Table of Contents

  Beyond the Silver Threads

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  (Senza titolo)

Beyond the Silver Threads

by

Lara Biyuts

Copyright © 2019 - Lara Biyuts

“Un coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard. ”

(Stéphane Mallarmé)

“’Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,

And do such bitter business as the day

Would quake to look on.”

(Shakespeare)

I

Quietude. If any of imaginative young men and observant readers or mere stargazers of any age wanted to get lost in thought and musings, this apartment looked like the most proper place in the world. More or less dusty, here and there picturesque, the intricate topography of this seven room apartment could be more or less interesting to a whole range of art lovers of the described epoch. All the rooms had equally bizarre decorations of the sort that made one suppose that the apartment was not a peaceful abode of the esteemed celibate clerk, privy councilor of Russian Empire, but a pied-à-terre of a young scapegrace or a den of a British colonialist. A lot of ornate ottomans and carved lockers, motley rugs and draperies, varicolored lanterns, antiquated-looking swords, lusterware, trays, and some nice bric-a-brac and rarities whose origin preceded the rise of Christianity by centuries. All the useful domestic utilities, tables, beds, washstands were carefully covered with the folding screens painted all over with golden dragons --such was the fancy of Uncle Anton Korsak, whose apartment was at his nephew’s disposal for a while, and where the nephew of the name of Vadim felt caged and guarded by some obscure thoughts, dreams and visions. How was his Uncle himself? The Uncle was away, abroad, for more booty of the same bizarre sort.

Like some natives of this part of the world, Vadim’s uncle withered in springtime, being subjected to seasonal illnesses and indispositions, and he bloomed in autumn, becoming enlivened, and definitely moving counterclockwise or rather counter-year-wise, being strangely oriented to the year’s solstices; moreover, Uncle would say that the winter cold was healthy for him and that every autumn he felt young again with his desires boiling anew. Thus, while Uncle was traveling abroad, his Nephew lived the dreamlike life in the disorderly and flamboyantly decorated rooms.

The last night’s dreams had not left Vadim’s mind, depressing, in addition to the inquiry letter, this vivid reminder of yesterday’s incident, bright and distinct like someone’s lancet letting blood to his morning hours and making him languid. As the sleep-wearied fifteen-year-old with his disheveled caramel-brown hair read the letter, a little moue of displeasure fleetingly changed the youth’s chubby face with rosy cheeks and cherry lips. A moment more and his eye began wandering round the spacious room that looked both luxuriant and neglected in the scanty light of the northern winter morning. Then, his hand dropped the letter and the heavy mid-Regency paper, golden-coroneted and golden-bordered took a tumble down on the floor like an ill white pigeon. Lying on his back, he looked depressed, with his gray eyes twinkling anxiously, showing some secret alarm. The boring tone of his far cousin Count Felix and the rosy face of his far cousin Annette making eyes at him, next, the spicy talks with his friend Lodie Chartoborsky, seductive and languor-bearing, and then, all of them as well as any images of any curtained pictures, in his mind’s eye, were eclipsed by her smile, the beautiful and sly, whose image remained in the damaged picture in Count Felix’s drawing-room, she who was weirdly alive in Vadim’s restless night dreams, the beautiful witch in white silks, with the eternal loveliness of many faces and with the strange and fatal name “Manon Lescaut.” The beautiful lady in the damaged picture at yesterday’s Twelfthnight soiree had the other name and a type of sofa was named after her, but Vadim preferred to call her Manon Lescaut.

“Sir, you ought to get up,” the butler Mitrich said, and the old man’s ordinary lean physique and his familiar gruff voice impressed Vadim oddly like a morning phantom who eventually proved to be your home lawyer who came to tell about the lamentable state of your home inheritance. Vadim’s late father, the widowed old man, full privy councillor, left Vadim only his pension, a small house in countryside and six State loan bills --actually, the best the widowed old man did to his only son was the enrollment of Vadim at the Imperial Lyceum which gave Vadim the uniform that let the teenager visit some assemblages and ballet shows, where he could socialize and pal up with students and other people who were much older than him. Now, Vadim got out of his bed and went to the washstand behind the Japanese screen.

