At last I was thirteen. In the meanwhile Alexandra Mikhailovna’s health had grown steadily worse. She had become increasingly irritable, and her attacks of melancholy and despair were more severe. Her husband’s visits became more frequent, and he used to sit with her, but, as before, he did not speak and was stern and gloomy for long periods. I became more intensely concerned about her lot. I was growing out of childhood, and a wealth of new impressions, observations, interests and surmises were forming inside me. I was increasingly tormented by the enigma that surrounded the family. There were moments when I thought I had some kind of understanding of the problem. At other times, finding no solution to my questions, I lapsed into indifference, apathy, even annoyance, and my curiosity waned. In the course of time, I experienced a curious need (and this became ever more frequent), to be alone and to think, to do nothing but think. It was a period not dissimilar to that when I was still living with my parents but before I had grown close to my father, when, for an entire year, I had brooded and fantasized as I peered out of the window from my little corner, until I became like a wild creature lost in the fancies of my own creation. The difference now was that I was less patient, I grieved more, new unconscious impulses arose within me, and I had more thirst for activity and excitement. I could no longer concentrate on one thing, as I had been able to before. And Alexandra Mikhailovna seemed to be withdrawing from me more and more. At my age, it was scarcely possible to be her Mend. Though I was not a child, I asked too many questions and often looked at her in such a way that she lowered her eyes. These were strange moments. I could not bear to see her in tears, and often just to look at her brought tears to my own eyes. I would throw my arms around her and hug her fervently. What answer could she give me? I felt that I was a burden to her. But at other times (and these were sad and difficult moments), it was she who embraced me violently and desperately, as if seeking my sympathy, as if unable to bear her loneliness. Perhaps she felt that I understood her and suffered with her. But it was, nevertheless, clear that there was a secret standing between us, and I began to avoid her during such periods. I found it awkward to be with her and, besides, there was now little that brought us together, apart from music. But her doctor had forbidden music. Books? That was even more difficult, since she was at a loss to know what to read with me. We never got beyond the first page; she found a possible hidden meaning in every word, in every insignificant paragraph. We both avoided intimate or sincere conversations.
It was just at this time that fate, in the strangest and most extraordinary manner, altered my life, brusquely and unexpectedly. All my attention, my heart, my mind and my soul were suddenly, with great intensity and fervour, directed towards a new, unforeseeable activity; without really becoming aware of it, I was carried away to another world. I had no time to turn back, to look round, or to change my mind. Although I felt I might be on the path to my downfall, temptation proved stronger than my fear, and I closed my eyes and went ahead without thinking. Then, for a long time, I was diverted from the reality which had begun to weigh on me, and from which I had so eagerly and helplessly sought an escape. This is what happened.
There were three doors leading out of the dining-room: one to the drawing-rooms, one to the nursery and my room, and the other one to the library. There was also another passage from the library, separated from my room by a study where Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s secretary, a man who served as both copyist and administrator, was usually occupied with business correspondence. The key to the library and the bookcases was kept in his room. One day, after dinner, when he was not in the house, I discovered the key lying on the floor. Eaten up with curiosity and armed with my find, I entered the library. It was a rather large, very light room with eight huge bookcases filled with books. There were a great number of books, most of which had come to Pyotr Alexandrovitch by inheritance. The remainder had been collected by Alexandra Mikhailovna, who was continually buying them. Up until now, great care had been taken in the choice of books I was given to read, and it was not difficult for me to guess that there was much that was forbidden, kept secret from me. That was why I opened the first bookcase and took out the first book with irresistible curiosity, with a rush of terror and excitement and a peculiar, unaccountable feeling. The bookcase was full of novels. I took one of them, shut the bookcase, and took the book off to my room with such a strange sensation and with such throbbing and fluttering of the heart that it was as if I foresaw that a great transformation was going to take place in my life. I went into my room, locked the door and opened the book. But I could not read it, for my mind was preoccupied with other things: I had to plan my access to the library securely, once and for all, and in such a way that no one would know. I wished to continue to be able to get any book at any time, and so I postponed my pleasure until a more appropriate moment; I took the book back, but hid the key in my room. Hiding that key was the first evil action in my life. I awaited the results; they were most satisfactory: Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s secretary, after spending an entire evening and most of the night on his knees, candle in hand, searching for the key, decided in the morning to send for a locksmith. The latter came, bringing with him a bunch of keys, among which was one that fitted the library door. There the matter rested, and nothing more was said about the lost key. I was so cautious that I did not go into the library until a week later, when I felt certain that there was no risk of arousing suspicion. At first I chose a time of day when the secretary was not at home; afterwards I took to going into the library from the dining-room, for Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s secretary always kept the key in his pocket and, having only an indirect concern with the books, never went into the room where they were kept.
