Not turning around, her head bowed, Charlotte headed slowly for home. Her heart was full of shame and fright.
VI
Charlotte was ill for a long time and didn’t leave her room. Her father frowned and suggested calling for Doctor Finch. But Charlotte got better and once again began to go out. It was already August and the autumn flowers were beginning to bloom on the graves.
Once, after dinner, Charlotte was quietly making her way down the familiar pathways to her favourite place. It had rained all morning, but now a yellow, moist sun peeked out and gilded the swaying foliage, already beginning to thin. Charlotte wanted to turn to the right, but then she noticed that the gate to Albert’s grave was open. She knew that the gardener had not come, and she herself always closed the gate firmly. That meant that someone was in there.
Quietly, trying not to make noise on the fallen leaves, Charlotte turned back and went the other way around the fence, where the branches were thinner and it was possible to see through the lilac bushes what was happening inside.
Charlotte looked in—and involuntarily seized at the thick, wet trunk of a birch so as not to fall down. On her bench, near Albert’s grave, a woman was sitting.
For the entire summer, since the very beginning of spring, no one had ever visited Albert. Charlotte was used to thinking that he was lonely, that no one cared about him, that he belonged only to her. And now an unknown woman, perhaps someone closer to him than Charlotte, had come—with every right to do so—and was sitting beside him.
Charlotte clenched her teeth, and sharp pangs of anger and hatred tore at her heart, which had always been so kind and timid. She stared avidly at the unknown lady.
The lady was shapely, though not tall and not at all thin, and she was dressed very elegantly, even richly, all in black. Her pretty young face expressed great sorrow, but the sorrow didn’t go with her pert little nose and round black brows. One so wanted that face to smile. But instead, the lady took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then she sighed, sank to her knees as she gathered up her dress, put her hands together, laid her head down on them and was still for a few moments. Her crepe veil fell in beautiful folds. Charlotte noticed that an enormous, expensive and clumsy porcelain wreath hung on the cross. A broad ribbon with an inscription covered the marble medallion. A few silent, cold tears fell from Charlotte’s eyes. She didn’t notice them. Yes, yes! This was the one. This was the countess, the cousin, his beloved fiancée, who could take down the modest, light wreath made by Charlotte’s hands, pull out the flowers she had planted, and hang her own jangling porcelain garlands, who could touch and kiss the delicate marble face, and lock up the door of the fence—and then Charlotte would never, ever be able to come here … Her whole humble soul was outraged and filled for the first time with real anger. Charlotte wanted to throw herself upon the unknown lady, seize her by her clothes, by that long veil, shout, drive her out and lock the gate.
“And him, him!” she said bitterly, as if she knew for certain that Albert was glad about the visit and the porcelain flowers. “How long she waited to come! And I came all the time, my flowers, my wreaths! It was always me, always for him! And now all of a sudden—it’s over!”
The lady stood up, brushed the sand from her dress, adjusted the ribbon, stood a little longer, sighed again, crossed herself in the Catholic way, and gathering up her black suede reticule, went back towards the gates. She didn’t know the way, and had trouble finding the main avenue. Charlotte followed her quietly, like a cat, from a distance. Finally, the lady found the right path and turned straight towards the warden’s house.
Charlotte had already guessed that the lady would go there. Quickly, hardly stopping for breath, and gathering up her long, heavy braids, which she hadn’t pinned up, she ran around the other way and woke up her father.
“What lady?” Ivan Karlovich grumbled unhappily as he put on his frockcoat.
“The countess … his cousin … seventeen thousand three hundred and eleven …” Charlotte babbled, trying to catch her breath.
“Ah … Good! I’ll be right there.”
Charlotte slipped after him into the big, dark reception room and, unnoticed, concealed herself in the far corner behind the table with its pile of books.
Ivan Karlovich invited the lady to sit down near the desk, not far from the windows. From her corner, Charlotte could see the lady’s fresh face clearly.
“Oh, I’m so grateful to you for my darling’s grave …” began the lady in Russian with a slight foreign accent. “It’s so tidy, such lovely flowers.”
