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Title: Collected Stories
Author: Valerie Bryusov
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0605231.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006

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Valerie Bryusov
Collected Stories



Table of Contents

Protection: A Christmas Story
In the Mirror




PROTECTION: A CHRISTMAS STORY

 This happened five-and-twenty years ago, and more: it was in the
middle of the seventies. I had only just got my commission. Our
regiment was stationed at a small provincial town in the government of
X. We spent our time as officers usually do: we drank, played cards,
and paid attentions to women.

 Among the people living in the neighbourhood, one stood out above the
rest, Mme. C---Elena Grigorievna. Strictly speaking, she did not
belong to the society there, for until lately she had always lived at
Petersburg. But being left a widow a year previously she had settled
down to live on her country estate, about ten versts from the town.
She was somewhat over thirty years of age, but in her eyes, almost
unnaturally large, there was something childlike, which gave her an
inexplicablc charm. All our officers werc attracted by her; but I fell
in love witll her, as only twenty can fall in love.

 The commander of our company was a relative of Elena Grigorievna, and
we obtained access to her house. She had become somewhat tired of
being a recluse, and liked to have visits from young folks, though she
lived almost alone. We sometimes went to dinner, and spent whole
evenings there. But she behaved with so much tact and goodness that no
one could boast of the slightest intimacy with her. Even malicious
provincial tongues could bring no gossip against her.

 I was sick of love for her. What tortured me more than all was the
impossibility of frankly confessing my love. I would have done
anything in the world just to fall on my knees before Elena
Grigorievna and say aloud to her: "I love you." Youth is a little like
intoxication. For the sake of having half an hour alone with her whom
I loved, I resolved on a dcsperate measure. There was much snow that
winter. In the Christmas holidays there was not a day but the wind
raised the dry snow from the ground into the air in whirling eddies. I
chose an evening when the weather was particularly bad, ordered my
horse to be saddled, and set out over the fields.

 I don't know how it was I didn't perish by the way. Everywhere the
snow was whirling and the air was so thick with it that at two paces
from me there stood, as it were, grey, walls of snow. On the road the
snow was almost up to one's knees. Twenty times I lost my way. Twenty
times my horse refused to go further. I had a flask of cognac with me,
and but for it I should have frozen. It took me just on three hours to
travel the ten versts.

 By some sort of miracle I arrived at the house. It was already late,
and I hardly succeeded in knocking up the servants. When the watchman
recognised me he exclaimed in wonder. I was all over snow, covered
with ice, and looked like a Christmas mummer. Of course I had prepared
a story to account for my appearance. My calculations were not at
fault. Elena Grigorievna was obliged to receive me and she orderd a
room to be prepared for me to stay the night.

 In half an hour's time I was seated in the dining room, alone with
her. She pressed me to have supper, wine, tea. The logs crackled on
the open fire, the light of a hanging-lamp enclosed us in a circle
which to me seemed magical. I felt not the slightest tiredness and was
more in love than ever.

 I was young, handsome, and certainly no fool. I had every right to
the notice of a woman. But Elena Grigorievna, with unusual dexterity,
evaded all talk of love. She compelled me to talk to her exactly as if
we had been at a party in the midst of many other people. She laughed
at my witticisms, but pretended not to understand any of my hints.

 In spite of this, a special kind of intimacy sprang up between us,
allowing us to speak more openly. And at length, knowing that it was
nearly time to say goodnight, I made up my mind. My consciousness, as
it were, reminded me that such a suitable occasion would not repeat
itself. "If you don't take advantage of today," said I to myself, "you
have only yourself to blame." By a great effort of will, I suddenly
broke off the conversation in the middle of a word, and in a moment,
somewhat incoherently and awkwardly, I said out all that had been
hidden in my soul.

 "Why are we pretending, Elena Grigorievna? You know very well why I
came to-day. I came to tell you that I love you. And now I say it to
you. I cannot but love you and I want you to love me. Drive me away
and I will humbly depart. If you don't tell me to go I shall take it
as a sign that you love me. I don't want anything in between. I want
either your anger or your love."

