The Mirrored World

surroundings and her loved ones with indifference. Or she might suddenly begin to weep, even to tear at her nightclothes, but what emotions passed over her were like leaves borne on the surface of a river and caught in swirling eddies, unattached to anything visible.

Her speech, too, was oddly disjointed and followed no definite course. I might say a thing to her and she would answer me sensibly only to say another thing so discordant that I was thrown into confusion. Sometimes I would hear her talking in her room, and, answering as I came, find that I had been mistaken, had caught one voice of a private conversation and believed it addressed to me. In truth she had been talking to Andrei.

She did not leave her bed, and then one day I found her in the icon corner of her room, prostrate, and as feeble as if she had crawled across the steppes. This became her practice. She would kneel there for long hours, even through the length of the night, without slippers or a shawl, her gaze fixed on the image of the Virgin of Vladimir and seemingly in prayer. I say “seemingly” because, except that she had moved from her bed to the floor, the distinction between this state and her former oblivion was too subtle to observe. Her mournful appearance and drooping, shadowy eyes were so like the Virgin’s that they might have been reflected in a mirror.

Before the death of her child, she had not been devout beyond the ordinary, keeping the fasts and praying when it was right to do so and no more. But now, while the rest of the world celebrated Shrovetide, Xenia crossed early into a most extreme observation of Lent. She not only prayed but also fasted like a monk, taking only tiny morsels of bread and these only if I chided her. “You must eat if you would recover your health,” I insisted, but she was less pliable now than when I had spoon-fed her. “I do not wish to recover it,” she answered.

The Great Lent came to the rest of us in its customary time. On the first day, the house was readied, the rugs taken up, the curtains and shutters taken down, and everything scrubbed. Marfa and Masha went from room to room with a kettle and a copper bowl into which had been placed a hot brick and dried mint leaves. Pouring water over the hissing brick, they waved the medicinal steam under the beds and into each corner to chase out the wicked spirit of Lady Shrovetide. The good dishes and silver candlesticks were put away, and old sheeting was thrown over the pictures and furniture that we might forget earthly pleasures and prepare our spirits to fast. As custom dictated, we put on our oldest patched clothes and made to go to church.

Xenia surprised us by coming downstairs and professing the desire to go also. She had dressed herself, putting on light clothes unsuited to the season. In the six weeks since Andrei’s death, she had so wasted that they hung loose as sacking on her. Her pale hair was undone and floating about her head, her feet were bare—all this conspired to give her the appearance of a wraith and not a woman of twenty-six years.

“Xenichka, you are not well enough,” I said, but she had no care for her health, and when Ivan opened the front door she ran out into the snow on bare feet. She could not be persuaded by reason to return inside, not even to dress properly. I finally relented and had Masha bring stockings, shoes, and outer garments out to the sleigh. “Keep this about you,” I said, wrapping her in a fur pelisse. I put her feet into shoes and took her purse, which she had stuffed heavy with coins, that she might put her thin hands into a muff.

I blame myself. I should have bid Grishka carry her inside and sit guard at the door rather than take her with us. In the last hour of the service, she did not rise up from the prostrations and lay with her forehead resting on the cold stone floor. Looks and whispers were directed at her, but no matter; after the service I had more cause than this to rue my mistake.

Outside the church, a throng of beggars, the poor and those others whom we call blessed, were gathered to receive alms. The feeble and lame lay on the ground from the doors to the street, and those who were able-bodied crowded close round the emerging worshippers and murmured their supplications.

The sight of these beggars revived Xenia. She slipped from my supporting arm, took back her purse, and began to thread her way amongst the unfortunates, exchanging handfuls of coins for their blessings.

“Signorina.” A strange and gawky man in boots and a heavy fur cloak bowed to me, wishing me good morning. It was the musico Gaspari. Without paint, his features were almost plain, and I would not have known him except for his accent.

“I wish to offer you my sorrow.” The lilting voice was disconcertingly at odds with this likeness of a man.

“Thank you. You were most kind on that terrible night.”

He demurred, shaking his head.

“Did you stay on that night and pray over him?”

“I cannot read the Russian prayers, signorina. But yes, I stayed.” He clutched his cloak closer about him to ward off the cold.

Not only his appearance but also his manner was changed from our first meeting. To be sure, none of us is the same person at church as at a party, but without the trappings of female garb he seemed less in command of his person. The Roman goddess at the masquerade had been witty, even haughty, but this pallid creature was so undistinguished that even his extreme height did not lend him presence.

“His wife, Xenia Grigoryevna…” A delicate hand started to flutter and then, deprived of a fan, wilted. “I saw her inside. She is recovered?”

I looked about but did not see her. “She is not yet well but is better than she was.”

“I may call on her?”

From habit, I replied that she would be grateful, though in truth she certainly would not. She had received no one since Andrei’s death. I looked about for the sleigh, thinking that perhaps she was waiting in it, and I might get away. Near the street, a knot of people had gathered round a half-naked woman, one of the klikushi who are possessed by demons and are often taken with fits when they visit a church. Then I saw I was mistaken. It was Xenia.

When I got to her, she was trying to remove her chemise, but her fingers trembled so that she could not undo the laces. I grabbed her hands to still them. “Are you mad?”

“I am out of coins,” she said. Her voice quaked from cold, but otherwise she seemed unperturbed.

Looking for something to cover her, I saw the trail of her clothing, each garment now in the possession of a beggar—her skirt covering the lap of an old woman, and beyond that her shoes and overshoes, the fur pelisse and its matching muff, and so on to the empty coin purse.

I snatched the pelisse back and wrapped it round her shoulders. “Would you freeze to death? Is that your wish?”

She considered this; the prospect did not seem to disturb her.

Chapter Nine

That Lenten season, I had no need of bells to call me to prayer nor icons to put me in mind of our Savior’s suffering. I had Xenia. Very early every morning, she set forth to matins. I went with her, but my own piety was a fraud, compelled as it was by apprehension of what she might say or do were I not there to prevent it.

Before leaving the house, she stuffed her purse with kopeks and silver rubles she had taken from the household strongbox and filled a basket with bread she had taken from the kitchen. These she distributed to the unfortunates outside the church, who began to greet her by calling her matushka, “little mother.” As she emptied her purse and basket, she drew from them stories of how they had come to their situation, labyrinthine tales of illness and death, lost positions, failed crops, violent or cheating masters. Once when I was late in rising, she had already gone, and when I arrived at the church, I found her sitting on the ground in the company of the beggars, quite as though she meant to set out a begging bowl herself.

More respectable persons kept a discreet distance. Her look barred their approach, and those few who braved addressing her were rewarded with disinterest or, worse, her unmodified thoughts. A singer in the choir who had regarded himself as a rival to Andrei tendered his condolences to Xenia. He heaped extravagant praise on her husband and claimed a great affection for him.

Xenia cut him off. “You were jealous of him.”

“It was I who brought the largest wreath for his casket,” the man protested. “I might have expected a word of thanks.”

“You already have your reward. He is dead.”