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Debra Dean: The Mirrored World

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Debra Dean The Mirrored World

The Mirrored World: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The bestselling author of returns with a breathtaking novel of love, madness, and devotion set against the extravagant royal court of eighteenth-century St. Petersburg. Born to a Russian family of lower nobility, Xenia, an eccentric dreamer who cares little for social conventions, falls in love with Andrei, a charismatic soldier and singer in the Empress's Imperial choir. Though husband and wife adore each other, their happiness is overshadowed by the absurd demands of life at the royal court and by Xenia's growing obsession with having a child—a desperate need that is at last fulfilled with the birth of her daughter. But then a tragic vision comes true, and a shattered Xenia descends into grief, undergoing a profound transformation that alters the course of her life. Turning away from family and friends, she begins giving all her money and possessions to the poor. Then, one day, she mysteriously vanishes. Years later, dressed in the tatters of her husband's military uniform and answering only to his name, Xenia is discovered tending the paupers of St. Petersburg's slums. Revered as a soothsayer and a blessed healer to the downtrodden, she is feared by the royal court and its new Empress, Catherine, who perceives her deeds as a rebuke to their lavish excesses. In this evocative and elegantly written tale, Dean reimagines the intriguing life of Xenia of St. Petersburg, a patron saint of her city and one of Russia's most mysterious and beloved holy figures. This is an exploration of the blessings of loyal friendship, the limits of reason, and the true costs of loving deeply. Review “In her excellent second novel, THE MIRRORED WORLD, Debra Dean has composed a resonant and compelling tale…. Dean’s writing is superb; she uses imagery natural to the story and an earlier time.” Seattle Times “For those familiar with the story of St. Xenia, this is a gratifying take on a compelling woman. For others, Dean’s vivid prose and deft pacing make for a quick and entertaining read.” Publishers Weekly “Love affairs, rivalries, intrigues, prophecy, cross-dressing, madness, sorrow, poverty—THE MIRRORED WORLD is a litany of both the homely and the miraculous. Intimate and richly appointed, Debra Dean’s Imperial St. Petersburg is as sumptuous and enchanted as the Winter Palace.” Stewart O’Nan, bestselling author of “THE MIRRORED WORLD explores the mysteries of love and grief and devotion. Against a vivid backdrop of eighteenth century St. Petersburg and Catherine the Great’s royal court, the woman who would become St. Xenia is brought fully to life. Is there a more imaginative, elegant storyteller than Debra Dean?” Ann Hood, bestselling author of “With evocative, rich prose and deep emotional resonance, Debra Dean delivers a compelling and captivating story that touches the soul. Truly a wonderful read.” Garth Stein, bestselling author of “Transporting readers to St. Petersburg during the reign of Catherine the Great, Dean brilliantly reconstructs and reimagines the life of St. Xenia, one of Russia’s most revered and mysterious holy figures, in a richly told and thought-provoking work of historical fiction.” Bookreporter.com “Dean’s novel grows more profound and affecting with every page.” Booklist “In Debra Dean’s skilled hands, history comes alive…. Though the world she creates is harsh and cold at times, it is the warmth at its center— the power of love — that stays with you in the end.” Miami Herald

Debra Dean: другие книги автора


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What consumed her one moment was forgotten in the next, but while in the grip of a passion, she could not be swayed from it, no matter how reckless. She ate wild mushrooms without first bringing them home for Olga to inspect. She approached mangy cats and dogs in the street and would coax into friendly submission even those who warned her off with low growls or arched backs. None ever bit her, but the reward for her undiscriminating friendliness was that she smelled of garlic from Olga continually treating her for ringworm.

One summer, when we were at my family’s country house, she determined that the view of the river must be incomparable from the vantage of a particular tree limb stretching out over the water. She knotted her smock round her waist and, catching at a low branch, shimmied up the trunk to a high limb and then to a higher one yet.

“Oh, Dasha,” she cried. “It is even finer than I imagined. This must be how angels view the world. I wonder if I can see our house.” She wriggled like a caterpillar out on the limb until she was perched high over the fast water.

“I am an angel,” she proclaimed, and held her arms out from her sides like wings.

When she fell, the water closed over her and she disappeared. I splashed into the river and stopped shin-deep, stricken. A little farther downriver she reemerged, gasping and thrashing at the surface, then sank and did not come up again.

Like Lot’s wife, who turned into a pillar of salt, I was still gazing on the place where she had last gone down when I heard her call out.

“Here I am.”

Turning, I saw her staggering up the towpath. Her wet smock was pasted onto her dripping skin, and she alternated between coughing and laughing.

“I am a fallen angel.”


A world that has angels must also have its demons. In the way of children, rank within our little society was determined by our relative ages. By virtue of a year, Xenia’s sister, Nadya, might order us about and strike us without cause, and she was not shy to do either.

