The Republic of the Southern Cross, and other stories

Front matter

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V

Introduction

VALERY BRUSSOF

VALERY BRUSSOF is a celebrated Russian writer of the present time. He is in the front rank of contemporary literature, and is undoubtedly very gifted, being considered by some to be the greatest of living Russian poets, and being in addition a critic of penetration and judgment, a writer of short tales, and the author of one long historical novel from the life of Germany in the sixteenth century.

He is a Russian of strong European tastes and temperament, a sort of Mediterraneanised Russian, with greater affinities in France and Italy than in his native land ; an artificial production in the midst of the Russian literary world. A hard, polished, and even merciless personality, he has little in common with the compassionate spirits of Russia. If Kuprin or Gorky may be taken as characteristic of modern Russia, Brussof is their opposite. He sheds no tears with the reader, he makes no passionate and " unmanly " defiance of the world, but is restrained and concentrated and wrapped up in himself and his ideas. The average vi REPUBLIC OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS

length of a sentence of Dostoievsky is probably about twenty-five words, of Kuprin thirty, but of Brussof only twenty, and if you take the staccato " Republic of the Southern Cross," only twelve. His fine virile style is admired by Russians for its brevity and directness. He has been called a maker of sentences in bronze.

It is curious, however, that the theme of his writing has little in common with the virility of his style. As far as our Western point of view is concerned it is considered rather feminine than masculine to doubt the reality of our waking life and to give credence to dreams. Yet such is undoubtedly the preoccupation of Brussof in these stories.

He says in his preface to the second edition of that collection which bears the title The Axis of the Earth, " the stories are written to show, in various ways, that there is no fixed boundary line between the world of reality and that of the imagination, between the dreaming and the waking world, life and fantasy ; that what we commonly call ' imaginary ' may be the greatest reality of the world, and that which all call reality the most dreadful delirium/ '

This volume, to which we have given the title of The Republic of the Southern Cross contains the best of Brussof 's tales, and they all exemplify this particular attitude towards life. Six tales are taken from The Axis of the Earth, but " For Herself or Another " is taken from

INTRODUCTION vii

the volume entitled Nights and Days, and " Rhea Silvia " and " Eluli, son of Eluli," from the book bearing the title of Rhea Silvia, in the Russian Universal Library. In Russia, as I have previously pointed out, the short story is considered of much more literary importance than it is here. It is the fashion to write short stories, and readers remember those they have read and refer to them, as we do to the distinctive and memorable poems on our intimate bookshelves. But, then, as a rule in Russia a short story must possess as its foundation some particular literary idea and conception. The story written for the sake of the story is almost unknown, and as a general rule the sort of love story and " love interest " so indispensable with us is not asked there. It often happens, therefore, that a volume of short tales makes a real and vital contribution to literature. I think possibly that these specimen volumes of Russian stories which I have edited from Sologub Kuprin and Brussof may be helpful in our own literary world as affording new conceptions, new models, and showing new possibilities of literary form. Brussof 's volume is an emotional study of reality and unreality cast in the form of brilliant tales.

" Rhea Silvia/' the longest and perhaps the best, tells of the dream which becomes reality in the Golden House of Nero which had been lost ; the'subterranean viii REPUBLIC OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS

Rome where a Goth can meet a crazed girl who imagines she is the vestal Rhea Silvia, the mother of Romulus and Remus who founded Rome itself, and that the Goth, one of the barbarian destroyers of Rome, is the god Mars ; the whole before and after intermingled.

