On the Eve (Alma Classics) Read online

  “What?” said Bersenev with a start.

  “What!” Shubin echoed. “Your friend expounds deep thoughts to you and you’re not listening!”

  “I was admiring the view. Look how those fields shimmer in the heat of the sun!” (Bersenev had a slight lisp.)

  “That’s a fine palette,” said Shubin. “In short, nature.”

  Bersenev shook his head.

  “You ought to take delight in all this more than me. It’s your forte: you’re an artist.”

  “No, sir, it’s not my forte,” Shubin retorted, pushing his hat to the back of his head. “I’m a meat man, sir; my business is meat, modelling meat: shoulders, arms, legs, but here there’s no form, no completeness; it’s here, there and everywhere, so go and catch it!”

  “But there’s beauty there too,” remarked Bersenev. “Incidentally, have you finished your bas-relief?”

  “Which one?”

  “Child with Goat.”

  “To hell with that! To hell with it!” intoned Shubin. “I’ve looked at present-day artists, at old-timers, at antique ones, and I’ve smashed my rubbish up. You direct my attention to nature and say: ‘There’s beauty there too.’ Of course, there’s beauty in everything – there’s even beauty in your nose – but you can’t pursue every type of beauty. Even the old-timers didn’t pursue it: it came down of its own accord into their creations – God knows where from. From heaven maybe. The whole world belonged to them; we mustn’t spread ourselves so thinly: our arms are too short. We cast our bait at one tiny spot and watch. If we get a bite – bravo! If we don’t…”

  Shubin stuck out his tongue.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Bersenev interposed. “That’s a paradox. If you won’t empathize with beauty, won’t love her wherever you encounter her, she will not yield herself up to you even in your art. If a superb view or superb music does not speak to your soul, I mean to say, if you do not empathize—”

  “Oh, you empathist,” said Shubin vehemently, bursting out laughing at the word he had coined; Bersenev, however, reacted pensively. “No, brother,” Shubin went on, “you’re clever, you’re a philosopher, you’ve a third from Moscow University; arguing with you is frightening, especially for me, a drop-out student; but this is what I will say to you: outside my art, I love beauty only in women… in girls, and that’s only a recent development…”

  He turned over onto his back and placed his hands behind his head.

  A few moments passed when neither man spoke. The silence of the midday heat weighed down on the gleaming, dormant earth.

  “By the way, apropos of women,” Shubin began again. “Why doesn’t someone take Stakhov in hand? Have you seen him in Moscow?”

  “No.”

  “The old boy’s gone completely mad. He sits for days on end at his Avgustina Khristianovna’s place, gets bored stiff, but still sits there. They gaze at one another so stupidly… it’s repellent even to watch them. Can you imagine! What a family God has blessed the man with, but no, he wants Avgustina Khristianovna! I don’t know anything more repulsive than her duck-like features! Recently I made a caricature model of her in the Dantan* manner. It didn’t come out at all badly. I’ll show you it.”

  “What about the bust of Yelena Nikolayevna? Is that coming along?”

  “No, brother, it isn’t. That face could drive you to despair. When you look at it, you see clean lines, severe, regular lines; you’d think it wasn’t difficult to catch the likeness. But it didn’t happen… It escapes your grasp, like buried treasure. Have you noticed how she listens to you? Not a muscle moves in her face, but the expression in her eyes changes constantly, and that makes her whole visage change. What can a sculptor – and a bad one at that – do? A remarkable being… a strange being,” he added after a short silence.

  “Yes, she’s a remarkable girl,” echoed Bersenev.

  “And a daughter of Nikolai Artemyevich Stakhov! Talk about blood and breeding after that. The funny thing is, she clearly is his daughter, looks just like him. Looks like her mother, Anna Vasilyevna, too. I respect Anna Vasilyevna with all my heart – she’s my benefactor, after all. But actually she’s a timorous creature. Where did Yelena get her spirited nature from? Who lit that fire? Here’s another problem for you, Mr Philosopher!”

