departure." "You must excuse Dogger and
... yourself."
"Yes. For the sake of that which you know well, Dogger must not die."
"The doctors are deceiving him, but I know everything. He won't live
out the month."
"It's absurd," said Ammon, walking after Elma, "I know a person who's a
watchman in a garden and is one hundred and four years old. But he, to be
sure, understands nothing of paints."
When they came into the sick-room, Dogger was in bed. The early
twilight shaded his transparent face like a light, airy fabric; the sick
man's hands were under his head. He was hirsute, thin, and morose; his eyes,
which glittered expressively, rested on Ammon.
"Elma, leave us alone," wheezed Dogger, "don't be offended."
The woman smiled at him sadly and left. Ammon sat down.
"Here's still one more adventure, Ammon," Dogger began to speak weakly.
"Enter it in the column for extremely distant journeys. Yes, I'm dying."
"You must be a hypochondriac," said Ammon lightheart-edly. "Come now,
that's just a weakness."
"Yes, yes. We practise lying. Elma says the same as you, while I
pretend that I don't believe death is near, and she is satisfied with that.
She doesn't want me to believe what she herself believes."
"What's wrong with you, Dogger?" "What?" Dogger closed his eyes and
smiled grimly. "You see, I drank some cold spring water. I must tell you
that for the past eleven years all the water I drink has been neither too
hot nor too cold. Two years ago, in the spring, I was walking in the nearby
hills. The snow runoffs rushed along sparkling stone channels among vivid
greenery, pounding on every side. Blue cascades whipped up snowy foam and
leaped from ledge to ledge; they jostled one another like frightened herd of
sheep which streams through a tight gate in a living wave of white backs.
Oh, Ammon, I acted unwisely, but the stifling hot day tortured me with
thirst. The sky's oppressive heat beat down on my head from the precipitous
heights, and the profusion of water foaming about increased my sufferings. I
was far from home, and I felt an uncontrollable urge to drink this savage,
cold, carefree water that had not been defiled by a thermometer. An
underground spring was not far away; I bent down and drank-the icy fire
scorched my lips. The tasty water smelled of grass and fizzed like sparkling
wine. Rarely does one have occasion to quench his thirst so blissfully. I
drank for a long time and then ... I became ill. Sick people, you know,
often have very keen hearing, and I, albeit not without making an effort,
overheard Elma and the doctor behind the doors. He did a good job of beating
around the bush for a while, but all the same he gave me grace for not
longer than the end of the month."
"You acted unnaturally," said Ammon with a smile.
"Partly. But I'm becoming tired of speaking. Those two pictures in
which she turned around ... where do you think they are?" Dogger grew
agitated. "There's a box on the table; open the little grave."
Ammon got up and slightly raised the lid of a beautiful casket; from
the rush of air a bit of white ash flew up and landed on his sleeve. The
box, which was filled to the top with fluffy ash, explained to him the fate
of the brilliant creations.
"You burned them!"
Dogger's eyes motioned assent.
"If this isn't madness, then it's barbarity," said Ammon.
"Why?" retorted Dogger meekly. "One of them was evil, while the other
was falsehood. I'll tell you their story. The task to which I dedicated my
entire life was to paint three pictures that would be more perfect and more
powerful than anything that exists in art. No one even knew that I was an
artist; no one, except for you and my wife, has seen these paintings. The
grievous good fortune that befell me was to depict Life by separating what
is essentially inseparable. This was more difficult than sorting out, kernel
by kernel, a wagonload of grain that has been mixed with a wagonload of
poppy seeds. But I did it, and you, Ammon, saw Life's two faces, each in the
full splendour of its might. When I had committed this sin, I felt that my
whole body, my thoughts and my dreams, were drawing me irresistibly toward
darkness; before me I saw its complete embodiment ... and I could not
resist. Only I know how I lived then, no one else. But it was a dismal and
morbid existence of horror and decay!
"The things that now surround me, Ammon -- nature, farm work, air, a
vegetable-like happiness -- represent nothing but a hurried flight from
myself. I couldn't show people my fearful pictures, since they would have
extolled me, and I, urged on by vanity, would have used my art in accordance
with my soul's bent-on behalf of evil-and that would have destroyed me. All
my soul's dark instincts pushed me towards evil art and an evil life. As you
see, in the house I honestly eliminated every temptation: there are no
pictures, drawings, or statuettes. Thus I destroyed my memory of myself as
an artist, but it was beyond my power to destroy those two, who fought
between themselves to possess me. For whatever you may say, they really were
not so badly done! But life's diabolical face at times tempted me; I shut
myself up, buried myself in my fantasies-the drawings-and became intoxicated
with nightmarish delirium ... that folder no longer exists either. You kept
your promise to be silent, and since I trust you, I ask that after my death
you exhibit my third painting anonymously; it is truthful and good. Art was
my curse; I renounce my name."
He was silent for a while and then began to cry, but his tears did not
arouse any offensive sensation of pity in Ammon, who saw that no person
could commit a greater act of violence against himself. "The man has burned
himself out," Ammon thought. "Fate has given him an unbearable burden. But
soon he will have peace...."
"And so, Ammon," said Dogger, growing calm, "will you do this?"
"Yes, it's my duty, Dogger; I truly admire you," said Ammon, who,
contrary to his own expectations, became more upset than he wanted to be. "I
admire your talent, your struggle, and ... your ultimate staunchness."
"Give me your hand!" Dogger requested with a smile. His hand-shake was
firm and brusque.
"You see, I'm not completely weak yet," he said. "Farewell, restless,
thieving soul. Elma will give you the painting. I think," Dogger added
naively, "that people will write about it."
Ammon and his friend, a thin brunette with a face as mobile as a
monkey's, slowly made their way through the dense crowd that had filled the
hall to overflowing. Amidst the other frames and portrayals, above their
heads, stood a woman who was about to turn around and who seemed alive to
troubled eyes; she was standing on a road that led towards some hills. The
crowd was silent. The most perfect work of art in the world displayed its
power.
"It's almost unbearable," said Ammon's friend. "Why, she really will
turn around."
"Oh, no," Ammon disagreed, "fortunately, that's only a threat."
"Fortunately? I want to see her face!"
"It's better this way, my dear," he sighed, "let each person imagine
for himself what that face is like."
1915
Last-modified: Mon, 11 Mar 2002 13:17:19 GMT