In " The Republic of the Southern Cross " Brussof projects himself several centuries into the future and imagines an industrial community of millions of workers, so divorced from reality that they are living at the South Pole where no life is possible, in a huge town called Star City where no star is visible, because they have built an immense opaque roof to the town— literally a "lid," as they imagine it in New York, where they give you the freedom of the city " with the lid off " ; where the polar cold is defied by machinery which keeps the temperature at the same point for ever, and the six months' polar night — and, indeed, no night — is ever known, because the great box is kept constantly illuminated by electric light ; Star City, where the Town Hall is actually built on the spot of the South Pole, the centre of the town, whence you can only walk northward, whence the six main roads, with thirteen-story buildings on each side, go out like meridians of longitude, and the cross-roads are concentric circles of latitude ; Star City, stricken at last

INTRODUCTION ix

by the disease of contradiction, which creates anarchy between the ideal and the real, impulse and action, as if the approximation of latitude and longitude had hypnotised men's souls ; plague-stricken Star City, where the only refuge is the Town Hall where all earthly meridians become one, is all used with appalling power by Brussof to suggest his mental conceit. I once read outside a Russian theatre, " People of weak will are asked to refrain from taking tickets for this drama/' A similar caution might be addressed to those who turn to read " The Republic of the Southern Cross/'

" The Mirror," into which the vain woman looks and sees a reflection which is not quite herself, who detects the particular personality of her reflection, becomes afraid of it, is finally overcome by it and forced to step into the mirror and let the reflection get out and walk about the world, is subtly suggestive of the instability of what we call the real, the solid ground under our feet. A characteristic detail is that the special mirror before which the woman stands is a revolving one, and when she gets angry she can make it go round like the earth on its axis, and as the glass goes over and under, in again and out again, so it is, as it were, night and day, dream and waking, reality and unreality.

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The drunken locksmith, seeing the seventh-centuryold Italian bust of a woman in the house to which he has been called to repair a desk, and becoming obsessed with the idea that it is the face of a woman whose love he betrayed, the woman of his bright and fortunate days, who tells the long sad story which is more real to him than the realities of the prison or the doss-house, though he does not himself know whether the story be truth or whether he invented it, is another hauntingly suggestive tale.

In " Eluli, son of Eluli," two excavators in the French Congo discover a marvellous Phoenician tomb somewhere about the equatorial line and only partially decipher the curse on those who shall disturb the rest of the sleeping Eluli whose tomb it is. It is in a feverstricken district of exhausting climate, and the older and weaker of the archaeologists becomes obsessed with the reality of the dead Eluli, son of Eluli, who visits his bedside and pronounces over him the awful curse. Both men eventually perish. Only the normal and stronger man, namely, the one further away from the axis of reality, remained untouched and unseeing.

" For Herself or Another," one of the cleverest tales in this selection, describes the doubt that a Russian tourist has that a fellow-countrywoman whom he sees in the crowd is or is not his long-cast-off sweetheart. She

INTRODUCTION xi

is so like as to be a perfect double. It seems impossible that such similarity between two persons should exist. The man conceives the idea that the woman is feigning to be someone else merely to punish him. He is so persistent that she for her part agrees to pretend that she is indeed his old-time friend, and some of the most tantalising description is that in which she seems to pretend that she is that she is.

What the new realists who dominate our Western schools of philosophy would say to Valery Brussof would be curious. He is not an hysterical type of writer and is not emotionally convinced of the truth of his writing, but wilfully persistent, affirming unreality intellectually and defending his conception with a sort of masculine impressionism. He drives his idea to the reader's mind clad in complete armour, no tenderness, no apologetics, no willingness to please a lady's eye in the use of his words and phrases.

The theme of several of the stories might have been worked out readily by our Mr. Algernon Blackwood, but so would have been more discursive, and the mystery of them better hidden. But Brussof, as it were, draws the skull and crossbones at the top of the page before he writes a word and then goes on. Inevitably the interest is reflected from the stories to the personality of the author.

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It should be said that a slight strain of madness seems to cast a sort of glamour on an artist in Russia, whereas in the West, unless the artist be a musician, it is certainly a handicap. One of the strongest prejudices against taking Nietzsche seriously in England is that he finished his days in an asylum. And it is as prejudicial to be thought pas normal in France as to have lost a mental balance with us. But Russia, with her epileptic Dostoieffsky, hypochondriac Gogol, inebriate Nekrasof , has other traditions, and it is not unfitting that the artist who made hundreds of marvellous studies of a primeval demon, the most clever painter of modern Russia, Michael Vrubel, should have painted as his last picture before removal to an asylum, Valery Brussof, the author of these tales, a reproduction of this portrait serving aptly as a frontispiece for this book.