  But, as before, Mr Philosopher made no reply. In general Bersenev did not transgress into verbosity and, when he did speak, he expressed himself awkwardly, with hesitation and unnecessary arm-waving. On this occasion, however, a particular kind of stillness had descended on his soul, a stillness akin to weariness and sorrow. He had recently moved out of town after a long and difficult work stint which had occupied him for several hours a day. Inactivity, mild, pure air, consciousness of a goal achieved, whimsical, casual conversation with a friend, sudden evocation of a loved one – all these contrasting and, at the same time, somehow similar impressions coalesced in him into one general feeling which soothed, agitated and enervated him. He was a very highly strung young man.

  Under the lime tree it was cool and peaceful; the flies and bees which flew into the circle of its shade seemed to buzz more quietly; the fine-leaved, clean, emerald-green grass did not sway, nor was it shot through with gold; its tall stalks stood motionless, as if spellbound. Apparently lifeless and spellbound, small clusters of yellow flowers hung from the lower branches of the tree. With every breath, a sweet fragrance infiltrated the very depths of the lungs and was willingly inhaled by them. In the distance, beyond the river, as far as the horizon, everything blazed and shone. Occasionally a breeze would get up there, fragmenting and intensifying the glow. A luminous haze hovered over the earth. No birds could be heard – they do not sing in the heat of the day – but the grasshoppers were chirring everywhere and it was pleasant to sit in a cool, quiet place and listen to that warm, vital sound, inclining one to sleep and stimulating daydreams.

  “Have you noticed,” Bersenev began suddenly, accompanying his words with gesticulations, “what a strange feeling Nature evokes in us? Everything about her is so complete, so clear – I mean to say, so self-satisfied – and we both understand and admire this; yet, at the same time she always evokes, in me at least, a certain uneasiness, a certain anxiety, sadness even. What does this mean? Is it that, in her presence, face to face with her, we are conscious of all our lack of completeness, our lack of clarity, or do we lack that sense of satisfaction with which she is satisfied, while we do have another sense, I mean to say, the sense we need, which she does not have?”

  “H’m,” replied Shubin, “I’ll tell you, Andrei Petrovich, what all this springs from. You’ve described the feelings of an isolated individual, who is not alive, but merely observes, exhilarated. Why observe? Live, and you’ll feel the excitement. However much you knock at Nature’s door, she won’t respond intelligibly, because she’s mute. She will resound achingly, like a vibrating string, but don’t expect a song from her. A living soul – and predominantly a woman’s soul – will respond. And so, my noble friend, I advise you to furnish yourself with a soulmate, and all these mournful feelings of yours will disappear. This is what we ‘need’, as you put it. After all, this anxiety, this sadness, is simply a kind of hunger. Give the stomach real food and everything will immediately come right. Take your place as a celestial body, brother. But what is Nature? What is the purpose of Nature? Listen for yourself: love… what a warm, powerful word! Nature… what a cold, schoolboy expression! And so” – Shubin began to sing – “‘Long live Marya Petrovna!’* Or rather, not Marya Petrovna,” he added, “but what does it matter! Vous me comprenez.”*

  Bersenev sat up and clasped his hands under his chin.

  “Why the sarcasm?” he said, not looking at his companion. “Why the scoffing? Yes, you’re right: love is a great word, a great feeling… But what sort of love are you talking about?”

  Shubin also sat up.

  “What sort of love? Any
sort you like, as long as it’s really there. I must confess that in my opinion there are no different kinds of love at all. If you’re in love—”

  “With all your heart,” Bersenev interposed.

