On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 6

  She halted and did not immediately reply – not because she was angry but because her thoughts were far away.

  “No,” she said finally, “I’m not at all angry.”

  Shubin bit his lip.

  “What a worried face… and what an uninterested face!” he muttered. “Yelena Nikolayevna,” he went on, raising his voice, “let me tell you a little story. I had a friend, and that friend also had a friend, who at first behaved in seemly fashion but then took to drink. Early one morning my friend met him in the street and saw that he was drunk. My friend went and turned his back on him, whereupon the drunk came up to him and said: ‘I wouldn’t be angry if you’d failed to bow to me, but why did you turn your back? Perhaps it’s grief that makes me drink. Peace be to my ashes!’”

  Shubin fell silent.

  “Is that all?” asked Yelena.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand you. What are you getting at? You’ve just told me not to look at you.”

  “Yes, and now I’ve told you how bad it is to turn your back.”

  “But do you think I—” Yelena began.

  “Well didn’t you?”

  Blushing slightly, Yelena extended her hand to Shubin. He pressed it firmly.

  “It seems you caught me in a bad mood,” said Yelena, “but your suspicions are not justified. I certainly wasn’t thinking of avoiding you.”

  “Let’s agree on that. But you must admit that at this moment you’ve got a thousand thoughts in your head, not one of which you will confide to me. Well? Have I not spoken the truth?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But why is that? Why?”

  “My thoughts are not clear even to myself,” said Yelena.

  “So now’s just the time to confide them to someone else,” Shubin rejoined. “But I’ll tell you what’s what. You have a low opinion of me.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You imagine that everything about me is half-feigned because I’m an artist; that I’m incapable of doing anything – you’re probably right about that – but that I’m even incapable of any truly profound feeling; that I can’t weep sincere tears, that I’m a gossip-monger and talk too much – and all because I’m an artist. What are we, then, if not godforsaken wretches? For example, I’m prepared to swear you don’t believe in my repentance.”

  “No, Pavel Yakovlevich, I do believe in your repentance, and I do believe in your tears. But it seems to me that your very repentance amuses you, and so do your tears.”

  Shubin shuddered.

  “Well, I can see that this is, as the doctors say, an incurable case, casus incurabilis. It only remains for me to hang my head and submit. Meanwhile, good Lord! Can it be true that I’m still fussing about with myself, when beside me there is a soul like this? And to think that I shall never fathom that soul, will never know what makes her sad, what makes her happy, what ferment there is within her, what she wants or where she is going… Tell me,” he said after a short pause, “would you never, on any account, in any circumstances, fall in love with an artist?”

  Yelena looked him straight in the eye.

  “I don’t think so, Pavel Yakovlevich. No.”

  “QED,” said Shubin with comic gloominess. “After which I assume it would be more seemly for me not to interrupt your solitary walk. A professor would have asked you: on the basis of which facts did you say no? But I’m not a professor, I’m what you consider to be a child – but remember: one doesn’t turn one’s back on children. Goodbye. Peace be to my ashes!”

  Yelena made to stop him, but bethought herself and said: “Goodbye.”

  Shubin left the courtyard. A short distance from the Stakhovs’ dacha, he met Bersenev, who was walking rapidly, his head lowered and his hat pulled down.

  “Andrei Petrovich!” Shubin cried.

  Bersenev halted.

  “Keep going, keep going,” Shubin continued. “I just wanted to say hello, not detain you. Go straight into the garden – you’ll find Yelena there. I think she’s waiting for you – she’s waiting for someone at any rate… Do you realize the power of those words: she’s waiting! And do you know, my dear fellow, a surprising circumstance? Imagine: I’ve been living in the same house as her for two years, I’m in love with her, and only now, this very minute, have I not understood but rather seen her. I saw her and threw up my hands. Please don’t look at me with that fake caustic smile, which does not suit your sober features at all. All right, you want to remind me of Annushka. So what? I’ve no objection. Annushkas suit the likes of me. Long live Annushkas, Zoyas and even Avgustina Khristianovnas! You go to Yelena now, but I’ll be on my way… to Annushka, you’re thinking? No, my dear fellow, worse: to Prince Chirkurasov. He’s a Kazan Tatar, a patron of the arts, like Vogin. Here’s my invitation, with the RSVP – do you see? Even in the country I get no peace. Addio.”*

