Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence

by Lodge, Kirsten; Rosen, Margo Shohl; Dashevsky, Grigory

  Like a laughing, blazing dawn, she stood before the Youth and stretched out her shapely, bare arms towards him. And she spoke, and from her words wafted a seductive, languorous fragrance, like puffs of delicate tuberose.

  “O, dear Youth, wise and passionate, you who know and see, your patience will be rewarded. Many have loved me, many thirsted to possess me, all handsome, young, strong men, and I have smiled an enchanting smile at many of them, like the smile of she who gives final consolation, but never until you have I said to anyone these sweet and terrible words: I love you. Now I want to, and I am waiting.”

  Her voice rang with passion and desire. She loosed from around her waist the black silk cord with its bronze key, and had already drawn back her arm to throw the key to the Youth, but she wasn’t quick enough. Her father had hurried over as soon as he noticed from afar that she had fallen into conversation with an unknown Youth. He grabbed her roughly by the arm, took away her key and started shouting in a hoarse old man’s voice, repellent as the leaden croaking of an old raven at a cemetery, “Are you mad, what are you trying to do? You’ve no cause to speak with him. This Youth is not born of those for whom we grew our Garden, once we had mixed the juices of these plants with the poisonous resin of Anchar. Not for the likes of this penniless man did our ancestral father perish, having breathed the lethal fragrance of the terrible resin. Go on, go home, and don’t dare to speak with him.”

  Tightly squeezing her hands, both of which he had seized in one of his own, the old man pulled his daughter towards the house, which was visible in the depths of the Garden. The Beautiful Lady docilely followed her father, laughing. And her laughter was clear, ringing and sweet, and it stung the Youth’s ardent heart with thousands of sharp stings.

  He remained standing a long time at the window, examining with straining eyes the carefully planned and pruned vistas of the enchanted Garden. But the Beautiful Lady did not show herself again. All was quiet and motionless in the wondrous Garden, and the monstrously bright flowers seemed lifeless, and when their fragrance reached the Youth, it made his head spin and his heart grow faint with terrible languor—a fragrance reminiscent of the dark, urgent, greedy breath of vanilla, cyclamen, datura and tuberose, wicked and unhappy flowers, dying as they destroy, captivating in their fatal mystery.

  III

  The Youth firmly resolved to find a way into the wondrous Garden, breathe his fill of the mysterious fragrances that the Beautiful Lady breathed, and win her love, even though it might cost him his life, even though the path to her might be a fatal one, a path of no return. But who could help him get inside the house of the old Botanist?

  The Youth left the house. For a long time he wandered about the City, asking everyone he knew about the Beautiful Lady, the daughter of the Botanist. Some could not take him inside the old Botanist’s house, and others would not, and everyone spoke unkindly of the Beautiful Lady.

  His Friend said, “All the young Optimates of our City fall in love with her and praise her elegant and refined beauty. But to us, the Proletarians, her beauty is hateful and unnecessary: her dead smile irritates us, and we find the madness hiding in the depths of her blue eyes repugnant.”

  A Young Woman, seconding him, said, “Her beauty, about which many idle, rich young men speak, is in our view no real beauty at all. It is merely the dead allure of decay and corruption. I dare say she uses powder and rouge. She smells like a poisonous flower; even her breath is scented, and that is repugnant.”

  A Popular Professor said, “My colleague the Botanist is a renowned and learned man; but he does not want to subject his science to the higher interests of humanism. His daughter, they say, is enchanting; some talk of the originality of her dress and manner; however, I have not had a chance to engage in any sort of substantial discussion with her, as she is rarely to be met with in our circles. I think, however, that her charms contain something harmful for the health. I’ve heard strange rumours, the truth of which I obviously cannot vouch for, rumours that the percentage of fatalities among the young aristocrats who visit that house is higher than average.”

  The Abbot, with a thin smile on his shaved, pale face, said, “When the Beautiful Lady comes to me in church, she prays too earnestly. One might think that she has some heavy sins on her conscience. But I hope we won’t ever have to see her standing at the church doors in the woollen shirt of a repentant sinner.”

