On the Eve (Alma Classics) Read online

  She set off along the path, her slim waist swaying lightly at every step and her pretty hand, clad in a black mitten, brushing her long, soft locks away from her face.

  The two friends followed her (Shubin alternately clasping his hands to his heart then raising them above his head), and a few moments later they found themselves in front of one of the numerous dachas which surround Kuntsevo. A little pink-painted wooden house with a mezzanine stood in the middle of a garden, and seemed to peer out naively from behind the green trees. Zoya was the first to open the wicket gate; she ran into the garden and shouted, “I’ve brought the wanderers!” A young girl with a pale, expressive face rose from a bench by the path, while in the doorway of the house a lady appeared; she was wearing a mauve silk dress and, raising an embroidered cambric kerchief above her head to protect her from the sun, she gave a wan and languid smile.

  3

  Anna Vasilyevna Stakhova, née Shubina, had been an orphan for seven years and had inherited an estate of some significance. She had some very rich relatives and some very poor relatives – the poor ones on her father’s side and the rich ones on her mother’s: Senator Volgin and the Princes Chirkurasov. Prince Ardalion Chirkurasov, who had been appointed her guardian, placed her in the best Moscow pension* and, when she left the pension, took her into his home. He had an expansive lifestyle, and in winter hosted balls. The future husband of Anna Vasilyevna, Nikolai Artemyevich Stakhov had won her hand at one of these balls, at which she had worn a “charming pink dress and a coiffure of small roses”. She had kept that coiffure… Nikolai Artemyevich, the son of a retired captain who had been wounded in 1812 and received a remunerative post in Petersburg, had entered the school of junkers* at the age of sixteen and then joined the Guards. He was handsome and well built, and was considered as almost the best possible dance partner at the modest soirées which he mainly frequented; entry to high society was not open to him. From his earliest days, he had nursed two dreams: to became an aide-de-camp to the Tsar and to marry well; he soon abandoned the first dream but clung all the more persistently to the second. As a consequence, he travelled to Moscow every winter. Nikolai Artemyevich spoke decent French and, because he did not carouse, had a reputation as a philosopher. Although he was only an ensign, he enjoyed being doggedly argumentative over such subjects as whether a man could go round the world in the course of a lifetime or know what was going on at the bottom of the sea; he always maintained that both were impossible.

  Nikolai Artemyevich was in his twenty-sixth year when he “hooked” Anna Vasilyevna; he resigned his commission and went to live in the country to manage his estate. He soon grew tired of country life; his estate, after all, was run on the obrok or quit-rent system. He took up residence in Moscow, in the house of his wife. He had never gambled in his youth, but now he became passionately fond of lotto and, when that was banned, of eralash.* He was bored at home; he became friendly with a widow of German origin and spent almost his whole time with her. He did not spend the summer of 1853 in Kuntsevo but remained in Moscow, ostensibly to take the waters; in reality he did not want to be parted from his widow. However, he said little to her, mostly arguing about whether it was possible to forecast the weather etc. Somebody once called him a frondeur;* he liked the name a lot. “Yes,” he thought, smugly lowering the corners of his mouth and swaying to and fro, “I’m not easily satisfied – you won’t catch me out.” Nikolai Artemyevich’s “frondeurism” consisted in his hearing, for instance, the word “nerves” and saying, “But do you believe in astronomy?” When he wanted to demolish an opponent completely, he would say: “All that is mere phrase-making.” It must be admitted that, for many people, ripostes of this kind seemed (and still seem) irrefutable; but Nikolai Artemyevich little suspected that, in letters to her cousin Feodolinda Petersilius, Avgustina Khristianovna called him “mein Pinselchen.”*

  Nikolai Artemyevich’s wife, Anna Vasilyevna, was a small, thin, fine-featured woman, prone to bouts of emotion and despondency. In the pension she had studied music and read novels, but then abandoned all this; she had made efforts to educate her daughter, but had again lost interest and handed her over to a governess. The upshot was that all she did was give way to despondency and quiet emotion. The birth of Yelena Nikolayevna caused problems for her health and she was unable to have any more children. Nikolai Artemyevich used to refer obliquely to this in justifying his friendship with Avgustina Khristianovna. Her husband’s infidelity distressed Anna Vasilyevna greatly; particularly painful to her was the time when he surreptitiously gave his German lady friend a pair of greys from Anna Vasilyevna’s own stud farm. She never reproached him to his face, but behind his back she complained about him to everyone in the house in turn, even to her daughter. Anna Vasilyevna did not like going out; she enjoyed it when a visitor came and chatted to her; left to her own devices she immediately lapsed into a state of prostration. She had a very tender, loving heart, but life had quickly ground her down.