 The childlike eyes of Elena Grigorievna became cold. They looked like
crystal. I read such a clear answer in her countenance that I got up
without another word and wanted to go off straight away. But she
stoppcd me.

 "That's enough! Where are you going? Don't behave like a little boy.
Sit down."

 She made me sit down near her and began to speak to me as if she had
been an elder sister talking to a wayward child.

 "You are too young yet, and love is something new to you. If another
woman were in my place you would fall in love with her. In a month's
time you would begin to love a third. But there is another kind of
love which drains the depths of the soul. Such a love I had for
Sergey, my husband, who is dead. I have given to him all I can ever
feel. However much you may speak to me of love, I shall hear you no
more than if I were dead. You must understand that I have no longer
any capacity to attach any meaning to such words. It's just as if you
spoke to someone who could not hear you. Reconcile yourself to this.
You can no more be offended than if you were unable to make a dead
woman love you."

 Elena Grigorievna spoke with a slight smile. This appeared to me to
be almost insulting. I imagined that she was laughing at me, in thus
putting forward her own love for her dead husband. I felt myself grow
pale. I remember the tears springing to my eyes.

 My agitation was not unobservcd by Elena Grigorievna. I saw the
expression of her cold eyes begin to change. She understood that I was
suffering. Restraining me with her hand, as she saw I wantcd to get up
without replying, she drew her chair nearcr mine. I felt her breath on
my face. Then lowering her voice, although we were alone in the room,
she said to me, with a real frankness and tender intimacy:

 "Forgive me, if I've offended you. Perhaps I am mistaken about your
feeling, and it's more serious than I thought. So I will tell you the
whole truth. Listen. My love for Sergey is not dead, but living. I
love him, not for the past, but in the present. I am not separated
from him. I take your confession to me seriously; take mine in the
same way. From the very day of his death, Sergey began to show himself
to me, invisibly but clearly. I am conscious of his nearness, I feel
his breath, I hear his caressing whisper. I answer him and I have
quiet talks with him. At times he almost openly kisses me, on my hair,
my cheeks, my lips. At times I see his reflection dimly in the half-
light, in a mirror. As soon as I am alone, he at once shows himself to
me. I am accustomed to this life with a shadow. I go on loving Sergey
in this other form of his, just as passionately and tenderly as I
loved him before. I want no other love. And I will not break faith
with the man who has not left mc, even though he has passed beyond the
bounds of this life. If you tell me that I rave, that I have an
hallucination, I shall answer that it makes no difference to me what
you think. I am happy in my love, why should I refuse my happincss?
Let me be happy."

 Elena Grigorievna spoke this long speech of hers gently, without
raising her voice, and with deep conviction. I was so impressed by her
earnestness that I could find no answer. I looked at her with a
certain awe and pity, as at someone whom grief had crazcd. But she had
become the hostess again and spoke now in another tone, as if all she
had said previously might have been a joke:

 "Well, it's time for us to go to bed. Matthew will show you your
bedroom."

 Matthew was an old servant of the house. I mechanically kissed the
hand she held out to me. And in another minute Matthew was asking me,
in a lugubrious voice, to follow him. He led me to the other side of
the house, showed me the bed which had been prepared for me, wished me
good night, and left me.

 Only then did I recover myself a little. And, isn't it strange, my
first feeling was that of shame? I felt ashamed at having played such
an unenviable role. I felt ashamed to think that though I had been
alone for two hours with a young woman, in an almost empty house, I
hadn't even got so far as to kiss her lips. At that moment I felt more
malice than love towards Elena Grigorievna and a wish to revenge
myself upon her. I had ceased to think that her mind might be
unhinged, I thought she had been making fun of me.