  A Mother, after sending all her daughters out of the room, said, “I don’t understand what people find attractive about her. Men ruin themselves over her, she’s flirtatious, breaks the hearts of young men, takes bridegrooms away from their brides, and meanwhile she herself loves no one. I do not permit my dear daughters, Minochka, Linochka, Dinochka, Ninochka, Rinochka, Tinochka and Zinochka, to socialise with her. My girls are so well-mannered, dear, obliging, cheerful, amiable, diligent, such capable housekeepers, so good at needlework. And even though it will be difficult for me to part with them, that’s the way it must be, and I would gladly give my eldest’s hand to such a well-mannered young man as you.”

  The Youth left in a hurry. The seven sisters smiled to him from the window, jostling against one another. It was a dear and pleasant scene to behold, but the Youth’s heart was full of sweet and terrible visions of the Beautiful Lady.

  IV

  The old Botanist led his daughter into the house. His anger had subsided, and although he didn’t let her clasped, slender hands out of his own big, bony fingers until he had got the gaily smiling Beautiful Lady past the threshold, he no longer squeezed them so painfully or pushed her so roughly ahead. His face was sad. He let go of his daughter’s hands and she followed him docilely into his study—an enormous, sombre room, its walls covered with shelves holding many huge, dusty books.

  The Botanist sat down in the dark leather-upholstered armchair at his heavy oak desk. He seemed weary. He shaded his eyes, which still held their youthful gleam, with a parchment-yellow, trembling hand, and peered reproachfully at his daughter. The Beautiful Lady dropped to her knees at his feet, looked up at the old Botanist’s face, and smiled tenderly and submissively. She held herself erect, with her arms at her sides; there was a subdued submissiveness in her pose, and affectionate obstinacy in the curve of her alluring smile. Her faced looked pale, and it seemed as if the flames of mad laughter still flickered on her lips, and mad yearnings lurked secretly in the dark blue depths of her eyes. She said nothing, waiting for what her father would say.

  And he spoke slowly, as if finding the words with difficulty. “My dear, what did I hear you say? I did not expect this from you. Why did you do it?”

  The Beautiful Lady bowed her head, and quietly and sadly said, “Father, sooner or later it is bound to happen.”

  “Sooner or later?” asked her father, with what sounded like surprise in his voice. And he went on, “Then let it happen later rather than sooner.”

  “I’m aflame,” the Beautiful Lady said softly.

  And the smile on her lips was like the reflection of burning flames, and dark blue lightning smouldered in her eyes, and her bared shoulders and arms were like fine alabaster vessels filled with molten metal. Her splendid bosom rose and fell in uneven breaths, and two white waves strained to be free of the tight embrace of her dress, which was of a soft yellowish pink colour, like a peach. From beneath the folds of her rather short dress her shapely legs and feet were visible, resting nervously on the dark-green velvet of the rug.

  Her father shook his head quietly, and in a sad and severe voice said, “You, dear daughter, so experienced and so artful in your wondrous ability to enchant while yet remaining chaste, you must know that it is still early for you to be leaving me and abandoning my plan before it has been perfected.”

  “But will it ever be finished?” the Beautiful Lady protested. “They keep coming and coming.”

  “No one knows,” said the Botanist, “if there will ever be an end to it, and whether we will see our plan come to fruition or hand it down to succeeding g
enerations. But we will do what we can. Remember that now a young Count is coming to see you. You will kiss him and let him choose from a bouquet of poisoned flowers. And he will go away full of sweet hopes and giddy anticipation, and once again the inevitable will happen to him as well.”

  An expression of submission and boredom settled on the Beautiful Lady’s face.

  “Go along, then,” said her father.

  He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. The Beautiful Lady touched her sultry, scarlet lips to his wrinkled, yellow hand, pressed her white, half-bared bosom to his dry knees, sighed and stood up. And her sigh was like a moaning reed.

  V

  Half an hour later, the Beautiful Lady stood in the same dress before a handsome, arrogant young Count in the midst of the Garden by a round bed of brightly coloured, enormous flowers from which wafted a stupefying fragrance, and with a sweet smile she was saying, “Dear Count, you ask for too much. Your desires are too ardent and too impatient.”

  Her smile was tender and arch, and her chaste, clear gaze took in with gentle admiration the slim figure of the young Count and his rich costume, tailored fashionably and handsomely from the most expensive fabrics and decorated with gold and gemstones.

