Beyond The Silver Threads. Lara BiyutsЧитать онлайн книгу.
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