  Bersenev heard out Shubin’s tirade in silence and seemed somewhat embarrassed on his account. Then he went into the courtyard of the Stakhov dacha. Shubin meanwhile really did go to Prince Chirkurasov, to whom, with the most affable of appearances, he delivered himself of the most pointed and insolent remarks. The Tatar patron of the arts chortled, his guests laughed, but no one felt cheerful and they parted on bad terms. Thus two slightly acquainted gentlemen, on meeting each other on Nevsky Prospect,* will suddenly bare their teeth at one another, crinkle eyes, nose and cheeks in sickly-sweet fashion and then, once they have passed each other, immediately assume their former expression, indifferent, gloomy and for the most part haemorrhoidal.

  10

  Yelena greeted Bersenev cordially, not in the garden but in the drawing room. Immediately, and almost impatiently, she resumed the conversation of the previous day. She was alone; Nikolai Artemyevich had discreetly hidden himself somewhere; Anna Vasilyevna was having a lie-down upstairs with a damp bandage round her head. Zoya was sitting beside her; she straightened her skirt and placed her hands on her knees. Uvar Ivanovich was taking a nap on a wide, comfortable sofa on the mezzanine floor; the sofa had been nicknamed the “self-sleeper”.* Bersenev again mentioned his father; he regarded his memory as sacrosanct. Let us too say a few words about him.

  The owner of eighty-two serfs, whom he had emancipated on his deathbed, an Illuminatus,* a former Göttingen student, author of a manuscript work on Manifestations or Prefigurations of the Spirit in the World, a highly original mixture of Schellingianism, Swedenborgianism* and republicanism, Bersenev’s father brought him to Moscow when he was still a boy, immediately after the death of his mother, and began to educate him himself. He prepared for each lesson, worked with unusual conscientiousness and an utter lack of success. He was bookish, a dreamer, a mystic and a stammerer; he had a toneless voice, expressed himself in terms both obscure and ornate, mainly through similes, and was even shy of his son, whom he loved passionately. Small wonder then that during lessons his son merely looked blank and made not one iota of progress. The old man (he was approaching fifty and had married very late) at last realized that this arrangement was not working and placed Andryusha* in a pension. Andryusha began to work at his studies, but did not escape his parent’s supervision: his father visited him constantly, pestering the school owner with his sermons and lectures. The class teachers too found their uninvited guest a burden. From time to time he would bring them what they called learned tomes on education. Even the schoolboys felt uncomfortable at the sight of the old man’s swarthy, pockmarked face and gaunt figure clad in a grey swallow-tail coat. The schoolboys did not suspect at the time that this morose, unsmiling gentleman, with his long nose and crane-like gait, was full of heartfelt concern for them, worrying over each one of them as if he were his own son. Once he took it into his head to talk to them about Washington. “Pupils of the youthful generation!” he began, but at the first sounds of his strange voice the pupils of the youthful generation scattered. Life for the esteemed
alumnus of Göttingen was no bed of roses; he was constantly crushed by the march of history and by questions and considerations of every kind. When young Bersenev went to university, his father went to lectures with him. Already, however, his health was beginning to fail him. The events of 1848* shook him to the core (he had to redo his whole book) and he died in the winter of 1853. He did not live to see his son leave university, but had congratulated him in advance on his degree and bestowed his blessing on his service to learning. “I pass the torch to you,” he said, two hours before his death. “I held on to it as long as I could; may you always keep it in your grasp.”

  Bersenev talked to Yelena for a long time about his father. The awkwardness which he had felt in her presence had disappeared, and his lisp was less pronounced. The conversation turned to the university.

  “Tell me,” enquired Yelena, “were there any remarkable people among your friends?”

  Bersenev remembered Shubin’s words.