“Yes, indeed, madam,” Ivan Karlovich said, with reserve, but also with self-satisfaction. “We keep strict order around here. The number of your grave is 17311?”
“I don’t really know … Albert Renault…”
“Yes, that’s right, 17311. We’ve done everything possible. The remaining money…”
“Oh, no, no, please! I wanted to give some more … Here’s fifty roubles for now.”
“But what for? It’s nearly autumn now, the graves won’t be tended.”
“Yes, but you see … I’m going away. Very far away, abroad. I don’t know when I will return…”
“In that case, I can promise you that this money will cover the upkeep of the grave for two years, not more.”
“But I’ll send you more much sooner than that! I’ll send a lot … I just don’t know if I will be able to come myself … My name is Countess Lueben. That young man, taken so early from us, was my fiancé …”
She lowered her eyes. Ivan Karlovich only grunted indifferently. He hadn’t had enough sleep.
“And now,” continued the countess, who was evidently not against chatting a bit, “I revere his memory … Circumstances dictated that I … that I must marry a … a distant relative of the deceased and go away forever to France. I’m French myself by birth,” she added spiritedly and smiled, which immediately made her look twice as beautiful.
“I see,” Ivan Karlovich said thoughtfully. “So you’re going to be married, then? … Nonetheless, I must give you a receipt for the money I’ve received from you for the upkeep of grave No. 17311 for the next two years…”
Charlotte was no longer listening. Just as noiselessly as she had entered, she slipped out, crossed the terrace and set off at a run for the park, pressing her hands to her heart, which was beating hard and fast. It was cool, although the wind had died down; a bluish early dusk was coming on. The cemetery was desolate.
Charlotte ran all the way to Albert’s gate and threw it open. Now she was entering as a queen. That other woman, so coldhearted, had lost all her rights. Why had she come here? To mock him? His fiancée, before wedding another! Cursed, cursed woman! Away right now with those crude flowers! They were chilling and hurting him.
And Charlotte tore down the rich porcelain wreath and stamped on it, and crumpled the broad ribbon with the gold inscription “Hélène à son Albert”3 and tried to rip it with her teeth. How dare she? Her Albert! She was unfaithful, had stopped loving him, and on top of that she had come to mock the defenceless! Never would Charlotte allow even a single flower to be planted here with her money. There was a little in her money-box … and she could earn more … and substitute her own money without her father noticing … it wouldn’t be hard.
Flying bits of porcelain had cut Charlotte’s hand. She shuddered when she saw a crimson drop on her palm. But now she seized her handkerchief and bound the wound.
Big, pale chrysanthemums with almost no fragrance, the kind that bloom only in damp autumn soil, were now swaying gently on the grave in place of the summer roses. Charlotte gently pulled aside the stems and pressed her cheek to the velvety, cold marble bas-relief. She barely sensed the unevenness of the profile’s outlines. O, my dear, O, my poor dear! And she, she who was herself guilty before him, had dared to reproach him! How had she failed to understand right away that he had to be protected, he who had no words with which to respond, that this Elena had come to mock
him, that she couldn’t possibly love him! She had found herself another man, one who existed, one who was warm, with red, soft lips, like Johann…
Charlotte, on the other hand, loved Albert with all her mind and all her heart. Now she wouldn’t give him up to anybody. And he … What did he need Elena for—that horrible, foreign, living woman? Charlotte was infinitely closer to him.
And Charlotte remained lying down like that, her face pressed to the marble cross. Her love, all her love, was full of the sweetness of hopelessness, that quiet, sweet bliss of despair that exists in the depths of the heart after the last tears have been wept, at the end of every sorrow—like an autumn day’s dusk, with its unclouded, cold, greenish skies above the silent forest.
VII
One day at tea, when Caroline and her sickly watchmaker were present, a scene took place that was inevitable, and yet somehow still took Charlotte by surprise.
Their father was uncharacteristically gloomy. The watchmaker sighed and wrapped himself up in the muffler he unfailingly kept with him. Caroline kept casting meaningful glances at her sister, which she, as it happened, didn’t see.