 Sitting down on my bed, I began to think matters over. I was familiar
with the house. I knew that I was in the dead Sergey Dmitrievitch's
study. The room next was his bedroom, where everything was left
exactly as in his lifetime. On the wall in front of me hung his
portrait in oils. He was in a black coat and was wearing the ribbon of
the French Order of the Legion of Honour, which he had received--I
don't know how or why--in the time of the Second Empire. And by some
sort of strange connection of ideas, it was this ribbon specially
which gave me the idea of the strangest, wildest plan.

 My face was not unlike that of the dead Sergey Dmitrievitch. Of
course he was older than I. But we both wore a moustache and did our
hair alike. Only his hair was grey. I went into his bedroom. The
wardrobe was unlocked. I looked for the black coat of the portrait and
put it on. I found the ribbon of the Order. I powdered my hair and my
moustache. In a word, I dressed myself up as the dead man.

 Probably if my design had been successful I should be ashamed to tell
you about it. I confess that what I planned was much uorse than a
simple joke. It would have been absolutely unpardonable had I not been
so young. But I received the due reward of my action.

 Having finished the change of my attire, I directed my steps towards
Elena Grigorievna's bedroom. Have you ever chanced to creep along at
night in a sleeping house? How distinct is every rustle, how terribly
loud is the creak of every floor-board in the silence! Several times
it seemed to me that I should arouse all the servants.

 At length I gained the wished-for door. My heart beat. I turned the
handle. The door opened noiselessly. I went in. The room was lighted
by a lamp, which was burning brightly. Elena Grigorievna had not yet
gone to bed. She was seated in a large armcha-r in her dressing-gown,
in front of a tabie, deep in thought, in remembrance. She had not
heard me come in.

 I stood for some minutes in the half-shadow, not daring to take a
step forward. Suddenly, Elena Grigorievna, becoming conscious of my
presence, or hearing some sort of noise, turned her head. She saw me
and began to tremble. My stratagem had succeeded better than I might
have expected. She took me for her dead husband. Getting up from the
armchair with a faint cry she stretched out her arms to me. I heard
her voice of joy:

 "Sergey! It is you! At last!"

 And then, all trembling with agitation, she sank down again,
seemingly unconscious, into her chair.

 Not fully aware of what I wanted to do, I ran towards her. But the
instant I came close to the armchair I saw before me the form of
another man. This was so unexpected that I stood still, as if the
rigour of death had overtaken me. Afterwards I reflected that a large
mirror must have stood there. This other man was a perfect replica of
myself. He too wore a biack coat; on his breast he too wore the ribbon
of the Legion of Honour. And in a moment I understood that this was he
whose form I had stolen, he who had come from beyond the grave to
protect his wife. A sharp terror ran through all my limbs.

 For several seconds we stood facing one another by the chair in which
lay unconscious the woman for whom we were striving. I was unable to
make the slightest movement. And he, this phantom, quietly raised his
hand and made a threatening gesture towards me.

 I took part afterwards in the Turkish War. I have looked on death and
have seen all that would be counted terrible. But I have never again
experienced such horror as then overcame me. This threat from the
other world stopped the beating of my heart and the flow of blood in
my veins. For a moment I almost became a corpse myself. Then without
another glance, I rushed to the door.

 Holding on by the walls, staggering along, not caring how loudly my
steps resounded, I reached my own room. I had not sufficient courage
to look at the portrait hanging on the wall. I threw myself flat on
the bed, and a sort of black stupor held me fast there.

 I wakened at dawn. I was still wearing the same false attire. In an
agony of shame I took it off and hung it up in its place. Dressing
myself in my own uniform, I went to find Matthew, and told him I must
leave at once. He was evidently not in the least surprised. I asked
the housemaid Glasha if her mistress were still asleep, and got the
answer that she was sleeping peacefully. This cheered me. I begged her
to say that I apologised for leaving without saying good-bye, and
galloped off.

 A few days later I went with some friends to visit Elena Grigorievna.
She received me with her usual courtesy. Not by a single hint did she
remind me of that night. And to this day, it is a mystery to me; did
she or did she not understand what happened?




