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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!"
"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
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!"
"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