My Several Selves, Imaginary and Real 3 страница
‘Tell me about home,’ she murmured.
I was in agony. Tears were streaming down my cheeks and I was making desperate efforts to prevent myself breaking into sobs. I was deeply ashamed of myself for weeping like an infant before this stranger, ready to blame her for thus wringing my heart; and wanting to free myself from this embrace which was not the embrace I longed for.
I told her nothing. In the end she let me go with a sigh.
‘When you write to your sister remember me to her,’ she said. Her eyes were no longer moist with sympathy and she took her leave by gravely inclining her head, which at once restored the distance between us. We curtseyed again. As the door closed after her, Stassia flopped back on to her stool and gave a huge shrug.
‘Whatever did she come up here for?’
‘Why was she in the building at all?’ I muttered, my tear-stained face half turned away.
‘I know why,’ said Stassia. ‘She came to see her aunt, Mademoiselle Saburova. But why come up here?’
I had no explanation to offer. I had no idea at the time that she had come for my sake. I did not know then that my sister, knowing that Anna Avdyéevna was to take charge of my class, had spoken to her about me. I do not know what she had told her: perhaps that I was imaginative and affectionate, and that I was bound to be very homesick. Anxious to make the transition from home to school easier for me, she may have recommended me to Anna Avdyéevna’s special care. The consequence of this well-meant demarche proved to be far-reaching, and in subsequent years I had reasons to reproach my sister for having, unwittingly, done me a really bad turn. But more than a year had to pass before I began to realize it.
Homesickness is a kind of bereavement and, like bereavement, it can be cured, it seems, only by the passage of time. As in bereavement there is a painful sense of loss, not only of the familiar presence of persons and things loved, but of a part of oneself.
It was not long before I became aware of a change in myself, of the girl called Rajevskaia being different from the girl called Léda, of my boarding-school self being quite distinct from the person I had been at home. It was not merely the change in my appearance: the looking-glass reflected a thinner face with fair hair combed back and tightly plaited, instead of in a page-like fringe; nor the long dress which made me feel I dared no longer run or jump. When I saw a long empty corridor stretching before me, I still felt the impulse to race along it, but a glimpse of a mid-blue dress at the other end made me check myself at once, clasp my hands in front of me —as all the boarders were taught to do — and walk demurely, dropping a curtsey as I passed a teacher or a dame-de-classe. I was learning reserve and caution and quickly losing my natural spontaneity.
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I was also losing some of my self-respect: partly because I despised concealment and pretence, and was ashamed of being afraid, and partly because I could not control my distress and so easily dissolved in tears whenever my family or home were mentioned in my presence.
I doubt that grief is relieved by sharing it — unless it is shared with someone very dear. The knowledge that Tania Pánova, like myself, cried herself to sleep in her bed every night did not make my bereavement any easier to bear: when I saw her looking miserable my own misery was made more intense. Comforting was what we both needed, but we dared not comfort one another, half-ashamed of giving in to grief, half-aware that the quality of comforting we needed could only come from a loved adult, and that a child cannot really console another child in the same predicament.
It is curious how well we kept our distance from one another, protecting our bruised sensitivity from well-meaning but clumsy probes in the way a sore finger or a broken arm is protected by being held out of reach of rough contacts, strenuously avoiding any approaches that could cause pain. And even if we were so inclined, our daily routine provided very few opportunities for confidences. We were up at a quarter past seven, in our class-rooms by eight-forty-five, and at our lessons until half past three, with only half an hour’s break for lunch at midday. We had our main meal at four o’clock, and after that were transferred to the study-room where we settled down to our homework at once. The governess on duty checked what we had done by calling us to her table and making us recite the poem or the list of words in a foreign language, and if any time were left before bed at nine, we could read, sew or draw, still in the same room, still under the surveillance of the same person. We were not supposed to leave the room unless it was to go to the lavatory, and for that we had to ask permission.