IN THE MIRROR

I have loved mirrors from my very earliest years. As an infant I wept
and trembled as I looked into their transparently truthful depths. My
favourite game as a child was to walk up and down the room or the
garden, holding a mirror in front of me, gazing into its abyss,
walking over the edge at every step, and breathless with giddiness and
terror. Even as a girl I began to put mirrors all over my room, large
and small ones, true and slightly distorted ones, some precise and
others a little dull. I got into the habit of spending whole hours,
whole days, in the midst of intercrossing worlds which ran one into
the other, trembled, vanished, and then reappeared again.

It became a singular passion of mine to give my body to these
soundless distances, these echoless perspectives, these separate
universes cutting across our own and existing, despite our
consciousness, in the same place and at the same time with it. This
protracted actuality, separated from us by the smooth surface of
glass, drew me towards itself by a kind of intangible touch, dragged
me forward, as to an abyss, a mystery.

I was drawn towards the apparition which always rose up before me when
I came near a mirror and which strangely doubled my being. I strove to
guess how this other woman was differenti-ated from myself, how it was
possible that my right hand should be her left, and that all the
fingers of this hand should change places, though certainly on one of
them was--my wedding-ring.

My thoughts were confused when I attempted to probe this enigma, to
solve it. In this world, where everybody could be touched, where
voices were heard--I lived, actually; in that reflected world, which
it was only possible to contemplate, was she, phantasmally. She was
almost as myself and yet not at all myself; she repeated all my
movements, but not one of these movements exactly coincided with those
I made. She, that other, knew something I could not divine, she held a
secret eternally hidden from my understanding.

But I noticed that each mirror had its own separate and special world.
Put two mirrors in the very same place, one after the other, and there
will arise two different universes. And in different mirrors there
rose up before me different apparitions, all of them like me but never
exactly like one another. In my small hand-mirror lived a naive little
girl with clear eyes, reminding me of my early youth. In my circular
boudoir mirror was hidden a woman who knew all the diverse sweetness
of caresses, shameless, free, beautiful, daring. In the oblong mirrors
of the wardrobe door there always appeared a stern figure, imperious,
cold, inexorable. I knew still other doubles of myself--in my
dressing-glass, in my folding, gold-framed triptych, in the hanging
mirror in the oaken frame, in the little neck mirror, and in many
other mirrors which I treasured. To all the beings hiding themselves
in these mirrors I gave the possibility and pretext to develop.

According to the strange conditions of their world they must take the
form of the person who stands before the glass but under this borrowed
exterior they preserve their own personal characteristics.

There were some worlds of mirrors which I loved; others which I hated.
In some of them I loved to walk up and down for whole hours, losing
myself in their attractive expanse. Others I fled from. In my secret
heart I did not love all my doubles. I knew that they were all hostile
toward me, if only for the fact that they were forced to clothe
themselves in my hated likeness.

But some of these mirror women I pitied. I forgave their hate and felt
almost friendly to them.

There were some whom I despised, and I loved to laugh at their
powerless fury; there were some whom I mocked by my own independence
and tortured by my power over them. There were others, on the other
band, of whom I was afraid, who were too strong for me and who dared
in their turn to mock at me, to command me. I hastened to get rid of
the mirrors where these women lived, I would not look in them, I hid
them, gave them away, even broke some in pieces. But every time I
destroyed a mirror I wept for whole days after, conscious of the fact
that I had broken to pieces a distinct universe. And reproachful faces
stared at me from the broken fragments of the world I bad destroyed.

