Le Cornouiller de Montagne – A Translation

Author’s Foreword

Sometimes I wonder: Is it not peculiar to write of such strange memories – of such tales of forgotten love? If only I was a celebrity, or if these love stories were even a little original! But alas I am a mediocre person and those who have loved me, and who I have loved, they too are average; and what’s more, literature is not even my speciality: I can only recount these events in all their simplicity, this happened, then that – nothing more.

From this truth I have but one reprieve: The essential thing here is not the people but, – as I said – Love. Love in itself cannot be mediocre. It suffices just the smallest of blossoms, the tiniest of buds – and all becomes quite singular. And then, in the words of Vladamir Soloviev, each and every human being is magnified, seen from close-up ‘by the heavens, and from far below.’ And the human form becomes visible, its true form, without likenesses.

My love stories are so evidently similar to those of Ivan Leonidovitch, Ivan Petrovich and even of Sergeyevich… But could Ivan Leonidovich truly describe things as I know them to be? Could he ever realise in what ways he might resemble me, and in what ways he is different? No, he knows but himself. 

I would quite voluntarily listen to those lovely stories by Ivan Petrovich too, if, (like mine to me) they felt but a little frank, or personal.

I am interested in everyone, those who are extraordinary, and ordinary alike: The story that I am going to tell you is not really a story…Rather, it seems to me, like life itself, a matter of opinion. 

–Zinaida Grippius 1927

Le Cornouiller de Montagne

1927

Sitting on the long veranda of the conservatoire with my new acquaintance Nikolaï Danilovich, I contemplated the gardens that stretched out before us. It was almost midday. The grounds were empty. The quiet chatter of the spring was all that could be heard.

I, a student from Petersburg (and quite a handsome one too if I may say so), had come to this spa resort – a small corner lost deep in the mountains – quite unexpectedly. I had had an argument with Nina.. Not really an argument, just a squabble… (I’ll spare you the details of this squabble, it does not really fall under the banner of a ‘love story’). During a discussion which had taken a turn for the worse, I had said that I had had quite enough of Yalta and if moreover, she was to make any more scenes, I would be leaving at once. What’s more, Nina’s husband was due to dock in Yalta the next morning for ten days. Of course, Nina, in her normal hysterical way, pressed on: ‘you are not leaving!’. 

Early the next morning, I set off with a sense of freedom that felt both old and familiar. My intention being, of course, to get as far away as possible.

And so I found myself there, sitting on that veranda, with a feeling of pleasant suprise. Nina will have more than enough time to reflect, I told myself, There’ll be no harm in her waiting. For that moment, I had other preoccupations.

      -Ah, so you know her then? Said Nikolaï Danilovich, looking at me with an expression of joy.

      -Yes, we met at The Rotonde, for the Children’s Day party… I think it was your brother who introduced us, I replied.

       -The oldest? Or Mitia? Mitia..what a little rascal! A complete oaf, he’s still en quatrième. Yes that would have been her: her visits are indeed brief… but you say she danced on a Sunday? – Not in a million years! Look my friend, the ladies of today: They come only to listen to music, and don’t take a solitary step from their chairs.. And they are always surrounded! Sonitchka Enikadzé for example, what a coquette! And what does she do to merit it I ask you? What is it about her? Nikolaï Danilovich asked.

I had not thought Sonichka Enikadzé interesting, but she amused me, like all of that jumble of provincial ladies. However I must say that she had hardly attracted my attention in particular.

          -The young people here seem to find her hardly interesting at all, Nikolaï Danilovich continued… But they must have no comprehension at all! If a young lady is discreet, if she walks alone, a book in hand, not laughing, nor fidgeting – Why, they wouldn’t even notice her, no matter her beauty. It’s my second year in this station and I can say quite assuredly that she is the most beautiful of all.

          -Oh, but you are clearly in love, Nikolaï Danilovich! If only I’d known! We were presented so very briefly, I had not really the time to examine her.

          -I have loved her for a long time, Nikolaï Danilovich confessed. But well.. I haven’t yet even been able to even speak to her.

           He stroked his gingerish goatee and gazed away pensively. He had blue eyes, naive and disquietingly credulous. I asked him with increasing interest:

          -And how come?

          -You see…It’s my own fault. I don’t dare. She isn’t very talkative, I don’t quite know how to…approach her… On top of that I’ve been reflecting on the situation: She is nineteen and I’m already thirty-five. Her family are considered noble here, even if they are not rich…and they live in Tbilisi. It is far from everything; from music and culture too… even summertime there is short…and distant, and what’s more I live more than ten kilometers away from here…let alone…And he trailed off before beginning again suddenly: And then again what even am I? The assistant manager of a grand princely estate in which the prince himself hardly ever sets foot?…So you see my predicament.