  “Well, yes, that goes without saying. Your heart isn’t an apple – you can’t divide it up. If you’re in love, you’re right too. And I didn’t mean to scoff. My heart is so full of tenderness it has softened… I merely wanted to explain why you think Nature acts on us like this. It’s because she wakens in us a need for love and is not able to satisfy it. She quietly propels us into other living embraces, but we don’t understand her and expect something from her personally. Oh, Andrei, Andrei, how splendid this sun and this sky are; everything, absolutely everything around us is splendid; but you’re sad. However, if, at this moment, you were holding in your hand the hand of a woman you love, if this hand and this woman were wholly yours, if you even saw with her eyes, if you felt, not with your own solitary feelings, but with hers – it would not be sadness, Andrei, not anxiety that Nature aroused in you, and you would not begin to notice her beauty. She would rejoice and sing herself, would echo your hymn because you would have given mute Nature a voice!”

  Shubin leapt to his feet and took a couple of paces up and down, while Bersenev lowered his head and coloured slightly.

  “I don’t entirely agree with you,” he began. “Nature does not always give us intimations of… love.” (He hesitated before pronouncing the word.) “She also threatens us; she reminds us of dreadful and, yes, insoluble mysteries. Is it not she who must consume us? Does she not constantly consume us? In her are both life and death, and death speaks in her as loudly as life.”

  “In love too there is life and death, “ Shubin interrupted.

  “Then,” Bersenev went on, “when, for example, I’m standing in a green glade in the forest in the spring, when I imagine I hear the romantic sounds of Oberon’s horn”* – Bersenev was somewhat embarrassed when he said these words – “can that too be—”

  “It’s the yearning for love, the yearning for happiness, nothing else!” Shubin rejoined. “I too know these sounds, I too know that tenderness and sense of expectancy which come over the soul in the shady heart of the forest, or in the evening in the open fields when the sun is setting and the mist rising over the river beyond the bushes. But from the forest, the river, the earth, the sky, from every little cloud, from every blade of grass, I want happiness, I expect happiness; I sense its approach and hear its call in everything. ‘My God – the God of light and happiness!’ I tried to begin a poem like that: it’s a splendid first line, but I couldn’t produce a second line at all. Happiness! Happiness! So long as life is not over, so long as we have control of our limbs, so long as we are going uphill and not down! Damn it,” Shubin went on in a sudden outburst, “we’re young, we’re not stupid and we’re not freaks: we’ll win happiness for ourselves!”

  He shook his curls and looked up at the sky self-confidently, almost challengingly. Bersenev raised his eyes to him.

  “Is it possible there’s nothing higher than happiness?” he said quietly.

  “For example?” Shubin asked, then paused.

  “Well, for example, you and I. As you say, we’re young, we’re fine fellows. Let’s assume each of us wants happiness for himself… but is this word ‘happiness’ the sort of word to unite us, to enthuse us both, to compel us to join hands? Isn’t it an egotistical word? I mean, isn’t it a divisive word?”

  “Do you know any words which unite people?”

  “Yes, and there’s no shortage of them. You know them as well.”

  “Really? What are these words?”

  “Well, what about ‘art’ – since you’re an artist – ‘motherland’, ‘science’, ‘freedom’, ‘justice’?”

  “And ‘love’?” Shubin asked.

  “‘Love’ is also a word which unites; but not the love which you yearn for now: not love as pleasure but love as sacrifice.”*

  Shubin frowned.

  “That’s all right for Germans, but I want to love for myself: I want to be Number One.”

  “Number One,” Bersenev echoed. “But I think being Number Two is the whole purpose of our life.”

  “If everyone acted as you recommend,” said Shubin with a plaintive grimace, “no one in the world would eat pineapples: everyone would offer them to other people.”

  “That means no one needs pineapples – but don’t worry: there’ll always be people who like taking even the bread from other people’s mouths.”

  The two friends fell silent.

  “The other day I saw Insarov again,” Bersenev began. “I’ve invited him round; I definitely want to introduce him to you… and to Stakhov.”

  “Who is this Insarov? Oh yes, is he that Serbian or Bulgarian fellow you were telling me about? That patriot? Is he the one who’s been putting all these philosophical notions in your head?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is he an exceptional individual, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clever? Gifted?”

  “Clever? Yes, he is. Gifted? I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “He’s not? What’s so remarkable about him then?”

