The Model Read online

  The trouble with life’s monitions was that, though leading to action, they were often so intrinsically unpleasant; nor did the book say otherwise, not for one moment. Elena read with new attention the account of a girl who had married a handsome student without realizing that he was really a convicted criminal, escaped only a few weeks before from a party set to digging up beetroot. The poor girl had to live through the experience of her husband being ultimately guillotined for murdering their innocent, but starving, child. Elena’s eyes had previously slid over the tale. At least, she now reflected, there was no guillotine in Holy Russia. All the same, Elena shuddered.

  That same afternoon Elena’s Mother asked to see her. The message was brought to Elena by no less an unexpected person than Cook, hiccoughing the while, as always. Bábaba still refused to speak to Elena, or to see her feed, or to set eyes on her, or to listen to any apologies, had apologies been even offered.

  Elena tapped at the discolored door.

  “Mamma!”

  Standing instructions were that there was never to be any shock to poor Mamma’s nerves; not even if fire broke out, as it sometimes did.

  “Mamma!”

  “Enter, Elena.”

  Mamma was actually out of bed and seated in a quilted gown before the stove, with kerosene heaters ranged round her chair, as satellites round a planet. The clockwork machine had been turned off, or left unwound.

  “Sit down, Elena. I hope you have been good.”

  “Oh, yes, Mamma.”

  Elena seated herself on a small black stool. The other seats in the room were to the rear of the great chair. Most of them were never sat upon because never was more than one visitor admitted at a time, or never more than one who could be invited to be seated. Elena’s stool stood beneath a large and realistic engraving of Alexandra Alexandrevna Alexandrova: Elena’s Mother’s Great-aunt, who, after years of humility, had finally been beatified. The heads of innocent children surrounded her, all rather alike. No doubt they were cherubim.

  “I trust that you have been working hard at all your lessons, Elena.”

  “Of course, Mamma. Mademoiselle Olivier-Page gives us no respite. But how are you, Mamma? How are your sufferings?”

  “It is the decree of God, Elena, that they are to continue.”

  Elena’s Mother crossed herself, and waited for Elena to do the same.

  “I grieve, Mamma.”

  “Ah! That is why I have sent for you, Elena.”

  “It is always a delight to visit you, Mamma.” That phrase was something that Elena had indeed learned from Mademoiselle Olivier-Page, who used it on many occasions.

  “Elena!” Her Mother cried out in a deep and stirring voice. Her huge, faded eyes, set above faded cheeks, gazed at Elena through dependent, faded locks.

  “Mamma, yes, what is it?” Elena, soft-hearted by nature, and soft-hearted still, was affected. She extended one hand a certain distance.

  “Elena, have you considered committing yourself to the life of religion?”

  “No,” said Elena.

  “Last night, only last night,” said Elena’s Mother, softly and magnetically, “I had a vision of God. God himself said to me that a sacrifice was needed. A sacrifice to Him.”

  “Needed for what, Mamma?” Elena had for some days been thinking of things so very different, and at nights also.

  “For my recovery, Elena. For what else?” Now the faded eyes were glowing redly, as if the stove had been open, the faded hairs beginning to gleam and stiffen.

  “I see, Mamma. I’m sorry I didn’t understand.”

  “But you understand now, Elena.”

  “Do I, Mamma?”

  “It is the only way. God has spoken directly to me, and has told me this.”

  Elena longed to take off her dress, to take off more than her dress: or, if that were impossible, to jump through the window, to run until she dropped insensible, to seek reassurance of Tatiana, of Ismene, even of pretty, gifted Clémence, who looked for a witty joke in everything.

  “Oh, Mamma.”

  All the same: Elena knew that here was another occasion when it was necessary to behave quite naturally; not for a moment to lose all hold. Two occasions in a single day!

  “Will you cease to live except for sacrifice, Elena?”

  “No.” This time Elena shook her head, reinforcing herself, since there was no one else to do it.