  Pavel Yakovlevich Shubin was her second cousin once removed. His father had been in government service in Moscow. His brothers entered Corps of Cadets schools;* he was the youngest, his mother’s favourite and a delicate child; he remained at home. He was put down for university entrance and his schooling at the gymnasium paid for, with difficulty. From his earliest years he began to show an inclination for sculpture; the corpulent Senator Volgin once saw a statuette of his at his aunt’s house (he was about sixteen at the time) and announced that he intended to patronize this youthful talent. The sudden death of Shubin’s father almost derailed the young man’s future prospects. The Senator, that patron of talent, presented him with a plaster bust of Homer – and left it at that. Anna Vasilyevna, however, helped him with money, and he scraped into university at the age of nineteen to read medicine. Pavel felt singularly ill-disposed towards medicine, but given the number of student places available at the time, it was impossible to enter any other faculty. Besides, he was hoping to study anatomy. But he did not complete his course in anatomy; he did not enrol for a second year and, without waiting for the exams, left the university in order to devote himself exclusively to his vocation. He worked hard, but sporadically; he roamed the environs of Moscow, drawing and modelling peasant girls, meeting a variety of people, young and old, both high-fliers and low-fliers, Italian moulders and Russian artists. He did not wish to hear anything about the Academy* and did not recognize a single professor. He possessed undoubted talent and began to be known throughout Moscow. His mother, a Parisian by birth, a kind and clever woman from a good family, was proud of him, taught him French and fussed and worried over him day and night. She died young of consumption, having asked Anna Vasilyevna to take him into her care. At that time he was just over twenty-one. Anna Vasilyevna had fulfilled his mother’s dying wish, and he now occupied a little room in the wing of the dacha.

  4

  “come on, let’s go and eat,” said the lady of the house plaintively, and everyone made their way to the dining room. “Sit next to me, Zoé,” said Anna Vasilyevna, “and you, Hélène, look after the guest. You, Paul, please be good and don’t tease Zoé.* I’ve got a headache today.”

  Shubin again looked skywards; Zoé responded with a half-smile. Zoé, or, to be more precise, Zoya Nikitishna Müller, was a pretty, blond, plump Russian-German, with a slight cast in one eye, a divided tip to her nose and minute red lips. She was a very proficient singer of Russian romances and could give a deft rendition of various cheerful or sentimental pieces on the piano. She dressed with taste, but somewhat childishly and rather too neatly. Anna Vasilyevna had taken her on as a companion for her daughter and then made her into an almost constant companion. Yelena did not complain about this; she had absolutely no idea what to say to Zoya when she found herself alone with her.

  Dinner went on for some considerable time. Bersenev chatted to Yelena about university life, his intentions and his hopes. Shubin listened in silence, ate with exaggerated gusto, occasi
onally throwing comically mournful glances at Zoya, who answered him with the same phlegmatic little smile. After dinner, Yelena, Bersenev and Shubin went out into the garden; Zoya watched them go and, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, sat down at the piano. Anna Vasilyevna said: “Why don’t you go for a stroll too?” – but, without waiting for an answer, added: “Play me something sad…”

  “La Dernière Pensée de Weber?”* Zoya asked.

  “Oh, yes, Weber,” said Anna Vasilyevna. She sank into an armchair and a tear welled up on her eyelash.

  Meanwhile, Yelena had led Shubin and Bersenev to an acacia arbour which had a wooden table in the centre and a bench all around. Shubin glanced round, gave several skips and, with a whisper of “Wait!”, ran back to his room, fetched a lump of clay and began to model a figurine of Zoya, all the while shaking his head, muttering and chuckling.