I began reading avidly, and soon I was entirely absorbed in the books. All my new cravings, my recent ambitions, the still vague impulses of my adolescence and the restlessness induced by precocious development (all of which disturbed my soul so badly) suddenly found a new outlet. It all happened very rapidly, and I admit to being most pleased with the newly discovered sustenance. Soon my heart and my mind were so enchanted, and my imagination was developing so widely, that I seemed to forget the whole world which had surrounded me until then. It seemed as though fate itself had brought me to the threshold of this new life, for which I was so enthusiastic, and about which I dreamt day and night; as though, before letting me step on to the unknown path, it had led me up on to a height, showing me the future in a magic panorama, in dazzling and alluring perspective. I was destined to live through that future by getting to know it first in books, experiencing it in dreams, in hopes, in passionate impulses, in the sweet emotions of a youthful spirit. I began reading at random, picking up the first book that fell into my hands, but fate was watching over me. What I had discovered and lived through until that time was so noble, so austere, that no evil or impure page could attract me. I was guarded by my childish instinct, my youth and my past. It was now that consciousness, all at once, seemed to illuminate the whole of my past life. Indeed, almost every page I read seemed already familiar, as if I had lived it all long ago; the passions, the enchanting pictures, life portrayed in such unfamiliar forms, was already familiar to me. It fascinated me, making me oblivious of the present, almost alienating me from reality; in every book I read, I found embodied the laws of the same fatality, the same spirit of adventure which commands the lives of each individual, yet is derived from some basic law of human life, which is the condition of salvation, preservation and happiness. I exerted all my strength and intuition in order to understand this law, of which I had but a glimmering and which had roused a feeling rather like self-preservation inside me. It was as if I had been forewarned, as though someone were prompting me. It seemed some prophecy was gripping my heart. And every day hope grew stronger and stronger in my heart, and my yearnings, too, grew greater; yearnings for that future, for that sort of life about which I read every day, and which struck me with such artistic force and poetic fascination. However, as I have already said, my fant
asies prevailed over my impatience, and indeed it was only in dreams that I was so bold, while in reality I was instinctively nervous of the future. And so, as if by previous agreement with myself, I unconsciously decided to be content for the time being with the world of dreams in which I alone was the master, and in which there was only temptation and joy, while misfortune, if admitted at all, played only a passive, transient role, essential for the sake of contrast and for the sudden turn of destiny that was to give a happy solution to the ecstatic romances in my brain. That is how I interpret now my state of mind at that time.
And to think that this kind of life, a life of the imagination, a life absolutely divorced from my surroundings, could last for three whole years!
