A Double Life

by Barbara Heldt

  “Did the horse run away with you?” said Prince Victor.

  Cecily came to her senses and caught her breath.

  “No, I gave her free rein.”

  “How you frightened us,” he continued, adding in a low voice, “How you frightened me!”

  “I did?”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  She smiled, straightened her hair, set her cap on her forehead, and went on with the horse at a walk. The prince stayed beside her and continued the conversation.

  A few minutes later, they heard a furious galloping, and Olga flew past them with Dmitry Ivachinsky. Olga was laughing.

  But in the carriage, Madame Valitskaia didn’t let her lorgnette fall from her eyes for a moment and was very preoccupied with Cecily. Vera Vladimirovna was sitting next to her, with a face more contented than frightened, and assured her friend that Cecily was an excellent rider and that her horse was very trustworthy and would never run away with her. Madame Valitskaia could not convince herself of this and was so shaken that once or twice she had recourse to smelling salts.

  Finally, everyone arrived safely and galloped to the entrance of the Ostankino gardens. The men jumped down and helped the women, flushed with their exertion, from their mounts. In one of the pavilions, tea, fruit, and ice cream were being prepared for everyone. Meanwhile, they set off for a walk. Cecily and Olga went on ahead, surrounded by the men. The cautious Vera Vladimirovna made sure at a glance that her obliging nephew, Serge, had fully understood a few words that she had whispered to him—that he was paying great attention to Olga, and that Prince Victor was next to Cecily. And the good mother, foreseeing all, accompanied by Nadezhda Ivanovna, followed behind the young people, very content with her strategic positionings. Madame Valitskaia went last, having taken the arm of Dmitry Ivachinsky. She walked quietly and slowly, conversing with him about the charm of the evening and the cool freshness of Ostankino Park. Imperceptibly, they lagged behind the others a little. Madame Valitskaia continued the conversation in her mild, quiet voice. (She always spoke in low tones.)

  “It seems we are walking around the entire park. I’m afraid that the walk will last too long and that we will have to ride home in the twilight. What time is it now, Dmitry Andreevich? I haven’t a watch.”

  Dmitry, who hadn’t the least suspicion where that most innocent of questions, “What time is it?” can lead, took out his watch and answered simple-heartedly, “Quarter to eight.”

  “I don’t know,” continued Natalia Afanasevna, “whether I will permit Olga to go home on horseback. I’m always afraid of that ride. I just had a terrible fright seeing how Cecily’s horse ran away with her.”

  “But Cecily Alexandrovna insists that the horse did not run away with her.”

  “Nonsense. I saw it myself. How is it that you didn’t gallop after her immediately? She was a hair’s breadth from death.”

  “Well, I … I didn’t notice anything. She was ahead of me.”

  “That’s just fine! But Prince Victor noticed right away and raced headlong to stop the horse.”

  Dmitry smiled faintly.

  “That proves that Prince Victor is quicker than I.”

  Madame Valitskaia smiled a little too, replying, “That may prove something else.”

  A smile remained on Dmitry’s face.

  “I think,” he said, “that Prince Victor will never be subject to the danger of falling in love.”

  “Why? Cecily is extremely nice. And she will be a very good match. An old aunt decided to make Cecily her only heir after the death of her son. I know that for sure. The old lady has a considerable estate, and she isn’t likely to live very long. Vera Vladimirovna was telling me only yesterday about this aunt’s quite ill health. Vera Vladimirovna loves her sincerely and worries and grieves about her a great deal. Poor Vera Vladimirovna! An incomparably greater misfortune threatens her. Her young son is developing the same terrible disease which, as you know, killed three children of this unhappy mother in the first years of their lives. Cecily will probably remain her only consolation.”

  And with this sad thought, Madame Valitskaia bowed her head and sighed, cutting short the conversation.

  Dmitry Ivachinsky was a good man, even a noble man in the ordinary sense of the word, but why should a good and noble man not wish to be a rich man as well? As with the greater part of our generation, money, even a lot of money, was the most essential element of life for him. He himself had a fine fortune, but what does a fine fortune serve in our age if it only incessantly limits one’s desires and makes one feel the need for wealth even more keenly and morbidly? He had liked Cecily for a long time, but he had assumed her to be dowerless, so to speak, and calculated very sensibly and correctly that if he could only scrape by (as he expressed it) on fifteen thousand a year as a bachelor, then as a married man, things would be bad for him. Besides, he was of limited intelligence; he looked only at what was pointed out to him, and now, following these indications, he saw Cecily for the first time in a different light, one extraordinarily favorable to her. Decidedly, he did not wish for the death of her brother (or even of the old aunt), but since it was totally beyond his power to save the poor boy or the good old lady, he began to consider them already in their graves. And Cecily was decidedly a very sweet, very good-looking, and very good-hearted girl who could make a husband very happy.

  Thinking about all this, Dmitry walked silently alongside Madame Valitskaia, who was also silent, thinking how incredibly easy it is to manage things with certain people.