Ivan Karlovich began ceremoniously: “My daughter, do you know that today Mister Rotte was here for the final answer? And in this he is entirely justified. November is already here. The time is absolutely appropriate. Everything got drawn out on account of your illness. But now you are well. Johann is a very, very fine, upstanding young man.”
“Papa,” Charlotte uttered with difficulty, “I beg of you … I can’t now.”
“What’s this: ‘I can’t’? What is that supposed to mean: ‘I can’t’?”
“I can’t get married … I’m still young…”
“Young! So we’re to wait until we’re old to marry? Tut, tut! That’s no way for young ladies to answer their fathers. Fathers are experienced, fathers know. They are to be obeyed.”
“I can’t!” Charlotte almost screamed. “I don’t like Johann! I won’t do it!”
“What is this? You won’t do it? Look at this, my children!” Ivan Karlovich, turning crimson, shouted. “She doesn’t like the fine young man chosen by her father! The eldest son of a most wealthy merchant! She won’t marry him, when I told his father that as of tomorrow Johann may present himself as my daughter’s fiancé! Which means my word counts for nothing!”
Charlotte gave a weak moan and covered her face with her hands.
Caroline broke into the conversation. “Lottchen, what are you thinking! Come to your senses. After all, you must get married. Look at what a dashing fellow Johann is! How many girls are pining for him! Don’t worry, papa dear, she’ll come around. She’s a young girl…”
“Yes,” the watchmaker, clearing his throat, joined in. “Young girls, they’re a strange breed … By the way, you’ve got to keep your eye on them all the time … It’s right hard to look after them properly!”
“What for … I don’t need looking after …” In a broken voice, Charlotte tried to speak. “Can’t I just stay … Am I really in the way?”
“What do you mean you don’t need looking after?” Ivan Karlovich shouted, beside himself with rage and instantly turning crimson again. “No, you do, my lady, you do! And I’m old, I can’t look after you! I can’t take the responsibility! I can’t, I can’t! Everything’s decided! I gave my word! Mister Rotte is my best friend! And I can’t be looking after you! The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, that’s the trouble!”
He was beside himself, waving his arms and gasping for breath. Charlotte sprang from her chair and rushed sobbing from the room. Caroline ran after her.
“What do you want?” Charlotte cried, sounding almost bitter, when she saw her sister coming into the room. “Have you come to preach at me? Why are you all so cruel to me? Why do I have to get married? What about you, you did! And look at you now, are you so happy?”
“We’re not the cruel ones, Charlotte—you are,” Caroline protested. “I don’t understand what’s happened to you. You’ve changed completely. You say I’m unhappy. But if Franz was healthy and I didn’t have to worry all the time about losing him, I wouldn’t quibble with my fate. And little Wilhelm so ill all the time! But with you it’s another matter. Johann is so healthy and strong, you won’t worry about him, and you’ll have strong children … It’s papa I would be very, very worried about, if I were in your place.”
“Why?” Charlotte asked, frightened. Her outburst had passed, and now she sat on her bed, timid and sorrowful, her arms lowered and head bowed.
“Do you mean to say you really don’t know? He may have a stroke; he could die at any moment. You shouldn’t upset him. Did you notice how red in the face he gets? He’s had apoplectic fits for some time now. You’re upsetting him, agitating him with your disobedience, and he’ll have a stroke and it will be your fault … You ought to be worrying about him constantly…”
“Oh, what can I do? What should I do?” Charlotte, crushed, now whispered in despair. “Why are you scaring me, Caroline?”
“I’m not scaring you at all. This is absolutely normal. All of us who have relatives and dear ones must protect them and worry about them, always remembering how fragile people are. You may as well resign yourself to it, Charlotte. Take some advice from your sister.”
Charlotte suddenly remembered Johann’s full face, smiling, and his slightly bloodshot, bulging eyes. The marble table, the limp, dark flesh with its grainy fat, the fresh bodies of bulls, the smell of blood, the flat above the shop, and all those flies … Charlotte gave her sister one last, pleading look, as if she could change everything. Just at that moment the watchmaker’s head appeared in the doorway.