  “Dear enchantress,” said the Count, “I know that you have been cold towards many others who sought your favour. But you will be more tender towards me. I will be able to earn your love. I swear by my honour that I will make the cold blue of your eyes darken with passion.”

  “And how will you gain my love?” asked the Beautiful Lady.

  The expression on her lovely face was impenetrable, and her voice betrayed none of the excitement that so easily overcomes young ladies when they hear the sultry voice of the passion they have inspired. But the self-assured, arrogant Count was not deterred. He said, “My predecessors left me a not insignificant fortune, and I myself have increased it many times over with my gold and valour. I have many precious gems, rings, necklaces, bracelets, fine fabrics and perfumes from the east, Arabian horses, silk and satin clothing, rare weapons, and much more that I can’t begin to list, that I can’t even call immediately to mind. I will pile it all at your feet, enchantress; I’ll pay with rubies for your smiles, pearls for your tears, gold for your fragrant sighs, diamonds for your kisses, and a blow from my trusty dagger if you betray me.”

  The Beautiful Lady laughed. She said, “I am not yet yours, and already you fear my betrayal and threaten me. That just might make me angry.”

  The Count threw himself to his knees before the Beautiful Lady and showered kisses on her hands, so supple and shapely, with soft skin from which rose a light, uncanny fragrance.

  “Forgive my madness, enchantingly Beautiful Lady,” he prayed, suddenly forgetting all his arrogance. “My love for you has deprived me of my tranquillity and prompts my wild deeds and strange words. But what am I to do! I love you more than my very soul, and to possess you I am ready to pay not only with my fortune, not only with my life, but with something dearer to me than life and the redemption of my soul—my honour!”

  The Beautiful Lady said with enchanting tenderness, “Your words have touched me, dear Count. Stand up. I will not exact excessive payment from you for my love. It cannot be bought and is not for sale. But he who loves must also be capable of waiting. True love always finds a way to the heart of the beloved.”

  The Count got up. With an elegant gesture he adjusted the lace cuffs of his green satin caftan and fastened a long, rapturous gaze on the Beautiful Lady. Their eyes met, and the expression in the Beautiful Lady’s blamelessly bright eyes was as impenetrable as ever.

  Seized by the dark anxiety that overcomes even the arrogant and self-assured in moments of mortal danger, the Count stepped away from the Beautiful Lady. On a bench nearby lay a prettily carved oak casket. The Count opened it and with a respectful bow brought it to the Beautiful Lady. The sun’s rays quivered like merry laughter on the diamonds and rubies of a diadem. And it seemed to the arrogant Count that the radiance and laughter fell on the priceless stones from the glowing lips of the Beautiful Lady. But her smile was just the same as before, and she gazed curiously at the gift as if it were a worthless, but nonetheless pleasing token of his regard. Then for a fleeting moment she was touched lightly by sorrow, her face clouded, and she said, “My forebears were slaves, and you offer me a diadem even a queen would not refuse.”

  “Enchantress!” the Count exclaimed, “You are worthy of an even more splendid diadem.”

  The Beautiful Lady smiled at him cordially and again became a little sorrowful, her face troubled, and said gently, “My forebears were fated to spill hot drops of their blood beneath the whips of cruel masters, while to me befall festive rubies of wedded happiness.”

  And so quietly it was scarcely audible, she whispered, “But I won’t forget.”

  “Why think about days long past?” the Count exclaimed. “Our bright, youthful days are full of joy; let’s leave the sorrow of remembrance for old age.”

  The Beautiful Lady laughed, her laughter chasing away her sorrow, which was only momentary, like a storm cloud dissipating in the summer sun. She said to the Count, “For your wonderful gift, dear Count, I will give you today one flower of your choice and one kiss. Only one.”

  The young Count became so ecstatic and expressed this so vehemently and noisily that the Beautiful Lady repeated, sweetly and severely, “Only one, not more.”

  And she asked the Count, “Which flower, dear Count, do you want to have from me?”

  The Count answered, “Lovely temptress, whatever you give me will make me unspeakably grateful to you.”

