A Double Life

by Barbara Heldt

  The heavenly vault shone with stars …

  The mist was dispelled … a fragrance wafted in …

  Is this a chamber, airy and wondrous?

  Is this a rich and moonlit garden?

  How clear is the sleepless lament of the fountain!

  How familiar to her the bounds of the unknown!

  Bowing to her with a fragrant caress,

  All around the timid flowers shine.

  The moon is silent in the depths of air,

  Like a clear pearl in the sea’s boundlessness;

  A hollow answer sounds in the leaves far off,

  Like a whispering lyre, and is borne into the distance.

  And the midnight radiance of all the worlds,

  And all the sighs, gliding through silence,

  And all the fragrant breaths of spring

  Melt into a single harmony.

  What secret knowledge

  Troubles her young soul?

  Whom does she wait for,

  Whose arrival does she sense?

  Over whom have sycamores bowed down?

  What will shine bright in that darkness?—

  Commanding gaze,

  Victorious brow.

  She remembers what never was,

  Recognizes what she has never met.

  He is reflected in the mirror of her thoughts

  Like the light of a star in a mirror of water.

  He stands, powerful and stern,

  Stands unmoving and silent;

  He looks into her eyes with his eyes,

  Looks into her soul with his soul.

  What reproach of guilt, of error,

  Brings a frown to that brow?

  On that unsmiling countenance

  What a melancholy love!

  What lay so heavy on the young girl’s heart

  Like an inescapable sentence? …

  She walks—walks against her will

  Across distances ever more silent

  To where, powerful and despondent

  That glance shines, like a summons.

  And she stood before the unknown force,

  Bowing a submissive head.

  And from his lips there came a word

  Sadder than the song of far-off streams;

  It seemed as if a gentle kiss

  Had touched her youthful brow.

  1.The “Park” referred to was an open, landscaped area within the city limits, with high-end dachas for rent during the summer months. Petrovsky Park is northwest of central Moscow. In Pavlova’s time, it had become a fashionable location for dachas by the royal edict of 1836.

  2.The dashing hero of Alexander Griboedov’s verse play Woe from Wit (1825).

  On Sunday morning, Cecily stood before her mirror and dressed hurriedly, for ten o’clock had already struck. The maid came in.

  “Your mother asked me to see if you will be ready soon, Miss.”

  “Tell her I’m coming right away.”

  “Your mother asked me to beg you to dress up a little more and to wear your white hat. After mass, they wish to go visiting.”

  “All right.”

  She put on her white hat and went to her mother.

  A few minutes later, they were both sitting in the best carriage, and the enormous lackey, slamming the doors, called out loudly, “To Sheremetevskaya!”

  With a pious prayer, Vera Vladimirovna set out with Cecily, at first to visit an elderly aunt, where it was necessary to sit through an hour, out of respect for the years and estate of the childless old lady. Everything there was old-fashioned: a dirty vestibule, toy dogs, lackeys in nankeen frock-coats, and barefoot maids. Everything was united in a surprisingly harmonious way, internally and externally, body and soul. When the set hour had somehow gone by, mother and daughter again were seated in their carriage and went farther, to another part of town, another century, another world, where there were vestibules with carpets, important-looking stewards, and servants wearing gloves.

  With the topographical knowledge of ladies, they rode far and wide in Moscow—from Miasnitskaya Street to the Arbat, from the Arbat to the Petrovka—and finally to the study of Madame Valitskaia, the mother of Cecily’s best friend, Olga Alexeevna.

  Madame Valitskaia, a very rich woman, a woman extremely stern in all her opinions and judgments, fully merited the respect of high society, for which neither the future nor the past exists. Zealously she paid her debt to virtue and morality—all the more so because she had set about this a little late, without ever thinking for the better half of her life that there would be such a price, but then, becoming convinced that it was unavoidable, she—one must do her justice—endeavored with an improbable commitment to pay the aforementioned debt and all interest that had accrued.

  Most likely, there is no person so inexperienced as to be surprised that Vera Vladimirovna, in spite of her customary virtuousness and her implacable rules of conduct, was on friendly terms with Madame Valitskaia. Who would think of worrying about the past youth of a woman who for ages had led the most decorous life and, moreover, who received the best society, gave magnificent balls, and was always ready to do a favor for her friends? Society, with all its strictness, is sometimes kind-hearted: depending on the circumstances, it looks with such Christian forgiveness upon powerful people, upon prominent and wealthy women! And besides, in the aristocratic educated world, everything is angled so smoothly, the sharp edges so blunted, and each monstrous and rotten affair called by such decent language that every shameful thing is glossed over in such fine circumstances, effortlessly and quietly. If some ignoramus in some drawing room recalled Madame Valitskaia’s past adventures, he would not have found anyone who knew anything about them, and he would have been told it was a calumny that was invented about an intelligent and sweet woman who in her youth perhaps had been just a bit flighty. In general, in society gatherings they don’t like to speak about vice, probably for the same reason that in olden times, people didn’t like to refer to the devil, fearing his presence.