  All the time, from far below, one could hear Asmara coughing out her lungs, her heart, her life.

  “Will you spurn all wiles? Will you live as if dead?”

  It was as if Elena had never uttered, let alone so definitively.

  “For your Mother’s sake? For your own sake? For the sake of God?”

  Now the eyes were like braziers, and the whole being luminous.

  “I want to marry and have children, Mamma, as many children as Frau von Meyrendorff.”

  The words had leapt out regardless of all the sad miscarriages and stillbirths. Elena would have flushed upon the instant, and very deeply, had the room not been so hot already. Hastily she put forward an alternative ambition.

  “I want to be a ballerina, Mamma, like Frau von Meyrendorff’s book.”

  “Letitia von Schaden was a loose girl. Married, she is a light woman. She has left this house for good.”

  “Why was that, Mamma? She promised to come and see me, and she didn’t.”

  “That is what we all learned to expect of Letitia von Schaden. One day she was caught trying to cheat at Greek; another day substituting something she had bought for something she should have made.”

  “Then why have we gone on knowing her at all, Mamma?”

  Elena was deeply relieved by the change in the subject of conversation; so unplanned, but so easily brought about. The Baron, referring to one of his girls, had written of the volatility and changefulness often displayed by invalids. It was as if Elena had never read any other book, nor needed to.

  “There is such a thing as loyalty, Elena. You are too young to know about it.”

  Elena realized that the conversational cockleshell was again being borne towards turbulent waters.

  “Tell me about Greek, Mamma.”

  “It is very like Russian, Elena, but has only half the letters.”

  “Say something in Greek, Mamma!”

  “What does it mean, Mamma?”

  “It means, Elena, that we women should stand together. It was the motto of the school.”

  It was the very first time that Elena’s Mamma had spoken of Elena as a woman! Or referred in so many words to the school, let alone to its motto!

  “Without a sacrifice I am doomed, Elena. God has told me.”

  “May I have time to think about it, Mamma?”

  It was the form of words used by Ismene when people asked her to do anything much but hang from the parallel bars or rafters or the new girders; grown-up people, naturally.

  “You must not only think, Elena. You must pray.” Elena’s Mother smiled very sweetly but very sadly. She was smiling at Elena, but also at life, or at least at the room as a whole.

  She spoke again.

  “Thinking is not always for the best, Elena.” Now Elena’s Mother’s eyes were full of memories. “I am reminded of something else in Greek, Chance contrives better for us than we do for ourselves.”

  “Yes, Mamma. I know it does.”

  Elena was quite overcome by the truth of the words. Lately, she had received proof of it every day, sometimes more than once in a day. No words, she knew, could be more important. It was astonishing that someone else had noticed what she had noticed, and so long ago: since when it all had been forgotten. It would be a mistake, however, to disclose more than she could help, especially in the exact circumstances.

  But her Mother seemed to notice few of Elena’s disclosures.

  “That was said by Menander,” said her Mother.

  “And the motto, Mamma?”

  “By Euripides, Elena. He sympathized warmly with
the plight of all women.”

  “Warmly, Mamma?”

  But her Mother, like most people, was adhering to her own deep insights and purposes.

  “Chance, Elena, has always to be aided by prayer. That is what we Christians have added to the knowledge of the Greeks. That is what religion means.”

  It has also been said, almost certainly by another Greek, that wonders seldom cease. Remedies are another matter.

  That very same evening Elena’s Father returned early from the Court.

  He came upon Stefan Triforovitch sawing up old furniture from the big outhouse, once the cow shed, because there was nothing else left to saw. Vodka in a jug stood upon a desk turned upon its side; or the nearest thing to vodka that the law allowed to be made at home, perhaps a little nearer.

  “Blessings be upon you, Andrei Alexeitch.”

  “And upon you, Stefan Triforovitch.”

  “I am worn with toil, Andrei Alexeitch,” continued Stefan, taking a swig from the homely jar.

