A Double Life

by Barbara Heldt

  The conversation around the table continued. Cecily listened to the chatter without penetrating its meaning and answered appropriately to questions that she had not understood, with that strange aptitude that we sometimes possess or, more precisely, that possesses us at times when our hearts are sleepwalking. Finally, all the visiting ladies dispersed, Dmitry left too, and Vera Vladimirovna remained alone with her daughter. She took advantage of what was left of the evening to inspect and choose fine lace with Cecily, and incidentally to give her a multitude of moral precepts and useful pieces of advice. Then she made the sign of the cross over her and sent her off to bed. Cecily was impatiently awaiting this opportunity to be alone; she hastened to undress and sent the maid away.

  Alone with herself, she leaned her elbows on the soft pillows and submitted to her blissful reveries. An intoxicatingly imperious calm took possession of her soul. Unhappiness was a meaningless word for her. She reigned over fate. She was standing before life like a creditor before a debtor, with the right to claim his property. She daringly and fearlessly believed in the unknown future, and in her heart, and in the heart of another. A strange, eternally new, eternally inexplicable phenomenon! What is the reason for striving so joyfully toward the unknown, for committing oneself so blindly? Where is the pledge, where the guarantee? In truth, it is only that unnatural conviction, insane and always deceived. It is the same majestic madness of Don Quixote, who orders a convoy of guards to free the convicts and deliver them to the justice of heaven. He is right, the inspired madman, when he trustingly takes the chains off the criminal, and only the depravity of others makes him wrong and comical.

  Great souls always preserve this faith in humanity; but everyone has felt it in himself, if only for a few moments.

  As children, we’ve all been told about one excellent trait of Alexander the Great. Give us time and we will all, if only once in our lives, stand equal to him; we will all, as he did, drink from the cup, though the whole world has assured us it is poisoned.

  And she continued her sweet imaginings, this happy young girl. Already, her thoughts were covered in mist and her dreams wandered, confused by drowsiness; but the bliss in her soul shone through, even though she was half asleep. Her head bent slowly and touched the pillow … her long lashes closed … and sweetly falling asleep, she suddenly shuddered as in unexpected fright; her eyes shone and again went dark. And the moon came up high and looked in the window … and in a sudden burst, from afar, through space something rushed in stormy flight, and the sleepy treetops began to rustle in the darkness, and again fell silent, scarcely breathing….

  All is silent; only the fountain’s tears

  Are falling unseen in the dark of the avenue of trees;

  The leaves are sleeping, the vines are still,

  The quiet grows more motionless and silent.

  What is heard suddenly in the stillness of the night,

  Quarrelling with the peacefulness?

  Are the hollow depths of the sea rumbling?

  Is a thunderstorm murmuring in the distance?

  Whose is that nameless and mighty call?

  The moon looks from on high into her eyes,

  The vale is peaceful, and the heavens without clouds.

  Why is her soul full of dread?

  He’s waiting there, where like a mute shadow

  The darkened cypress stands motionless:

  They met with a light step,

  Silently took each other’s hand.

  Dim understanding awakened in her,

  A prophetic voice filled her heart;

  And, leaning into his embrace,

  Suddenly her tears poured forth.

  What life-giving force flowed

  Over her among the wonders of the night?

  Whose thought began to speak over her,

  Floating into the bottomless heaven?

  Was it not his? … Hasn’t her heart begun to throb

  In mutual feeling, like a string?

  Wasn’t it with his harmonious hymn

  That the fountains, and the stars and she could sing?

  The time has come! … her soul is ready!….

  Come to her lips, holy sound! …

  Crowd into a mysterious word,

  A dream of all that is lofty!

  Love, incomprehensible miracle!

  How do you slip into fragile hearts,

  Bright guest, from a place

  Where there is no beginning and no end?

  Love, entering the corporeal world,

  You are made a slave to fate,

  You have no heavenly protection,

  You have no help from above!

