Other worlds, p.20
Other Worlds, page 20
Not wishing to offend, I remarked that it was all most unique. My host then explained that the main house had once stood on a slightly different site, with the two firs flanking the front door. But the house had long ago fallen into disrepair. The best the merchant could do was to reuse a few of the stones for the foundations of a new building close by. He’d felt he must start afresh, since the old house had been considered ill-starred; long ago, supposedly during the days of Catherine the Great, the master of the house had shot his wife dead. After that, he had either been executed or sent into exile. For decades, the estate had been abandoned; no one had lived there at all. In winter, wolves had roamed freely about the park. Though the merchant had, of course, tidied everything up when he was hoping to rent out the property.
Such places always bear an imprint of the tragedies they have seen unfold. You feel uneasy there. However peaceful their night may seem, however bright their sun may shine, you can’t quite believe in it. Something has snapped; something is out of true. The earth’s pulse and the vibrations of everything around it have been disrupted, never to return to their former state.
Once, I spent a night in that house. A moonlit night.
Even with the curtains drawn, I could sense the bright moon. I couldn’t sleep.
I went over to the window. A large, humpbacked dog—or maybe wolf—was trotting quietly across the meadow. It was limping on one forepaw, which was entirely white, and its rough fur glittered in the moonlight like needles. This strange creature ran behind the fir trees, to the site of the old house—and vanished.
In the morning, everyone had a good laugh when I told them about my “wolf with a white paw.” “Sure it didn’t have a collar?” they asked. “Or a muzzle?”
Yet there was not a single dog on the estate that matched my description.
For some time afterward I felt troubled, unable to shake off the impression left by that off-kilter estate, by that anguished and inordinate moon, and—above all—by that strange humpbacked half wolf.
I never went back there, but I did come across the owners again, in town the following winter. They told me a story they had not known at the time of my visit.
Apparently, the estate used to belong to a retired hussar. After inheriting it, he took a wife from somewhere in Lithuania. She was, as always in stories of this kind, a perfect beauty. The hussar was both severe and jealous, and he kept his wife locked away, never allowing anyone else to see her. He never took her with him when he went out hunting or to visit a neighbor. He even appointed a former soldier of his as a special guard—to keep a close eye on her. For her part, she was quiet and submissive, obeying her husband in everything. And yet, for some reason, this hussar seemed unable to trust her.
One day he went over to his neighbors to go shooting with them. Late in the evening, as he rode back, he sensed that something was agitating his horse. He looked around—and saw a fully grown she-wolf running along the edge of the forest, a little ahead of him. He spurred on his horse. The wolf ran faster—but still in the same direction, heading straight for his estate. The hussar reached for his gun and fired. The wolf then began to limp on one forepaw but kept on running. She reached the fence, crouched down to slip through a gap—she clearly knew her way around—then disappeared into the park. The hussar galloped back to his house. Everything there was as quiet as ever—not a sound from the dogs. He left his horse with the groom, went upstairs, woke his wife, and told her about the wolf. She refused to believe a word he said.
“Never heard anything like it!” she exclaimed. “You must have been dreaming.”
She’d pulled the bedclothes right up to her chin, and she looked as pale as can be.
When the hussar woke in the morning, his wife didn’t want to get up. She didn’t feel well.
This alarmed him. He pulled back the blankets and saw a bandage around one of her hands.
“I went out to pick cherries,” she said. “I was climbing up the ladder and a rung snapped. I cut my hand.”
He believed her, of course, and felt sorry for her.
But then he began to have doubts. “It’s autumn,” he thought. “How can she have been picking cherries?”
He went into the garden and found the ladder. All the rungs were intact.
He thought and thought—but nothing made any sense to him.
After a while, his neighbors invited him to go shooting again. He rode off, giving strict orders both to his wife—not to venture outside; and to the soldier—to keep a close watch on the house.
Late that night, he was riding back home again, looking around alertly. He caught sight of the she-wolf. This time she was running straight ahead of him. She was still limping; one forepaw was wrapped in a white bandage.
He understood yet dared not understand. He spurred on his horse to a gallop and chased after her, scarcely able to breathe. But the wolf was too far ahead; he couldn’t catch up with her. His house was already in sight. His horse was wheezing and panting, at the end of its strength. As they neared the park, the wolf crouched down, ready to disappear once again through her gap in the fence. That was it—he could no longer hide from the truth. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he seized his gun, made the sign of the cross over the barrel, took aim, and fired. With a strange groan, the wolf sank to the ground.
The hussar leaped from his horse, ran over to the wolf, and bent down. It was too dark to see anything. He squatted still lower. In front of him lay his wife: quiet as ever, in anguish, her dress all torn. She looked at him with bitter reproach—and then her eyes rolled back. She was dead.
He was tried in court, but no one believed him. He was found guilty of murder.
•
That was a tale from long ago, from the days of Catherine the Great. But I can tell you another tale that is only too modern. It is set in today’s Petersburg, and it is entertaining.
True, I can’t say for sure just when it happened. I can never remember dates; I find it hard to label years by numbers. What matters to me is events; it is what took place during a particular year that determines its shape.
