as saleswoman in the stationery shop “Bemol.”[A] Why the shop was called
by this name would be difficult to say; probably music had once been
sold there. It was situated in a turning off one of the boulevards, had
few customers, and Anna Nikolaevna used to spend whole days almost
alone. Her only assistant, the boy Fedka, lay down to sleep after
morning tea, woke up when it was time to run to the cookshop for dinner,
and on his return slept again. In the evening the proprietor, an old
German woman, Carolina Gustavovna, came in for half an hour, collected
the takings, and reproached Anna Nikolaevna for her inability to attract
customers. Anna Nikolaevna was dreadfully afraid of her and listened to
her without daring to utter a word. The shop was closed at nine; Anna
Nikolaevna went home to her aunt, drank weak tea with stale biscuits,
and went at once to bed.
[A] Russian shops are often given fantastic names which are printed
above the windows instead of the names of the owners.
At first Anna Nikolaevna thought she could find distraction in reading.
She got as many novels and old magazines as she could, and read them
conscientiously through page by page. But she mixed up the names of the
heroes in the novels, and she could never understand why they wrote
about the various imaginary Jeans and Blanches, and why they described
beautiful mornings, all of them exactly like one another. Reading was
for her labour and not relaxation, so she gave up books. Young men did
not unduly pester her with their attentions, for they did not find her
interesting. If one of the customers stayed too long talking
amiabilities to her, she went away into the little room behind the shop
and sent Fedka out. If any one tried to speak to her on her way home,
she would say no word, but either hasten her steps or just run as fast
as she could to her own door. She had no friends, she did not keep up a
correspondence with any of her schoolfellows, she only spoke to her aunt
about two words a day. And in this way the weeks and months went by.
Then Anna Nikolaevna began to make friends with the world which lay
around her--the world of paper, envelopes, postcards, pencils, pens, the
world of pictures, pictures in sets, pictures in relief, pictures for
cutting out. This world was to her more comprehensible than that of
books and was more friendly to her than the world of people. She soon
learned to know all the kinds of paper and pens, all the series of
postcards, and she named them all instead of calling them by numbers;
she began to love some of them and to count others as her enemies. To
her favourites she allotted the best places in the shop. She kept the
very newest boxes, those with an edging of gold paper, for the
writing-paper from a certain factory in Riga having the watermark of a
fish. The sets of pictures representing types of ancient Egyptians were
arranged in a special drawer in which she kept only these and some
penholders with little doves at the end of the holder. The postcards on
which were drawn “The Way to the Stars” she wrapped up separately in
rose-coloured paper and sealed them with a wafer like a forget-me-not.
But she hated the thick bloated-looking glass inkstands, hated the lined
transparent paper which would never keep straight and seemed always to
be laughing at her, hated the rolls of crinkled paper for lampshades,
proud and sumptuous looking. These things she would hide away in the
remotest corner of the shop.
Anna Nikolaevna rejoiced when she sold any of her favourite articles. It
was only when her store of this or that kind of thing began to run short
that she would get anxious and even dare to beg Carolina Gustavovna to
obtain a new supply as soon as possible. Once she unexpectedly got sold
out of the parts of the little letter-weights which acted badly and of
which she had grown fond because of their misfortune, the proprietor
herself sold the last one evening and would not order any more. Anna
Nikolaevna wept for two whole days after. When she sold the articles she
did not care for she felt vexed. When a customer took whole dozens of
ugly exercise books with blue flowers on the covers, or highly coloured
postcards with the portraits of actors, it seemed to her that her
favourites had been insulted. On such occasions she so stubbornly
dissuaded the customers from buying that many of them went out of the
shop without purchasing anything at all.
