Information about the computer file:

Title: The Bride. A Roman Story.
Author: Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
Translator: John Albert Barnstead
Edition: Version 1 of the ETC Kuzmin Collection edition of
Responsibility: John Barnstead, chief editor
Responsibility: Vivien Hannon, editor
Publisher: Electronic Text Centre, Dalhousie University, Nova Scotia, Canada: Kuzmin Collection, May 2002
Source: Translated from
Encoding: Encoded in TEI-conformant SGML by Charlotte Christopherson and Patricia Prodaniuk.

In the eyes of Sempronius, Leah's white kerchief, which she had waved at his departure, still shone white. The dock was not crowded and the flat shore was sandy. Birds sat peacefully, flapping at every flap of the farewell kerchief. Leah's dog sat and howled without moving. The woman went from place to place, her long skinny legs sticking slightly in the sand. Perhaps she was weeping. All of this seemed to him an intolerable affectation. The shore had long since vanished. The sails and a curly cloud again reminded him of the Jewess and her kerchief. Of course he hadn't been able to make it out and hadn't even tried to; he simply knew that that piece of thin cloth was edged in pink and black silk. The pattern was woven of roses and five-pointed stars. Leah had showed it to him so often, assuring him that the drawing had a magic meaning, that Sempronius had involuntarily memorized it. The pale face, the shuddering kisses, the strong smoke, the enigmatic high-flown speeches and always, always the black dog at her side - all this smacked of incorrigible provincialism. The Hierychon Sybil! He smiled. She was passionate, however, one couldn't deny that, but everything came from the imagination and sexual temperament, not from the heart. Probably the quiet sea had brought this idyllic mood on him. The simple passengers did not pique one's interest, the monotonous blue shroud fatigued one, the spewing dolphins reminded one of children urinating, the sailors towards evening quietly sang.

He had travelled little and envied Antonius, whose tired beauty had seen almost all countries. His face was said to resemble his. He knew, of course, that he was handsome. A certain feigned disillusionment in his opinion, imparted new charm to his beauty. Sempronius also knew his faults, his sloping shoulders and thin legs; he was in general somewhat puny for Roman tastes. The night sky was the same as in the city; obviously the journey did not promise any novelty. In the morning a new lady passenger appeared, a tall woman about 25 years old, with a majestic bearing and a fresh complexion. She turned out to be a rich landowner, an orphan who managed the property herself, and who understood sheep shearing and olive packing better than the snares of coquetry. Two young men in worn cloaks wildly rouged and with downcast eyes played dice constantly with no money and ate nothing. They did not seem even amusing to Sempronius. Only when approaching Marseilles did he remember with the appropriate force that he was going to Albina, timid Albina, his bride, engaged to him from childhood. He had not seen her for three years. Now she was seventeen. At that age changes are rapid and noticeable. After all, was he really like the former Sempronius? Three years of Roman life, Julius, Leah, Simon, the emperors, all the glitter, baseness, flights and falls of condition, the arts, the feasts and the bronze majesty of state, which did not all equally attract him, nonetheless all equally set his head spinning. But now, now there was only the apple orchard, only the round little face with its blue veins, only the blue ribbon in the ashen hair of the girl Albina - only such a family circle, the venerable Timothy's stories, the children's laughter and such familiar joyful rooms, the quiet walks along the city rampart, where his bride, still childishly, herself like a butterfly, chased the white moths. On Leah's kerchief among the roses and stars had been embroidered a spread out butterfly/moth, but it was black as if covered with coal dust and seemed as if it could never fly. The disciples of Simon liked to talk of the butterfly Psyche as the resurrected soul. But the body? Would it also be resurrected? Sempronius stretched out his hand, milky-white, somewhat limp; it seemed to him unliving. He feared death, corruption inspired mainly terror in him, although the blessed peace, the Elysian fields, the grave beyond the grave were dear to his tired imagination. But he had seen dead bodies several times and the unearthly petrification, the gaping mouth, the spots of putrefaction and the incomparably nauseating odor were utterly repulsive to him. The sight of carrion had taught him the corpse's lot. In the country a dead ox had been left lying where it fell, and Sempronius had fainted upon observing the stream of maggots churning in a disgusting wave along its steep blue side. Then he had still been a boy. Sempronius had not warned anyone of his arrival, thinking to create a pleasant surprise, so no one met him. In general he had had little news of Albina's family during the three years past. Timothy as no man of affairs or trade was not punctual in correspondence; a Greek on his mother's side, he was careless and forgetful. But who would have ever thought that Sempronius would be so bold as to undertake a sea voyage during the December storms? Only by happy fortune was the sea calm, much to the displeasure of Leah, it seemed, whose inflamed imagination had already sketched out the cruel youth in the role of Leander. Bulging eyes turned bluish, wet curls, a breast to which the movement of the waves imparted a semblance of breathing. Nothing of the sort had occurred. Like a schoolboy who has escaped his uncle's eagle eye, Sempronius ran almost all the way through the city to the quiet quarter where Albina lived. The past three years seemed to have made the yard and the house much smaller. A sparse show settled on the second sward of autumn, not melting at once; there was neither gatekeeper nor dog; in front of the statue of Hermes quietly burned a lamp which was protected from the wind by thin alabaster. The light was warm and pink, like a body. Grey clouds threatened new snow. It was very quiet; the long white drapery let down to the ground from the upper living quarters almost didn't flutter. The pigeons were settling down for the night, nudging one another with puffed out craws. The snow ceased and above the very cloud a low green star began to shine. There were no voices or sounds of steps; it was as if everyone had died.