While dressing, he questioned the butler about the current state of his uncle’s simple household which he was in charge of, at present, for the time of the winter season. Now, after poking the fire in the Dutch tile stove, the manservant left, and Vadim finished straightening his uniform of a Lyceum student, his usual everyday clothing --and finally he began combing his hair. The butler brought a tray with the morning meal.

The old manservant was obviously spoilt and to make it worse, he was an ignoramus who never knew that “man doth not live by bread only but… by a dessert too!” with this writer making no apology to readers for the garbled citation. Waving with the feather duster over all the furniture, the butler left muttering under his breath something disapproving about new times.

The big piece of potato pie was cold and dry. Dulling the edge of his appetite, Vadim felt the languor of his sleep filling his body again, and the dormant air of the apartment caused a drowsy state in his mind though his night hours hardly ever were sleepless and at the time of a day when “for the mortal one, is stilled the noisy day, and, on the silent city’s buildings, the easy shadow of night is softly laid,” as the poet said, Vadim did not suffer from insomnia.

He had plenty of free time. Approaching a window, through the hoar-frost-framed pane, he could see the heavy snowfall outside and a passerby quickly and busily walking in the side-street. He imagined the frost strong and the twilight so early. One of the few available amusements indoors was his pacing from corner to corner, so he began walking about the apartment.

A five-day-old issue of the Northern Bee newspaper was on the card-table; the latest bestseller “Vyzhigin,” by Faddey Bulgarin, was left in the Windsor chair; and the sleeping cherub shelf-sitter statuette neglectfully guarded other books, but Vadim was in need neither of sleep nor spiritual food.

In his idleness, Vadim moved from one room to another, drawing the door draperies open and leaving them sway and stop behind his back. The scanty day light reflected from myriads of facets of hoar frost over the windowpanes. Standing at the window a little longer, Vadim proceeded with the round of the rooms, quietly gliding over the carpets. He paused at one door, looked round for some reason and opened the door. Slowly his feet took the first step as though moving towards mystery, towards his own dreams, towards someone.

II

But nobody was there, and the room was not a forbidden place. Spacious, with two eastern divans along the damask walls, with no desks or bookshelves, it was called a study, for some reason. As though with no particular reason, Vadim was walking around for some time, running his fingers over the line of ancient chibouques in the bronze stand, warming up his hands at the hot tile stove, absent-mindedly watching the white lusterware simple ornament in the form of tiny blue churches. Then he came up to an old chest with a graceful oval swing mirror on the top --the cracked lacklustre mirror obligingly reflected his melancholic visage, dividing a part of his breast across --with his hands he tried it --the lustrous rosewood device was big but not too heavy --then he took it from the top of the chest. Placing the mirror on a small round table in front of the divan, he lay down on the silk pillows and cast his eyes up, because a wall and a picture reflected in the cracked mirror.

The picture was curtained; it was said to be a copy of the famous Odalisque by Karl Brulloff, a beautiful naked woman sitting at hers in the process of dressing with the aid of a dark-skinned ugly slave. Before departure, Uncle pinned two sides of the curtain, and today only the Odalisque’s dark-haired head and a piece of the background could be seen. At first, Vadim resisted to the power of the dark eyes of the white-skinned woman, painted and reflected therefore twice false, saying to himself that there was too much shenanigan in his feelings to this object of art, but soon, he could not take his eyes off the white face, and it seemed to him that now, ensconcing himself in the cushions, he watched somebody’s life, spying through an old-framed window. He felt hot; the silk pillow was pleasantly cool, and two big statuettes of two enameled Indian boys, sitting cross-legged on the top of two pillars of the divan arms, were like silent sentinels to his dream-born languor. Vadim sighed and began thinking of one of his recent poems.

Key clinking, chain falling --ancient door opening, dreams murmuring,

conjuring, enchanting --thoughts darker than eyes, and words

softer than snowfall --not tired of the silence, anytime,

anywhere, at a gate, fireplace or hookah, leeward, windward,

in the old house with the flaws and pains,

he always was ready for dreams. The white humming

outside windows --it’s January at the readying stand.