Both Bernard Shaw and H. G. Wells have been described as average or standard types of intelligence, and both are proud of level-headedness. But in the Russian literary world claims of that kind are not put forward nowadays. In fact, Russia, though most heartily progressive — perhaps too heartily from our point of view — does not reckon the credibility of the earth and light and truth and ordinary measurement as in any way superior to the credibility of the world of fantasy. It is worth while writing in Russia, not so

INTRODUCTION xiii

much to affirm the real as to find and then set in ever more striking pose the paradoxes of human life.

Brussof's poetry, for which he enjoys a great reputation, is dedicated to the same ideas as his stories, though in them he is before all else a most polished craftsman and cares more for perfection of technique than for anything else.

His poetry is not difficult, and can be recommended for those who read Russian and prefer to study up-to-date matter. In my opinion, however, the best volumes of Balmont have more lyrical beauty than the best of Brussof. There is, moreover, a good deal of erotic verse which is bankrupt of real vital thought, as there are stories of this kind not by any means commendable for British consumption. Brussof evidently reads English, and one or two of his poems are reminiscent of better things at home.

In the midst of his wide literary activities Brussof is also an interesting critic, and I know few more elucidative volumes than " Dalekie i Bliskie, Near and Far," a collection of essays on the Russian poets.

STEPHEN GRAHAM.

Contents

PAGE

I. The Republic of the Southern Cross . i

II. The Marble Bust 33

II

When Basmanof overtook the tall lady he raised his hat deferentially and bowed to her. But the lady showed no sign of recognition.

" Is it possible you do not recognise me, Elizavieta Vasilievna ? " asked Basmanof, speaking in Russian.

After some hesitation the lady answered in Russian, though with a slight accent.

" Pardon me, but you've probably made a mistake. I am not an acquaintance of yours."

" Elizavieta Vasilievna ! " exclaimed Basmanof deeply hurt by such a reply. " Surely you must recognise me ! I am Peter Andreyevitch Basmanof.' '

" It's the first time I've heard that name," said the lady, " and I don't know you at all."

For several seconds Basmanof gazed at the lady who thus spoke to him, asking himself whether he had not made a mistake. But there was such an undoubted likeness, he so definitely recognised her as Elizavieta, that blocking up the pathway to this lady in the large Paris hat, he repeated insistently —

" I recognise you, Elizavieta Vasilievna ! I understand that you may have reasons for concealing your true name. I understand that you may not wish to meet your former acquaintances. But you must know that it's absolutely necessary for me to speak a few words to you. I have gone through too much since we separated. I must put myself right with you. I don't want you to despise me."

Basmanof hardly knew himself what he was saying. He wanted only one thing — that Elizavieta would acknowledge that it was she. He was afraid that she might go away and not come back, might vanish for evermore, and that this meeting might prove to be a dream.

The lady moved quietly to one side, and said in French :

She showed no agitation whatever, and at Basmanof 's words the expression of her face did not change in the least. But all the same he could not let her go, but followed her.

" Elizavieta ! " cried he. " Curse me if you will, call me the most worthless of men, tell me that you no longer wish to know me — I will take it all humbly, as I ought. But do not pretend that you do not recognise me ; that I cannot endure. You dare not, ought not, to insult me so."

" I assure you," the lady interrupted in a more severe tone, " that you mistake me for someone else. You call me Elizavieta Vasilievna, but that is not my name. I am Ekaterina Vladimirovna Sadikova, and my maiden name was Armand. Surely that is sufficient evidence for you to allow me to continue my walk, as I wish to do ? "

" But why, then," cried Basmanof, making a last attempt, " why have you borne with me so long ? If I am an utter stranger to you why didn't you at once order me to be silent, or call a policeman ? No one behaves as gently as you have done towards a scoundrel of the street ! "

° I see quite clearly," answered the lady, " that you are not a street scoundrel, and that you would not allow yourself to take any liberties. You've simply made a mistake : my likeness to some lady of your acquaintance has led you into an error. That is no crime, and I've no occasion whatever to call the police. But now everything has been explained — good-bye ! "

Basmanof could insist no longer. He stood aside, and the lady walked slowly past him. But the whole of the conversation, the tone of the lady's voice, her movements, everything about her — only accentuated his belief that this was — Elizavieta.