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Nor was there much relaxation when eventually we were getting ready for bed. Dasha combed our hair; twice a week she did this with a fine comb, to make sure that we had not picked up any of ‘those eggs’ from the day pupils. She meant lice, of course; she was convinced that some of the day girls from less privileged homes had lice in their hair. ‘You can see them white specks on their black hair,’ she told us. And she knew by experience that homesick children seem to attract vermin, which multiply and thrive on their lowered vitality. Now and again she had the doubtful satisfaction in finding one or two in a girl’s hair; then paraffin oil had to be rubbed into the skin and the head tied up in a clean kerchief to prevent the oil staining the pillowcase. If the hair was clean, Dasha would plait it for the night, then kiss the top of the girl’s head and say: ‘As pure as gold!’ and send her off to bed, feeling warm inside. Dasha’s even-glowing, unselective affection did not enfeeble: it made me, for one, feel less of a waif than I had felt hitherto.
During that first term, in fact during the whole of that first year at school, I made no close friends, although I was on friendly terms with Stassia and Tania and later with an older girl, Yuzia. It seems that self- pity and a craving for the affection I had left at home allowed no room for a deeper feeling towards any new person. My class-room neighbour, Margóolina, made a fuss of me from the first day: she opened my desk for me, helped me to put my books inside it, sharpened my pencil and made me a gift of a sheet of glossy coloured paper to put round one of my books, but all these attentions merely embarrassed me. I needed the attention and affection of an older, more important person to repair my damaged self-esteem, to restore my capacity for showing positive feeling. The person in a position to do this was our dame-de-classe.
The desk I shared with Margóolina was in the second row on the left side of the class-room. Anna Avdyéevna’s own table was on the same side, facing us. I was thus very much in her line of vision, and I soon noticed that her moist brown eyes, which she often raised from her piece of embroidery, now and again rested on me with an expression of great benevolence, and her full, rather colourless lips moved slightly, sketching a smile when our eyes happened to meet. I did not quite trust my observation at first: she could be smiling to her thoughts or looking at someone behind me. Yet, as this went on, my heart, hungry for affection, began to stir in response. A few weeks passed, and I found myself, half-consciously, waiting for this exchange of glances and for her smile, though I still dared not smile back. I was genuinely shocked when Margóolina, closing her desk with a bang at the end of a day of lessons, remarked a little provocatively: ‘I’ll tell you something, Rayévskaia. You’re Anna Avdyéevna’s favourite. She’s always looking at you.’
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I blushed to the roots of my hair, so flattering and yet alarming was this piece of information — or accusation — for I knew that ‘favourites’ were regarded with envious hostility and suspicion by other girls. Mílochka was an awful example of their breed.
‘Keep quiet!’ I turned on Margóolina. ‘I’m nobody’s favourite!’ ‘You’re mine!’ she retorted disarmingly. ‘Don’t be cross! You can’t help it. You’ve done nothing . . . you haven’t been making up to her. But everyone can see that she likes you best of the class.’
I closed my desk and went in front of her as we trooped out of the class-room, past Anna Avdyéevna who was standing in the doorway. In passing her, we all dropped our farewell curtseys, for we were not going to see her until the following morning. My face was still flushed after my brief argument with Margóolina, and, as I raised my eyes to our dame-de classe, hers suddenly turned grave with concern. She made me a sign to wait.
Hot with embarrassment, I stepped back, trying not to look at Margóolina as she turned to curtsey on her way out. When the last of the girls was out of the room, Anna Avdyéevna spoke to me at once in a voice of an almost velvety softness.
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‘Rayévskaia, are you all right? Your face is so flushed. Have you a headache?’
‘No, Anna Avdyéevna.’
‘Are you sure?’ she insisted. ‘You look as if you had a temperature.’
I repeated my denial. Then she did something which literally made my head swim. She placed her hand on my forehead and held it there for several seconds. No one had done this to me for weeks — weeks that seemed like an eternity. Her hand was soft and cool, and in its shadow treacherous tears quickly gathered under my eyelids. She took away her hand and I still dared not move, hanging my head, as if guilty of some indefinable transgression.
‘No, you haven’t a temperature,’ she said. ‘Still, if by any chance your head begins to ache tonight, I should report at once to the matron. You promise?’
I promised, now longing to escape, both from the hot cloud of emotion which enveloped me, and from the reprimand which I was sure to earn if I were late for the boarders’ tea.
Stassia was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.
‘It’s Fräulein Schmiedel’s day,’ she told me.
