On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 5

  “Sit down,” he said, perching himself on the edge of the table. “As you can see,” Insarov went on, indicating a pile of papers and books on the floor, “things are still chaotic here. I haven’t got sorted out yet. Haven’t had the time.”

  Insarov spoke perfectly correct Russian, pronouncing each word clearly and confidently, but his guttural yet pleasant voice had something un-Russian about it. Insarov’s foreign origins (he was a Bulgarian by birth) were even more evident in his appearance. He was a young man of about twenty-five, lean and sinewy, horny-handed and hollow-chested. He had sharp facial features, an aquiline nose, straight iridescent black hair, a small forehead, small, intent, deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows. When he smiled, fine white teeth appeared momentarily from behind lips which were thin, tight and all too clearly defined. He was dressed in an old but neat frock coat, buttoned to the top.

  “Why did you move out of your old flat?” asked Bersenev.

  “This one’s cheaper and nearer the university.”

  “But it’s the long vacation now… And why do you want to live in the city in summer? When you decided to move, you should have rented a dacha.”

  Insarov did not reply to this remark and offered Bersenev a pipe, adding: “I’m sorry, I haven’t any cigarettes or cigars.”

  Bersenev lit the pipe.

  “Take me, for instance,” he went on. “I’m renting a little place near Kuntsevo. It’s very cheap and very comfortable. I’ve even got a spare room upstairs.”

  Again Insarov did not reply.

  Bersenev drew on his pipe.

  “I even thought,” he began again, emitting a thin stream of smoke, “that if, for example, there was someone… for example you, I thought… who would like… who would agree to take my upstairs room… how nice that would be! What do you think, Dmitry Nikanorovich?”

  Insarov raised his small eyes to him.

  “You’re suggesting I come and live in your dacha?”

  “Yes. There’s a spare room upstairs.”

  “I’m very grateful to you, Andrei Petrovich, but I think my finances won’t run to it.”

  “How do you mean ‘won’t run to it’?”

  “Won’t run to living in a dacha. I can’t keep up two places.”

  “But then I…” Bersenev began, then stopped. “It wouldn’t cost you anything extra,” he went on. “Let’s assume you do keep on this flat; compared to that, everything’s cheap where I am. We could even arrange to have meals together, for instance.”

  Insarov said nothing. Bersenev became uneasy.

  “At least come and visit me some time,” he began, after a short pause. “There’s a family living a stone’s throw away from me to which I’d very much like to introduce you. There’s a wonderful girl there, Insarov. If only you knew! My close friend also lives there, a man of great talent; I’m sure you’ll get on with him.” (Russians love to be convivial – towards their friends if to no one else.) “Do come. I mean it. Or even better, move in. I mean it. We could work together and read… As you know, I’m studying history and philosophy. If that interests you, I’ve got lots of books.”

  Insarov stood up and paced round the room.

  “May I ask,” he said finally, “how much you pay for your dacha?”

  “A hundred silver roubles.”*

  “And how many rooms has it got?”

  “Five.”

  “So at that rate, one room would be twenty roubles?”

  “At that rate, yes. But for Heaven’s sake, I don’t need the room. It’s simply standing empty.”

  “Maybe. But listen,” Insarov continued with a guileless but, at the same time, decisive movement of his head, “I can only take advantage of your offer if you agree to take money from me at the going rate. I can afford twenty roubles, all the more so because, to judge by what you say, I shall make savings on everything there.”

  “Of course, but really, I don’t feel happy about it.”

  “That’s the only option, Andrei Petrovich.”

  “Well, as you wish – but how stubborn you are!”

  Insarov again said nothing.