  They returned to the pavilion, where the servants were waiting with tea, and settled themselves. Madame Valitskaia went up to her daughter, who was standing some distance away, seemingly in order to fix her hair, which was completely dishevelled from the ride. This motherly work lasted about ten minutes, after which Olga took Cecily by the arm and went for a stroll with her around the expanse of the gardens. None of the men dared break into this friendly conversation. It was obvious that they were both speaking in a lively fashion, especially Olga. Her mother looked on from afar and was able to see that at first, Cecily looked quite serious, but that soon she grew gayer and lowered her eyes with a very nice smile. Then Natalia Afanasevna turned to the table and with great pleasure began to eat the ice cream that had been put before her some time back.

  When they had eaten and walked enough, they prepared to go home. Dmitry Ivachinsky led Cecily’s horse up to her and put his hand down as a step for her graceful foot to mount.

  “Cecily Alexandrovna,” he said in a half-whisper, straightening her long dress, “let me ride beside you. The last time you frightened me so that I completely lost control.”

  “You had time to come to your senses,” she replied.

  “Oh. When I came to my senses, you had already been saved by the chivalrous prince, and I didn’t dare bother you while you were thanking him.”

  Cecily, starting to laugh, slightly and very gaily, glanced quickly at Dmitry and galloped away. In that half-laugh, in that half-glance was the permission he asked for, and together, they went through a green meadow, on which the twilight had already cast its shadow and the rising moon its pale light. The abandoned Prince Victor began to bestow his attentions on Olga, considering this, in all the naivete of his self-veneration, a cruel revenge for the insult that Cecily had dealt him. The horses ran faster on the road home and soon reached their destination.

  At the porch, Dmitry jumped down and went to Cecily to help her dismount. She leaned forward and jumped, supporting herself on his uplifted hand, and in half a minute that protecting, firm hand clasped her soft little one as if it never wanted to let go. Cecily came hurriedly into the house, her face flushed, but no longer just from the ride.

  And you, Vera Vladimirovna, at that fateful moment you were calmly getting out of the carriage. Where was your sharp eye, watchful mother? Where was your inevitable lorgnette?

  It was already midnight when Cecily, having undressed, sent away the maid and, in a li
ght peignoir, sat by the open window of her cozy room. The warm, almost still night air blew in on her face. Small clouds swept softly across the sky. There was emptiness all around. The magnificent night even took the haughty vulgarity from Petrovsky Park. Only the mysterious expanse of space was visible, only a mass of trees shone black, only the small light of peaceful dwellings glimmered somewhere. The broad-leafed maple in front of her window was rustling softly. In the distance, the watchman was walking back and forth singing. The slow Russian song sounded forth in the quiet, a song full of subdued sadness, expansive, limitless, like its country:

  The Tsar orders everyone to serve;

  It happened long ago to my dear one.

  Everyone has been given a steed by the Tsar;

  No steed was given to my dear one,

  No steed was given for him to ride.

  My dear friend, use me as a hostage,

  Use me as a hostage, and then buy a horse.

  Serve for awhile, you will finish that work;

  You will train the steed. You will rescue me.

  And they all came riding home,

  But no news of my dear one.

  The steed runs alone, and on it lies a token,

  On it lies a token, a feathered cap,

  My silken shawl is in this cap.

  I don’t miss my shawl, carried in the cap,

  I miss my friend, now with another girl,

  With another girl; he quarreled with me.

  For a long time, Cecily sat in quiet, indefinite meditation. Finally, tired, she lay down, still listening to the despondent melody and hearing only her own thoughts and broodings. Sadly, the far-off sounds put her to sleep; joyfully, the dreams of her heart lulled her. The leaves under her window were whispering over and over …

  A quiet hour, foggy spaces

  Warmth and emptiness;

  A strange rustling in the grove,

  The leaves whisper like mouths.

  The vale is dark and fragrant;

  The heights are bright with stars.

  And the fountain, sparkling in the distance,

  Scatters tears without number;

  It seems as if a quiet reproach

  Were heard in the land.

  In the heart, young happiness

  Has lain down with heavy grief.

  There, like spirits of the night

  Shadows go in black procession.

  There, stern and powerful,

  The fateful visitor will appear.

  His eyes stare

  Into the deep and silent gloom.

  And flowing with the innate

  Secret complaint of the quiet,

  With the sadly whispering stream,

  With the murmur of forest depths—

  Surfeited with longing,

  Her soul’s words poured forth:

  “Resign yourself! Why ask in vain?

  Surely we all know what is our lot?

  Not in vain, Sorrow, you enter hourly

  Into woman’s heart as into your own home.

  When was mercy ever shown to someone weak?

  And who will respect their existence?

  Cliffs of Leucadia, you are not the only

  Preserver of some legend of sorrow!

  O, voice of love and selflessness!

  You will lead us to deception and to woe.

  Light of ecstasy, holy revelations,

  Gifts of heaven—you are useless to us.

  All is vanity! High callings,

  The gush of feelings and the dream of joy,

  And all the struggles, sacrifices, sufferings,

  Things of Earth—all these are vanity.”

  The sighing stopped. And like a bright vision

  He stands before the helpless girl,

  And looking toward the lights of the heavens,

  With the sorrowful blessing of love

  He placed his hand on her head.

