Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

They had, one day, swum out to a lonely stretch of beach and had passionately made
love in the shallow sea.
"Tell me something about this Zinaïda Gippius," said Alexandra. "How is it possible that
you tremble at the mere thought of the words that issue from this Horse’s mouth?"
Vladimir’s chauffeur drove at his usual breakneck speed through the night. Alexandra
had irritated Vladimir by suggesting that she could drive him to the Gippius’ residence.
"Gippius is the Cerberus and the literary oracle of the Symbolists. Her husband, Dimitri
Merezhkovsky, is the founder of the Symbolist movement. Merezhkovsky, a shy, intellectual
essayist and literary critic, writes; Gippius talks with a merciless, sharp tongue. Her judgement
is final among the reigning poets’ movement. Only very recently have a few young poets
published without her expressed approval. Blok and Akhmatova are among them."
They were flying along the outer Nevsky Prospect. Slowly the houses became less
imposing. The gaslights ceased. Darkness invaded the streets. Alexandra could barely make
out the few pedestrians on the sidewalks. They passed Alexander Nevsky’s monastery.
Vladimir spread his hands. "Why do I submit to this ordeal? She could be very helpful in
publishing my poems. Since the death of my mother, who was my muse from my earliest
attempts at writing poetry, I doubt that I am cut out to be a poet."
She was peering into the night. He turned towards her. "I had hoped that you would take
her place. You are intelligent and sensitive, you don’t mince words. I like you and would have
no problem submitting to your judgment, but you have no sense for poetry and you are not
Russian."
Alexandra sighed and looked at him with a thin smile on her lips. "The last reason is
probably decisive. I look through the nationalistic, religious, pan-Slavic utterances of the
Russian soul and find Russian poetry pathetic if not worse. I do not want to hurt you, but from
reading in your slim volume, I get the impression that your heart is too sentimental for the kind
of poetry which, in your own opinion, needs to be written. Do you remember what you said
about Marina Tsvetaeva?"
Vladimir pleaded with his hands. "Probably, you are right, but it is still painful for me to
admit that to myself. I fear that the White Horse is going to say the same. Do you think I should
write essays or short stories instead?"
She wanted to encourage him, but her eyes were full of pity. "As you said, I am not a
literary expert, but I think that your cultivated Russian language and your sharp, encyclopedic
mind could be great instruments for writing contemporary prose—if you would allow your
Russian heart to moderate these gifts. You need more experience to mature your talents. And
along that path I am quite willing to be your muse."
He took her hand and kissed it.
Mme. Gippius lay stretched in a pair of tight pants on a chaise longue chain smoking
cigarettes in an overlong cigarette holder, which she used like a baton to emphasize her words
in sweeping gestures. Alexandra took an immediate dislike to her. Such airs! Mme. Gippius
was embarrassingly sure of her status among the small coterie of assembled men.
Vladimir introduced Alexandra d’Andreae with a few words about her bogus
background. Mme. Gippius sized up Alexandra and without taking her cigarette holder from her
mouth asked in Russian. "Is she writing too? In German or in Italian?"
Vladimir explained that Mme. d’Andreae was a medical doctor.
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