This life was my secret, and even at the end of those three years I did not know whether to be in dread of its sudden discovery. All that I had lived through in those three years was too intimate, too close to me. I was myself too distinctly reflected in those fantasies, so much so that in the end I might have been frightened and confused had anyone, no matter who, cast an indiscreet glance into my soul. Moreover, every member of the house lived in such seclusion, such isolation from society, such cloistered stillness, that we had to develop an inner life of our own, a place of retreat. That was what happened to me. Nothing around me changed during those three years; everything remained as before. A depressing monotony prevailed, and when I think about it now I feel sure that if I had not immersed myself in my secret, hidden life, my soul would have been so tormented that I would have resorted to some unknown and dangerous path of escape from that spiritless and miserable circle – a path that might, perhaps, have led to my ruin. Madame Léotard had grown older and was almost always locked away in her room; the two children were still too young; B. never changed; and Alexandra Mikhailovna’s husband was as severe, unapproachable and self-absorbed as ever. Between him and his wife, the same mysterious relationship still persisted, and it took on an increasingly sinister and forbidding aspect in my imagination. I became ever more afraid for Alexandra Mikhailovna. Her life, joyless and colourless, was being extinguished before my eyes. Her health grew worse by the day, and at last she seemed to give up hope. She was weighed down by something mysterious, indefinable, which she could not account for; by something which, though it was incomprehensible to her, she accepted as the inevitable cross of her condemned life. In the end, this ghastly torment embittered her; even her intelligence took another direction, dark and melancholy. One thing I observed struck me particularly: it seemed to me that, as I grew older, she held herself more aloof from me, so much so that her reserve with me turned into a sort of impatient annoyance. At certain moments she actually gave the impression of disliking me and made me feel that I was in her way. As I have said, I purposely took to avoiding her and, once away from her, I became infected by the secretiveness of her character. That was why all that I lived through during those three years, all that was taking shape in my soul, in my dreams, hopes, thoughts and passionate delights, was obstinately kept to myself. Having once started to conceal things from one another, we never became close again, although I still believed that I loved her more and more each day. I cannot recall without tears how devoted she was to me, how she used to lavish all the loving treasures her heart possessed upon me, and to the very end she fulfilled her promise of being a mother to me. It is true that her own sorrow sometimes distracted her attention for long periods, and she would appear to have forgotten about me, all the more so since I tried to distract all attention from myself; as my sixteenth birthday approached, no one seemed aware of it. But in her moments of lucidity, when she took a clear view of what was going on around her, Alexandra Mikhailovna would suddenly seem troubled about me; she would anxiously summon me from my room, would shower questions upon me about my lessons and my pursuits (testing me, as it were, examining me), and would not part with me for days. She would guess all my hopes and desires, evidently concerned about my age, about my present and my future development. With inexhaustible love, and even with a certain respect, she tried to help me. But by then she was so out of touch with me that I often found her efforts naïve and obvious to me. For instance (this happened when I was sixteen), she interrupted me one day to ask what I was reading and seemed to take fright on learning that I had not yet progressed beyond the childish books suitable for a girl of twelve. I guessed her feelings and watched her attentively.
For the next two weeks she seemed to be preparing and testing me, trying to determine the extent of my development and needs. At last she decided to make a start: Sir Walter Scott’s novel Ivanhoe appeared on my table – a book I had long since read, at least three times. Initially she studied my reactions with timid expectation, measuring them apprehensively. At last the constraint between us, of which I was well aware, vanished; we both grew excited, and I felt so happy, so overjoyed, that I no longer had to hide from her. By the time we had finished the novel, she was delighted with me. Every observation I made during the reading session was true, every impression was correct. In her eyes, my development was already tremendous. She was so delighted with me that, in her elation, and because she wished to end the separation from me, she was prepared to undertake the supervision of my education again; but this was not within her power. Fate soon divided us, preventing us from being close friends again. The first attack of illness, the first bout of her interminable depression, was sufficient to do this; again there were estrangements, secrets, mistrustfulness, perhaps even embitterment.
Yet even at such times, there were moments outside our control. When we read together, a few kind sentences would be exchanged between us; or when we studied some music, we would soon forget ourselves and speak freely – sometimes too freely, making us ill at ease afterwards. Realizing what was happening, we would look at one another in dismay, full of suspicion and curiosity. We both had a limit to the intimacy we could allow ourselves, beyond which we dared not go, however much we might wish it.
