Marie Tarnowska saw this, and turned pale. Then she sat down, unconsciously assuming the same chastened attitude as the Sisters, her hands submissively folded, her dark lashes cast down over her long light eyes. For some time there was silence.
“I have read your notes,” I said at last.
“My notes? I do not remember writing them.” Suddenly her voice sounded harsh and her glance flashed at me keen as a blade of steel.
“You wrote them in the prison at Venice, in pencil, in a child's exercise book.”
“It may be so.” Marie Tarnowska breathed a long sigh. “That was a time of dreams,” she said, raising her stricken eyes to mine. “I sometimes dream that this is all a dream. I think I must have fallen asleep one day when I was a little child, at home in Otrada—perhaps in our garden on the swing. I used often to fall asleep on that creaky old swing, reading a book, or looking at the sky. Perhaps I shall wake up soon, and find that none of all these dreadful things are true.” She fingered the broad brown-and-white stripes of her prison-garb and gazed round the dreary room. Then her eyes strayed from the whitewashed walls, bare except for a large ebony crucifix, to the narrow iron-barred window, and back to the Sisters sitting along the wall like a triptych of Renunciation, with folded hands and lips moving silently in their habitual prayer. “Yes, I shall wake up soon and find myself in our old garden again. My mother will come down the path and across the lawn, with her little white shawl on her head; she will call me: 'Mura! Mura! Where are you? Come, child, it is time for tea; and Vassili is asking for you.' Then I shall jump from the swing and run to her and hide my face on her breast. 'Mother, if you knew what a dream I have had—a terrible dream, all about deaths and murders! I thought I had married Vassili, and he was unkind to me—as if Vassili could be unkind!—and I was locked in a prison in Italy—imagine, mother, to be imprisoned in Italy, where people only go for their honeymoon!' And mother will kiss me and laugh at the crazy dream as we go across the lawn together, happily, arm in arm.”
I found no word to say, though her eyes seemed to question me; and her fragile voice spoke again: “Surely, this cannot all be true? It cannot be true that they are all dead. My mother? And little Peter? And Bozevsky? And Stahl? And Kamarowsky? Why, it is like—like 'Hamlet.'” She broke into strident laughter. “Do you remember how they all die in 'Hamlet'? One here, one there, one in the stream, one behind the curtain, drowned, stabbed, strangled—” Suddenly she was silent, looking straight before her with startled eyes.
“Poor Mura!” I murmured, and lightly touched her hand.
At the sound of the tender Russian appellative she turned to me quickly. Then she began speaking under her breath in hurried whispers.
“Who told you my name? Who are you? Are you my sister Olga? Do you remember the merry-go-round at the school-feast in Kieff? How we cried when it swung us round and round and round and would not stop? I seem to be still on the merry-go-round, rushing along, hastening, hurrying with the loud music pealing in my head.”
The Mother Superior rose and approached her. “Hush,” she spoke in soothing tones. “You will soon be quiet and at rest.”
But Marie Tarnowska paid no heed. Her eyes were still fixed on mine with a despairing gaze. “Wake me, wake me!” she cried. “And let me tell you my dream.”
And during those long mild April days she told it to me as follows.
Where shall I begin? Wait, let me think—ah, yes! Where I fell asleep that day in the garden, on the swing. I remember it was a hot day even in Otrada; almost as hot as it is here. And it was my birthday; I was sixteen years old. My mother herself, with great solemnity, in the presence of my father and sisters, had twisted up my long curling hair and pinned it in great waves and coils on the top of my head. There were to be no more long plaits hanging down my back!
“Your childhood is over, Mura,” said my mother. “At sixteen one has to look and behave like a grown-up young lady.”
“That is exactly what I am, mother dear,” I replied with great self-assurance.
My mother smiled and sighed and kissed me. “You are such a child—such a child still, my little snowdrop,” she said, and her eyes were tender and anxious.
But I ran gaily out into the garden, feeling very proud of my red-gold helmet of curls. I sprang fearlessly on the swing, tossing my head from side to side, delighted to feel the back of my neck cool and uncovered to the breeze. What would Vassili say to see me like this! But soon the hairpins felt heavy; they pulled a hair or two here, and a hair or two there, and hurt me. I stopped the swing, and with my head bent forward I quickly drew all the hairpins out and threw them on the ground.
The heavy coils of hair loosened, untwisted like a glittering snake, and fell all about me like a cloak of gold. I leaped upon the swing again and, standing, swung myself in wide flights through the clear air. What joy it was! As I flew forward my hair streamed out behind me like a flag, and in the backward sweep it floated all about my head in a whirling canopy of light.
I laughed and sang out loud to myself. How delightful was the world! How blissful to be alive and in the sunshine!
Suddenly Vassili appeared at the end of the path with my cousin, Prince Troubetzkoi. They were coming towards me arm in arm, smoking cigarettes and gazing at me. I felt shy of my loosened hair; I should have liked to jump down and run away, but the swing was flying too high and I could not stop it.
The two men looked at me with strange intent eyes, as no one had ever looked at me before. I felt a hot blush rise to my cheeks like a flame. Obeying a sudden, overmastering impulse I let go the ropes and covered my face with my hands. I heard a cry—did it come from me?—then everything whirled round me. … For an instant I saw the gravel path rise straight in front of me as if to strike me on the forehead. I threw myself back, something seemed to crash into the nape of my neck—and I remember no more.
III
I see the ensuing days as through a vague blue mist. I see myself reclining in an armchair, and my mother sitting beside me with her crochet-work. She is crocheting something of yellow wool. It is strange how the sight of that yellow wool hurts and repels me, but I cannot find words in which to express it, I seem unable to speak; and mother crochets on calmly, with quick white hands. I am conscious of a dull pain in the nape of my neck. Then I see Vassili come in; he is carrying an enormous cage in his hand; and Olga follows him, laughing and radiant. “Here he is! here he is!” cries Vassili triumphantly, putting the cage down beside me; and in it, to my horror, I see a parrot, a huge gray and scarlet creature, twisting a hard black tongue round and round as he clambers about the cage. I cry out in terror: “Why—why do they bring me things that frighten me?” And I burst into tears. Every one gazes at me in amazement; my mother bends tenderly over me: “But, my own darling, yesterday you said you wanted to have a parrot. Vassili has been all the way to Moscow to buy it for you.”
“No, no! it is not true! I never said I wanted a parrot! Take it away! It frightens me. And so does the yellow wool.” I hear myself weeping loudly; then everything is blotted out and vanishes—parrot, Vassili, yellow wool, Olga—nothing remains but my mother's sad and anxious face bending above me, dim and constant as the light of a lamp in a shadowy chapel.
When I was able to come down to breakfast for the first time, my father stood waiting for me, straight and solemn at the foot of the great staircase. He gave me his arm with much ceremony and led me to my place, where flowers lay in fragrant heaps round my plate. Every one embraced and complimented me and I was very happy.
“I feel as if I were a princess!” I cried, clapping my hands; and they all laughed except my father, who answered gravely:
“If it is your wish, you may become one. Prince Ivan has asked for your hand.”
“Ivan? Ivan Troubetzkoi?” All