The mirror with which my fate was to become linked I bought one autumn
at a sale of some sort. It was a large pier-glass, swinging on screws.
I was struck by the unusual clarity of its reflection. The phantasmal
actuality in it was changed by the slightest inclination of the glass,
but it was independent and vital to the edges. When I examined this
pier-glass at the sale the woman who was reflected in it looked me in
the eyes with a kind of haughty challenge. I did not wish to give in
to her, to show that she had frightened me, so I bought the glass and
ordered it to be placed in my boudoir. As soon as I was alone in the
room, I immediately went up to the new mirror and fixed my eyes upon
my rival. But she did the same to me, and standing opposite one
another we began to transfix each other with our glance as if we had
been snakes. In the pupils of her eyes was my reflection, in mine,
hers. My heart sank and my head swam from her intent gaze. But at
length by an effort of will I tore my eyes away from those other eyes,
tipped the mirror with my foot so that it began to swing, rocking the
image of my rival pitifully to and fro, and went out of the room.

From that hour our strife began. In the evening of the first day of
our meeting I did not dare to go near the new pier-glass; I went to
the theatre with my husband, laughed exaggeratedly, and was apparently
light-hearted. On the morrow, in the dear light of a September day I
went boldly into my boudoir alone and deliberately sat down directly
in front of the mirror. At the same moment, she, the other woman, also
came in at the door to meet me, crossed the room, and then she too sat
down opposite me. Our eyes met. In hers I read hatred towards myself;
in mine she read hatred towards her. Our second duel began, a duel of
eyes--two unyielding glances, commanding, threatening, hypnotising.
Each of us strove to conquer the other's will, to break down her
resistance, to force her to submit to another's desire. It would have
been a painful scene for an onlooker to witness; two women sitting
opposite each other without moving, joined together by the magnetic
attraction of each other's gaze, and almost losing consciousness under
the psychical strain... Suddenly someone called me. The infatuation
vanished. I got up and left the room.

After this our duels were renewed every day. I realised that this
adventuress had purposely forced herself into my home to destroy me
and take my place in this world. But I had not sufficient strength to
deny myself this struggle. In this rivalry there was a kind of secret
intoxication. The very possibility of defeat had hidden in it a sort
of sweet seduction. Sometimes I forced myself for whole days to keep
away from the pier-glass; I occupied myself with business, with
amusements, but in the depths of my soul was always hidden the memory
of the rival who in patience and self-reliance awaited my return. I
would go back to her and she would step forth in front of me, more
triumphantly than ever, piercing me with her victorious gaze and
fixing me in my place before her. My heart would stop beating, and I,
with a powerless fury, would feel myself under the authority of this
gaze.

So the days and weeks went by; our struggle continued, but the
preponderance showed itself more and more definitely to be on the side
of my rival. And suddenly one day I realised that my will was in
subjection to her will, that she was already stronger than I. I was
overcome with terror. My first impulse was to flee from my home and go
to another town, but I saw at once that this would be useless. I
should, all the same, be overcome by the attractive force of this
hostile will and be obliged to return to this room, to this mirror.
Then there came a second thought--to shatter the mirror, reduce my
enemy to nothingness; but to conquer her by brutal strength would mean
that I acknowledged her superiority over myself; this would be
humiliating. I preferred to remain and continue this struggle to the
end, even though I were threatened with defeat.

Soon there could be no doubt that my rival would triumph. At every
meeting there was concentrated in her gaze still greater and greater
power over me. Little by little I lost the possibility of letting a
day pass without once going to my mirror. She ordered me to spend
several hours daily in front of her. She directed my will as a
hypnotist directs the will of a sleepwalker. She arranged my life, as
a mistress arranges the life of a slave. I began to fulfil her
demands, I became an automaton to her wordless orders. I knew that
deliberately, cautiously, she would lead me by an unavoidable path to
destruction, and I already made no resistance. I divined her secret
plan--to cast me into the mirror world and to come forth herself into
our world--but I had no strength to hinder her. My husband and my
relatives seeing me spend whole hours, whole days and nights in front
of my mirror, thought me demented and wanted to cure me. But I dared
not reveal the truth to them, I was forbidden to tell them all the
dreadful truth, all the horror, towards which I was moving.