  You will not smash the rules made by the crowd,

  You will not conquer its passions;

  And you will be forever in the wrong,

  Forever powerless before it.

  A blessed dream of the earthly realm,

  You will drift in the fog of life,

  Familiar, but always alien,

  Always inaccessible to Earth.

  The heart will strive in vain

  To embody you, sacred rite.

  O, cherub, flown down from heaven,

  You will return to heaven again!

  But your soul has touched divinity,

  Its secrets have found a tongue,

  Infinity has been thrown open,

  And your glance has penetrated the other world.

  Send now for a moment, O, spirit of the universe,

  Brilliant among those shining worlds,

  Boundlessness into perishable form,

  Heavenly light into earthly dust!

  For a moment, temper trembling souls

  In sacred powers;

  May eyes gaze and ears hearken,

  And earthly murmurs cease!

  When finally she had managed to arrange properly everything necessary for Cecily’s marriage, Vera Vladimirovna set the date of the wedding and consequently left the Park and returned with her daughter to her house on Tverskoi Boulevard. Meanwhile, Dmitry Ivachinsky visited his invalid father in order to receive his blessing and, as far as possible, to prepare his modest dwelling there for Cecily’s arrival. She had expressed the desire to spend in rustic solitude those first days of marriage with him, when newlyweds in love cannot get their fill of contemplating one another and fall into happy delusions, imagining that all the rest of the world had been created without need and purpose.

  Dmitry was absent for a week, and in the course of that week, he wrote seven long letters to Cecily. Vera Vladimirovna, through whose hands they passed, confiscated two of them. According to her strict, autocratic censorship regulations, she had found in them a certain improper whiff of George-Sandism, which it was necessary to keep from her daughter right up to the wedding itself. Perhaps she was right, but the results of her watchfulness were two sleepless nights for Cecily, in which she racked her brains until morning about the possible content of these two hidden letters, tirelessly thinking up countless solutions to this interesting riddle.

  Finally, after this endless, seven-day absence, Dmitry returned, more in love than ever. He was one of those people who in all their feelings and actions seem to be walking along a steep, downhill slope. They lack the strength to stop for a minute, and with each step, they get more and more carried away. Like all of them, Dmitry took this insufficiency of strength for fervency of character and insuperable storminess of passion. The reunion was touching. Vera Vladimirovna herself was deeply moved on this occasion and was convinced of the future happiness of her Cecily, about which all the people she knew (and even those she didn’t know) were speaking with much sympathetic interest.

  The long-awaited hour drew near and at last arrived. On the eve of the day that was supposed so happily to change her entire life, the bride was sitting at the window of her room and gazing in quiet contemplation at the long boulevard. It was the beginning of the second half of August, a month almost always autumnal in Russia. The day was overcast; cold, bl
uish-gray clouds drifted lazily across the heavens. Moscow still preserved its deserted summer appearance. Rarely did a carriage pass along the sedate street. On the empty boulevard, a hurried, plebeian passer-by in a dark-blue caftan or a gray peasant’s coat would appear from time to time. The dusty lime trees stood motionless, with a sort of tired, bored expression. The humid air promised rain.

  What was Cecily thinking about for so long, with such a distracted look? What was the cause of this almost-despondent daydreaming? She herself could not have said. We are powerless before our own incomprehensible feelings, and our impressions do not depend on any external events. Who has not sometimes felt weighed down and sad at heart in the midst of splendid festivity, of general noisy gaiety and their own happiness? Perhaps she was experiencing at that moment how strangely sometimes a person’s heart fears the imminent fulfillment of passionate desires, as if she understands, though only for an instant, all the blindness and insignificance.

  The entrance of the maid Annushka interrupted this wayward meditation.

  “Your mother kindly requests that you go down to dine; she is already at table.”

  “What,” Cecily said, “is it really so late?”

  “It’s after five, miss.”