  “Once again the old comedy routine,” said Yelena, glancing at his work before turning to Bersenev, with whom she was continuing a conversation begun over dinner.

  “The old comedy routine,” Shubin echoed, “but this subject of mine is nothing if not inexhaustible! Today she’s particularly trying my patience.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Yelena. “You’d think you were talking about some unpleasant, grumpy old woman. She’s a pretty young girl.”

  “Of course she’s pretty,” Shubin interrupted, “very pretty. I’m sure any passer-by who takes a look at her must think: ‘There’s someone with whom it would be very good to… dance a polka.’ I’m also sure that she knows this and likes it… Why else these shy grimaces and false modesty? Well, you know what I mean,” he added through gritted teeth. “However, you’re otherwise engaged at the moment.”

  And, breaking up the figurine of Zoya, Shubin began to mould and knead the clay hurriedly and with seeming irritation.

  “So you’d like to be a professor?” Yelena asked Bersenev.

  “Yes,” he returned, pressing his red hands between his knees, “that’s my favourite dream. Of course, I’m very conscious of everything I lack in order to be worthy of such a high… I mean to say I’m not sufficiently prepared, but I hope to get permission to go abroad; I’ll spend two or three years there if I need to, and then…”

  He paused, looked down, then quickly raised his eyes and, with an awkward smile, tidied his hair. When Bersenev spoke to a woman, his speech became even slower and his lisp more pronounced.

  “Do you want to be a professor of history?” asked Yelena.

  “Yes, or philosophy,” he said, adding in a lowered voice, “if that’s possible.”

  “He’s already hellishly good at philosophy,” Shubin remarked, scoring the clay deeply with his fingernail, “so why does he need to go abroad?”

  “And you will be completely content with such a position?” asked Yelena, leaning on her elbow and looking him straight in the eye.

  “Completely, Yelena Nikolayevna, completely. What better vocation can there be? Goodness me, to follow in the footsteps of Timofei Nikolayevich…* The mere thought of such a deed fills me with delight and embarrassment, yes… embarrassment, which… which stems from an awareness of my own shortcomings. My late father gave me his blessing for this work. I’ll never forget his last words.”

  “Your father died this last winter?”

  “Yes, Yelena Nikolayevna, in February.”

  “They say,” Yelena went on, “he left behind a remarkable piece of work in manuscript. Is that right?”

  “Yes, he did. He was a wonderful man. You would have liked him, Yelena Nikolayevna.”

  “I’m sure I would have. But what was the work about?”

  “It’s somewhat difficult to tell you what it’s about in a few words, Yelena Nikolayevna. My father was a very learned man, a Schellingian. He used expressions which aren’t always clear.”

  “Andrei Petrovich,” Yelena interrupted, “forgive my ignorance. What does that word ‘Schellingian’ mean?”

  Bersenev gave a slight smile.

  “‘Schellingian’ means a follower of Schelling, the German philosopher.* As to what the essence of Schelling’s teaching was—”

  “Andrei Petrovich!” Shubin exclaimed suddenly. “For Heaven’s sake! You don’t want to give Yelena Nikolayevna a lecture on Schelling, do you? Spare her!”

  “Not at all,” muttered Bersenev, blushing. “I wanted…”

  “Why not a lecture?” Yelena retorted. “You and I have a great need of lectures, Pavel Yakovlevich.”

  Shubin stared at her and suddenly burst out laughing.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked in a cold, almost cutting voice.

  Shubin fell silent.

  “All right, all right, don’t be cross,” he said, after a pause. “I’m sorry. But really, why the desire, for Heaven’s sake, now, and in this weather and under these trees, to talk about philosophy? I’d much rather we talked about nightingales, roses, youthful eyes and youthful smiles.”

  “Yes, and about French novels and female frippery.”

  “About frippery too, perhaps,” Shubin retorted, “if it’s beautiful frippery.”

  “Perhaps. But what if we don’t want to talk about frippery? You style yourself a free artist, so why do you want to infringe upon the freedom of others? And why, may I ask, do you, with a mindset like that, attack Zoya? She would be particularly suited to talking about roses and frippery.”

  Shubin suddenly flared up and rose from the bench.

