Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  The two “poems in prose” we have added at the end represent the two oxymoronic poles of human existence, a dichotomy Turgenev starkly tackles at the end of his long creative life. The collection of Senilia from which they are taken attempts to combine prose with poetry, life and death, reality and dreams, beauty and ugliness. Alternating lyrical evocations of the beauty of life and putrid images of death which enter the proso-poetic narrator’s space in the form of toothless hags, giant insectoid forms, etc., the collection as a whole is virtually unknown to both Russian and western readers, and cannot be thus considered Turgenev’s lasting accomplishment. Yet for the purposes of this volume the chosen works clearly illustrate Turgenev’s tragic realization at the end of his own life that no matter how satisfying the idyllic image of Russian village life he paints for us in the first “poem” might be, no matter how evocative this edenic utopia of emotional plenitude (recalling, in its painterly power, The Orison on the Downfall of the Russian Land) might be desirable, in the end—as the second “poem-in-prose” illustrates—it serves as a proof that Life itself is a self-perpetuating Fantasy, over which no poet’s eye has any control whatsoever.

  The Phantoms

  (A Fantasy)

  [ABRIDGED]

  An instant—and the magic yarn is o’er—

  And again the soul is filled with hope….

  AFANASII FET

  I

  I could not sleep for a long time, constantly tossing and turning. “Damn that stupidity with the séance tables!—All it’s done is irritate my nerves,” I thought. Drowsiness overcame me gradually …

  Suddenly it seemed to me that somewhere in the room a string had been plucked, softly and plaintively.

  I raised my head. The full moon was low in the sky and shone directly into my eyes. Its light lay on the floor as white as chalk. The strange sound was distinctly repeated.

  I lifted myself up on one elbow. A faint fear pricked at my heart. A minute passed, another … a cock crowed somewhere far off: from farther still another answered.

  I lowered my head to the pillow. “Just see what you can do to yourself,” again I thought. “Next you’ll have ringing in the ears.”

  A bit later I fell asleep—seemed to fall asleep. I had an extraordinary dream. In this dream I was lying in my bedroom, on my bed—I wasn’t sleeping and couldn’t so much as close my eyes. Again the sound was heard … I turned … the moonlight on the floor quietly began to rise, straighten itself, round out at the top … before me, transparent as mist, unmoving, stood a pallid woman.

  “Who are you?” with an effort I asked her.

  A voice like the rustling of leaves answered: It is I … I … … I come for you.

  “For me? But who are you?”

  Come tonight to the foot of the wood, to the old oak. I will be there.

  I tried to look more closely at the features of the mysterious woman—and suddenly shivered in spite of myself: a chill had come over me. And then I was no longer lying down, but sitting up in bed and there—where I thought the phantom had stood—the moonlight lay white upon the floor.

  II

  The day passed somehow or other. I recollect that I would sit down to read or to work … nothing held me. Night came on. My heart was pounding in anticipation. I went to bed and turned my face to the wall.

  Why haven’t you come?—the whisper was clear.

  I quickly turned to look.

  Again she was there … again this mysterious phantom. Motionless eyes in a motionless face—and a gaze full of sorrow.

  Come!—the whisper was heard again.

  “I’ll come” I replied, helpless with dread. The phantom swung slowly forward, grew indistinct, rippling lightly, like smoke—and once more the moonlight serenely lay upon the floor.

  III

  I spent the next day in agitation. At supper I drank nearly a full bottle of wine, started for the porch, but turned back and threw myself onto my bed. My blood pulsed sluggishly through my body.

  Once more the sound … I flinched, but did not look around. Suddenly I felt that someone behind me was tightly clasping me and babbling in my ear—Come on then, come on, come on … Trembling with fear, I moaned—“I’ll come!”—and got up.

  The woman stood bending over the headboard of my bed. She smiled faintly and disappeared. I had, however, managed to get a look at her face. I thought I’d seen her somewhere before; but where, when? I slept late and spent the whole day wandering over the fields. I came upon the old oak at the edge of the forest and looked attentively around.