One evening, just before dusk, I was dreaming over a book in Alexandra Mikhailovna’s sitting-room. She was at the piano, improvising on a theme from one of her favourite Italian operas. When she reached the pure melody of the aria, I found myself so captivated and roused by the music that I began timidly, in a soft voice, to hum the tune to myself. I was soon carried away and got up to go over to the piano. As if she had been expecting this, Alexandra Mikhailovna began playing the accompaniment, sensitively following every note as I sang. She seemed to be astounded by the richness of my voice. I had never before sung in her presence, and I myself hardly knew whether or not I had any talent for singing. Now we both became inspired; my voice continued to rise, and I was stirred to greater energy and passion, intensified by Alexandra Mikhailovna’s delighted wonder, which I could perceive in every touch of her accompaniment. The song ended successfully, with so much spirit and power that she seized my hand in delight and gazed at me joyfully.
‘Annetta, you have a simply wonderful voice!’ she said. ‘My goodness! How is it I haven’t noticed it before?’
‘I’ve only just noticed it myself,’ I replied, beside myself with joy.
‘God bless you, my dear sweet child. Be thankful to Him for the gift. Who knows… Oh, my goodness, my goodness!’ She was stunned by this unexpected event, and in such a state of ecstatic happiness that she did not know what to say to me or how to lavish enough praise on me. It was one of those moments of revelation, of empathy and closeness, such as we had known before. An hour later, it was as if the whole household was celebrating a festival. B. was sent for immediately, and while we awaited his arrival we happened to discover another piece of music that was more familiar to me, and I launched into the aria. This time I was trembling nervously. I did not want to ruin the first impression with a failure, but my voice soon gathered strength, and I gained courage. I myself was astonished by the strength of my voice and, during this second experiment, all doubts vanished. In her impetuous joy, Alexandra Mikhailovna sent for her children and their
nurse, and was even so bold as to call her husband from his study, which as a rule she would hardly have dreamt of doing. Pyotr Alexandrovitch received her news graciously, congratulated me and was the first to insist that I be given singing lessons. Alexandra Mikhailovna was overwhelmed with gratitude; it was as if something unbelievable had been done for her, and she rushed to kiss his hand. At last, B. appeared. The old man was overjoyed. He was very fond of me. He used to talk of my father and of the past, and when I had sung before him two or three times he announced, gravely, anxiously, and perhaps even a little mysteriously, that undoubtedly I had a voice, possibly even talent, and that it was out of the question to leave me untrained. Then, as if on second thoughts, Alexandra Mikhailovna and he agreed that it was risky to praise me too much at the beginning. I could see them exchanging glances and plotting together on the sly, which made their whole conspiracy against me extremely naïve and awkward. I sang again, and saw them trying to restrain themselves, then going out of their way to point out my defects; this made me laugh for the rest of the evening. But they did not keep it up for long. Once again B. displayed his delight. I had never suspected him of being so fond of me. The evening was spent in warm, friendly conversation. B. told the stories of several celebrated singers and musicians, speaking with the enthusiasm of an artist, with reverence and feeling. In the course of the conversation he touched on my father, and then moved on to me and my childhood, to Prince X., and to his family, of whom I had heard so little since our separation. Alexandra Mikhailovna did not know much about them herself. Since he often went to Moscow, B. knew the most. At this point the conversation took a mysterious, puzzling turn; one or two things were said about Prince X. which made no sense to me. Alexandra Mikhailovna spoke of Katya, but B. could tell us nothing in particular about her, indeed he gave the impression of being very reluctant to talk about her. I was surprised by this. Not only had I not forgotten Katya, not only was I still immersed in my former love for her, but it was quite inconceivable to me that she could have changed even in the slightest degree. The effect of our separation, the number of years that had passed during which there had been no communication between us, the differences in our upbringing and characters, had all escaped my notice. After all, in my mind, Katya had never left me. She still seemed to live inside me, especially in all my dreams, in all the romances and adventures of my fantasies, where the two of us always went hand in hand, inseparable. I imagined myself to be the heroine of every novel I read, and I always found a place in the story for Katya, my friend and Princess. Every novel had two parts, one of which was created by me, shamelessly borrowing from my favourite authors.
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