Sempronius went through the front rooms. Timothy was reading by the fire, his wife was spinning, a slave poured white, white milk into light blue cups. The guest was greated cordially but not noisily; they spoke in an undertone.

"Is Albina well? Where is she?" asked Sempronius.

"She's at the farm", her mother answered, signalling the slave imperceptibly.

About ten miles from the city Timothy had a plot of land and a vineyard, where a small but comfortable house had been built.

"In the winter? To the country? What sort of girlish whim is that?"

The old couple was silent. Sempronius was suddenly struck by the thought that they might have become Christians, but he refrained from inquiring.

"Tomorrow I shall go to the farm!" he said instead of asking.

"Rest, don't go, she will be coming soon."

"She will be coming soon!" repeated Timothy.

Again for some reason the thought of Christianity returned to Sempronius.

Having fed the young man a supper almost befitting the countryside, they led him to a small room on the third floor, from which could be seen the tiled roofs of the outbuildings, covered with snow and illuminated by the one-sided red moon. Sleep overtook him; he wanted the time to his meeting with Albina to pass quickly, so he gave himself over to drowsiness willingly. He woke some three hours later. No one woke him. The square of the window showed turbid gray, as at night. Perhaps the sound of footsteps had interrupted his sleep. He heard no footsteps but saw a light in the doorway. Albina came into the room. She placed on the table a lamp and a wicker basket, from which she unhurriedly began to take out a vessel of wine, apparently a cup, bread, cold meat, cheese and dates. Only then did she turn toward the bed. Sempronius shut his eyes in jest. The girl was standing with her back to the light, and it seemed as if not only her dress but her whole body was lit up like a piece of light blue glass. She approached and sat at his feet and said merrily:

"Here I am. You didn't expect me? Don't pretend to be asleep. It was very difficult for me to come to you, so hurry. No one should know that I was with you."

He had never known Albina to be capable of such an undertaking, but her face was so innocent and simple that she could hardly be aware of what she was saying. She had changed in three years, had grown up completely, and become slightly thinner, as if she had been ill. A light gold bang covered her yellowish forehead instead of a ribbon; her hair was let down and she twisted the ends of her unbraided tresses with thin, dry little fingers. Her light blue dress was slightly wrinkled, as if the girl had slept in it or had been sprawling about on the grass.

Sempronius pressed her hand and got up in the bed.

"Get dressed, we'll drink some wine and eat together; I'm hungry and cold."

"It's winter now. You're dressed very lightly."

"I've become very weak, Sempronius."

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Oh, I waited and waited! I knew you would come. I summoned you."