In the contemplation of the double dupery of the picture and the old mirror, Vadim spent some time lying on the divan till thirst and hunger forced him to stand up and go in search of what was called food and drink in this household; then he returned to the intricate cajolery of the quaint old things. Without looking up at the curtained picture, he flung himself on the divan and spent some time dreaming till twilight.

It could be so nice to contemplate the enameled Indian boys’ motley refinement, their expressive heads wearing the golden turbans and their colorful eastern clothing, their wide trousers, belted green with tiny azure hearts in gold on the ankles and above knees; in fact, the red trousers were of two hues, upper part, above knees was purple ornamented with golden and green flowers, and the lower part was scarlet with no ornament; their short sleeveless and low-necked jackets were bright-violet ornamented with golden and green stripes; their violet and green shoes were visible underneath their crossed legs; the swarthy arms had golden armlets on, and the golden turbans had purple tops --undoubtedly, it was nice and even fun to contemplate these skillfully wrought statuettes, while sitting darkling, and fantasizing, but not today.

Dreams, the carnivorous plants that could creep in one’s heart, blossoming in the heart, flying round the human like the smoke of a hookah; as the smoke the dreams curled, branched and vanished. Chimes rang gently; the china figure of Shepherd bowed to his china Sweetheart six times, because, according to the Hamburg mechanics, every hour was celebrated with a kiss. When the Shepherd returned to his bronze hut, Vadim sighed again.

Delineations of the things and furniture faded merging into the dusky background and only the white face was dimly visible in the cracked mirror. Now, it seemed to him that the portrait moved.

The corners of the lips quivered, and he recognized the yesterday smile of the lady that looked at him from the picture on the wall as he had his helping of almond cake at table. He blushed like a rose. “You dammed witch!” Recalling his yesterday shame and the damaged picture, someone’s property, not his, the property of his relatives who never did any harm to him, he jumped up in a fury and in another instant his quick hands violently undid the light cover of the picture.

The famous naked Odalisque was completely dressed in this copy of the famous picture, by vagary of an artist or a commissioner. A long white tunic covered her entire body up to the top of the shoulders and her smile proved to be yet more scornful; the familiar ugly slave did the other work, offering a ewer and not clothes. Growling, Vadim jumped down from the divan and hastened to leave the deafeningly silent dusk of the room.

The morning letter lines flashed across his mind: “…To Vadim Korsak Esq. Dear Sir! …What is the excuse for your misbehavior yesterday? The picture is recently purchased, but it’s not the loss that caused my anxiety. Annette and I are anxiously waiting for your explanation of the fact that you were caught in the strange attitude, your feet on the sofa, in my drawing room, doing something with the aid of your penknife to eyes of Mme Récamier in the fine copy of her portrait by Francois Gérard. We are sooner inclined to regard your fit as a temporary loss of sanity rather than as a deliberate affront…” In the dormant anteroom, Mitrich snored, comfortably lying on a big chest. “Confound it!.. Confound the curtains and pictures! Confound the cluttered up and frowzy rooms!” Putting his greatcoat and cap on, Vadim rushed outdoors.

“Oh… Hullo! Where are you going?! And I, last night…” Smiling, wearing a greatcoat and cap, snow-powdered all over, Lodie Chartoborsky stood in front of the entrance, clapping with gloved hands and beginning his storytelling with no attention to his friend’s upset look.

III

In the streetlamp scanty light, Vadim now blushed, now grew pale, as his friend’s narration got more and more playful, and the shattered reality, broken to pieces, began to sound and recover.