  “No, Yelena Nikolayevna: to tell you the truth, there wasn’t a single remarkable man among us. They say that once upon a time Moscow University was the place for them, but it isn’t any more. Now it’s a school, not a university. I found it difficult with my fellow students,” he added, lowering his voice.

  “Difficult?” whispered Yelena.

  “However,” Bersenev went on, “I must qualify that. I know one student – admittedly not on my course – who is a truly remarkable man.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Yelena animatedly.

  “Insarov, Dmitry Nikanorovich. He’s a Bulgarian.”

  “Not a Russian?”

  “No, not a Russian.”

  “Why’s he living in Moscow?”

  “He’s come here to study. And do you know what his aim is in studying? He’s got one thought: the liberation of his homeland. His story is extraordinary. His father was a fairly prosperous merchant, a native of Tarnovo. Today Tarnovo is a small town, but it was formerly the capital of Bulgaria, when Bulgaria was still an independent kingdom. He did business in Sofia and had dealings with Russia: his sister, Insarov’s aunt, still lives in Kiev, married to a senior history teacher in the local grammar school. In 1835 – that is to say eighteen years ago – a horrible outrage took place: Insarov’s mother suddenly disappeared without a trace; a week later she was found dead with knife wounds.”

  Yelena shuddered. Bersenev paused.

  “Go on, go on,” she said.

  “There were rumours that she’d been abducted and killed by a Turkish aga;* her husband, Insarov’s father, found out the truth and wanted revenge, but only succeeded in wounding the aga with a dagger… He was shot.”

  “Shot? Without trial?”

  “Yes. At the time Insarov was seven. He was looked after by neighbours. His aunt, on hearing of the fate of her brother’s family, decided her nephew should live with her. He was taken to Odessa, and from there to Kiev. He lived in Kiev for a full twelve years. That’s why he speaks Russian so well.”

  “He speaks Russian?”

  “As well as we do. At the age of twenty (this was at the beginning of 1848) he decided to return home. He went to Sofia and Tarnovo and walked the length and breadth of Bulgaria, spending two years there and relearning his native language. The Turkish authorities pursued him, and in those two years he was no doubt subject to great danger; I once saw a broad scar on his neck which must have been the result of a wound, but he didn’t like to talk about it. He’s the silent type anyway. I tried to question him – but to no avail. He answered in generalities. He’s terribly stubborn. In 1850 he came back to Russia, to Moscow, with the intention of completing his education, getting to know Russians well, and then, when he left university—”

  “What then?” Yelena interrupted.

  “Whatever the Good Lord decrees. It’s hard to guess the future.”

  For a long time Yelena did not take her eyes off Bersenev.

  “I find what you say very interesting,” she said. “What’s he like to look at this… what did you call him?… This Insarov of yours?”

  “What can I say? In my opinion he’s not bad-looking. But you’ll see for yourself.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll bring him here to see you. The day after tomorrow he’s moving to our village. He’ll be living at my place.”

  “Really? But will he want to come and see us?”

  “Of course he will! He’ll be very pleased.”

  “He’s not proud?”

  “Him? Not in the slightest. Or rather, if you prefer, he is proud, but not in the sense that you understand the word. For example, he won’t take loans of money from anyone.”

  “Is he poor?”

  “Yes, he’s not rich. When he went to Bulgaria, some of the crumbs left over from his father’s estate came to him, and his aunt helps him. But all that is a mere trifle.”

  “He must have a great deal of character,” Yelena remarked.

  “Yes, he’s an iron man. At the same time, as you’ll see, there’s something childlike and sincere about him, despite all his intenseness and secretiveness. Admittedly, his sincerity is not our trashy sincerity, the sincerity of people who have absolutely nothing to be secretive about… But I’ll bring him to see you. Just wait.”

  “He’s not shy, is he?” Yelena enquired further.

  “No, he’s not shy. Only self-important people are shy.”

  “Are you self-important?”

  Bersenev became embarrassed and waved his arms about.

  “You excite my curiosity,” Yelena went on. “Tell me, did he avenge himself on that Turkish aga?”