           -But none of that matters! You contradict yourself Nikolaï Danilovich! If even out here she keeps her distance, well… why wouldn’t she wish to move, to hide herself away in your own pocket of country? Provided that she loves you of course.

           -Provided that she loves me! But why would she love me?

I felt like laughing, he was so adorable; so sincere that his innocence was almost pitiful.

            -Promise me not to be scared. I’ll bump into her again I’m sure… and then I’ll tell you your prospects: It may even be that she already loves you…

           A smile flickered on the face of Nikolaï Danilovich. He hastily came closer to me and began to speak hurriedly:

         -I’m waiting to bump into her today myself. Often, after breakfast she sets off for the gorge. But you never know: The ladies here – southerners, and from grand old families – they are precocious.. and secretive. But there’s a hitch – I have to leave soon to find the caretaker. It’s him who has the horse and tomorrow I have to travel on business to the mill at Atskheli. I won’t be back for three or four days, which may already be too late. I only wish to see her for a minute, you see…

         -So you wish to speak to her today then?

         -No! How? Nikolaï Danilovich said, his nerves evidently frayed. I plan not even to approach her but rather just to wave. How could you even think of that? Just look at her!

          It was touching, this gargantuan of a man with a face so sweet. And his love, also so robust, but in its robustness so timid. I couldn’t help but like him. And the grounds too, the veranda covered with flowering vines, and the sky above. How brilliant and sweet it all was! What freshness on the ground, O how strong and silken was the spluttering of the dear little river which flowed down the mountain! And those charming little paths with on one side the rocky hillside and on the other, the foaming sea with its turquoise peaks stretching out to the horizon.

           And the modest little conservatoire too with its flow of coquettish young ladies arriving to the concerts with their suitors, those troublesome students. It all seemed so immaculate! But how could I not have noticed amongst it all Nikolaï Danilovich’s very own La Béatrice, Sonitchka Enikadzé?

           -It’s her! – whispered Nikolaï Danilovich loudly, and with a start.

           He had spotted her before me, crossing the shadowy side of the veranda. To reach the gardens she would have to pass right in front of us.

A small dark head, smooth and uncovered, a blue dress decorated with red flowers, in one hand she held a scarf and a book and in the other hung a long plait, so long that if she had not been holding it, its brown ribbon might have hung lower than the end of her skirt.

            Nikolaï Danilovich just stood there, straight, planted like a post. As for me, I had at first thought to leave so as to not disturb them, but when I saw his indecision, and that he would surely decline to engage her, I stopped myself still. When she was almost in front of us, we strode forward in unison. 

               -Sonia Lvovna …Hello…Ah… did I frighten you?

              But she was not frightened. Her eyes, framed by long dark lashes, opened wide, and her pale face went a deep red.

              -So, are you going for a walk? Nikolaï Danilovich asked stupidly, after having cleared his throat… How unfortunate it is that I can’t accompany you…I must leave on business! He added, going a colour not dissimilar from her own. The weather is truly marvelous this morning, but in any case it matters not… I have seen that you always like to walk alone…

               -Ah, not at all, she said, a little embarrassed. I’m not going far… if you would like to join me… Just there, towards the gorge.            

             -My lord, how unfortunate! Nikolaï Danilovich exclaimed. I cannot! I left my horse with the caretaker, down by the sentry box and tomorrow I have to set off for the millhouse. What misfortune! He paused a moment…But perhaps you would allow me to break your solitude another time?

            Sonitchka, without smiling, began to blush again, quite obviously not knowing what to say. She murmured: Naturally…I walk there every day…It’s really not far..and besides there’s a little grassy bank there that I love…

               -Perhaps you would allow me to accompany you to your bank in his stead? I sharply interjected. Surprising even myself, I continued: It’s such a nuisance that my friend is so short on time, and it would be a shame for you to go alone…because the weather really is marvelous….

       Whilst saying this I shot a look at Nikolaï Danilovich and saw that in both his recognizant expression, and his amicable goodbye, he understood I was trying to help him.

Sonitchka and I quickly veered off the path and headed further into the green depths of the gorge. Neither the murmuring of the river, nor its gentle lapping against the stony banks bothered our silence, they only served to give it time and rhythm. All of a sudden, as we were ascending, we were overpowered by the heady and humid smell of moss – its softness was piercing. I gazed at the dark shadows beneath Sonitchka’s lowered lashes, her fresh face almost child-like, and felt for a moment as though this herby scent, sweet and exulting, was emanating from her, perhaps from her little blue dress.

        I spoke lengthily in banalities and anecdotes, attempting to break the awkwardness and all the while consoling myself that she was but a young thing, a wild thing, and that it would be sorry not to pull her from her embarrassment. And yet when we arrived at ‘her’ bank, stationed beneath the overhanging waterfall as though inside a vaulted chamber, I saw that my companion had somewhat let her guard down. She began to lift her head, showing her astonishing eyes, dark and without the least brilliance; were they timid, or rather…impenetrable?