“Caroline,” he whispered hoarsely, “Come, your papa is calling. Come quickly, something’s wrong with him.”
“Aha! There, you see!” a triumphant Caroline said to her sister as she got up. “This is the work of your hands.”
Charlotte sprang up, too, and in mortal terror grabbed hold of her sister’s dress. “Caroline, Caroline! Wait! What’s happened to him? Oh God, what am I to do?”
“Let me go, you wicked daughter! Let go of me now.”
“Caroline, tell him … Oh, it doesn’t matter, if he can’t forgive me, allow me … What am I saying? Tell him that I agree to everything.”
She fell back on the bed, burying her head in her pillow. Caroline hurried out of the room.
Ivan Karlovich’s bout of illness turned out to be of no consequence. Caroline and the watchmaker stayed for a long time, conferring in self-satisfied whispers. They troubled Charlotte no further. Let her recover from her agitation, now that she has agreed…
VIII
It was around three in the morning when Charlotte came to her senses. She didn’t know whether she had been sleeping or just lying there oblivious, without tears, without thoughts, without moving, with her face to the pillow, ever since the moment her sister had left the room. She raised herself up a little on the bed. Her body ached, as if from weariness, and there was an empty rushing in her head. She remembered what she had said to Caroline, and knew that there was no going back. Tomorrow Johann would come, her fiancé, her husband. She had to resign herself … because she must. Oh, God can see this is not her fault! How can she fight against it, she who has always been so weak and timid? But she didn’t want to be unfaithful, and anyway, she wasn’t capable of being unfaithful, as she was incapable of falling out of love. Albert, Albert…
She got up, slowly and perfectly quietly. From the wide window, its curtain still open, shone the blue light of the moon, seeming even brighter because of the snow’s whiteness. There had been an early snowfall and it now lay unmelted, but not deep. From the part of the window where the stained glass had been installed, the moon’s rays, passing through it, fell on the floor in fiery, lustrous dark blue patches. Inside her room, as in the quiet graveyard outside the window, all was still and indistinct. Now and then fast-moving snow clouds screened the moon from view, and for a moment everything would grow
dim and murky, shadows would run, slip, widen, and then suddenly disappear, and again the thin air would become cold and bluish.
Charlotte quietly slipped off her boots, so as not to make any noise, and changed her wrinkled dress for a white flannel housecoat. She moved noiselessly and hurriedly. One thought, clear and implacable, possessed her now. She had to go. Tomorrow would already be different. Tomorrow she would no longer be herself. Tomorrow Johann would come and kiss her, and she would accept his kiss, because she was to become his bride and then his wife, so she could move into the newly renovated flat over the shop. It had to be now, today, while she was still Charlotte, still herself, still alive. She must go to the man she loved.
“I’ll go … say good-bye …” she whispered disjointedly, occupied only with the task of slipping out of the house without disturbing anyone.
She needed no words to tell Albert that it wasn’t her fault. But it dimly seemed to her that he would sense it more quickly if she were there, close to him.
White and insubstantial as a ghost, she slipped down the stairs in her stocking feet. Not a single step creaked. The door leading out to the terrace was locked. They had been meaning to oil it, but hadn’t yet had the time. Beneath the black ceilings, night noises that only made the silence seem deeper—the breathing of sleeping people, the creaking of furniture, rustling behind the wallpaper—faded away to nothing. With an effort Charlotte turned the rusty key. It protested weakly, and then the swollen door thumped open. The cold and the smell of snow made Charlotte wince. But in another moment she was already running along the greenish-blue, sparkling avenue, her little, unshod feet leaving a light trail of barely indented prints.
It was very dark beneath the black trees. Charlotte’s teeth were chattering, and she hurried to get there, as if there, at Albert’s grave, warmth awaited her. Again snow clouds covered the moon and everything grew dim, the gleam disappeared, and the shadows deepened. But the clouds broke apart, and once again the light-blue, quiet, indistinct rows of crosses lay before Charlotte, a world that now looked just like what she had seen through the glass of her window.
Dedalus Book of Russian Decadence Page 18