  “Oh, so that’s how it is, is it?” he began in a faltering voice. “I understand what you’re getting at. You’re sending me away to her, Yelena Nikolayevna. In other words, I’m not wanted here.”

  “I had no thought of sending you away from here.”

  “What you mean is,” Shubin went on heatedly, “I’m not worthy of any other company, that she and I are of a kind, that I’m as vacuous, useless and petty as that saccharine little German. Isn’t that it, ma’am?”

  Yelena frowned.

  “You didn’t always talk about her like that, Pavel Yakovlevich,” she observed.

  “Ah! A rebuke! A rebuke now!” Shubin exclaimed. “All right, I don’t deny there was a moment, literally one moment, when those fresh, rather vulgar little cheeks… But if I had wanted to rebuke you in turn and remind you… Goodbye, ma’am,” he added suddenly, “I might say something I regret.”

  And, with a slap of his hand against the head-shaped clay, he ran out of the arbour and returned to his room.

  “What a child,” said Yelena, watching him go.

  “What an artist,” said Bersenev with a quiet smile. “All artists are like that. One must forgive them their caprices. It’s their right.”

  “Yes,” returned Yelena, “but so far Pavel has done nothing to earn that right. What’s he done up to now? Give me your arm and let’s take a walk down the avenue. He interrupted us. We were talking about your father’s manuscript.”

  Bersenev took Yelena’s arm and set off round the garden with her, but their incipient conversation had been broken off too soon and was not renewed. Bersenev again began expounding his views on the vocation of professor and his own future career. He walked slowly beside her, moving awkwardly, holding her arm awkwardly and occasionally bumping into her with his shoulder. Not once did he look at her, but his words flowed easily, if not entirely fluently; he expressed himself simply and sincerely, and in his eyes – which roamed slowly over the tree trunks, over the sandy path and over the grass – there shone the quiet emotion of noble feelings, while in his now calm voice could be discerned the joy of someone who realizes he is successfully expressing himself to one who is dear to him. Yelena listened to him attentively and, half-turning to him, did not take her eyes off his slightly pallid face or from his gentle, friendly eyes, even though he tried to avoid eye contact with her. Her soul was opening, and something tender, just and good se
emed either to be infusing her heart or to be growing within it.

  5

  Shubin had still not left his room when night fell. It was already quite dark; a crescent moon hung high in the sky. The Milky Way had begun to gleam white and the stars to spangle the heavens when Bersenev, having taken his leave of Anna Vasilyevna, Yelena and Zoya, approached the door of his friend’s room. Finding it closed, he knocked.

  “Who is it?” came the voice of Shubin.

  “Me,” replied Bersenev.

  “What do you want?”

  “Let me in, Pavel. Stop messing about. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I’m not messing about. I’m sleeping and dreaming of Zoya.”

  “Do stop it, please. You’re not a child. Let me in. I need to talk to you.”

  “Haven’t you done enough talking to Yelena?”

  “Enough of that! Quite enough! Let me in.”

  Shubin’s reply was a pretend snore. Bersenev shrugged his shoulders and set off home.

  The night was warm and strangely noiseless somehow, as if everything around were listening and keeping watch, and Bersenev, shrouded in a gathering mist, involuntarily halted; he too listened and kept watch. A faint swishing sound, like the rustle of a woman’s dress, came from the tops of the nearby trees and evoked in Bersenev a sensation both sweet and uncanny, a sensation akin to fear. The flesh on his cheeks crept, his eyes were cooled by a momentary tear – he would have liked to tread very softly, to slink away and hide. A stiff breeze caught him from the side: he shivered slightly and remained rooted to the spot; a somnolent beetle fell off a branch and landed in the road; Bersenev gave a soft cry of “Oh!” and again halted. But he began to think about Yelena and all these transient sensations disappeared at once; there remained only the revitalizing impression of the night’s coolness and his night’s walk; the image of a young girl preoccupied his entire soul. Bersenev was walking with his head down, recalling her words, her questions. He fancied he heard the sound of rapid footsteps behind him. He listened: someone was running and trying to catch him up; someone was gasping for breath. Suddenly, from out of a black circle of shadow cast by a large tree in front of him, hatless, dishevelled and looking pale in the moonlight, there emerged the figure of Shubin.