     She had even begun to smile, almost once laughing to reveal her beautiful white teeth, angled one against the other. In that moment, I wished to tell Nikolaï Danilovich all that I had seen of her, but she had already stopped smiling, seemingly having retreated back into herself, and so I began to harp on again about this and that. 

      I questioned her on what she was reading and she responded: ‘No no, nothing much’, refusing to show me the book. In fact, I had already glimpsed it; they were poems by some modern poet, a mediocre love writer.

     Our walk had now lasted two hours.

     – I think I’d like to take the circular route past the folly, Sonitchka said as we were approaching the main path. The music is about to start and I wish to avoid it, but you, you should go and listen.

       She offered me her little hand, joined to the wrist by a magnificent, flowing plait. I was just about to say something along the lines of ‘I hope we can see each other again, perhaps for another walk just as “delightful”’…or another thing of the sort when she suddenly interjected (And I remember well my astonishment)

     -Tomorrow, The same bank.

     She spoke simply and briefly, without smile nor shame, and then left innocently with just a nod of the head. So brief it was, that at first I had to ask myself if I had really heard her right. How to interpret it? She had said it with the gay naivety of a child: tomorrow, can we do more walking?

I should long have come to expect this, the nature of femininity..the incomprehensibility. It had been a long time since it had last amazed me, or astounded me like it did then. Perhaps it was my own naivety, my own reluctance to expect anything unexpected. In any case, I had foolishly abandoned even the search for the key to the female enigma.

As wise a resolution as that may seem, I must admit it brought me little wisdom. I sensed, particularly at that moment, that in women exists an eternal mystery and to seek to know it – well it is useless, even women themselves will never find it out.

The best thing to do is not to think of it.

Early the next day, I headed, of course, towards Sonitchka’s bank and though I arrived much in advance, she was already there, in her blue dress again, and with her scarf, but this time without her book. Rays of sunlight trembled gently upon the leaves that decorated the gorge and the same odor reigned – yet even more acutely. Sonia seemed even more beautiful than before, tall, like a flower rising from the grass.

         At first, I did not know what to say. I kissed her right hand, in silence, (she seemed unsurprised by my arrival), and then sat down next to her. Then I spoke – incoherently but ardently – of the sun, the foliage, the murmuring of the river in its stony bed. I said it was all that was essential in the world, and (quite truly) that I felt I had never known this before in a manner so clear, or so brutal.

        Without interrupting me, she stared straight ahead, her chin raised. This time she did not lower her eyes and, as I spoke, was fixing me with a calm stare. How she reminded me of Summer, and of lightness….

        Then suddenly seeing her expression, and cutting short my inflamed monologue, I stopped in my tracks…What is it?

         -Let’s walk, said Sonitchka curtly, but just for a short while. I have to go home earlier today.

          Walking over the mossy stones, taking care not to slip, we crossed the river and directed ourselves towards the exit from the gorge.

          Trying to lift the atmosphere, I set myself to talking to her of Petersburg, of everything and nothing all at once…but she listened again with the same weighty gravity. Then she spoke:

         -I suppose you feel alone there…one can feel alone almost anywhere..

I began questioning her about her life, if she had friends, if…But I felt frightened and, not knowing why, scared to abandon the light tone we had been speaking in before.

      -You’re truly feral aren’t you…spending all your time alone with your book…I joked instead.

       -I’m not, I assure you….and besides, what friends could I have?

For a moment I remembered Nikolaï Danilovich and his words flickered across my mind. When we reached the entrance of the grounds, at the moment we were to part ways, I asked her:

      -Will you be coming tomorrow?

Her dear eyes regarded me with astonishment, always impenetrable.

      -Of course.

I looked around me…there was no one, and I once again took her hand to my lips.

      -And if you would like…she added meditatively, there, pointing towards the terraces above, is a path which leads up to the mountain and the forest, and then finally to the brickyard, all the way on the other side…Would you like to go there? It’s another of my favourite spots…

     We agreed to meet the next day in the same very spot beneath the terraces.

I went back to my lodgings in terribly high spirits, worried about nothing, thinking of nothing, and completely insouciant. Before me seemed to lie an infinite string of joyous days, an infinite string of charming walks with Sonitchka. It seems ridiculous that people worry about things, that they fret and tremble so: one must approach life with simplicity…it is all so pleasurable!