  As evening drew on I sat down by an open window in my study. My elderly housekeeper placed a cup of tea before me, but I didn’t touch it … I was beset by doubt and asked myself: “Can it be that I’m losing my mind?” The sun had only just set, and not only the sky was dyed red, the very atmosphere was suddenly permeated with an almost unnatural crimson hue: the leaves and blades of grass, as if freshly lacquered, were motionless. In their petrified immobility, in their sharp brilliance of outline, in that combination of fierce radiance and deathly silence there was something strange and enigmatic. A rather large gray bird suddenly—with no sound whatsoever—flew up and lit on the very window sash. I looked at it—and it looked back at me askance with one round, dark eye. “Can they have sent you to remind me?” I wondered.

  The bird immediately fluttered its soft wings and flew off as silently as before. I stayed by the window for a long time, but was no longer given over to doubt: It was as if I’d stepped into a magic circle—and an irresistible yet gentle force was drawing me on, just as a boat is carried on by the current long before nearing the waterfall. At last I roused myself. The crimson of the atmosphere had long since vanished, its hues had darkened, and the enchanted silence was broken. A breeze was rustling, the moon was rising more brilliant than ever in the dark-blue sky—and soon the leaves on the trees began their black and silver play in its cold light. My housekeeper entered the study with a candle, but a draft from the window caught it, and the flame died. I couldn’t hold back any longer, leapt up, jammed my hat on my head and set off for the foot of the wood and the old oak.

  IV

  Many years ago the oak had been struck by lightning. Its crest was broken and withered, but it had continued alive for several centuries. As I approached it a cloud overtook the moon: it was very dark beneath the tree’s broad limbs. At first I noticed nothing out of the ordinary; but I glanced to one side—and my heart sank. A white figure was standing near a tall hedge between the oak and the wood. My hair stood on end; but I gathered up my courage, and approached the trees.

  Yes, it was she, my nocturnal visitor. As I drew near her the moon shone forth again. She seemed to be all woven of semi-transparent, milk-white mist—through her features I made out a branch softly swaying in the wind—only her hair and her eyes seemed slightly darker, and on one of the fingers of her folded hands shone a thin band of pale gold. I halted in front of her and attempted to speak, but my voice died in my chest, although I no longer felt any fear for myself. Her eyes turned to me: their gaze expressed neither sorrow nor joy, but some sort of lifeless concentration. I waited for her to speak a word, but she remained motionless and speechless and continued to gaze at me with her dead-fixed gaze. I grew terrified once more.

  “I’m here!” I exclaimed at last, with an effort. My voice sounded hollow and strange.

  I love you—came a whisper.

  “You love me!” I repeated in amazement.

  Trust yourself to me—again came a whisper in reply.

  “Trust myself to you! But you’re a phantom—you have no substance at all.” A strange courage overcame me. “What are you made of? Smoke, air, mist? Trust myself to you! Answer me first, who are you? Did you once live on the earth? Where have you come from?”

  Trust yourself to me. I’ll do you no harm. Just say two words: ‘Take me.’

  I looked at her. “What is she saying?” I wondered. “What does it all mean? And how will she take m
e? Or attempt to?”

  “All right then,” I said aloud, and in an unexpectedly loud tone, exactly as if someone standing behind me had given me a push. “Take me!”

  The words had not left my lips before the mysterious figure, some sort of suppressed smile causing her features to tremble, threw herself forward. She opened her arms and stretched them out to me…. I tried to jump aside; but I was already in her power. She seized me, my body rose a foot or two off the ground —and both of us set off smoothly and not too rapidly above the damp, still grass.

  V

  At first my head was spinning, and I involuntarily closed my eyes…. A minute later I opened them again. We were sailing along as before, but the wood was no longer visible: unfolding beneath us was a plain dotted with dark patches. With horror I concluded that we had risen to a fearsome height.