The time I want to tell you about can be called an era of “occultomania.” I say this with regard both to our own small literary milieu and to all our followers, well-wishers, and patrons. Everyone then was conjuring and casting spells, studying medieval witch trials, and writing stories and poems about wizards, vampires, and shapeshifters. Briusov published his Fiery Angel. Sologub played the sorcerer in poetry, in prose, and in his everyday life. Kondratiev wrote about rusalkas and the unclean dead.1 A mass readership learned for the first time about Sologubian petty demons, Roman larvae,2 and many other such wonders.
Friends of the arts, those whom Alexander Blok christened “pharmacists,”3 soon caught on to this new fashion. Needless to say, they didn’t know how to pronounce the name of Sologub’s nedotykomka and they confused the larvae of ancient Rome with the ancient cave monastery of Kiev Lavra4—but they did their very best to appear interested.
These pharmacists really were very sweet. They visited exhibitions, filled the most avant-garde theaters, and attended every literary gathering, lecture, and public discussion. And however shaky their grasp of matters artistic, they always knew what and whom they should love, and what and whom they should loathe. They sacrificed both time and money for the sake of feeling involved with a literary world they must have found tedious and incomprehensible.
Among them were photographers, young lawyers, and the dentists who took care of the artists’ teeth. And there were relatives—the brother of a writer’s wife, or the husband of an actor’s sister.
With all their fiancées, nieces, wives, daughters, and aunts, these pharmacists made up quite a crowd. And this helped to create the right atmosphere, to saturate the air with the appropriate ecstatic emanations.
They did not find it easy to understand the appeal of sorcery. They were hard put to distinguish between necrophilia and philately—but they wanted to keep up with the times.
Budding poets liked to write about stern wizards. They flocked to the Harz Mountains to see the Brocken specter.5
Shapeshifters were also held in great esteem.
One poetess wrote:
Starry sky, still and quiet.
Cloudy dreams swirl and riot.
I, a she-wolf on the prowl,
Bound by forest law to howl;
You, my consort, most lupine
You, dear white-fanged wolf of mine.
In the dying rays of sun
Our hunt has only just begun.
Light of foot, you make no sound,
Dark shadow creeping o’er the ground—
Your pointed ears a source of fear
To feeble-hearted elk and deer.
Her husband, who had the most unfortunate pointed ears, took offense. Bringing public attention to his inadequacies was, in his view, out of order. These lines occasioned a serious family rift.
Many of us truly did long to fly away to a witches’ sabbath. But fantasy alone could not transport us there. Somehow we had to procure the magic ointment that witches smear on their bodies.
Piotr Potiomkin once discovered a detailed recipe in a book of witchcraft.6 Sadly, however, he could find no chemist willing to follow it, since every ingredient required was a deadly poison.
And so, we had to make do with fantasy.
•
While we were still all in thrall to demonism, someone most unusual appeared in our little circle—or rather, on its periphery.
This petite woman, whom we knew as Baroness Liza, had green eyes and a sharp nose. She was extremely thin, like a dried flower pressed between the pages of a book, but her hair was splendid and luxuriant, like a golden chrysanthemum. Though born and raised in England, she had Russian nationality. Two years earlier, she had gone to Switzerland in order to die of consumption. There she had met a captivating Russian lady, who beat her cruelly, brought her back to Saint Petersburg, then threw her out onto the street.
We loved these mad stories of hers, all the more so since she was an excellent pianist and composer and used to set our poems to music (though without understanding a word of them, since she knew no Russian at all).
The baroness was always falling in love—but only with women, which was also very much in fashion.
She remained in Petersburg for a year at most. I remember her frequent laments about Russia’s lack of a proper revolutionary hymn. Come the Revolution, what would the poor Russians sing? She kept trying to compose such a hymn herself—but without success. It always ended up sounding like either “La Marseillaise” or “La Carmagnole.”7
The manner of the baroness’s departure from Petersburg was as mysterious as that of her first appearance there. It was rumored that she had moved to Germany. Apparently, she’d adopted the pseudonym “Eugene Onegin,” begun wearing a man’s suit, and taken a wife.
A lady in our circle managed to discover her new address. She was passing through this small town anyway, so she resolved to pay her a call. The baroness was not at home, but her landlady spoke of her with the greatest respect.
“Herr Onegin,” she said, “ist ein braver Mann.”8
But I don’t need to say any more about this baroness—though a shapeshifter, of course, she most certainly was. What matters is the role she plays in the story I’m about to tell you.
•
I had invited a few people to my apartment—among them this same baroness and a sweet young lady called Ilya, also from the periphery of the literary world. She wrote a little, did a little translating, and was intelligent and endowed with good taste.
I’ve no idea why, but Ilya and the baroness took a strong dislike to each other.
Ilya was watching sullenly as the baroness rhapsodized over a gift I’d been sent—a black plush kitten in a basket of white roses.
“I can’t stand cats,” Ilya snarled. “Even this toy kitten disgusts me.”
The baroness carried on seeking attention. “Look!” she said, balancing the kitten on her shoulder. “Don’t I look good with this black cat? Don’t I look the very picture of a young sorceress?”
