Chapter 59

Chapter 593,860 wordsCompleted

On Saturday evening, as planned, Varnėnas selects the guests for his salon. The assembled crowd of about fifteen includes the literary journal editor Karklys, poet Kalnius, dramatist Lapelytė, composer Aidužis, and the hoped‑for professor Meškėnas, as well as lawyer Indrulis and the American woman Gražulytė, who will appear as a program guest. Liudas Vasaris arrives early, still trembling from his earlier conversation with the bishop and Varnėnas’s warning that he must behave like a priest and not flaunt his creativity.

Inside Varnėnas’s drawing‑room, some guests linger by the sofa, others chat beside the window, and a table laden with cold appetizers, brandy and a small bottle of gin waits untouched. A polished piano glints against the wall, brought in especially for the night. Varnėnas greets Vasaris, introduces him to the gathered circle, and invites the conversation to resume.

Editor Karklys, apparently still at odds with poet Kalnius, launches a long diatribe: he condemns society for blaming everything on the masses while ignoring its own failings, rails against the “literary crisis,” and scolds poets for singing about moons and stars instead of “shaking the nation with a strong, relevant, truly creative word.” Kalnius retorts, asking whether they will write about smugglers, bribers, drunks, and scandals, and declares that pure poetry is out of reach for “our intelligentsia.” Varnėnas intercedes, defending the poets as truth‑tellers amid a “global gloom,” and suggests that a poet who masters all poetic tools will earn a place in Lithuanian literary history.

Professor Meškėnas then jumps in, sarcastically noting the “general decay” of society but reminding the group of existing Lithuanian institutions—the Šaulių Union, the army, a diligent youth, the Seimas, and the government—injecting a note of bitter humour that elicits both laughter and uneasy glances.

At this moment three new guests arrive: Indrulis, his wife Genulienė, and a young woman who Vasaris assumes is Indrulis’s American fiancée. She is introduced as Gražulytė, but Vasaris quickly nicknames her Auksė after noting her golden‑tinged hair and the Lithuanian version of her Christian name Aurelija. He observes that she does not fit his mental image of a Parisian‑styled American: she is shorter, with dark natural hair streaked with gold, a wholesome face, and a bright, unsmoking demeanor. The host asks for silence, and Varnėnas announces the program’s first item: Auksė will perform a piece that none of the guests have heard. Composer Aidužis, puzzled, guesses it might be an improvised work, but Auksė begins to play in an almost classical, unembellished style—simple, sincere, and emotionally direct. The room falls into a reverent hush; no applause erupts, as the guests interpret the silence as the highest compliment. The atmosphere turns poetic and uplifted.

With the musical interlude concluded, Vasaris steps forward, spreads a sheet of paper, and declares he will introduce his newest creation—a drama still unfinished, so he will sketch its major scenes rather than read the whole work. He describes the drama’s mythic setting in an ancient land, its first act in which a young ruler, destined to marry, falls in love with a deity’s statue and defies tradition; a storm interrupts the wedding, symbolising divine wrath. In the second act, famine and disease afflict the realm, the populace blames the ruler and his consort, and the giant’s daughter—who had earlier seduced the ruler—incites rebellion, kills the king, and seizes power. Vasaris emphasizes the tragic visual of the condemned facing their fate, the clash between the overthrown ruler’s loyal followers and the giant’s forces, and the bitter moral of broken vows.

In the third act, twenty years later, the slain king’s son, now a grown young man, returns to the throne, only to find the giant’s daughter, now aged, attempting to sway him with compassion. She tries to persuade him to spare her, but the old priest‑guardian remains unmoved, insisting that justice demands the punishment of the guilty, even if it means condemning his own father’s memory. Vasaris pauses to ask how the audience envisions the final scene where the son‑king must judge his parents’ sins.

The assembled scholars react sharply. Lapelytė, excited, exclaims she wants to stage the piece. Karklys scoffs at its artificiality, suggesting it belongs to a “decadent neo‑romantic” niche. Aidužis proposes adapting it into an opera, noting that the drama would need music. Indrulis repeatedly asks Auksė for her opinion; she remains silent, merely observing. Professor Meškėnas interrogates the sudden change of heart of the giant’s daughter, questioning the plausibility of her swift repentance. The discussion spirals into broader debates about the role of modernity versus tradition, the duty of poets and playwrights, and whether art should mirror current social ills or delve into timeless mythic allegory.

Throughout the exchange, Vasaris listens, his earlier anxiety giving way to a cautious confidence. He resolves not to abandon his inner creative world despite the clerical admonitions, yet he vows to present his work “carefully,” aware of the sharp criticism that may follow. The chapter closes with Vasaris feeling both uplifted by Auksė’s dignified applause and unsettled by the heated intellectual clashes, aware that his drama will now be scrutinised by the very cultural elite he admires.