  “And I, Stefan Triforovitch. I work by day and by night to sustain all of you. It is the decree of God.”

  Elena’s Father entered the house through the door used by tradesmen, children, and hens, and by ordinary people too. He went straight to his room and after ten or twelve minutes with the clubs, and another eight or ten in a cold bath (always kept filled in readiness), he dressed somewhat less formally than usual, descended to his study, and called for Bábaba.

  “Ask my daughter, Elena, to come to me here.”

  It was the most direct of orders, and from the master of the house, so that Bábaba, for all she had endured, could scarcely jib, or not overtly.

  But, to deliver the message, she chose the fewest words possible: proper names apart. Elena was mooching up and down, conscious that it was impossible to decide what to do for the best, longing for chance to show its hand sooner than seemed likely, certain only that sacrifice was not the solution, that the moment was premature for sacrifice of any kind.

  “Elena Andreievna, go to your Father, Andrei Alexeitch.”

  Elena tapped at the study door.

  “Is that Elena?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Elena’s Father did not tell her to enter but opened the door for her, as if she had been a ballerina already or at least the wife of the Military Governor.

  “Sit down, Elena. On the divan, if you like.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” said Elena, curtsying slightly.

  The divan had been brought by artillerymen from near Peshawar.

  “How lovely you already are, Elena!” said her Father, stealing a glance at her, as he walked up and down.

  Elena thought it best simply to smile. Not being a little donkey, she knew quite well that Tatiana was more beautiful than she, and perhaps Clémence also, being French; though things might well be different when she, Elena, was a ballerina, which might well be soon. A simple smile was all that would compass these complexities.

  “You are already more lovely than your Mother ever was,” said Elena’s Father, in something of a mutter, as he paced. Elena had begun to sprawl a little.

  “Oh no, Papa.”

  Her Father shot another quick glance at her.

  “I am in an exalted state,” he said. “But never mind that.”

  “But of course I mind, Papa. We all mind.”

  “It is the uncertainty of my work. The Courts are torture chambers. Never look to the law for a living, Elena. A lawyer receives neither thanks nor payment, neither honors nor kopecks.”

  “Women are not permitted to be lawyers, Papa.” Elena had that afternoon been given express license to be a woman as well as a girl, and a woman she would soon have to be, she supposed, as things were going. Undoubtedly, it was a drawback. She realized too that there would be other demands.

  “Women are protected from it, Elena,” said Papa, smiling sadly but proudly, though looking straight before him, so that it was difficult to decide whether he was thinking of Elena in particular. He was striding up and down the room, stepping elegantly from the hips, as he always did, often quite unconsciously.

  “Women are better suited to the arts, Papa,” volunteered Elena, though, as a matter of fact, Mademoiselle Olivier-Page had once said the exact opposite, that, hélas, there was no female Racine, or Rameau, or David. Elena and the others could for the present only wonder whether this was true, and, if so, why?

  “That is very correct,” said Elena’s Papa, indulgently. “Therefore, I have for you a plan, little Elena, though it cannot instantly mature in full.” He turned on his heel as he spoke. “Nonetheless, it will offer something to look forward to.”

  “What is the plan, Papa?” For a third time in one single day she was being called upon to act quite normally, to show no sign of anything in particular.

  “It will secure your entire future, Elena.”

  “What is the plan, Papa?”

  Suddenly, her Father ceased to pace and turn. He fell almost on his knees by the divan, as if he were pleading with Elena for some immense necessity. He began to speak even faster and more nervously than he usually did.

  “You have heard me speak of Count and Countess Wilmarazov-Totin?”

  “No, Papa.”

  “Ah,” he cried, “I try to keep my melancholy affairs concealed from you all, even though you live by them.”

  “Tell me, Papa,” said Elena, though a little cautiously.

  “They owe me more rubles than would fill one of the Emperor’s largest ammunition wagons. I do not know how many rubles.”