"You silly, why say things noone can understand? I know someone in Rome, Leah, a Jewess, her talks are always like raving. I wouldn't want you to become like her."

Albina cut the bread and said without stopping:

"I'm not like anyone."

"You've become proud."

"I love you, that's all, and I don't want to hear about any Jewesses. Here, drink."

"Kiss me, Albina."

"Let's drink first."

"You've become capricious, too."

"Have I ever kissed you? Drink, drink. First me, then you, there's only one cup. I'm cold."

Albina greedily drank half the cup and closed her eyes. Blood almost visibly flooded her skin like wine. She drank more and more, and opened her eyes. Her voice became as once it had been; only now Sempronius noticed that at the beginning it had been chiefly Albina's voice which had seemed strange to him, as if glass divided him from hearing. But now her voice was girlishly tender as before. She broke the bread.

"Eat, Sempronius."

"I had supper, Albina; I'm full."

"Never mind, eat with me anyway, to keep me company. Otherwise it's impossible."

Sempronius noticed that the girl was speaking somehow imperiously and sharply, as if giving commands.

"You've changed, you've become capricious, intractable, evil."

"Evil?"

Albina's face distorted suddenly and again bloomed innocently.

"Who is we?"

Albina smiled.

"Well, us, girls, brides, whoever you like. We are evil in order to take you, but then we become good, submissive, quiet. Oh, oh, how quiet! You won't leave me,

"I am your fiance and I've come for you."

"I came for you, an evil bride."

"Let's not quarrel about who came for whom; now we're together and no one shall part us."

"No one and nothing, not even death!"

"We know nothing about death. It sunders even the closest unions."

"No, Sempronius, say even death."

"Well, alright, 'even death'."

Albina's eyes began to shine even more; she entwined Sempronius's neck and almost bit his lips. Pushing her slightly away, he said:

"When are you going to become quiet? Don't be like Leah. You've still a little girl, Albina."

Albina did not listen to utting out the lamp, hurrying, she almost ripped her dress with one hand; without releasing Sempronius's neck she moved him toward the bed. At last they fell, Albina's ardour enflamed Sempronius, he had never yet felt that he was losing consciousness of where he was and where she was, of how something leaves the body (could it be the soul?) strains, beats, in a last sweet effort, hurls itself outwards, dies, rests, and is born again like a child, widens, strives, knocks at unattainable doors, then falls to be born again. Some sort of wisdom and sanctity and terror and horror as if you have touched on a secret from before the beginning of time, on promised sweetness, bliss, fullness.

Now he would have found even all the ravings of the philosophers comprehensible and would even have reckoned them too simple.Sempronious was frightened by the ardour of the still adolescent body and innocent insatiability of Albina. Finally, as if she had been petrified in the shudder of a final embrace, she grew into him like endless motionless bliss and at that motionless moment, it seemed eternity and all the worlds of the universe, like a wheel, strivingly, dizzyingly turned.

Suddenly she bit him painfully in the neck and at once weakened.

"My life, Sempronius, my life."

A strange weakness engulfed Sempronius, too; he could not move and heard as if in a dream the neighbor's cock crowing. Albina dressed quickly, talking fondly and tenderly kissing him farewell and placing a thin bracelet on his arm.

"So you won't forget me", she whispered, then gathered the lamp and the basket and softly left. Sempronius never moved, then fell asleep. By morning the weakness passed and he got up singing merrily. The various aches in his body reminded him of the night past, and the slender bracelet pleasantly chilled his skin.

Timothy seemed saddened and even insulted by his guest's merry appearance.

"Hasn't Albina got up yet?" Sempronius asked, smiling, and then, remembering suddenly that he was giving something away, added: "I dreamt that she had returned."

"No, she hasn't returned", the old man said and inviting Sempronius into a separate room continued: "Sempronius, my friend, don't be sad and don't be afraid. Albina will not return. She died. We are all mortal."

"Died? Died?" cried Sempronius, "When? This morning?"

"No, it's already five days since we buried her. Of course we will take you to the tomb."

Sempronius was not listening to him: he lay senseless, and the bracelet shone gold on his limp arm.