“…my note has had an effect,” Lodie spoke loudly and boastfully, and Vadim listened to him, enviously, “Have you ever noticed her build? Going on sixteen, and Prince Borislav Aldan-Ussuri, with who I pal around, says that…” It was clear as noon, Lodie was good at love affairs like he never was at math or history, like nobody else among Vadim’s mates, and Vadim trusted all the stories of Lodie’s courtly adventures. “…then she said ‘Moments of pure bliss. I can feel my femininity growing wetter and hotter. Oh baby boy what is a girl to do, but lay back and exhale?’…”

Last year, Lodie told about a steamy romance with a lady who was older than he and married and whose name Lodie kept secret. He had more than one rendez-vous amoureux with the lady, and after she left for traveling abroad, he showed Vadim a new inscription on his pocket watch where in the center of the solid gold cover, instead of initials or words, the enigmatic numbers were incised: 3 x 4 = 12. Impressed and intrigued, Vadim did not ask, though he did not feel certain about the exact sense of the inscription, and Lodie did not explain, but Vadim guessed it was apparently an amatory arithmetic which was to impress an inexperienced person like him.

“…she ravished my mouth with hers. Her kisses so sweet, so teasing and oh so very pleasing as I moved within her. Our moans meeting and mixing till I cannot hear the difference in my ears of what was she and what’s me. I gasped, I felt my body trembling. My mind started spinning as my body climaxed over and over again…” Here Lodie remembered of Vadim. “Now listen to this. Keep our company at supper. I have a carriage nearby. Let’s go right now…”

Here Vadim remembered of his finances. He had only five rubles in his pocket which was all his money tonight and which he had to live on till his uncle’s return, and this fact made his mind sober; besides, he was afraid that he might be acting like a droop in company with the couple of lovers therefore he ultimately refused to go along with his friend to a woman.

Lodie took out his pocket watch. If they headed for the theater, they saw Act Two of the ballet show “Triumph of Galatea” close to final --pirouetting for the last time Mlle Lavelle flying away to the pink side-scene and the corps-de-ballet girls smiling at their admirers –it was rather nice, but Lodie, this young restless connoisseur in the restless sphere of the winter holidays night life, remembered some show that was to take place at the Red Pub tonight, within easy reach as soon as the friends took a cab.

IV

The Red Pub, an old dive in the old basement of a big apartment house, famous from the Peter the Great times, was brightly lit, warm, smoke-filled and busy.

A group of tipsy students unsuccessfully began singing a Latin song while the small group of gypsy musicians --one guitar, two violins, drum and harp –played something quietly on the small stage at the west wall, when Lodie and Vadim came in, going downstairs.

“Be mirthful now, for nothing stays…

Our good and evil both are brief!

Capricious Fate leads many ways…

Sometimes to joy, sometimes to grief!”

It was a sort of Cabaret to night --a musical performance first, and then a show or a Séance of something new and unbelievable –that’s why, as soon as the Pub was full, the pub-owner tried to pacify the most unruly or noisy guests sitting on chairs or benches at long tables, drinking or awaiting drinks. Taking off their hats and ungloving hands, Vadim and Lodie could find seats only on a bench at a table underneath one of vaults of the ceiling at the east wall. By the oil-lamps Vadim could see well-dressed people and smell rich fragrant scents. Before he looked attentively at his neighbours, one chic lady attracted his attention.

A lady in a hat with a black and white feather plume. He undid the fur neckband of her fur coat and one could see her necklace so large and blinding that it might belong to a queen of diamonds, and more, one could see that she was apparently very slender. Her fair complexion, the deliberate artificialness of her brightly rouged lips and festively decorated eyes made her looking like a living doll who took no notice of anyone’s attention. Lodie said in undertones, “She may be after the ballet show, she may be with someone…Une pâlotte efflanquée… Flattish.” Lodie watched the Unknown Lady too. And Vadim recognized the smile, her smile, the same damned indifferent smile --like a derisive ghost that could flaunt out of sight any minute --Smile the phantom, Smile the lost, Smile the memory, whose reality the woman had suddenly proved. However beautiful this phantom, the smile meant conventionality, slavery, deceit, denying his love for her and fettering his heart, because her eyes looked as though she peered into darkness in the middle of nowhere. Lodie was whispering something in Vadim’s ear so excitedly that one of their neighbours grunted and got his ear closer to them. Vadim said, “That’ll do, that’ll do… please calm down.” Meanwhile, the gypsy small orchestra began playing louder, or rather they simply came forward from the back of the stage, but this didn’t prevent Vadim from hearing his neighbours who talked apparently about the Unknown Lady--

“An Italian woman. Count Radziwil has brought her to the city.”