Anna Nikolaevna was convinced that everything in the shop understood
her. When she turned over the leaves of the quires of her beloved paper
they rustled so welcomingly. When she kissed the little doves on the
ends of the penholders they fluttered their little wooden wings. In the
quiet wintry days when it was snowing outside the hoar-frosted
window-pane with its ugly circles made by the warmth of the lamps, when
for whole hours no one came into the shop, she would hold long
conversations with all the things standing on the shelves or lying in
the drawers and boxes. She would listen to their unuttered speech and
exchange smiles and glances with the things she knew. In a rapture she
would spread out on the counter her favourite pictures--of angels,
flowers, Egyptians--and tell them fairy tales and listen to their
stories. Sometimes they all sang to her in a hardly audible chorus, a
soothing lullaby. Anna Nikolaevna would listen to this until an entering
customer would smile unkindly, thinking he had awakened her from sleep.
Before Christmas Anna Nikolaevna had a bad time. Customers were
unusually frequent. The shop was filled up with a pile of gaudy
eye-offending cards, with ugly crackers and gilt Christmas-tree
decorations, exposed in flimsy boxes. On the walls hung pull-off
calendars with portraits of great men. The shop was full of people and
there was no escape from them. But all the summer Anna Nikolaevna had a
complete rest. There was hardly any trade, very often the day passed
without a copeck being taken. The proprietor went away from Moscow for
whole months. In the shop it was dusty and suffocating, but quiet. Anna
Nikolaevna distributed her favourite pictures all over the shop, placed
her favourite pencils, pens and erasers in the best positions in the
glass cases. She cut out narrow ribbons from coloured cigarette-paper
and wreathed them round the stiff columns of the cupboards. She spoke in
loud whispers to her beloved objects, telling them about her own
childhood, about her mother, and weeping as she did so. And it seemed
to her that they comforted her. And so months and years went by.
Anna Nikolaevna never dreamed that her life might change. But one autumn
day Carolina Gustavovna, having come back to Moscow in a particularly
bad and quarrelsome mood, declared that there would be a general
stock-taking. The following Sunday a notice was pasted on the door:
“This shop is closed to-day.” Anna Nikolaevna looked on mournfully while
the proprietor’s fat fingers turned over the leaves of her best
notepaper, those delicate and elegant sheets, crumpling the edges;
carelessly flinging on to the counter her cherished penholders with the
doves. In the trade-book, where Anna Nikolaevna had written in her timid
pale handwriting, the proprietor scrawled rude remarks with flourishes
and ink-blots. Carolina Gustavovna found many things missing--whole
stacks of paper, some gross of pencils, and various separate articles--a
stereoscope, magnifying glasses, frames. Anna Nikolaevna felt sure she
had never seen them in the shop. Then Carolina Gustavovna calculated
that the takings had been growing less every month. This she brought to
the notice of Anna Nikolaevna and blamed her for it, called her a thief,
said she had no further use for her services, and dismissed her from her
post.
Anna Nikolaevna burst into tears, but did not dare to utter a word of
protest. When she got home, of course, she had to listen to her aunt’s
reproaches, who at first called her a good-for-nothing, and then changed
her tone and threatened to prosecute the German woman, saying she
couldn’t allow her niece to be insulted. But Anna Nikolaevna was not so
much afraid of losing her place nor troubled by the injustice of
Carolina Gustavovna; she could not bear to be separated from the beloved
things in the shop. She thought of the pictured angels balancing on the
clouds, of the heads of Marie Stuart, of the paper bearing the watermark
of a fish, of the familiar boxes and drawers, and sobbed unceasingly.
She remembered that happy evening hour when the lamps had just been
lighted, remembered her silent conversations with her friends and the
almost inaudible chorus sounding from the shelves, and her heart was
rent with despair. At the thought that never, never should she see her
loved ones again, she threw herself down upon her little bed and prayed
that she might die.
After about six weeks her aunt was happy to find her a new situation,
once more in a stationery shop, but in a much-frequented and busy
street. Anna Nikolaevna entered upon her new duties with a pang at her
heart. There were two others beside herself in the shop, another girl
and a young man. The master also spent the greater part of the day
there. There were many customers, for the shop was near several
educational institutions. All day Anna Nikolaevna was under the eyes of
the others, and they laughed at her and despised her. She did not find
her former beloved objects in the new shop. All the things were ordered
through other agents from different firms. Paper, pencils, pens--nothing
here seemed to be alive. And if there were any things like those in
“Bemol,” they did not recognise Anna Nikolaevna and it was useless for
her when she had a moment to whisper to them their tenderest names.