  Bersenev smiled.

  “People only avenge themselves in novels, Yelena Nikolayevna; moreover, in the course of twelve years that aga might have died.”

  “However, Mr Insarov said nothing about this to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why did he go to Sofia?”

  “His father lived there.”

  Yelena reflected.

  “The liberation of one’s homeland!” she said. “So great are these words it fills one with awe just to utter them.”

  At that moment Anna Vasilyevna came into the room and the conversation ceased.

  Bersenev was disturbed by strange sensations as he made his way back home that evening. He did not regret his decision to introduce Yelena to Insarov; he regarded as entirely natural the profound impression which his stories about the young Bulgarian had made on her… had not he himself tried to strengthen that impression! But a dark and secret feeling was lurking hidden in his heart; he was sorrowing with unpleasant sorrow. However, this sorrow did not prevent him from taking up the History of the Hohenstaufen and beginning to read at the same page on which he had stopped the previous evening.

  11

  Two days later, as promised, Insarov turned up at Bersenev’s place with his belongings. He had no servant, but he tidied up and dusted his room unaided, arranged the furniture and swept the floor. He spent a long time wrestling with the desk, which just would not go into the space between the windows intended for it. But, with his characteristic quiet persistence, he achieved his objectives. Having settled in, he asked Bersenev to take ten roubles in advance and, armed with a stout stick, set off to investigate the environs of his new home. After some three hours, he returned and, on being invited by Bersenev to share a meal with him, replied that he would not decline to have dinner with him that day, but that he had already discussed the matter with the landlady and in future would get his food from her.

  “For Heaven’s sake,” retorted Bersenev. “You’ll be fed appallingly; that woman can’t cook. Why don’t you want to dine with me? We would go halves on the cost.”

  “My resources won’t allow me to dine as you dine,” Insarov replied with a calm smile.

  There was something in this smile which d
id not allow the matter to be pursued: Bersenev made no further comment. After dinner, he suggested taking Insarov to the Stakhovs, but he replied that he proposed to devote the whole evening to correspondence with his Bulgarian friends. He therefore asked Bersenev to postpone the visit to the Stakhovs to another day. Bersenev had already been aware of Insarov’s unbending will, but it was only now, finding himself under the same roof, that he was able to convince himself thoroughly that Insarov never changed a decision, just as he never put off the fulfilment of a promise. To Bersenev, a Russian through and through, this more than German punctiliousness at first seemed somewhat odd, even somewhat comical, but he soon got used to it and ended up finding it, if not admirable, at least very convenient.

  The second day after moving in, Insarov got up at four o’clock in the morning, did a quick circuit of almost the whole of Kuntsevo, had a swim in the river, drank a glass of cold milk and set to work. And there was no small amount of that: he was studying Russian history, law and political economy, translating Bulgarian songs and chronicles, collecting materials about the Eastern Question,* compiling a Russian grammar for Bulgarians and a Bulgarian grammar for Russians. Bersenev dropped in and talked about Feuerbach* with him. Insarov listened to him attentively, making rare but worthwhile interventions; from these it was clear that he was trying to work out whether he had to study Feuerbach or whether he could do without him. Then Bersenev turned the topic of conversation to Insarov’s studies and whether he would show him something. Insarov read him his translation of two or three Bulgarian songs and sought to know his opinion of them. Bersenev found the translation accurate but insufficiently lively. Insarov made a mental note of his observation. From songs Bersenev moved to the current situation in Bulgaria, and here, for the first time, he noticed the change which took place in Insarov at the mere mention of his homeland. It was not that he coloured or that he raised his voice – no! But his whole being seemed to gain strength and purpose, the line of his lips became sharper and more implacable, while in the depths of his eyes a smouldering, unquenchable fire was lit. Insarov did not like to expatiate on his own journey to his homeland, but about Bulgaria in general he would willingly talk to anyone. He spoke unhurriedly about the Turks and their oppressive rule, about the calamitous misery endured by his countrymen and about their hopes. Concentrated nurturing of a single, deep-rooted passion could be detected in his every word.