As if I did not know! But I understood what she wanted to say: the Fräulein was bound to come down on me like a ton of bricks, and Stassia stayed behind so that she could share the weight of it with me. It was far, far easier to face a scolding in company with a friend, than to stand before an accusing voice in helpless, humiliating isolation. But as we entered the dining-room, the governess happened to be talking to her favourite, Mílochka, and we were able to slip into our seats without her noticing us. In fact, when she turned to speak to me, it was to give me pleasant news.
‘Rayévskaia, a parcel for you came this afternoon. You can have it after you’ve finished tea.’
A parcel from home to a homesick child is not just a collection of dainties, an occasion for gorging and for buying popularity with one’s classmates — it is a part of home itself, and to open it brings a lump to the throat and makes one hesitate to break into these carefully packed krendielki and slabs of strawberry cake. My mother’s hands had touched them only a day or two ago; they came from a familiar cupboard in a familiar room; they revived memories of happy moments round the tea-table ... I carried the parcel to the study-room, cradled in my arms like a baby. But here was Fatima, watching me like a lynx, implying by her watchfulness that I would be ‘a greedy pig’ unless I offered her the first choice of whatever there might be in it. And I was impressionable enough to feel that it would indeed be mean of me not to offer her the choice. Slowly I unpicked the stitches, unwrapped the coarse linen into which the box had been sewn — Aniuta, my former nursemaid, now a maid of my mother’s, must have done this careful packing and sewing. Dear, tiresome Aniuta! How annoying she could be at times with her remarks about manners, telling me not to swing my legs because it meant ‘giving a swing to the devil! ’ I wondered whether she missed me. I peeped inside the box: yes, it was krendielk í, strips of rich, sweet pastry twisted into a variety of shapes. ‘They smell good!’ said Fatima’s voice behind me. I closed the lid. ‘Don’t you want to taste them?’ Fatima asked, suavely.
‘Not yet. In the dormitory. ’
That evening, half grudgingly, half enjoying it, I offered krendielki around the small dormitory. That old Dasha accepted one gave me the most pleasure, while Mílochka’s supercilious ‘No, thank you,’ was both offensive and satisfying, for I had been expecting it. Was I becoming worldly wise? Hardly so, as much of what happened later will show.
Red Letter Days
The desk calendar in my father’s study at home had a page for every day of the week. Under the boldly printed date and the name of the day, names of men and women appeared in small print, the names of saints and martyrs whose memory was venerated on that day. A child bom into a peasant family would be baptized with the name of the saint on whose day he was born, and for the rest of his life that day would be celebrated as his ‘name-day’. Educated families did not follow this custom of naming: they chose their children’s names freely but they celebrated their name-day all the same.
Some names appeared in the calendar several times in the year: there had been more than one Mary, more than one John among the saints, so the names of Ivan and Maria were the commonest in Russian villages. My name appeared only once, on March 23rd, old style, two days before the Holy Day of Annunciation, when you bought caged birds in the market place and released them, to share with you the joy at the tidings Archangel Gabriel brought to Virgin Mary. Such Holy Days and Sundays were printed on the calendar in red, and there was excitement in coming upon them as you turned the pages, an anticipation of celebrations and rituals connected with them. Less interesting were red-letter days indicating the name-day or birthday of the Tsar, for all that happened on such days was the display of national flags on buildings and my father putting on his parade uniform to attend the service at the cathedral.
At my boarding school, however, such days were observed as a very special kind of holiday, particularly the name-day of our patroness, the Dowager Empress, Maria Fyódorovna. No lessons were held on that day. In the morning we were issued with a fresh set of fine cambric white cape and sleeves, and a white pinafore fringed with lace. After breakfast we were taken to the upper hall for a religious service. I remember the strong impression it made on me the first time. The hall where Stassia practised her music and where on one day a week we did our gym, was transformed into a chapel, with a praying desk set below the portraits of the Imperial couple. The desk was covered with a cloth of gold brocade and on it lay the book of the Gospels with the ends of bright-coloured ribbons hanging down from between its pages. The boarders led the way, walking demurely in pairs, and ranged themselves facing the praying desk. The staff followed and stood on one side. Then the Headmistress entered in a flurry of silk skirts, accompanied by the Director, both wearing their decorations. We curtseyed deeply to them while they bowed gravely in our direction. Immediately after them bátiushka, our school priest, strolled in, a deacon at his elbow. He looked splendid in his blue and silver risa, no longer an avuncular figure who smiled at us benevolently, almost indulgently, in the class-room.