  And rolling on like mighty waves overflowing,

  The echoes of her feelings and sad thoughts

  Are carried along before her

  But more clearly, more sternly, and more fully:

  “What do you seek, young madwoman?

  Look around at what concerns the world!

  Dedicate your whole life to a phantom,

  Put your trust in it, and find yourself an idol!

  And clothe it with your reveries

  And wait for happiness, stubborn child!

  It will answer the soul’s passion, the heart’s outpourings

  By being bored or by joking.

  At times your love will be rewarded

  With a distracted, hurried kiss.

  You are a woman! Learn to control yourself,

  Close your lips and chain your soul.

  Hold back your passion, stifle its sounds,

  Teach your tears not to flow.

  You are a woman! Live without defenses,

  Without caprice, without will, without hope.

  Do not call the slaves of need, the blind sons of worry

  Into your secret world, the world of your heart:

  With every day, new labors await them

  They have no time for happiness and love.

  But you must preserve the sacred visions,

  But you, in your deceived soul,

  Must learn how to keep a vow of perfect faith

  In the tumult of their pagan passions.

  Do not try to know their fruitless freedom,

  Keep your undertakings safe from theirs;

  Let people hurry and be noisy,

  Don’t ask what all the noise is for!

  Go quietly, go to the wilderness again,

  To the completion of unrewarded labor;

  Go once again to what was here today,

  What will be here tomorrow and forever!

  And at the end of the oppressive journey

  Ask why there are so many wearying days,

  Why the creator’s orders are so stern

  And why the lot of the powerless is still harder.”

  About a week after the excursion to Ostankino, at the beginning of a sultry day, Vera Vladimirovna and her daughter were drinking tea on their balcony in the shade of some sparse, dusty, grayish trees. In front of the garden, the wide, white road glistened in the sunlight in all its brightness. The wind was raising the fine sand on the road in spirals. On both sides, the elegant sidewalk boundary posts could be seen one after the other. Opposite their house stood exactly the same kind of smart house with a balcony, flower bed, saplings, and a green fence. Both women had the notion that it was very early, about ten o’clock, and while taking their breakfast, they were enjoying what they imagined was nature and the morning.

  Cecily was paler and more silent than usual. She unconsciously felt something strange and awkward inside, a feeling that she could not cope with. Her soul was so highly polished, her understanding so confused, her natural talents so overorganized and mutilated by the unsparing way that she had been brought up that every problem of life perplexed and scared her. Her mother’s lessons and moral teachings were about as useful to her in relation to life as are the endless commentaries of zealous scholars to Shakespeare and Dante. Once you have read them, you can no longer grasp even the clearest and simplest meaning in what the poets have written. Her morals and intellect had been improved as arbitrarily and thoroughly as the pitiful trees in the gardens of Versailles, shamelessly pruned into columns, vases, spheres, and pyramids so that they looked like anything but trees. Mothers like Vera Vladimirovna, however, most likely understand something of the possible consequences of their method because all of them are in an unbelievable hurry to get their perfected daughters off their hands and charge someone else with this dangerous responsibility that weighs down on them.

  A fast-moving carriage thundered along the noisy street in front of the house and stopped by the porch.

  “It’s Natalia Afanasevna,” Cecily said, glancing up; and Natalia Afanasevna came in with N
adezhda Ivanovna.

  “Bonjour, chère! You weren’t expecting me so early, but I’m afraid of the heat. You know, I have to cross the whole park to see you. I got up early today like country folk, et me voilà. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing special,” Vera Vladimirovna answered. “Cécile has not been quite well these past two days, but today she’s already feeling better. And then today I am having a severe dizzy spell. And Olga?”

  “Olga is well; she’s rushing to finish her rug for our lottery. By the way, how many tickets have you distributed?”

  “Only twenty. I gave eight to Sergei.”

  “Please try to give out the rest of them too. I still have about fifty, but today I’m giving half of them to Princess Alina. She’s wonderful at distributing them. A propos, are you going to poor Madame Stentsova’s funeral today?”

  “Well, it seems I must,” answered Vera Vladimirovna, “Yesterday Princess Anna Sergeevna said that even she was going. Only I don’t know what I should do. I feel decidedly so unwell today that I don’t even have the strength to stand throughout the whole service. I think I won’t go to the church but just take my carriage with them to the cemetery, out of respect for the old mother.”

  “Fine. I’ll do the same thing. This morning I’ve an awful lot of things I have to do. I won’t get to the church on time, but only toward the end of the service. So we can ride together. If you like, drop by for me; I’m on your way.”

  “Fine. What an unexpected death!”

  “Yes, the poor woman was at the princess’s last evening party.”

  “Yes. I was talking to her there. How old was she?”

  “About thirty-two, but she seemed older.”

  “What a pity! She was an extremely nice and kind woman. Her husband must be out of his mind.”

  “That husband is quite in his mind,” Madame Valitskaia answered with a slight smile. “And he doesn’t have too much to grieve over anyway; his happiness was not something to envy.”