“You certainly do! You look like Carabosse, from The Sleeping Beauty. In a coach-and-six—drawn by six rats.”
This upset the baroness. Her eyes suddenly looked like two needles. Carabosse, after all, was a hunchback, with a long nose.
“Really?” she replied. “How very sweet you are! I am indeed Carabosse. And to prove to you the power of a wicked godmother, I’m going to turn you into a cat. Maybe that’ll prove just what you need. Seeing the world through a cat’s eyes may teach you to love them.”
Seeing how angry they both were, I quickly changed the subject.
The next day, Ilya called around, deeply troubled. “I think I’ve gone mad,” she said. “Please don’t say anything to anyone, but something very strange has happened to me.”
“What do you mean?”
Blushing, and with an awkward smile, she whispered, “I’m a cat.”
“What?”
“A cat,” she repeated, in embarrassment.
The story she then told me was surprisingly coherent.
“You know me,” she began. “I’ve never been one for all this witchcraft and sorcery of yours. I know it’s not fashionable to say so, but I’ve never believed in all that mumbo jumbo. I’m someone who prefers to be rational—a positivist, you might say.
“And I certainly wasn’t frightened by that vicious Carabaroness of yours. I forgot everything she said then and there.
“But then something woke me in the middle of the night. A breath of air. I looked across at the window and saw that the little pane at the top was open. I began to get out of bed. I didn’t fall—but somehow I found myself on all fours. Without standing up again, I went over to the window. A quick leap—and there I was on the windowsill. I sat for a moment, wondering what on earth was going on with me. I put my hand to my forehead, but it wasn’t a hand. It was a paw. I looked at the rest of myself—there was a streetlamp close by—and realized I was all soft and gray and silky. ‘Heavens!’ I thought. ‘I’m a cat! Whatever am I to do?’
“I stretch my paws up to the open pane, then jump down onto the ledge outside.
“You know very well, my dear, what a nervous soul I am, and how scared I am of heights. So imagine my surprise when I look down from the third floor and find the sensation quite pleasant. This makes me want to test myself. I’m scared, of course, yet curious. I walk along the ledge. It’s all right—I don’t even feel in the least dizzy. And I have a sense of my own body like I’ve never known before. Supple and bendy, everything doing as I ask. Next I remember the Martsevs—their apartment’s on the other side of the staircase. I look in through a window, but it’s dark. I can’t make out a thing. Then someone in white moves slowly toward me. This alarms me and I run away. Imagine it! Me, running along a ledge! On the third floor!
“I get to the end of the ledge. Beyond it lies the roof of the priest’s house. I jump across. Black, crisp shadows and a bright moon—a glorious night. I go right to the edge of the roof and look down. I’m not afraid! I even spin around a few times on purpose—and still don’t feel in the least dizzy. But then I sense I’m being watched. I turn around to see an enormous tomcat slip out from behind the chimney. His hackles are up. His eyes are round and frightening. He looks like a tiger—I’ve never seen such a huge cat. Now, of course, I can see that it was more a matter of how small I’d become myself. Back then, though, I was terrified. Leaping from roof to roof, from ledge to ledge, I race back. But my little pane has blown shut. Imagine my despair! What can I do? I go down into the yard. The door to the back stairs turns out to be open. Up I go.
“‘It’s already getting light,’ I say to myself. ‘The milkmaid will be here soon, and I can sneak in behind her.’ Cats, though, aren’t allowed in our apartment. Praskovya, the cook, will throw me out the moment she sees me. But what else can I do? I hide in the corner and wait. Then I hear the clatter of cans—the milkmaid climbing the stairs. Praskovya opens the door. ‘No,’ I think. ‘I’ll never be able to get past her.’ And then . . . ‘Wait here a second,’ I hear Praskovya say. ‘I’ve got some crusts for your cow.’
“‘Thank God for that!’ I say to myself. The moment Praskovya turns her back, I dart through into the corridor—and behind a cupboard. Little by little, I make my way back to my room. Luckily, the door is ajar. I jump up onto the bed and slip under the blanket. ‘Now I’ll go to sleep,’ I think, ‘and when I wake up everything will be all right again. After all, I can’t stay a cat forever.’ And then I remember that vile baroness. Was this some trick of hers? I have a little cry, then fall asleep.
“In the morning, Nastya wakes me up. As usual, she brings in my tea.
“‘Time to get up,’ she says. ‘It’s gone nine o’clock.’ Afraid it may still be a paw, I slowly bring one hand out from under the blanket. But that silly dream—thank God—is now over and done with. It’s even starting to seem funny.
“But Nastya goes up to the window. ‘What are these marks?’ she asks. ‘They look like paw prints. Leading straight from your bed.’
“Nastya looks first at me, then at the paw prints, and then at me again. She clearly suspects something. I’m horrified. My mind blanks out. I almost faint.
“Without a word, Nastya leaves the room. I go back to sleep. And then, once again, I’m woken by a woman’s voice: ‘Time to get up, young lady!’
“I open my eyes. It’s Nastya again, bringing me my tea. Nothing makes any sense. I feel shattered, my head’s like a lead weight. I ask Nastya the time.
“‘Gone nine,’ she replies.
