He stood as well. In bewilderment, he rotated the billfold in his hands, still surprised that such a rich argument did not break a woman’s stubbornness. He put it inside his jacket and, without the previous familiarity, somewhat tenuously offered his hand. I put mine in it. Why should I be angry with him? The more so, since I was told that he had given Lemke a full year’s salary, something he did not have to do. His co-workers, however, did not benefit materially from this. I didn’t know how I would pay next month’s rent.
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Kopylov stopped in the doorway. A sly smirk flitted across his smart peasant face.
“Oh little lady, little lady, how prickly you are . . . Unapproachable . . . And I was coming to St. Pete thinking Vergezhskii would go to Palkin’s for dinner with me and then to the theater. Some theater! Some Vergezhskii!”
We exchanged glances. The sharp eyes of the wealthy peasant betrayed mockery at my inability to make a go of things. But there was a reflection of something else also. My polite but decisive refusal elicited a sporting approval in him.
“Yes, this Vergezhskii is something,” I said also smiling.
“What can one say? Everyone has their own habits. There’s nothing to be done. Good luck.”
I never saw him again, did not write for his newspaper, and quickly became impoverished. I still did not know how to fight for survival and sometimes it was very difficult.
Then a catastrophe occurred. Lida died. She was thirty years old, full of life, energy, interests, and love. She occupied a position in which her talents, kindness, and social instincts could be broadly applied. She died from pernicious anemia. She passionately wanted to have children. She was pregnant several times and miscarried each time during the eighth month. Doctors warned her against pregnancy, that her life was at risk. But the maternal instinct turned out to be stronger than the sense of self-preservation. She tried to be a mother one more time. And again she failed to carry to term. The premature birth brought on acute anemia. She died slowly, cognizant that she was dying, but to the end maintained her cheer. Though bedridden, she continued to receive guests. She tried not to talk about her illness and forced her visitors to tell her about their lives, of what was occurring in literary circles, and of assorted day to day minutiae.
The death of Lida Tugan-Baranovskii saddened not only her relatives. For me it was an irreplaceable loss. In my new, still unsettled life, Lida’s kind wisdom was a great support. Without her, life became colder and it was more difficult to find one’s way. I frequently went to see Aleksandra Arkad’evna [Lida’s mother]. I felt Lida’s emanation while next to her. I came to be even closer to Mikhail Ivanovich [Lida’s husband]. He was greatly saddened, became helpless and perplexed, muttered unintelligibly, stayed silent for hours, and could not work. I felt very sorry for him.
An unbeliever, during these dark days he circled around the eternal questions. In a childish way he grasped at the possibility of personal immortality, but without God. He did not join the church nor read the Gospels, but read Kant instead. He grasped at spiritualism. His sister, the pretty E. I. Nitte, who
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Chapter Five
had inspired Kuprin to write the story “The Garnet Bracelet,” organized a séance in her handsomely appointed and spacious apartment on Furshatskaia [street]. It was with Ian Guzik, a Lithuanian shepherd who had become famous as a powerful medium. Mikhail Ivanovich took me to one of these seances. Phenomena occurred which I will not attempt to explain, but I stand behind the accuracy of my descriptions.
We sat down around a long table in the living room. There were twelve of us, perhaps fifteen. Guzik’s companion, his impresario, sat at one end of the table. He had collected money from us in advance, three rubles per person. It was he who told us how to conduct ourselves during the séance. Guzik himself stayed morosely quiet. He had a strange, hard gaze. The large room was weakly lit by a lamp under a dark shade which stood at the far end of the living room. But one could distinguish the outlines of people and objects. Tugan sat on one side of Guzik and V. K. Agafonov on the other. The latter was a young geologist who later became a well known scholar in France. Tugan and Agafonov held Guzik tightly by the hands. They put their legs against his and thus controlled all his movements. Only his head remained free. I sat next to Agafonov. All present held each other’s hands and created a chain. But we continued to chat and joke until the impresario told us to be quiet. It became still. All that could be heard was the medium’s breathing, becoming less frequent and deeper. After a few minutes, some object flew above our heads. Judging by the sound of the strings, this was the guitar which had been lying on a table at the opposite end of the living room. Certain sounds and rustling from the corners were heard. Right behind me, the sound of a spoon against glass resonated. This was the glass which had been placed on the floor, quite far from the table. Now, behind our backs, this glass made its way around the table. The spoon tinkled as if someone was tapping it against the glass. This was just like in the story of the mouse running around the dark room and ringing a bell in order to fool the evil stepmother.
One of the ladies screamed loudly:
“Oh, oh, I’m being hit with something shaggy across my face!”
“Something shaggy?” the impresario repeated. “That means the spirit of the Prussian soldier Wilhelm has arrived. Please sit still. This is a very crude spirit. If you resist, he can hit you very hard. If anyone feels that the chair is being yanked out from under you, one must get up right away or there can be unpleasant consequences.”
As if in precise confirmation of his words, the chair under me began to be pulled. There was no one behind me. Agafonov was sitting on my left, another close acquaintance on my right. They would not tease me with such foolish stunts. Furthermore, their hands were in mine. I could not but have noticed their movement. Adhering to the instructions, I got up without breaking
Aleksandra Tyrkova-Williams, A Woman’s Autonomy63
the chain while continuing to hold my neighbors’ hands. After some moments the same mysterious being moved the chair back into place. Here something most strange and unpleasant occurred. I wanted to sit down but it turned out that someone was sitting in the chair and was not letting me sit down. But the chair was empty. In a few moments this strange presence seemed to melt away. The chair freed up. But no sooner did I sit down when something shaggy swept across my face, as if I was brushed with an animal’s tail.
That is all that I saw from Guzik. I treated this with a cool curiosity. But poor Mikhail Ivanovich could not part with the insane hope of corporeally seeing, hearing, and sensing his deceased wife and imagined that Guzik would somehow link him with Lida. He insistently pleaded with the impresario and reiterated sadly and incoherently:
“You say this is Wilhelm? Can’t you ask him to leave? Send someone else . . . The one we want . . .”
“We can’t today. The séance is ended. The medium is already awakening.”
Truly, one could hear how the rhythm of his breathing was changing, that Guzik was moving. During the séance he was completely motionless. The light was turned on. The medium was sitting and pale. The look of his strange eyes had become even more grim. All of this was unusual and extremely interesting for me. But why link the tinkling of the spoon and the shaggy strokes with the souls of the departed? I could not understand how Mikhail Ivanovich found solace in these disconnected phenomena. But I pitied him all the more! Involvement in spiritualism ended shortly. Tugan and I were arrested for participating in a street demonstration. He was sent out of St. Petersburg, though not for long.