One of the December days before the holidays turned out to be the day
of my destruction. I remember everything clearly, precisely,
circumstantially. Nothing in my remembrance is confused. As usual, I
went into my boudoir early, at the first beginnings of the winter dawn
twilight. I placed a comfortable armchair without a back in front of
the mirror, sat down and gave myself up to her. Without any delay she
appeared in answer to my summons, she too placed an armchair for
herself, she too sat down and began to gaze at me. A dark foreboding
oppressed my soul, but I was powerless to turn my face away, and I was
forced to take to myself the insolent gaze of my rival. The hours went
by, the shadows began to fall. Neither of us lighted a lamp. The glass
of the mirror glimmered faintly in the darkness. The reflections had
become scarcely visible, but the self-reliant eyes gazed with their
former strength. I felt neither terror nor ill-will, as on other days,
but simply an intolerable anguish and a bitter consciousness that I
was in the power of another. Time swam away and on its tide I also
swam into infinity, into a black expanse of powerlessness and lack of
will.

Suddenly she, that other, the reflected woman, got up from her chair.
I trembled all over at this insult. But something invincible,
something forcing me from within compelled me also to stand up. The
woman in the mirror took a step forward. I did the same. The woman in
the mirror stretched forth her arms. I did so too. Looking straight at
me with hypnotising and commanding eyes, she moved forward and I
advanced to meet her. And it was strange--with all the horror of my
position, with all my hate towards my rival, there fluttered somewhere
in the depths of my soul a painful consolation, a secret joy--to enter
at last into that mysterious world into which I had gazed from my
childhood and which up till now had remained inaccessible to me. At
moments I hardly knew which of us was drawing the other towards
herself, she me or I her, whether she was eager to occupy my place or
whether I had devised all this struggle in order to displace her.

But when, moving forward, my bands touched hers on the glass I turned
quite pale with repugnance. And she took my hand by force and drew me
still nearer to herself. My hands were plunged into the mirror as into
burning-icy water. The cold of the glass penetrated into my body with
a horrible pain, as if all the atoms of my being had changed their
mutual relationship. In another moment my face bad touched the face of
my rival, I saw her eyes right in front of my own, I was transfused
into her with a monstrous kiss. Everything vanished from me in a
torment of suffering unlike any other--and when I came to my senses
after this swoon I still saw in front of me my own boudoir on which I
gazed from out of the mirror. My rival stood before me and burst into
laughter. And I--oh the cruelty of it! I who was dying with
humiliation and torture was obliged to laugh too, to repeat all her
grimaces in a triumphant joyful laugh. I had not yet succeeded in
considering my position when my rival suddenly turned round, walked
towards the door, vanished from my sight, and I at once fell into
torpor, into non-existence.

Then my life as a reflection began. It was a strange, half-conscious
but mysteriously sweet life.

There were many of us in this mirror, dark in soul, and slumbering of
consciousness. We could not speak to one another, but we felt each
other's proximity and loved one another. We could see nothing, we
heard nothing clearly, and our existence was like the enfeeblement
that comes from being unable to breathe. Only when a being from the
world of men approached the mirror, we, suddenly taking up his form,
could look forth into the world, could distinguish voices, and breathe
a full breath. I think that the life of the dead is like that--a dim
consciousness of one's ego, a confused memory of the past and an
oppressive desire to be incarnated anew even if only for a moment, to
see, to hear, to speak... And each of us cherished and concealed a
secret dream--to free one's self, to find for one's self a new body,
to go out into the world of constancy and steadfastness.

During the first days I felt myself absolutely unhappy in my new
position. I still knew nothing, understood nothing. I took the form of
my rival submissively and unthinkingly when she came near the mirror
and began to jeer at me. And she did this fairly often. It afforded
her great delight to flaunt her vitality before me, her reality. She
would sit down and force me also to sit down, stand up and exult as
she saw me stand, wave her arms about, dance, force me to repeat her
movements, and burst out laughing and continue to laugh so that I
should have to laugh too. She would shriek insulting words in my face
and I could make no answer to them. She would threaten me with her
fist and mock at my forced repetition of the gesture. She would turn
her back on me and I, losing sight, losing features, would become
conscious of the shame of the half-existence left to me... And then
suddenly, with one blow she would whirl the mirror round on its axle
and with the oscillation throw me completely into nonentity.

