Alexander Grin



            THE SEEKER OF ADVENTURE


  translated by Barry Scherr


  PROGRESS PUBLISHING HOUSE
  Moscow
  1978
  __________________________________________________
__________


  ...Denn eben wo Begriffe
  fehlen,
  Da stellt ein Wort zur rechten
  Zeit sich ein.
  (Faust)



                               I. A TRIP


   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?"




                          II. ARRIVAL


  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 umbrella-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 marvellous 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 prepared. 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."




                         IV. OUTSIDE


   "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 skilfully
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."




                           VII. NIGHT

   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 cosiness 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 multitude 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.




              VIII. THE EXPLANATION

   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 surprise. "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 light-heartedly. "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


                              The End