  Smiling, the Beautiful Lady said, “All the flowers you see here, dear Count, have been brought here from afar. They have been gathered with great effort and at great risk. My father has improved their form, colour and fragrance through his assiduous care. He has long studied their properties, transplanting, cross-breeding and grafting them until finally he attained his ends, having developed poor, wild, ugly flowers from fields and woods into these enchanting, fragrant blossoms.”

  “And the most enchanting blossom of all is you, dear Beautiful Lady!” the Count exclaimed.

  The Beautiful Lady gave a little sigh and continued, “Many find their fragrance too strong and heady. And I notice that you, dear Count, are growing pale. You and I have spent too long among these sultry fragrances. I’m used to it, I’ve been breathing them in since childhood, and my very blood is saturated with their sweet vapours. But you had better not stand here too long. Choose quickly which flower you want to take from me.”

  But the young Count insisted that the Beautiful Lady herself pick him a flower—he was waiting impatiently for her second gift, the promised kiss—the first kiss. The Beautiful Lady looked at the flowers. A fleeting shadow of sadness once again darkened her face. With surprising speed, as if her movements were governed by a will not her own, she extended her arm, so lovely in its bared shapeliness, and plucked a white, double blossom. She slowed her hand, bent her head, and finally, with an expression of timid indecision, she approached the Count and inserted the blossom in the buttonhole of his caftan.

  A strong, sharp fragrance rose into the young Count’s whitened face, his head began to spin, and he was suffused with languor, the strength drained from him. Indifference and weariness overwhelmed him. He was all but fainting, and hardly felt how the Beautiful Lady took him by the hand and led him to the house, away from the fragrances of the wondrous Garden.

  In one of the rooms of the house, where all was well-lit, pink and white, the Count came to. The youthful freshness came back into his face, his black eyes again lit up with passion, and once again he felt the joy of living and the tumult of desires. But his doom was imminent. A white arm, bare and shapely, settled on his neck, and the Beautiful Lady’s fragrant kiss was tender, sweet and long. The two deep blue lightning bolts of her eyes flashed right before his own eyes, and then were shrouded by the quiet mystery of her long lashes. Terrible flam
es of sweet pain whirled in a maelstrom around the young Count’s heart. He raised his arms to embrace the Beautiful Lady, but with a little cry she broke away and ran lightly and softly away, leaving him alone. The Count sprang after her. But the old Botanist met him at the doorway of the pink chamber. Caustic was the smile on those thin lips, cutting across the parchment-yellow face in a scarlet line. The Count was dumbfounded. With uncharacteristic confusion, and feeling a strange weakness throughout his body, he said good-bye to the old Botanist and left.

  The terrible whirlwinds of sweet pain circled faster and faster about the young Count’s heart as he rode home on his black Arabian racehorse, hardly hearing the distinct ringing sound of hooves on stone. His face grew paler and paler. Suddenly his eyes closed, his hand let go of the reins, and he slumped heavily down, sagging from the saddle. The frightened horse reared up on its hind legs, threw off its rider and galloped off. When they raised the Count up from the ground, he was already dead—his head had smashed against a rock, and no one knew how he had died. They were surprised—he had been such an accomplished horseman!

  VI

  Night fell. The full moon shone sweetly and tremulously, conjuring and enchanting with its cold, deathly silent rays. The Youth’s heart was full of dim terror as he went to his window. Having grasped the edge of the yellow curtain, his hands delayed and hesitated for a long time before he steeled himself to unhurriedly pull it aside. Swinging slowly, the yellow linen rustled, and its swish was like the barely audible hiss of a snake in the forest undergrowth; and the light copper rings gently rang and scraped against the copper rod.

  The Beautiful Lady stood beneath the window, and looked at the window, and waited. And the Youth’s heart skipped a beat, and he couldn’t understand whether fear or rapture was making his heart falter.

  The Beautiful Lady’s black braids were undone and fell about her bare shoulders. Her shadow lay sharply outlined on the ground at her unshod feet. Illuminated from the side by the moon, she stood there like a sharp, clearly defined vision. The folds of her white tunic were severe and dark. Dark was the blue of her eyes, mysterious her immobile smile. The dull, smooth surface of the broach fastened at her shoulder gleamed dimly on her strangely motionless body and clothes.