“No. That one is fat.”

“She’s lost weight.”

“What for?” The reasonable reply made the two burst out laughing.

The laughter created a strange vibration at the table; it seemed to Vadim that the humans could turn into laughing phantoms and fly away in search of a vent out somewhere below the ceiling; but Lodie and he got their drinks, and any oddity of the moment vanished.

The Pub walls were decorated with small oval portraits of each of Russian Emperors. One of the neighbours, a tall and nosy middle-aged gentlemen looked at the portrait of the current Emperor Nicholas I above their table, he looked at the stage and the bar at the south wall with tables close to it, and he began talking with his companion, “Red Pub. Their faces’ rubedo explains this name. By the by, did you know, gentlemen, that Count Orloff used to visit this pub to take a drink, at least once, sixty-seven years ago, on the long night before elevation of his Empress to the throne? Maybe our table was taken by the Count, or most probably he took his glass of vodka, standing up, in a hurry. Apropos, His Lordship’s King was born sixty-seven years ago,” looking round his table mates, he gave a resonant slap on the top of the table and looked at his companion who he called “His Lordship.”

Sniffing his own glass --blush wine --Vadim glanced at “His Lordship,” the well-dressed young man with coiffured blond hair. A gold-laced waistcoat of paduasoy, perlmutter haliotis buttons, diamond tie-pin and ivory lorgnette were visible between the sides of his undone calabar-edged coat, but it was not his clothing what betrayed the young man’s foreign origin. His complexion too fresh; even after his wind-reddened face got back to its normal colour, his look too youngish, his blue eyes too bright; and his hand was white and manicured, nails looked quite sharp, and the left little finger was adorned with a gold and black stone ring –these details about the blond-haired stranger were too bright to remain unnoticed.

A voice said in a loud friendly voice, “Gentlemen, be quiet, please!”

The Pub-Owner, the big panting man wearing a loose-fitting jacket and trousers, passed by with a tray in hands. “Rozamira will sing Wondrous Moment, latest song, so beautiful.”

The Tall Nosy stranger said friendly, “Naturally, Herr Kessenich! How’s Frau Kessenich? Send my regards…”

The pub-owner straightened his loosely tied necktie, “Meine Frau is quite all right, thank you Herr Knabbe. Don’t quarrel tonight, please, Sirs.”

The stranger of the German name “Knabbe” was older than his blond-haired friend, rather middle-aged, with a curled and obviously dyed reddish-brown hair and big sinewy hands. His heavy-lidden eyes twinkled and thin mocking lips smiled ironically. Nothing sinister was in the men’s look, even Knabbe’s cane with a knob in shape of a black eagle head –made of black amber, as it became known later --looked rather usual, though his manners looked like a jabber’s at times.

The members of the small orchestra took seats on chairs, making room for three gypsies, who appeared on the stage making bows and nodding to friends. The elderly gypsy was very obese, and the younger one was as thin as jockey; both of them were dressed quite well and accordingly to their profession and nation: red neck-cloths, long blue jackets, red braided, and baggy dark plushes tucked in high boots; both of them played guitars. Rozamira, the young gypsy woman whose kinky hair was ginger for some reason, straightened the kerseymere shawl on her shoulders, and began singing in a pleasant contralto:

“The wondrous moment of our meeting...

I well remember you appear

before me like a vision fleeting,

a beauty's angel pure and clear.

In hopeless ennui surrounding

the worldly bustle, to my ear

for long your tender voice kept sounding,

for long in dreams came features dear.”

The young woman’s simple dark-blue long-sleeved dress, Spanish shawl, several strands of coral beads around her neck, golden bandeau on her head and golden beads plaited in her two long tresses were nice accessories for her original manner of sinning in Russian.

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