The only pleasure she had now was to look in at the windows of her old
shop on her way home in the evening, as it closed later than the new
one. She gazed through the dusty windowpanes into the well-known room.
Behind the counter stood the new saleswoman, a good-looking German girl
with her hair in curling-pins. In Fedka’s place was a tall
fifteen-year-old lad. Customers came laughing out of the shop, they had
found it pleasant inside. But Anna Nikolaevna believed that her friends,
the pictures and penholders and exercise books, remembered her and liked
it better in the old days, and this belief comforted her.
For a long while Anna Nikolaevna nursed the fancy that she would one day
go inside the shop once more and look again on the old cupboards and
show-cases, to show her beloved things that she still remembered them.
Several times she said to herself that it should be that day, but
changed her mind, being specially afraid of meeting the proprietor. But
one evening she saw Carolina Gustavovna come out of the shop and drive
away in a cab. This gave her courage. She opened the shop door and
entered with a beating heart. The German girl in the curl-papers was
preparing a captivating smile, but seeing a lady customer she contented
herself with a slight inclination of the head.
“What can I do for you, miss?”
“Give me ... give me ... some note-paper ... a quire ... with the
fishes.”
The German girl smiled condescendingly, guessing what was meant, and
went to the cupboard. Anna Nikolaevna watched her with distrustful and
mournful eyes. In her time this paper had been kept in the box with a
gold border. But the box was not there now. In its place there were ugly
black drawers labelled No. 4, 20 copecks, Ministry Paper 40 copecks. The
best places in the cupboards were occupied by the glass inkstands. A
pile of crinkled paper took up the whole of the lower shelf. The
postcards with the portraits of actors were arranged fan-wise and
fastened here and there on the walls. Everything had been moved,
displaced, changed.
The German girl put the paper in front of Anna Nikolaevna, asking her
which sort she wanted. Anna Nikolaevna eagerly took into her hands the
beautiful sheets which once had responded to her caressing touch, but
now they were stiff as death, and as pale. She looked round piteously,
everything was dead, everything was deaf and dumb.
“Thirty three copecks to you, miss.”
Even the price was altered. Anna Nikolaevna paid the money and went out
of the shop into the cold, holding the roll of paper tightly in her
hand. The October wind penetrated her short, well-worn coat. The light
of the street lamps was diffused in large blobs in the mist. All was
cold and hopeless.
RHEA SILVIA
A STORY FROM THE LIFE OF THE SIXTH CENTURY
I
Maria was the daughter of Rufus the Scribe. She was not yet ten years
old when on the 17th of December, 546, Rome was taken by Totila, the
king of the Goths. The magnanimous victor ordered bugles to be blown all
night, so that the Roman people might escape from their native town as
soon as they realised the danger of remaining there. Totila knew the
violence of his soldiers and he had no wish that all the population of
the ancient capital of the world should perish by the swords of the
Goths. So Rufus and his wife Florentia fled with their little daughter
Maria. An enormous crowd of refugees from Rome left the city through the
night by the Appian Way; hundreds of them falling exhausted on the road.
The greater number, among whom were Rufus and his family, succeeded in
getting as far as Bovillæ, where, however, very many were unable to find
shelter. Many of them had to camp out in the open. Later on they were
all scattered in various directions, seeking some place of refuge. Some
went to the Campagna and were taken prisoners by the Goths, who were in
possession there; some got as far as the sea and were even able to set
out for Sicily. The rest either remained as beggars in the neighbourhood
of Bovillæ or managed to get into Samnium.