  And so Madame Valitskaia in the midst of such civilized company was, as they say in that foreign language, parfaitement bien posée. Vera Vladimirovna found particular profit in this friendship. The tone of Madame Valitskaia’s drawing room satisfied her wishes fully. She knew that nowhere would she find a more strict and careful circle of friends; that nowhere would Cecily be safer; that here, she would not hear a single light-minded word or remark. And experience showed to what extent Vera Vladimirovna was right, because, as the French proverb goes, in the house of a hanged man, they don’t talk about rope—so at Natalia Afanasevna Valitskaia’s, they didn’t even talk about thread.

  When she found out about Cecily’s arrival, Olga Valitskaia went hurriedly into her mother’s room. The young girls, although they had parted only the evening before, embraced as if they had been separated for a year, sat on the sofa in the corner, whispered together for a few minutes, and then jumped up again.

  “Maman,” said Olga, “we’re going to my room.” She slipped through the door with Cecily.

  Vera Vladimirovna looked after them:

  “How pretty Olga has become!” she remarked.

  “Cécile is twice as pretty,” answered Madame Valitskaia, “but you have to look after her health more carefully; she is still a bit upset. You are right not to take her to Anna Sergeevna’s ball today.”

  “Yes, it’s wiser. I won’t go either, although yesterday the Princess begged me to. What a lovely and praiseworthy woman!”

  “An unusually good mother,” said Madame Valitskaia.

  “And a happy mother,” added Vera Vladimirovna, “Prince Victor is a remarkable young man.”

  Madame Valitskaia’s face assumed a solemn expression, and she looked down modestly, saying, “Unfortunately, one cannot fully approve his conduct.”

  “Of course,” answered Vera Vladimirovna in a voice resonant with Madame Valitskaia’s moral intonation, “but we must not judge him too harshly. Where can one find a young
man who would not more or less deserve the same reproach? And then, time erases everything, and a virtuous wife can completely reform a flighty husband.”

  Madame Valitskaia cast a momentary glance at her friend that said “Aha,” and barely perceptibly bit her lips.

  “I thought of not going to that ball myself,” she said, “but Olga begged me to. She very much wants to see the young people it’s being given for. What a child she is! She dances and amuses herself like a ten-year-old. I don’t mind in the least. You know I completely share your views on upbringing and have to admit that you couldn’t apply them with more success. Cécile is the best proof of their correctness.”

  Vera Vladimirovna began to play with her lorgnette with self-satisfied modesty.

  “Yes, I have to admit that my efforts have not failed. Cécile is exactly what I wanted to make of her. Every kind of daydreaming is foreign to her. I knew how to make reason important to her, and she will never occupy herself with empty infatuations; but naturally I haven’t, so to speak, taken my eyes off her.”

  “The first obligation of a mother,” remarked Madame Valitskaia. “We should always be able to read into the souls of our daughters, in order to foresee any harmful influences and keep them safe in all their childlike innocence.”

  While the mothers were conversing thus in the study, their daughters were carrying on a completely different kind of conversation in Olga’s room. The elderly Englishwoman was also there, but all her attention was turned to some endless quilt she had been working on from time immemorial. Besides, like all our Englishwomen, she understood scarcely more than twenty Russian words; and so Olga, sitting next to her friend, immediately began speaking Russian.

  “So you won’t be taken to the Princess’s ball tonight?”

  “No, maman says that I’m too tired and have to take care of myself.”

  “Well, you do look quite pale today; what’s the matter?”

  “My head aches; I slept badly. Imagine, Olga, I had a dream about the man they were talking about yesterday at our house, the one who had died that morning.”

  “God protect you! Who is it?”

  “I don’t know myself; remember at the tea table, they were talking about someone?”

  “You are always having dreams about nonsense and various horrible things. What a shame that you’re not going to the ball! It’s being given for the young people, and they say it will be wonderful. The daughter’s gown comes from Paris. Do you want to see my dress?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Olga rang the bell.

  “Masha! Bring out my dress.”

  The maid carried in a lovely, airy dress with a waist decorated with marvelous ribbons, a double skirt, one falling on top of the other like a rosy mist—an exquisite dress! Cecily looked at it and fully appreciated its worth.

  “Who made it? Madame André?”

  “Yes, she agreed to against her will; eleven dresses have been ordered from her for tonight. I was scared to death she wouldn’t do it. How disappointing you aren’t going! I am engaged for nearly every dance; I’ve promised the mazurka to Prince Victor.”

  “Is Prince Victor going to Petersburg?” asked Cecily in a semiwhisper.

  Olga lowered her eyes and replied even more quietly:

  “I don’t know; maybe he’ll go.”

  “You mean if you wish it?”

  “No, darling,” Olga whispered, clasping her friend’s hand, “not yet. God knows what will happen. Only, for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone. Maman has strictly forbidden me to say a word about it, especially to you. You know she thinks you want to marry Prince Victor yourself. She doesn’t know you’re thinking about someone else.”

  Cecily smiled, and in a few minutes, the maid Masha announced: “Cecily Alexandrovna! Your mother has sent for you; she wants to leave right away.”

