The next day, after seven in the evening, Vera Vladimirovna’s magnificently illuminated and decorated house glittered in the darkening twilight. People thronged Tverskoi Boulevard opposite the bright windows and, as usual, admired good-heartedly the arrogant luxury and unattainable happiness of the rich. In a luxurious private room, in front of a huge mirror lit with the bright light of candelabras, surrounded by her young friends, Cecily was putting on that beautiful, solemn dress that all those pretty little heads dreamed about, the specter of which so captivatingly and persistently arises in maidenly reveries; and even poor Nadezhda Ivanovna, bustling about the bride, still had not despaired of arraying herself in it.
And the bride looked inexpressibly lovely in that wedding attire, with its wonderful veil falling transparently onto her young shoulders, with those white orange blossoms trembling brightly in the black of her curls, with those sparkling diamonds, with that pale face, with those thoughtful eyes.
Cecily was feeling nervous, as is natural at such a moment, and was not able to understand her mysterious inner feelings. It seemed to her at times that she was in a dream, that in fact she was not being taken to the church to get married, and she asked herself: How did all this come about so soon? How is it that I am marrying Dmitry?
Her apparel was complete. They handed her one more gorgeous bracelet, a gift from the groom. She stretched out her arm so they could put it on her and, looking with a distracted gaze at Olga while she fastened the lock, Cecily whispered deep in thought:
So, go as you’ve been sentenced,
Defenseless and alone….
“What are you saying?” Olga asked, looking at her with surprise.
“I don’t know,” Cecily answered. “It’s some song that has been going round in my head. I can’t remember where I heard it.”
“What nonsense!” Olga said. “Go on, you’re ready. Put on your gloves. It’s time to go.”
An hour later near the Arbat gates, at the wealthy parish church of the Apparition of St. Nicholas, smart carriages were lining up in a long row. The church was bright with candlelight. Aristocratic society was crowded together inside it and in the doorway a plebeian crowd gaped at the wedding, jostling intensely in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the handsome couple from afar.
Cecily stood pale, with head quietly bowed beneath the heavy crown whose burden, perhaps symbolic, she seemed to feel on her young brow.1 Her limbs trembled slightly and her glance flew up anxiously two or three times along the iconostasis to the top of the cupola, where the rainy sky shone black through a high window.
Among the spectators near the doors the usual chatter and comments, questions and answers proceeded in half-whispers.
“What’s she looking so serious for? Don’t she want to get married?”
“No, it’s for love.”
“Look at those diamonds!”
“So, then, he’s rich?”
“They say he’s poor.”
“He’s good-looking, though.”
“Pardon me,” a friend standing with Ilichev in a corner of the church said, “How can she be called a beauty? She’s not at all pretty. She’s pale as a corpse.”
“She’s sick with nerves,” Ilichev answered.
“Hah!” the other continued, “these nervous wives are a punishment from God! Life with her will be no joy for him.”
“He’ll cure her,” Ilichev said cold-bloodedly.
The solemn ceremony came to an end. Relatives, friends and acquaintances surrounded the young pair, congratulating them and accompanying them to the porch of the church. At the exit, Prince Victor went up to Madame Valitskaia with his stiff, barely noticeable bow.
“I don’t suppose you have any errands to give me in Paris?” he said to her casually. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“What?” the frightened Natalia Afanasevna asked. “You are going? I hope not for long.”
“I don’t know,” the prince answered. “Probably for long.”
Natalia Afanasevna found the strength almost to smile and utter a few words in which were included, not altogether clearly, the wish for a happy journey. The prince bowed slightly again and disappeared along with all her fine hopes.
Why ever had she, poor woman, so diligently striven and so skillfully married off Cecily to Ivachinsky? All her expertise had been in vain; all her labors had come to nothing.
She bit her lip and followed the others out.
Vera Vladimirovna, standing on the porch of the church, wiped her eyes, full of tears of joy.
The carriages were brought round, the clatter of wheels resounded, the clip-clop of the horses, the cry of the postilions, the shouts of the coachmen and lackeys—the whole loud hubbub of departure. The people dispersed. The lights in the church were extinguished.
Soon afterward, the church stood dark and mute on the wide empty street. Above it, heavy, menacing clouds went slowly by and were carried away to no one knows where.
Cherished thought has claimed what was its own,
Found speech, crossed over to the outer world.
Long had it lived mid worldly noise,
Free and bright within me.
And I was able in my soul to keep
A portion silently for myself alone,
And now I look upon my cause
With an involuntary and strange sadness.
And then it occurs to me again
That it’s time for me to meet life differently,
That dreams are lies, the word is useless,
Sound and verse an empty game.
This is, perhaps, the final song:
Dreams fly away faster than the years!
Shall I too recognize the vain power of the world?
Shall I too forget the service of beauty?
Now you have warmed my soul’s depths for the first time
Will you bid me farewell, poetry?
Will I abandon you, youthful beliefs?
Will I find meaningless peace?
Having known the joys and sorrows of the Earth,
Having lived through the anxious years,
Will I say, as many have said:
All is empty fantasy! All is sad vanity!
My spirit weakens and the goal is far off.
The crazy hope of yesterday
Is scarce remembered and the voice of self-reproach
Rings louder and more threatening in my heart.
I am oppressed with impotent searching,
I am full of burdensome questions.
Consciousness alone lives in my soul,
The only strength, and may it never die!
Then let the future threaten loss,
And the heart’s dreams grow thinner every day;
Let me pay a woeful price
For the bright gifts of my youth;
Though I throw treasure after treasure
Into the stormy depths of the sea of life:
Blessed the one who, arguing with the storm,
Can salvage something precious.
Written between 1844 and 1847