  Cecily hurried to the dining room, where her mother was waiting for her.

  Dmitry was not there that day.

  Vera Vladimirovna wanted Cecily to spend this evening alone with her girlfriends in something like the traditional maiden’s party.

  Vera Vladimirovna was well known for her patriotism and love for all Russian customs, although when she happened to observe them, she gave them a rather French look. After eight, Cecily’s young friends came to visit. First to arrive, unusually merry, was Olga. For the last few days, Prince Victor had been extraordinarily courteous toward her, as she lost no time telling Cecily when they were alone.

  “Imagine, darling, yesterday I was in a frightful situation. You know we had a large cavalcade to Pokrovskoe arranged for yesterday. That marvelous traveler whom you saw at our house, Lord Granville, took part in it and made me a bet that he would overtake me. I agreed to the bet, trusting in the speed of my horse. But that morning, they suddenly came and told me that the horse was lame. This happened in the presence of Prince Victor, who had dropped in to inquire about Mother’s health. I was in despair that I would have to refuse to take part in the cavalcade, and especially that I would have to refuse the bet with milord. Meanwhile, Prince Victor had left and, imagine, an hour later, he sent me his groom with Gulnara, his best horse, and told him to tell me that he sincerely wished that I would win my bet riding her. I did win, indeed! How do you like that?”

  Cecily shared with all her heart in Olga’s happiness.

  “I always thought,” she said, “that you would be the wife of Prince Victor. May God grant you happiness!”

  Olga threw herself into Cecily’s arms. The other visitors entered, and the usual conversation of young girls began: happy chatter, light mockery of absent friends, innocent secrets whispered in the ear, sometimes by chance a caustic word—and all of this was surprisingly graceful.

  Cecily, of course, was the tsaritsa of the enchanting circle: her friends were paying that involuntary tribute that belongs by right to the triumphant one chosen in love. All these shrewd, uninitiated Ondines understand this. She herself radiated the sweet pride that every bride feels in herself, even the poor bride-to-be of a craftsman. Her vague morning thoughts had completely disappeared. Once again, she trusted joyfully in her fate. The young guests were busy with the presents given her by her fiancé, mother, and relatives. They inspected, interrogated, praised, evaluated, envied—and the hours went by in a merry and lively fashion.

  They were passing even more merrily at that same time in the drawing room of a house near the Arbat gates, where Dmitry Ivachinsky lived. That evening, during a boisterous conversation with ten or so friends, he was bidding farewell to his bachelor existence. Champagne was flowing, and the smoke of cigars was rising around the table where dinner had ended a little while before. On the tablecloth, bottles crowded together, goblets sparkled, and large, dark spots of spilled burgundy and Lafitte appeared. The young rakes were entering into a euphoric state. Shouts, arguments, gales of laughter, pointed jokes, and the whole concoction of crude masculine entertainment resounded. Ilichev was telling indecent jokes. His audience laughed at the top of their voices. Dmitry laughed loudest of all; he also overdid merrymaking, just as he did sensitivity and sadness. He always feared being unable to justify to himself the respect he had for his own unbridled strength.

  Meanwhile, Cecily was speaking to her circle of friends about the unbelievable meekness and timidity of her future husband’s love and was enumerating all his virtues. It was already quite late. The young girls went out onto the balcony. The starry sky sparkled; the dark clouds of the morning had moved away and lay in a black band along the horizon. Cecily leaned against the railing and remembered standing with the same friends on the same balcony on a May night three months earlier, and she thought with heartfelt pleasure how much had come to pass for her—how happily her fate had changed in these three months.