Little by little, however, the insults and humiliations awoke a
consciousness in me. I realised that my rival was now living my life,
wearing my dresses, being considered as my husband's wife, and
occupying my place in the world. Then there grew up in my soul a
feeling of hate and a thirst for vengeance, like two fiery flowers. I
began bitterly to curse myself for having, by my weakness or my
criminal curiosity, allowed her to conquer me. I arrived at the
conviction that this adventuress would never have triumphed over me if
I myself had not aided her in her wiles.

And so, as I became more familiar with some of the conditions of my
new existence, I resolved to continue with her the same fight which
she had carried on with me. If she, a shadow, could occupy the place
of a real woman, was it possible that I, a human being, and only
temporarily a shadow, should not be stronger than a phantom?

I began from a very long way off. At first I pretended that the
mockery of my rival tormented me quite unbearably. I purposely
afforded her all the satisfaction of victory. I provoked in her the
secret instinct of the executioner throwing himself upon his helpless
victim. She gave herself up to this bait. She was attracted by this
game with me. She put forth the wings of her imagination and thought
out new trials for me. She invited thousands of wiles to show me over
and over again that I was only a reflection, that I had no life of my
own. Sometimes she played on the piano in front of me, torturing me by
the soundlessness of my world. Sometimes, seated before the mirror she
would drink in tiny sips my favourite liqueurs, compelling me only to
pretend that I also was drinking them. Sometimes, at length, she would
bring into my boudoir people whom I hated, and before my face she
would allow them to kiss her body, letting them think that they were
kissing me. And afterwards when we were alone she would burst into a
malicious and triumphant laugh. But this laugh did not wound me at
all; there was sweetness in its keenness: my expectation of revenge!

Unnoticeably, in the hours of her insults to me, I would accustom my
rival to look me in the eyes and I would gradually overpower her gaze.
Soon at my will I could already force her to raise and lower her
eyelids and make this and that movement of the face. I had already
begun to triumph though I hid my feeling under a mask of suffering.
Strength of soul grew up within me and I began to dare to lay commands
upon my enemy: Today you shall do so-and-so, to-day you shall go to
such-and-such a place, to-morrow you shall come to me at such a time.
And she would fulfil them. I entangled her soul in the nets of my
desires woven together with a strong thread in which I held her soul,
and I secretly rejoiced when I noticed my success. When one day, in
the hour of her laughter, she suddenly caught on my lips a victorious
smile which I was unable to hide, it was already too late. She rushed
out of the room in a fury, but as I fell into the sleep of my
nonentity I knew that she would return, knew that she would submit to
me. And a rapture of victory gushed out over my involuntary lack of
strength, piercing with a rainbow shaft of light the gloom of my
seeming death.

She did return! She came up to me in anger and terror, shrieked to me,
threatened me. But I was commanding her to do it. And she was obliged
to submit. Then began the game of a cat with a mouse. At any time I
could have cast her back into the depths of the glass and come forth
myself again into sounding and hard actuality. But I delayed to do
this. It was sweet to me to indulge in non-existence sometimes. It was
sweet to me to intoxicate myself with the possibility.

At last (this is strange, is it not?) there suddenly was aroused in me
a pity for my rival, for my enemy, for my executioner. Everything in
her was something of my own, and it was dreadful for me to drag her
forth from the realities of life and turn her into a phantom. I
hesitated and dared not do it, I put if off from day to day, I did not
know myself what I wanted and what I dreaded.