  “I’m lost, I’m in Satan’s power.” This thought struck me like lightning. Until that instant the thought of diabolic possession, of the possibility of damnation, had not entered my head. We continued to speed along and, it seemed, were climbing higher and higher.

  “Where are you taking me?” I moaned at last.

  Wherever you like—my companion answered. She was pressed closely against me, her face nearly touching mine. Nonetheless I barely felt her touch.

  “Take me back down to earth; I feel sick this high up.”

  Very well; but you must close your eyes and hold your breath.

  I obeyed—and instantly felt myself falling like a stone … the wind whistled through my hair. When I came to myself we were once again smoothly sailing above the ground, low enough for our feet to brush the tops of the tall grass.

  “Put me back on my feet” I began. “Where’s the pleasure in flying? I’m not a bird.”

  I thought you would enjoy it. We have no other diversion.

  “We? Who are you?”—There was no answer.

  “You don’t dare to tell me?”

  A plaintive sound, like the one that had awakened me on the first night, trembled in my ears. Meanwhile we continued to move almost imperceptibly through the damp night air.

  “Release me then!” I said. My companion slowly moved off and I found myself standing on my own feet. She halted in front of me and once more folded her hands. I became calmer and gazed into her face: as before it expressed a resigned grief.

  “Where are we?” I asked. I didn’t recognize my surroundings.

  Far from your home, but you may be there in a single instant.

  “How? Trusting myself to you again?”

  I have done you no harm, and I will do you none. You and I may fly together until dawn, nothing more. I may carry you to any place you can imagine—to the ends of the earth. Trust yourself to me! Say it again: ‘Take me!’

  “Well then … take me!”

  She embraced me once again, my feet left the ground—and off we flew.

  VI

  Where?—she asked me.

  “Straight ahead, always straight ahead.”

  But the wood is in our way.

  “Rise above the wood — but more slowly.”

  We shot upwards like a wood snipe alighting on a birch and sped onwards. Instead of grass, treetops now shimmered beneath our feet. It was marvelous to see the wood from above, with its bristly spine illuminated by the moon. It resembled some sort of immense, sleeping beast, and its resonant, ceaseless rustling accompanied us, like an incoherent muttering. Occasionally small glades could be seen, each with a handsome band of jagged black shadows along one side…. Now and then a hare would give its plaintive cry down below; above us an owl whistled, also plaintively. The air smelled of mushrooms and tree-buds, of meadow-sweet; the moonlight seemed to flow all around—cold and severe—the Pleiades shone just above our heads.

  The forest was left behind; through the field stretched bands of mist: this was a river. We sped along one of its banks above bushes that were weighed down and motionless with dew. The swells of that river at moments glistened blue, at others they rolled darkly and almost malevolently. In places a delicate steam curled strangely above the surface—and the chalices of the water lilies glowed chastely and richly white with all of their full-blown petals, as if they were aware that they were out of reach. I took it into my head to pick one—and suddenly I found myself just above the surface of the river…. The damp struck me vindictively in the face as soon as I had broken the taut stem of the sturdy flower. We began to fly from bank to bank, like the sandpipers we occasionally roused and chased after. More than once we came upon families of wild ducks circled in open spots among the reeds. At most, one would dart its head out from under its wing, look about and anxiously thrust its beak back among the downy feathers, as another of the group would quack faintly, which made its entire body shiver. We startled a solitary heron: it bolted up from a willow clump, trailing its legs and with an clumsy effort flapping its wings. The fish were not rising—they too were asleep. I was beginning to get used to flying and even to find it pleasant; anyone who’s flown in a dream will understand me. I began to concentrate my observations on that strange being under whose auspices I was having such an implausible experience.

  VII-XVIII

  She was a smallish woman with un-Russian features. Grayish-white, semi-transparent with barely perceptible shadings, she recalled a figure on an alabaster vase lit from within—and yet once more she seemed familiar.

  “May I speak with you?” I inquired.

  Speak then.