Rufus had a friend living near Corbio. To this poor man, Anthony by
name, who earned a living by rearing pigs on a small plot of land, Rufus
brought his family. Anthony took the fugitives in and shared with them
his scanty store. And while living in the swineherd’s wretched hut Rufus
heard of all the misfortunes which came upon Rome. At one time Totila
threatened to raze the Eternal City to its foundations and turn it into
a place of pasture. But the Gothic king afterwards relented and
contented himself by burning several districts of the town and pillaging
all that still remained from the cupidity and violence of Alaric,
Genseric and Ricimer. In the spring of 547 Totila left Rome, but he took
off with him all the inhabitants who had remained in the city. For forty
days the capital of the world stood empty: there was not a human being
left in it, and along its streets wandered only frightened animals and
wild beasts. Then, timidly, a few at a time, the Romans began to return
to their city. And a little later Rome was occupied by Belisarius and
was once more united to the dominions of the Eastern empire.
Then Rufus and his family returned to Rome. They sought out their little
house on the Remuria, which by reason of its insignificance had been
spared by the spoilers. Almost all the poor belongings of Rufus were
found to be intact, including the library and its rolls of parchment, so
precious to the scribe. It seemed as if it might be possible to forget
all the misfortunes they had undergone, as in some oppressive dream, and
to continue their former life. But very soon it became clear that such a
hope was deceptive. The war was far from being at an end. Rome had to
endure another siege by Totila when again the inhabitants died in
hundreds from hunger and lack of water. Then when the Goths at length
raised their unsuccessful siege, Belisarius also left Rome, and the city
acknowledged the rule of the covetous Byzantine Konon, from whom the
Romans fled as from an enemy. At a later period the Goths, taking
advantage of treacherous sentries, occupied Rome for the second time.
This time, however, Totila not only refrained from plundering the city,
but he even strove to bring into it some kind of order, and he wished to
restore the ruined buildings. At length, after the death of Totila, Rome
was taken by Narses. This was in 552.
It would be difficult to show clearly how Rufus managed to live through
these six calamitous years. In the time of war and siege no one had need
of the art of a scribe. No one any longer gave Rufus an order for a
transcription from the works of the ancient poets or the fathers of the
Church. In the city there were no authorities to whom it might be
necessary to address petitions of various kinds. There were not many
people, money was very scarce and food supplies scarcer still. He had to
make a living by any kind of accidental work, serving either Goths or
Byzantines, not disdaining to be a stone-mason when the town walls were
being repaired or to be a porter of baggage for the troops. And with all
this the entire family often went hungry, not only for days, but for
whole weeks. Wine was not to be thought of; the only drink was bad water
from the cisterns or from the Tiber, for the aqueducts had been
destroyed by the Goths. It was only possible to endure such privations
by knowing that everybody without exception was subject to them. The
descendants of senators and patricians, the children of the richest and
most illustrious families would ask on the streets for a piece of bread,
as beggars. Rusticiana, the daughter of Symmachus and widow of Boethius,
held out her hand for alms.
It was not to be wondered at that during these years the little Maria
was left very much to her own devices. In her early childhood her father
had taught her to read both Greek and Latin. But after their return to
Rome he had no time to occupy himself further with her education. For
whole days together she would do just what she thought she would. Her
mother did not require her help in housekeeping, for there was hardly
any housekeeping to be done. In order to pass the time Maria used to
read the books which were still preserved in the house as there was no
one who would buy them. But more often she would go out of the house and
wander like a little wild animal about the deserted streets, forums and
squares, much too broad for the now insignificant populace. The few
passers-by soon became accustomed to the black-eyed girl in ragged
garments, who ran about everywhere like a mouse, and they paid no
attention to her. Rome became, as it were, an immense home for Maria.
She knew it better than any writer who had described its noteworthy
treasures of old time. Day after day she would go out into the immense
area of the city, where over a million people had once dwelt, and she
would learn to love some corners of it and detest others. And it was
often not until late evening that she would return to her father’s
cheerless roof, where it often happened that she would go supperless to
bed, after a whole day spent on her feet.