One of our pastimes was to reenact stories we had heard from our mothers. Nadya played a grand duchess or a German princess, Xenia was the noble lady’s younger sister or a lady-in-waiting, and I was cast as a servant. My little brother, Vanya, served as was needed for a pet spaniel or monkey. In whatever configuration, though, the game turned on Nadya’s being endlessly demanding and capricious. She might send one of us to fetch something, a ribbon for her hair or a tray of sweetmeats, but when we returned with the imaginary item, invariably the ribbon was the wrong color—she wanted the green, not the yellow—the sweets were inferior, and she had not asked for her pet monkey after all but for her parrot.

Once, she asked me to bring a letter that had recently been sent her by an admirer. Dutifully, I left our room, waited a bit, and then returned with the imaginary missive.

“Well, where is it?” Nadya demanded.

“Here, my lady,” I said, and pretended to pinch something between my thumb and forefinger.

“No, fool. The letter I want is in the drawer of my dressing table. It is tied with a blue ribbon.”

I broke the spell of the game. “Do you mean my father’s letter?” I whispered, like an actor seeking a prompt.

She glared at me with convincing menace. “My letter. Bring it here this instant, before I lose patience.”

I remained motionless, considering whether to go out into the passage and try again.

She rebuked me with a slap. “Go!” she shrieked.

I ran to my mother’s dressing room and slid open the drawer. Inside was a fine handkerchief of embroidered linen that had been given to her by Grand Duchess Anna Petrovna when my mother left her service to be married. Next to this was the packet of letters written by my father. The most recent had arrived only the previous day. My mother had sent for the priest to read it to her and take down a reply, and afterwards had put it away here, together with the others.

I hesitated. On occasion, I had been allowed to open the drawer and look at the handkerchief, but never to disturb the contents. If I were discovered, I would be punished, but if I did not return to Nadya with the letter I should also be punished. Weighing the two dangers, I chose to dodge that which was nearer. I slipped the thin envelope from the top of the packet and carried it back to Nadya.

“Here, my lady.”

She took it from me and opened the envelope. Glancing cursorily over the paper, Nadya read aloud: “‘To the most beautiful lady in all of Russia—’”

“Is that what it says?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“But I mean, truly?”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

I did not know how Nadya might have learnt to read. Still, it was the accepted condition of being youngest that everyone was gifted with knowledge unavailable to me.

“‘To the most beautiful lady in all of Russia,’” she began again. The letter went on to proclaim my father’s admiration in many florid phrases. He pleaded that my mother send some sign that his affection was reciprocated.

I had no memory of my father, though he had been a constant, unseen presence in our household. His name was repeated in our daily prayers, and when any decision was to be made, my mother invoked him, wondering aloud if Nikolai Feodosievich would approve of this or that.

“‘If you do not care for me,’” Nadya continued to read, “‘I shall surely die.’”

I was caught in the spell of hearing his words and peered over her shoulder that I might see them as well. “What is this?” I asked, pointing to an intriguing shape like a rowboat reflected on water.

“That? That means ‘send.’”

“And this?”

“That is ‘die.’ It’s simple,” Nadya said. “Look.” She drew her finger slowly under a line of mysterious strokes and curls and pronounced their meaning. “‘To the most beautiful princess in all of the Russias.’ Now you read it.”

I tried to link the images to words, but what had meant “send” in one line meant something else in the next.

“I cannot.”

“It is the same words,” Nadya snapped. “‘To the most beautiful princess…’ Just repeat what I say.”

But I wanted to read it for myself. I stared fixedly at the place where Nadya pointed and saw what looked like snippets of black hair. Flour laced with weevils. A regiment of tiny soldiers on new snow. But no meaning in any of it. The insects on the page blurred.

“Look!” Nadya pointed to an inky puddle on the paper. “Now you have spoilt it.”

I began to cry in earnest.

“Be quiet,” Nadya snarled. “They will hear you.” Her warning served only to raise the pitch of my wailing. She pulled off one of her shoes and raised it threateningly. “I said be quiet. Do you want a whipping?”

Xenia also tried to quiet me. “Don’t take it to heart, Dashenka. It was only pretend. Nadya can’t read either.”

When Nadya turned and struck her across the cheek, Xenia did not cry out or even flinch. Oddly, her silence enraged Nadya all the more, who struck her again and then again with more force as though to jar loose some response.

I closed my eyes but could not shut out the sound, over and over, of leather on flesh. Then it slowed and stopped.

When I peeked through my fingers, they stood just as they had, Nadya with the shoe raised above her head, and Xenia facing her, but Xenia… How may I tell this? Though her flesh was pocked with welts, she looked as though she had eaten something airy and sweet and was still holding the taste on her tongue.

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