And suddenly on a clear spring day men came into the boudoir with
planks and axes. There was no life in me, I lay in the voluptuousness
of torpor, but without seeing them I knew they were there. The men
began to busy themselves near the mirror which was my universe. And
one after another the souls who lived in it with me were awakened and
took transparent flesh in the form of reflections. A dreadful
uneasiness agitated my slumbering soul. With a presentiment of horror,
a presentiment even of irretrievable ruin, I gathered together all the
might of my will.

What efforts it cost me to struggle against the lassitude of half-
existence! So living people sometimes struggle with a nightmare,
tearing themselves from its suffocating bands towards actuality.

I concentrated all the force of my suggestion into a summons, directed
towards her, towards my rival--'Come hither!' I hypnotised her,
magnetised her with all the tension of my half-slumbering will. There
was little time. The mirror had already begun to swing. They were
already preparing to nail it up in a wooden coffin, to take it away:
whither I knew not. And with an almost mortal effort I called again
and again, 'Come!' And I suddenly began to feel that I was coming to
life. She, my enemy, opened the door, and came to meet me, pale, half-
dead, in answer to my call, with faltering steps as men go to
punishment. I fastened my eyes on hers, bound up my gaze with hers,
and when I had done this I knew already that I had gained the victory.

I at once compelled her to send the men out of the room. She submitted
without even making an attempt to oppose me. We were alone together
once more. To delay was no longer possible.

And I could not bring myself to forgive her craftiness. In her place,
in my time, I should have acted otherwise. Now I ordered her, without
pity, to come to meet me. A moan of torture opened her lips, her eyes
widened as before a phantom, but she came, trembling, falling--she
came. I also went forward to meet her, lips curving triumphantly, eyes
wide open with joy, swaying in an intoxicating rapture. Again our
hands touched each other's, again our lips came near together, and we
fell each into the other, burning with the indescribable pain of
bodily exchange. In another moment I was already in front of the
mirror, my breast filled itself with air, I cried out loudly and
victoriously and fell just here, in front of the pier-glass, prone
from exhaustion.

My husband and the servants ran towards me. I could only tell them to
fulfil my previous orders and take the mirror away, out of the house,
at once. That was wisely thought, wasn't it?

You see she, that other, might have profited by my weakness in the
first minutes of my return to life, and by a desperate assault might
have tried to wrest the victory from my hands. Sending the mirror out
of the house, I could ensure my own quietude for a long time, as long
as I liked, and my rival had earned such a punishment for her cunning.
I defeated her with her own tools, with the blade which she herself
had raised against me.

After having given this order I lost consciousness. They laid me on my
bed. A doctor was called in. I was treated as suffering from a nervous
fever. For a long while my relatives had thought me ill, and not
normal. In the first outburst of exultation I told them all that had
happened to me. My stories only increased their suspicions. They sent
me to a home for the mentally afflicted, and I am there now. All my
being, I agree, is profoundly shaken. But I do not want to stay here.
I am eager to return to the joys of life, to all the countless
pleasures which are accessible to a living human being. I have been
deprived of them too long.

Besides--shall I say it?--there is one thing which I am bound to do as
soon as possible. I ought to have no doubt that I am this I. But all
the same, whenever I begin to think of her who is imprisoned in my
mirror I begin to be seized by a strange hesitation. What if the real
I--is there?

Then I myself who think this, I who write this, I--am a shadow, I--am
a phantom, I--am a reflection. In me are only the poured forth
remembrances, thoughts and feelings of that other, the real person.
And, in reality, I am thrown into the depths of the mirror in
nonentity, I am pining, exhausted, dying. I know, I almost know that
this is not true. But in order to disperse the last clouds of doubt, I
ought again once more, for the last time, to see that mirror. I must
look into it once more to be convinced, that there--is the imposter,
my enemy, she who played my part for some months. I shall see this and
all the confusion of my soul will pass away, and I shall again be free
from care--bright, happy. Where is this mirror? Where shall I find it?
I must, I must once more look into its depths!



THE END



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