  “You’ll see for yourself. But now I think it’s time for us to be going. I expect Anna Vasilyevna will be waiting for us. What’s the time?”

  “Gone two. Let’s go. How muggy it is! This conversation has inflamed my blood. And there was a moment when you too… I’m not an artist for nothing: I don’t miss anything. Admit it, you’ve got a woman on your mind.”

  Shubin tried to look Bersenev in the eye, but he turned away and came out from under the lime tree. Shubin set off after him, swaggering gracefully on his small feet. Bersenev moved awkwardly, raising his shoulders high as he walked and extending his neck. All the same, he seemed more refined than Shubin, more of a gentleman, it could be said, if that word had not become so debased.

  2

  The two young men went down to the Moscow River and set off along its bank. The water gave off a freshness and the gentle lapping of small waves made pleasant listening.

  “I’d like to have another swim,” said Shubin, “but I’m afraid of being late. Look at the river: it’s as if it’s enticing us in. The ancient Greeks would have recognized the nymph in her. But we’re not Greeks, O nymph! We’re only Scythians.”

  “We have our own rusalka water sprites,” Bersenev observed.

  “You and your rusalkas! What use to me, as a sculptor, are these figments of a cold and frightened imagination, these images generated in the stifling atmosphere of a peasant hut, in the gloom of winter nights? I need light and space… When, for Heaven’s sake, will I get to Italy?… When…”

  “That is, you mean to say, to Ukraine?”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, Andrei Petrovich, reproaching me with thoughtlessness, when I bitterly regret it anyway. All right, I acted like a fool: Anna Vasilyevna very kindly gave me money for a trip to Italy, but I went off to Ukraine to eat galushki dumplings and—”

  “Don’t say any more, please,” Bersenev interrupted.

  “Nevertheless I will say that the money wasn’t wasted. I saw such types, especially women… Of course, I know there’s no salvation outside Italy!”

  “You’ll go to Italy,” said Bersenev, without turning to face him, “and you’ll do nothing there. You’ll spend your time flapping your wings and not flying. I know you!”

  “Stavasser* has flown, hasn’t he… and not just him. But I won’t fly, so that means I’m a wingless penguin. It’s stuffy here – I want to go to Italy,” Shubin went on. “There’s sunshine there, and beauty.”

  At that moment a young girl wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and carrying a pink parasol over her shoulder appeared on the path along which the two friends were walking.

  “But what
’s this I see? Beauty comes to meet us even here! Greetings from a humble painter to the enchanting Zoya!” Shubin shouted suddenly, with a theatrical flourish of his hat.

  The young girl to whom this exclamation referred halted, wagged her finger threateningly at him and, allowing the two friends to approach her, said in a resonant voice, pronouncing her Rs in a slightly French fashion:

  “What’s this, gentlemen? Are you not coming to dinner? The table’s all set.”

  “What’s this I hear?” said Shubin, throwing up his hands. “Can it be that the delightful Zoya came to look for us in this heat? Is that what I should take your words to mean? Tell me, is that the case? Or rather, no, don’t say anything. Remorse will kill me on the spot.”

  “Oh, do stop it, Pavel Yakovlevich,” returned the girl, not without some annoyance. “Why do you never talk to me seriously? I’ll get cross,” she said, and pouted with a coquettish moue.

  “My wonderful Zoya Nikitishna, surely you will not get angry with me; you wouldn’t want to cast me into the dark abyss of unbridled despair. But I can’t talk seriously, because I’m not a serious person.”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders and turned to Bersenev.

  “He’s always like this: he treats me like a child, although I’m over eighteen. I’m a big girl now.”

  “Oh Lord,” Shubin groaned, rolling his eyes, while Bersenev smiled to himself.

  The girl stamped her foot.

  “Pavel Yakovlevich! I’ll get cross! Hélène* was going to come with me, but she stayed in the garden. She was scared of the heat, but I’m not afraid of it. Let’s go.”