  When all the merry guests had left, when Cecily had wished her mother good night and gone into her bedroom, she was filled with joyful agitation. In the course of the whole evening, she had spoken with her friends so much about Dmitry, had so recalled and praised all his merits and fine qualities, so boasted of his love and her own happiness that, drunk with the sweet intoxication of this conversation, she found herself still under the pleasant influence of her own words. She rang for the maid, freed her long braids, unwound her constricting sash, threw off her dress and her tight corset, shook off her graceful shoes with a light movement and, putting on a comfortable peignoir and slipping her bare feet into soft Turkish slippers, she sent Annushka away and sat down on the sofa. The door closed after the maid. Silence and peaceful twilight surrounded the young bride-to-be. The cozy bedroom was lit only by the icon lamp, weakly and mysteriously shining from its high frame. The languid ray of light fell on her bowed head with its loosened black hair, the pure brow, the sweet half-smile of the tender dreamer. Her young soul was telling itself some silent, wonderful tale in the silence of the night. The stars glimmered through the long, muslin curtains on the windows of the quiet room.

  In Dmitry’s room, the noise increased. The champagne was replaced by rum; in the middle of the table, hot punch floated with a blue flame as the orgy descended into complete debauchery. Two or three of the more feeble types were already lying on sofas, but the remaining heroes were shouting and laughing all the louder, although a bit senselessly.

  “Ivachinsky!” yelled Ilichev, “is it because you really are taking leave of the joys of life that you’re drinking with such desperation?”

  “I see now that you’re drunk,” Dmitry answered, “because you’re beginning to utter absurdities.”

  “Gentlemen,” Ilichev continued in a loud voice, raising his full glass, “I drink to Ivachinsky’s health, and I wager that from tomorrow on, he’ll become a most moral person and a virtuous family man. He’ll take a stroll along the boulevard with his wife on his arm, drink only blameless tea, and later boiled milk with his children.”

  The din of laughter sounded anew.

  “Do you hear that, Ivachinsky?” some voices cried out.

  “I do.”

  “Well, aren’t you answering?”

  “What should I answer to such nonsense?”

  “You see, Ivachinsky,” Ilichev said, “what a fine reputation you have. They all agree with me, and no one wants to take up my bet.”

  Of all the soul’s impressions, shame is the most conventional and the one most capable of being falsely applied. Dmitry felt ashamed that these wastrels could assume him capable of settling down. Most likely, in the company of a brazen thief, he would have been ashamed that he did not steal.

  “I’ll take your bet,” he cried out, “and, in a week
from today, I’ll invite you all to a heroic drinking bout with the gypsies.”

  “Bravo!” the guests cried noisily. “It’s a deal!”

  “Of course,” one of them added, “who would want to get married if the blessed state of matrimony made it necessary to give up wine and good times!”

  “He’s bragging,” Ilichev said. “Look at him! What if his wife were to find out!”

  Dmitry waved his arm with inexpressibly heroic scorn and immediately drank down his glass of hot punch to the dregs.

  In her quiet bedroom, Cecily was still sitting in profound meditation, but little by little, her dreams were changing unaccountably. She looked around her at this modest, chaste room that tomorrow she would have to leave forever, and at that moment, she dimly understood a great deal. All her childish, bright peacefulness, so proudly scorned, suddenly flashed before her like a priceless but lost treasure. A weight lay on her heart. She tried to console herself by enumerating yet again all Dmitry’s virtues, all the guarantees of her future happiness, but now they somehow failed to come to mind. A senseless fear and a mysterious grief gripped her soul ever more painfully. Her nerves were severely strained. She didn’t have the strength to throw off this oppressive thought from her heart. She sat with bowed head, mute under the weight of this inexplicable feeling. Suddenly, a shudder ran through her, and she remained motionless as in a trance. As Cecily leaned slightly forward, strangely staring into the twilight, with inexpressible sadness in her face, through walls and through space, it was as if she had reached that boisterous festivity, as if she could see the piercing flame of the hot punch and hear the sharp laughter of a familiar voice.

  Finally, she stood up weakly, went to the corner where the icon gleamed in its golden frame, and fell to her knees with a heavy sigh before the holy countenance that looked so peacefully at all the heart’s storms, at all earthly woe.