Disturbed and agitated, he went back to his room at the hotel. Beyond the green meadow, like some gigantic phantom, shone the eternal snow of the Yungfrau. It seemed near, but was immeasurably far. Was it not like to Elizavieta, who had seemed risen from the dead, but who had again retreated into the far unknown ?

It was not difficult for Basmanof to discover the address of the lady whom he had met. After some hesitation he wrote her a letter, in which he said that he had no wish to argue about what was evident. He had clearly made a mistake in taking an unknown lady for an old acquaintance of his, but their short encounter had made a deep impression on him, and he begged permission to bow to her when they met, in memory of an accidental acquaintance. The letter was couched in extremely cautious and respectful terms. When on the following day Basmanof met the lady who called herself Mme. Sadikova she bowed to him first and herself began to speak to him. And so their acquaintance began.

Ill

Mme. Sadikova gave no signs of ever having previously known Basmanof. Quite the contrary ; she treated him as someone whom she had never met before. They talked about unimportant matters, connected chiefly with life at the watering-place. Mme. Sadikova's conversation was interesting and clever, and she appeared to be very well read. But when Basmanof tried to pass to more intimate, more painful questions his companion lightly and deftly evaded them.

Everything convinced Basmanof that she was Elizavieta. He recognised her voice, her favourite turns of speech ; recognised that intangible something which expresses the individuality of a person but which it is difficult to define in words. He could have sworn that he was not mistaken.

Certainly there were slight marks of difference, but could not these be explained by the interval of twelve years ? It was natural that from Elizavieta's flaming passions the experiences of life should have forged a steely coldness. It was natural that living abroad for many years Elizavieta should have somewhat forgotten her native tongue and speak it with an accent. Finally it was natural that in her behaviour, in her gestures, in her laughter, there should appear new features which had not been there before. . . .

All the same, Basmanof was sometimes seized by doubt, and then he began mentally to notice hundreds of tiny peculiarities which distinguished Ekaterina from Eliza vieta. But he only needed to look once more into Mme. Sadikova's face, to hear her speak, and all his doubts would disperse like a mist. He felt in himself and his soul was aware that this was she whom he had once loved.

Of course he did all he could to unravel the mystery. He tried to confuse her by asking unexpected questions; she was always on her guard, and she easily escaped out of all his snares. He tried to question her acquaintances ; no one knew anything about her. He even went so far as to intercept a letter addressed to her ; it proved to be from Paris, and consisted only of impersonal French phrases.

One evening, when the two were together in a restaurant, Basmanof could endure the continuous strain no longer, and he suddenly exclaimed —

" Why do we keep up this tormenting game ? You are Elizavieta — I am sure of it. You can't forget how you once loved me. And of course you can't forget how basely I cast you off. But now I bring you all my soul's repentance. I despise myself for my former conduct. This is what I propose : take me for the whole of my life if you can forgive me. But I say this to Elizavieta, I give myself to her, not to any other woman/'

Mme. Sadikova listened in silence to this little speech, transgressing as it did the limits of Society small-talk, and answered calmly —

" Dear Peter Andreyevitch. If you are speaking to me I might answer you, perhaps, but as you warn me that you are speaking to Elizavieta there's nothing for me to say."

In the greatest excitement Basmanof got up from his seat and asked her :

" Do you wish to insist that you are not Elizavieta ? Well, say so once more to my face without blenching and I will go away, I will at once hide myself from your eyes, I will vanish out of your life. Then there will be no more reason for my living."

Mme. Sadikova smiled sweetly.

" Do you wish so much that I were Elizavieta ? " asked she. " Very well, I will be Elizavieta."