  The two men agreed on a date for Insarov to move in. They summoned the landlord, but he first of all sent his daughter, a little girl of about seven with a huge coloured headscarf. She listened attentively, almost in horror, to everything that Insarov said to her, then went off without a word. Following her came her mother, heavily pregnant and also wearing a headscarf, but this time a very small one. Insarov explained to her that he was moving to a dacha near Kuntsevo, but was keeping the flat on and entrusting all his things to her. The landlord’s wife also seemed to take fright, and retreated. At last the landlord came; at first he seemed to understand everything and merely said thoughtfully: “Near Kuntsevo?” Then he suddenly opened the door and shouted: “So you’ll be keepin’ on this here room?” Insarov reassured him. “Cos I need to know,” the tailor interposed sternly, whereupon he disappeared.

  Bersenev set off home, very pleased with the success of his proposal. Insarov saw him to the door with a courtesy and affability little employed in Russia. Left alone, he carefully removed his frock coat and set about sorting his papers.

  8

  That same evening Anna Vasilyevna was sitting in her drawing room; she was close to tears. In the room, besides her, were her husband and a certain Uvar Ivanovich Stakhov, an uncle twice removed of Nikolai Artemyevich, a retired cornet of about sixty, stout to the point of immobility, with sleepy little yellow eyes, thick colourless lips and a puffy pale face. Since his retirement, he had lived permanently in Moscow on the interest from a small capital left to him by his merchant-class wife. He did nothing and hardly even thought. If he did think, he kept his thoughts to himself. Only once in his life had he stirred himself into activity: this was when he read in the newspapers about a new instrument on display at the Great Exhibition in London – the contrabombardon.* He wanted to order one for himself, and even asked where he should send the money and through which agency. Uvar Ivanovich wore a capacious tobacco-coloured frock coat and a white cravat, and he ate often and much. Only in awkward situations, that is to say, each time he had to express an opinion of some sort, he waggled the fingers of his right hand convulsively, first from his thumb to his little finger, then the other way round, while struggling to enunciate: “One ought to… somehow… do…”

  Uvar Ivanovich was sitting in an armchair by the window and struggling for breath. Nikolai Artemyevich was striding round the room, hands thrust into his pockets; his face bore an expression of discontent.

  Finally he halted and shook his head.

  “Yes,” he began, “in our day young people were brought up differently. Young people did not allow themselves to be insolent towards their elders.” (He pronounced the syllable “lent” French-fashion, nasally.) “Now I merely look on in astonishment. Perhaps I’m wrong and they’re right. Perhaps. But all the same I’ve got my own view of things – after all, I wasn’t born stupid. What do you think about it, Uvar Ivanovich?”

  Uvar Ivanovich merely looked at him and waggled his fingers.

  “Take Yelena Nikolayevna, for instance,” Nikolai Artemyevich continued. “I don’t understand Yelena Nikolayevna. I’m not sublime enough for her. Her heart is so vast it embraces the whole of nature, to the least cockroach or frog – in short, everything except her own father. Well, all right – I know all this and I keep out of it. This is all about nerves, erudition and flights of fancy, and none of that’s my thing. But Mr Shubin is, I grant you, a remarkable, an extraordinary artist. I don’t dispute it. However, to be insolent to his elder, someone to whom he is, in any case, one can say, much obliged – I confess I can’t, dans mon gros bon sens,* condone. I’m not by nature a demanding person, no. But there’s a limit to everything.”

  Anna Vasilyevna gave an agitated ring of the bell. A servant boy came i
n.

  “Why does Pavel Yakovlevich not come?” she said. “Why does my call fall on deaf ears?”

  Nikolai Artemyevich shrugged his shoulders.

  “But why, pray, do you want to call him? It’s not something I require at all, or even want.”

  “What do you mean – why? He’s upset you. Perhaps he’s disrupted the course of your treatment. I want to have it out with him. I want to know what he did to make you angry.”

  “I say again – it’s not something I require. And why this desire… devant les domestiques…”*

  Anna Vasilyevna blushed slightly.

  “That’s not fair of you, Nikolai Artemyevich. I never… devant… les domestiques. Off you go, Fedyushka, and see you bring Pavel Yakovlevich here at once.”

  The servant boy went out.