  “You must take them to Court, Papa.”

  “I have done so, little Elena. I have already ruined all of us by doing it.”

  “How can that possibly be, Papa?”

  “It is the fatal beauty of the Countess. It is time that you began to hear of such things. The Divisional Judge is an old man, old, old.” Elena’s Father tore his hair for a moment.

  Elena considered. “But what is the plan, Papa?”

  Her Father began to stare at her face with the utmost concentration available to him. His eyes were a trifle glaucous, even fishy. Former sportsmen often have such eyes. There has ceased to be a ball or a bird or other small, distant object upon which their gaze can concentrate.

  “Count Wilmarazov is of a great family and Countess Totin of a greater. That told against me in Court also. Such is our life.”

  “You come of a fine family too, Papa. We all do.” Elena lowered her legs to the floor, in order to concentrate better.

  “Do you know what the old man’s judgment was? He must be ninety-one, or ninety-two. He decided that the Count and Countess owed nothing because the advice I had given them was faulty, and the line of action I had followed on their behalf was misconceived. As if one has to be a Solomon or a Father Stelakovski in order to be a provincial lawyer! Not in all history have such judgments been directed at any lawyer but me!”

  “Oh, Papa,” said Elena.

  “I was ordered to pay and to repay thousands of rubles. I do not know how many. I am probably ruined, Elena. It is all but certain.”

  “Oh!” cried Elena.

  But her Father continued to emit words at her as if he had been alone in the room with his soul. Elena thought it best to avert her eyes from his for a short time.

  “The Count took me aside. There is a little room at the Court for such purposes. Despairing men and women have blown their brains out there, or hanged themselves. Madmen have written on the walls. I feel these things every time I enter that room. The Count is of a great family, Elena, the Countess of a family greater still. The Count offered to set me free, to secure my honor, to save me from all immediate burdens, if you, Elena, would go each day as a companion to his son, Rurik. A carriage would call for you, with a footman, and a different carriage would bring you back. The nearest of the Count’s manor houses is less than twelve versts distant, and sometimes you could stay the night there. I need not detail to you, Elena, the prospects that might ultimat
ely offer. You are by now quite sufficiently grown-up to see some of them for yourself. Rurik is the Count’s only son, and therefore his heir; indeed his only child, owing to the Countess suffering from a malady of some kind, which takes her much out of our country, and prevents her being able to look after children. Rurik is so highly strung that he is in danger from the situation. The Count says that a lovely girl of the right age is a necessity, and that his choice very naturally fell upon you, though he saw you only at your lessons, and then only through the open window. Aren’t you pleased by such a compliment, Elena?”

  “No,” said Elena.

  “Then you cannot be a woman!” exclaimed her Father, without really thinking.

  Elena clung to natural behavior, to holding on to herself, to showing no signs. Perhaps it was all becoming easier with this constant practice.

  “The Count has simply made a mistake,” she said. “It was Tatiana he saw, or even Clémence. I am by no means so lovely as they are.”

  Her Father, still with his legs beneath him on the floor, stared at her for more than a moment. Elena could see her suggestion descending like a lozenge. But her Father recovered like the sportsman he once had been.

  “It is no matter if something of that is true,” he rejoined, but more slowly. “It is for you that the Count has asked. For you, by your name. Do you not see what a wonderful opportunity opens before you, to snatch good from evil?”

  “No,” said Elena.

  “Do you not feel compassion for Rurik?”

  “I do not know, Papa.”

  “Do you not see a thousand possibilities in one?”

  “I don’t think so, Papa.”

  Her Father sprang to his feet like a cheetah who has been molested.

  “Do you care so little for your Father?”

  “I love you, Papa, and I always shall.”

  “Love requires sacrifice, Elena.”

  Elena said nothing.

  “I may not be able to look after you always.”

  “I hope that will not be necessary, Papa. I am sure that it will not.”