In her wanderings through the town Maria would visit the most remote
districts on either side of the Tiber, where there were empty partly
burnt down houses, and there she would dream of the greatness of Rome
in the past. She would examine the few statues which still remained
whole in the squares--the immense bull on the Bull forum, the giant
elephants in bronze on the Sacred Way, the statues of Domitian, Marcus
Aurelius, and other famous men of ancient time, the columns, obelisks
and bas-reliefs, striving to remember what she had read about them all,
and if her knowledge was scanty, she would supplement it by any story
she had read. She would go into the abandoned palaces of people who had
once been rich, and admire the pitiful remains of former luxury in the
decoration of the rooms, the mosaic of the floors, the various-coloured
marble of the walls, the sumptuous tables, chairs, candlesticks, which
in some places still remained. In this way she visited the ruined baths,
which were like separate towns within the city, and were entirely
deserted because there was no water to supply their insatiable pipes; in
some of the buildings could still be seen magnificent marble reservoirs,
mosaic floors, bathing chairs, baths of precious alabaster or porphyry,
and in places some half-destroyed statues which had escaped being used
by Goths and Byzantines as material for hurling at the enemy from the
ballista. In the quietness of the enormous rooms Maria would hear echoes
of the rich and careless lives of the thousands and thousands of people
who had gathered there daily to meet friends, to discuss literature or
philosophy, and to anoint their effeminate bodies before festival
banquets. In the Grand Circus--which now looked like a wild ravine, for
it was all overgrown with weeds and tall grasses--Maria thought of the
triumphant horse-racing competitions, on which thousands of spectators
had gazed and deafened the fortunate victors with a storm of applause.
She could not but know of these festivals, for the last of them (oh!
pitiful shadow of past splendour) had been arranged once more in her own
lifetime by Totila during his second sovereignty in Rome. Sometimes
Maria would simply walk along the Tiber bank, sit down in some
comfortable spot under some half-ruined wall, and look at the yellow
waters of the river, made famous by poets and artists, and in the
quietness of the deserted place she would think and dream, and think and
dream again.
She became accustomed to live in her dreams. The half-ruined,
half-abandoned town fed her imagination generously. Everything she heard
from her elders, everything she read in her disorderly fashion from her
father’s books, mingled itself together in her brain into a strange,
chaotic, but endlessly captivating representation of the great and
ancient city. She was convinced that the former Rome had been in reality
the concentration of all beauty, a marvellous town where all was
enchantment, where all life had been one continuous festival. Centuries
and epochs were confused in her poor little head, the times of Orestes
seemed to her no further away than the rule of Trajan, and the reign of
the wise Numa Pompilius as near as that of Odoacer. For her, antiquity
comprised all that preceded the Goths; far away but still happy was the
olden time, the rule of the great Theodoric; the new time began for her
at her birth, at the time of the first siege of Rome, in the time of
Belisarius. In antiquity everything seemed to Maria to be marvellous,
beautiful, wonderful; in the olden time all was attractive and
fortunate, in modern times everything was miserable and dreadful. And
she tried not to notice the cruel reality of the present, but to live in
her dreams in the antiquity which she loved, with her favourite heroes,
among whom were the god Bacchus; Camillus, the second founder of the
city; Caesar, who had been exalted up to the stars in the heavens;
Diocletian, the wisest of all people, and Romulus Augustulus, the
unhappiest of all the great. All these and many others whose names she
had only heard by chance were the beloved of her reveries and the
ordinary apparitions of her half-childish dreams.
Little by little in her dreams Maria created her own history of Rome,
not at all like that which was told at one time by the eloquent Livy and
afterwards by other historians and annalists. As she admired the
statues which still remained whole and read their half-erased
inscriptions, Maria interpreted everything in her own way and found
everywhere corroboration of her own unrestrained imagination. She said
to herself that such and such a statue represented the young Augustus,
and nothing would then have convinced her that it was--a bad portrait of
some half-barbarian who had lived only fifty years ago, and had forced
some ignorant maker of tombs to immortalise his features in a piece of
cheap marble. Or when she looked at a bas-relief depicting some scene
from the Odyssey she would create from it a long story in which her
beloved heroes would again figure--Mars, Brutus, or the emperor
Honorius, and would soon be convinced that she had read this story in
one of her father’s books. She would create legend after legend, myth
after myth, and live in their world as one more real than the world of
books, and still more real than the pitiful world which encompassed her.