The acolyte handed him the censer, and at once he began to swing it and to pray in his deep, rich voice. He prayed that the Lord might grant health and long life to her Imperial Majesty, the Dowager Empress Maria Fyódorovna, that He guard, preserve and protect her to the end of her days. He offered the same prayers for the Emperor Nikolai, his wife, the Empress Alexandra Fyódorovna, his son, the heir to the throne, the Grand Duke Alexéy, and ‘the whole of the Imperial family’. I thought it was most unfair that his daughters were not mentioned by name, though I myself thought the little boy much more attractive than his sisters. The Grand Duchesses, Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia, with their long straight hair and large hats, did not match my mental picture of a fairy princess; in fact, I thought them rather plain and dowdy.
The ‘molíeben’, or prayers for health, lasted barely twenty minutes, and we went down to our study-room, to spend the rest of the day — alas! — in boredom, relieved only by a special midday meal with a huge meringue pie for a sweet course and a distribution of chocolates and sweet biscuits at tea time. The Headmistress did this herself, beaming benevolence as she told us: ‘From her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Maria Feodorovna!’ with such an obvious delight that, in my innocence,
I took it that the gifts came to us straight from the palace itself. Mílochka and Fatima guffawed with derision when, in an unguarded moment, I voiced this belief.
‘You are a baby!’ said Fatima. ‘The Empress only gives money for the sweets and pastries to the Headmistress: she doesn’t buy them herself!’
On ordinary Sundays we were taken to a church service at an orphanage. The orphanage chapel was open to the general public, but most of them went to the Cathedral, so that we were spared ‘the common crush’ . . . and ‘the vulgar curiosity’ our uniform aroused among the passers-by. They certainly stared at us as we walked through the streets in a crocodile, the chief porter, Klementiy, leading the way, and two governesses, one at the side, the other at the tail of the procession. We walked past the hotel where my mother and I stayed when she brought me — it seemed so very, very long ago — to visit my sister at this same boarding school, and again, on the fateful day of my entrance examinations; past my brother’s Ghymnasia in the main street . . . And all the time I was conscious of my captivity, oppressed by the knowledge that I could not step off this pavement, turn round to look at that passing cab, stop to gaze at these shop windows without immediately being told not to, and having to keep in step with the others. As I look back at it from this distance in time, I believe my sense of desolation could stand comparison with the dejection of the prisoners in Fidelio, trudging round and round their prison yard.
Nor was the orphanage a place calculated to raise a child’s spirits. Its smaller inmates, all girls, pressed around us as we took off and piled our bonnets, overcoats and galoshes on to the wooden forms in their bare dining-hall. I did not fail to notice that their uniforms were a poor copy of our own: they, too, had white capes and sleeves, but their frocks were made of coarse grey cotton, not of fine wool like ours. Conscious of the social chasm which divided us, I saw in their freckled faces and round eyes the same awareness of ‘not belonging’ which was oppressing me, and I was stung with pity for them. Was I more fortunate than they, who had no parents at all? I knew I was, yet the thought of their unhappiness merely increased the poignancy of my own.
The chapel into which we were shepherded was bright, almost gay with the shining gilt of the iconostasis, and warm with the glow of many burning candles. The orphanage girls filled most of the available space on the left side, while we took our privileged places on the right, in front of the rest of the congregation. Opposite us there was a particularly pleasant painting of Jesus: in his sky-blue robes He looked as if He could not refuse anything you asked Him. If only He could make this service half an hour shorter, how much better I could pray to Him! But it went on and on, and first my feet, then my back and the whole of my body began to ache. I began to wish that I would faint: perhaps then they would not take me to church next Sunday . . . Myriads of ants started running up my legs. The choir sang ‘Lord, have mercy upon us!’ for the hundredth time. Our bátiushka, who was also the priest and confessor at the orphanage, went in and out of the Royal Gates at least a dozen times. The scent of melting wax and of incense made the air visible above the candle flames: it trembled and flowed upwards in thin wisps.
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