      Later on, I descended to the conservatoire to do the rounds of the ladies, even stopping to compliment, and slightly mock Olivia Gvozdeva (in accordance with the local customs…that behaviour seems to be encouraged), but I could not stay long, and on my way to bed, engulfed in a night as black as ink and perforated with the gentle surging of the spring, I was taken with the sudden urge to see the stars. For reasons unbeknownst to even myself, I felt I had to see them clearly and moving out from under the trees, who’s shadow allowed but a flicker of light to shine through, I stood beneath the hotel terrace and stared upwards. The sky was full of them, huge and constant and I was filled with a rare and pacifying tranquility.

The mountain path. Sonia’s white scarf. Those turquoise waves whose tips come crashing down as they meet the coast – We felt as though we could reach out and touch them. The sun.. the sun..whose slanted rays glimmered on the water… and the scarlet berries that littered the floor beneath the mountain dogwood, dried and desecrated in the heat. They become ripe only when the sun’s rays have pierced them through, darkening them on their branches to fall softly into the moss below as though into a shaded hammock. Beneath that mountain dogwood we too were softly sheltered. Her skin was tanned and her amaranthine lips quivered as innocently as the amber shoots above us in the breeze. I was leaning towards her, close, closer….was it I who took her hand? Perhaps yes…..It seems impossible now….

Suddenly her unsuspecting arms were around me, her plaits so close, gently tickling me. I looked into her dark eyes – unfathomably profound? Questioning? Passionate? Naive?

           – I love you…. O how I love you…. She whispered.

What was it in me that finally came to separate her enlacing hands? I sat up straight. Obediently, she too sat up and nestled her dark head into my chest with child-like credulity. I had to cover her bare shoulders, and then, together, we began the descent. In silence. We went faster and faster, all the while me supporting her, gently bearing her delicate body. 

             As soon as the first houses began to appear before us, I removed my hand from her’s. I looked at her, her eyes lowered, half-closed. What grave happiness there was on her face. From the terraces where we had met, echoed the gentle sound of the evening’s concert; delicate, it scattered lightly into every mountain crevice like shattered glass. 

             -Tomorrow….will you come to visit me? Sonia said.

             She lifted her regard to me. Her charming eyes were full of happiness, and of tears.

              -Yes, yes, naturally, I murmured. I’ll come tomorrow. Of course.

            Lost, and with a preoccupied air, I repeated to myself:

            -Tomorrow, at yours, why not….yes….of course..

           I wanted, I felt, to smile, but I couldn’t. The vision of her tears was still fresh in my mind. I heard the clack of a door nearby. It wouldn’t be possible here to even kiss her hand. She threw her white scarf over her head and weaved away quickly towards her house.

           I stayed there, still, outside.

                                                      * * *

“Dear Sofia Lvovna”….No…. “Dear, sweet Sonia…”. No, simply: “Sonia Lvovna, for the love of God, I am begging you upon bended knee…”. No. Perhaps it would be better to be abrupt: “I don’t know, I’m not sure whether I love you, yet you deserve it. I must leave here. Alone.”

           What? – Alone? Anyway, I could not just write her a letter. I had to go and see her – and say to her…what?.. As Lermontov does in A Hero of Our time? …..I knew myself to be incapable of it.

Paralysed, I slumbered deeply until the early morning when I was strangely awoken by a knock at my door, and the ring of a familiar voice.

          -He entered. Excuse me, please forgive me for having so interrupted your rest. I was wondering….as it is already late enough. I was thinking that perhaps we could have breakfast together and then take a walk. I was lucky enough to be freed from my duties at the mill…

           Nikolaï Danilovich! It all came pouring back to me. The vision of tears in her eyes…His words. Seeing him above me, I noticed something of a cold hatred in my heart.

           Ah, my dear Nikolaï, I said, in a tone both sad and hypocritical (surprising, again, even myself). As lucky as you may be, I am but unluckier; I received a telegram yesterday and I must be off before four. The look on his face was one of dismay. But don’t worry, it’s not all bad.. I do have some positive news…

           -Oh really? What rotten luck! But what..may I ask…is your news?

           -Sonia…If she doesn’t love you already, she is quite ready to…But do be cautious, she is a wild thing…do not rush it. If you do, you might ruin everything.

            Nikolaï Danilovich collapsed into his chair.

            -Is it true?…How can I possibly thank you…This hope… it is all that I require..as for patience, I have already shown myself to have plenty. How unfortunate that you must leave… but may I again propose that we breakfast together and then share a last walk…I wish to thank you properly…I believe you probably have time. 

At great pains I finally managed to get rid of him, assuring him that I was tired, and had much packing yet to do. Relenting, he promised to meet me at the station at four instead, in time to wave me off. And yet of course I did not take the four o’clock train as promised, instead taking the one at three, alone.

           And moreover it was not even the train to Yalta..Yalta…Nina and Yalta can go to the devil! No, no…St Petersburg was awaiting me…

To Cici

Translation by Leon Friedman