  “All this is not in the least bit necessary,” said Nikolai Artemyevich through gritted teeth, again beginning to pace round the room. That’s not at all why I spoke.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Paul must apologize to you.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, what do I need his apologies for? And what are apologies anyway? They’re just phrases.”

  “What for? You’ve got to knock some sense into him.”

  “You knock some sense into him yourself. He’ll sooner listen to you. But I’ve nothing against him.”

  “No, Nikolai Artemyevich, you’ve been in a bad mood from the moment you arrived. To my eyes you’ve even lost weight recently. I’m afraid the course of treatment is not helping you.”

  “The course of treatment is essential for me,” observed Nikolai Artemyevich. “I’ve got problems with my liver.”

  At that moment Shubin came in. He seemed tired. A faint, slightly sardonic smile played on his lips.

  “You were asking for me, Anna Vasilyevna?” he said.

  “Yes, of course I was. Really, Paul, this is terrible. I’m very cross with you. How can you be insolent to Nikolai Artemyevich?”

  “Has Nikolai Artemyevich complained to you about me?” Shubin asked, glancing at Stakhov with the same sardonic smile on his lips.

  Stakhov turned away and lowered his eyes.

  “Yes, he did complain. I don’t know what you did to offend him, but you must apologize at once, because he is in very poor health at the moment, and because, when all’s said and done, those of us who are young must respect their benefactors.”

  “Ah, how logical!” thought Shubin, turning to Stakhov.

  “I’m ready to apologize to you, Nikolai Artemyevich,” he said with a polite half-bow, “if I really have offended you in any way.”

  “That’s not it at all,” returned Nikolai Artemyevich, again avoiding Shubin’s eye. “However, I willingly forgive you, because, as you know, I’m not a demanding person.”

  “Oh, that’s not subject to doubt,” said Shubin. “But permit me to enquire: does Anna Vasilyevna know in what my guilt consists?”

  “No, I don’t know anything,” said Anna Vasilyevna, craning her neck.

  “Heavens above!” exclaimed Nikolai Artemyevich, quickly adding: “How many times have I asked, implored, how many times have I said how I loathe these explanations and scenes! For once in a while you come home, wanting to relax – people talk about the family circle, l’intérieur, about being a family man – but here there’s scenes and unpleasantnesses. Not a minute’s peace. Reluctantly you go to your club or… somewhere. Man is a living creature; he has his physical side which makes its own demands, but here…”

  And, without finishing the sentence, Nikolai Artemyevich made a quick exit and slammed the door. Anna Vasilyevna watched him go.

  “To your club?” she whispered bitterly. “You’re not going to your club, you ninny! At the club there’s no one to give you horses from their own stud – and grey ones at that! My favourite colour! No, no, you foolish man,” she added, raising her voice, “you’re not going to your club. As for you, Paul,” she went on, rising to her feet, “you should be ashamed of yourself. You’re not a child, are you. Now I’ve got a headache. Do you know where Zoya is?”

  “I think she’s upstairs, in her room. That clever little vixen always hides in her den when the weather’s like this.”

  “Come on, please, please!” Anna Vasilyevna searched round for something. “Have you seen my glass of grated horseradish? Paul, do me a favour and don’t annoy me in future.”

  “How on earth would I make you angry, Auntie? Let me kiss your hand. And I saw your horseradish on the little table in the study.”

  “Darya always leaves it about somewhere,” said Anna Vasilyevna, and withdrew with a rustle of her silk dress.

  Shubin was on the point of following her, but stopped on hearing behind him the drawling voice of Uvar Ivanovich.

  “You milksop, you… should have been… differently,” the retired cornet enunciated carefully.

  Shubin went up to him.

  “Should have been – for what, most admirable Uvar Ivanovich?”

  “For what? You’re young, so show respect. Yes.”

  “For whom?”

  “For whom? You know perfectly well. You can grin.”

  Shubin folded his arms.