  Both friends ran downstairs. Vera Vladimirovna was already standing with Madame Valitskaia in the hall, ready to set out for home. The old friends shook hands, and the young ones embraced three times and finally parted.

  On the staircase of her house, Vera Vladimirovna met her nephew.

  “Hello, Serge! Where are you going?”

  “I dropped in to ask how you are, ma tante, and now I’m off to Ilichev’s. I’m having dinner with him at Chevalier’s.”

  “Well, I don’t want to keep you. Goodbye, my friend.”

  She went up several steps and stopped again. “A propos, Serge, listen!”

  “What is it, ma tante?”

  “You probably know that young man. What’s his name? The one Ilichev introduced me to yesterday, the writer.”

  “Yes, I know, ma tante.”

  “Do me a favor—bring him to me next Saturday so that he can read us something. Yesterday evening was not a success for some reason, and next Saturday will be the last one, so I have to fill it up with something or other. It’s a real penance!”

  “All right, ma tante, I’ll get the writer for you.”

  “Please don’t forget.”

  “For heaven’s sake!”

  The nephew ran downstairs; the aunt went to her room.

  Nearly all of Vera Vladimirovna’s acquaintances were at the ball that day, so she spent a very quiet evening at home. Still, two old ladies and one no longer young dropped in. They and their hostess made a foursome for a game of preference, the best way to pass the time in such circumstances. Vera Vladimirovna’s husband—he was generally referred to as “the husband of Vera Vladimirovna,” and once when a stranger asked him with whom he had the pleasure of speaking, he introduced himself thus—Vera Vladimirovna’s husband—was, as always, at his club.

  Cecily had a bad headache toward evening. After pouring the tea, she asked permission to go to bed.

  “Of course, my dear,” said her mother, “but shouldn’t we send for the doctor?”

  “No, maman, it’s nothing. By tomorrow, I’ll be fine.”

  She kissed her mother’s hand, went to her room, and lay down.

  An unusual weariness, probably the result of her morning visits, took hold of her. She didn’t know why, but her heart felt heavy. She lay down for a long time without sleeping, her eyes closed. Tiredness weighed her down more and more. Her thoughts grew still; sleep flew in to her. She forgot everything, but through that forgetfulness, some indistinct memory melted and grew clear in the depths of her soul. It seemed as if someone spread a misty veil over her head, and she let herself down softly, softly, softly—suddenly, a shiver ran through her body:

  As if a miracle had been accomplished …

  “As you were yesterday, you’re here with me again!”

  “I’m here with you, and will be faithful to you!

  I’ve waited for you, I whom you called for, yours.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am that which you sought

  In the radiance of starry heights.

  I am your sadness in the tumult of a ball,

  I am the secret of your dream

  That you could not reach with reason,

  That you have understood with your heart.

  Rushing into a world rich with thought,

  Did you not go beyond its limits?

  Weren’t you filled with the unknown,

  Didn’t you look into the distance?

  Not knowing loss, still

  Didn’t you miss something all the same?”

  They sit in the moonlight,

  And a silver stream sings to them.

  “Yes, it’s you! You have come from the grave, alive!

  Is it possible, or am I dreaming?”

  “How may a creature of the earth know

  What is impossible or possible?

  Perhaps everything there was false,

  Perhaps only here you are awake.

  That prisoner of society’s world,

  That sacrifice to vanity,

  The blind slave of custom,

  That small-souled being isn’t you.

  They have fettered
you from childhood,

  Have swaddled your free mind,

  Deprived you of your eternal inheritance,

  Freedom of feeling and the kingdom of thought.

  And under the iron yoke of the age

  Joyful impulses were silenced in your heart,

  But in the sinful human body

  God’s spirit has remained alive.

  So only for a fleeting moment

  You take wing with a free soul.

  In life’s deadness there is an incorporeal region

  In the midst of that world, another world.

  You will understand inspiration’s secret,

  You will live the soul’s life fully.

  What the genius learns in waking

  You will learn, my child, in sleep.

  Yet you will forget what you have learned.

  I will not poison your days,

  I will not lift the veil

  From your eyes, in that land of the blind.

  And there my word will fall silent

  The traces of my love will disappear;

  Mid people’s talk you will remember

  Me like an empty dream.

  But the spirit of silence will enter,

  The world will fall asleep like a quiet house,

  And, flaming with prayer,

  The stars will stand before their creator.

  And I will come to you unknown,

  In the quiet, in a marvelous dream;

  With the mysterious force of a kiss

  I will lift the shackles from your soul,

  So that the holy song may sound,

  And incense rise,

  And the divine service flame up

  Again in you, the silent temple.”

  Vera Vladimirovna’s final Saturday was a huge success: the coveted poet appeared. The company that evening consisted of the most select lovers of literature, both men and women. These days, it is not at all difficult to get such a group together since literature is extremely respected, and ladies especially have been devoting such attention to it for some time that only by hardly noticeable signs is it possible to guess that, in fact, they play no active part in it.