  “I see you wear a ring on your finger: so you must have lived on earth—were you married?”

  I paused … There was no answer.

  “What is you name? Or at least, what was it?”

  Call me Ellis.

  “Ellis! An English name! Are you English? Did you know me in the past?”

  No, I didn’t.

  “Then why do you come for me?”

  I love you.

  “And this is all that you want?”

  Yes, when we’re together, rushing along and circling through the pure air.

  “Ellis!” I interjected. “Are you perhaps … a criminal, or a damned soul?”

  My companion’s head drooped.—I cannot understand you—she whispered.

  “I abjure you in the name of God …” I began.

  What are you saying?—she murmured uncomprehendingly. And then it seemed to me that her arm, which lay like a chill band about my waist, shifted slightly …

  Don’t be afraid—Ellis implored—Don’t be afraid, my dear one!

  Her face turned and moved closer to mine … I felt on my lips a strange sensation, like the touch of a delicate, soft sting … harmless leeches feel like that. < … >

  A sudden daring flared up within me. “Take me to South America!”

  To America I cannot. It is day there now.

  “And you and I are birds of the night … Well, wherever you can then, but as far away as possible.”

  Close your eyes and hold your breath—replied Ellis—and we set off at a dizzying speed. The wind burst into my ears with a deafening noise. Then we halted, but the noise did not cease. Instead it became some sort of ominous roar, a thunderous din … You may open your eyes now—said Ellis.

  IX

  I obeyed. My God, where was I?

  Above our heads clouds hung like heavy smoke; they bunched together and moved about like a flock of malignant monsters … and there, below us, was another monster: an enraged, yes truly enraged sea. A white foam spasmodically flashed atop the swells—raising shaggy crests, with a rough thunder it beat against an immense pitch-black cliff. The roiling storm, the icy breath from the rolling deep, the heavy crashing of the surf in which from time to time I seemed to hear something like howling, or like distant cannon fire, or alarm bells, the heart-rending shriek and grinding of the boulders, or the sudden cry of an unseen gull, the bobbing wreckage of stove boats on the murky horizon—everywhere death, death and horror…. My head began to spin, and near fainting I once again closed my
eyes … “What is this? Where are we?”

  On the south shore of the Isle of Wight, before the Blackgang Chine—the cliff where ships are so often wrecked—Ellis replied, for once in particular detail and, I felt, with some gloating relish.

  “Take me away, away from here … Home! Home!”

  I hunched over and buried my face in my hands…. I felt us rushing along at even greater speed than before; the wind now was not just whistling, but shrieking through my hair and clothing, my breath caught in my throat….

  You can stand on your feet, now—came Ellis’s voice.

  I tried to get hold of myself, of my thoughts … I felt the earth move under my feet and heard nothing, just as if everything had died … but my blood still surged through my temples with a faint internal sound, and my head continued to whirl. I straightened up and opened my eyes.

  X

  We were standing on the dam that spanned my own pond. Just before me, through the sharp leaves of a willow, I could see its wide smooth surface with wisps of downy mist arising here and there. To the right a field of rye gleamed dimly; to the left rose the trees of the orchard, elongated, motionless and drenched … morning had already breathed on them. In the clear gray sky, like ribbons of smoke, hung two or three sloping clouds; they seemed to have a yellowish tinge—an early, faint reflection of sunrise was falling on them from God knows where: the eye could not yet distinguish on the paling horizon the spot where dawn would break. The stars were disappearing: nothing moved as yet, although everything was awake in the enchanted quiet of early half-dawn.

  Morning! It’s morning!—exclaimed Ellis just above my ear … Until tomorrow!

  I turned…. Lightly hovering, she floated past me, and suddenly lifted both arms above her head. For an instant her head, arms and shoulders flared up with warm, living hues; in her dark eyes trembled living sparks; a smile of secret bliss passed over her reddened lips—a beautiful woman suddenly appeared before me—but she fell backwards at once as if fainting, and melted like mist.