  “Oh, you typical voice of the chorus,” he exclaimed, “you force of the black earth, you foundation of the social edifice!”

  Uvar Ivanovich wagged his fingers.

  “Enough, brother. Don’t try me.”

  “So here we have a member of the gentry who is no longer young,” Shubin continued, “but how much blissful, child-like faith lies concealed within him! Respect! But do you know, you primal man, why Nikolai Artemyevich is angry with me? Today he and I spent the whole morning with his German lady, didn’t we? The three of us sang ‘Don’t Go Away’,* didn’t we? You should have heard us. I think you’d have liked it. My dear sir, we sang and sang – and I got bored. I could see something wasn’t right. Love was in the air. So I began to tease the two of them. It turned out well. First she got angry with me, then with him; then he got angry with her and told her that he was only happy at home, that it was a paradise for him. But she told him that he had no morals, but I said ‘Ach’ to her in German. He went away, but I stayed. He came here – to his paradise, that is – but paradise makes him feel ill. So he began to grumble. Well, sir, who, in your opinion, is to blame?”

  “You, of course,” Uvar Ivanovich retorted.

  Shubin stared at him.

  “May I be so bold as to ask you, sir knight,” he began in an obsequious voice, “whether you saw fit to pronounce these enigmatic words as a result of some notion of your powers of thought or under the impulse of a need to produce that perturbation in the air which is termed a sound?”

  “Don’t try me, I tell you!” groaned Uvar Ivanovich.

  Shubin laughed and ran out of the room.

  “Hey there,” cried Uvar Ivanovich a quarter of an hour later, “how about… a glass of vodka?”

  The servant boy brought some vodka and hors d’oeuvres on a tray. Uvar Ivanovich quietly took the glass from the tray and contemplated it for a long time with redoubled intensity, as if he did not really understand what it was he held in his hand. Then he looked at the servant boy and asked whether he was called Vaska. Then he assumed a pained expression, drank the vodka, had a bite to eat and dived into his pocket in search of his handkerchief. Meanwhile the servant boy had long since put the tray and decanter back in its place, eaten up the remains of the herring and contrived to fall asleep, snuggled against his master’s greatcoat, while Uvar Ivanovich still held the handkerchief in front of him in his outspread fingers and, with the same redoubled intensity, gazed alternately out of the window, at the floor and at the walls.

  9

  Shubin returned to his little room in the wing of the dacha and was on the point of opening a book when Nikolai Artemyevich’s butler entered cau
tiously and handed him a small triangular note which bore a large official seal. “I hope,” the note said, “that you, as an honourable man, will not allow yourself to refer, by so much as a single word, to a certain promissory note which was the subject of conversation this morning. You know my terms and conditions, the fact that the sum itself is negligible and other circumstances. In the final analysis there are family secrets which must be respected, and domestic harmony is something sacrosanct which only êtres sans cœur,* among whom I have no reason to number you, reject! (Return this note.) N.S.”

  On the bottom of the note Shubin scribbled in pencil: “Don’t worry – so far I don’t steal handkerchiefs from pockets.” He gave the note back to the butler and again took up his book. But it soon slipped from his grasp. Gazing at the crimsoned sky, at two sturdy young pines which stood apart from the remaining trees, he thought: “In the daytime the pines are bluish, but in the evening what a magnificent green they are.”

  He took himself into the garden, secretly hoping to encounter Yelena there. He was not disappointed. On the path ahead of him, between some bushes, he caught a glimpse of her dress.

  He caught her up, came alongside her and said: “Don’t look towards me. I’m not worth it.”

  She gave him a fleeting look and a fleeting smile and walked on, into the depths of the garden. Shubin followed her.

  “I ask you not to look at me,” he began, “but I start talking to you: a blatant contradiction! But that doesn’t matter. It’s not the first time I’ve done it. I’ve just remembered that I haven’t yet apologized as I should have done for my stupid outburst yesterday. You’re not angry with me, are you, Yelena Nikolayevna?”