“You know,” thought Bersenev meanwhile, “maybe that Turkish aga has paid for the death of Insarov’s mother and father.”
Insarov was still talking when the door opened and Shubin appeared on the threshold.
He came into the room in rather too casual, rather too cheerful a manner; Bersenev, who knew him well, immediately realized that something was getting on his nerves.
“May I introduce myself without ceremony,” he began, with a bright, open expression on his face. “My name is Shubin; I’m a friend of this young man.” (He indicated Bersenev.) “You’re Mr Insarov, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then give me your hand and let’s introduce ourselves properly. I don’t know whether Bersenev has told you about me, but he’s told me a lot about you. Have you moved in here? Excellent! Don’t be cross with me for staring at you. I’m a sculptor by profession, and I predict that I shall shortly be asking your permission to model your head.”
“My head is at your service,” said Insarov.
“So what are we doing today?” said Shubin, sitting down suddenly on a low chair, his knees wide apart and his hands resting on them. “Andrei Petrovich, does Your Lordship have a plan for today? The weather is glorious; there’s a smell of hay and dried wood strawberries – it’s as if you were drinking a pectoral infusion. We must do something silly. Let’s show the new resident of Kuntsevo its numerous beauties.” (“But something’s on his nerves,” Bersenev continued to think.) “Why are you silent, my friend Horatio? Open your prophetic lips.* Will we do something silly or not?”
“I don’t know how Insarov is placed. I think he intends to do some work.”
Shubin turned on his chair.
“Do you want to work?” he asked, talking somewhat through his nose.
“No,” Insarov answered. “I could devote the day to a walk.”
“Ah!” said Shubin. “That’s splendid. My friend Andrei Petrovich, go and cover your wise head with a hat, and let’s go where our eyes lead us. Our eyes are young and can see a long way. I know a ghastly little eating place where they’ll give us the most awful dinner, but we’ll have a good time. Let’s go.”
Half an hour later, all three young men were walking along the bank of the Moscow River. Insarov produced a rather strange cap with ear flaps which sent Shubin into not entirely natural transports of delight. Insarov did not hurry; he looked around, breathed, spoke and smiled composedly. He had given this day over to pleasure and was enjoying it to the full. “Well-behaved little boys go for walks like this on Sundays,” Shubin whispered into Bersenev’s ear. Shubin himself fooled around, running on ahead, striking the poses of famous statues and doing somersaults on the grass; Insarov’s composure did not so much irritate Shubin as make him play the clown. “Why can’t you stand still, you Frenchman!” Bersenev remarked to him two or three times. “Yes, I’m French – half-French,” Shubin retorted. “But just see you maintain the happy medium between the comic and the serious, as a certain waiter used to tell me.” The young men turned away from the river and set off down a narrow sunken track between two walls of high golden rye. A bluish shadow, cast by one of these walls, fell on them; a radiant sun seemed to be gliding over the tops of the rye; larks were singing, quails were calling; green grasses were everywhere; a warm breeze fluttered over them, lifted them and rocked the flower heads. After meandering around, resting and chatting for a long time (Shubin had even tried to play leapfrog with some toothless passing peasant, who kept on laughing whatever the gentlemen did to him), the young men reached the “ghastly little eating place”. A servant almost knocked each of them off their feet and did indeed provide them with a very bad dinner, alongside some sort of wine from the back of beyond; this, however, did not prevent them from thoroughly enjoying themselves, as Shubin had predicted; he in fact enjoyed himself more noisily than anybody – and yet less than anybody. He drank the health of the great but arcane Venelin* and the health of King Krum, Khrum or Khrom of Bulgaria,* who had lived more or less at the same time as Adam.
“In the ninth century,” Insarov corrected him.
“In the ninth century?” exclaimed Shubin. “Oh joy!”
Bersenev had noticed that, amongst all his tomfoolery, sallies and jokes, Shubin was still, as it were, examining Insarov, sounding him out, while being himself inwardly excited. Insarov, however, remained as calm as before.
At last they returned home, changed their clothes and, in order to continue as they had begun in the morning, decided to set off that very evening for the Stakhovs’ house. Shubin ran on ahead to announce that they were coming.
12
“Insarov the Heroic is about to grace us with his presence!” he proclaimed solemnly as he entered the Stakhovs’ drawing room. At the time only Yelena and Zoya were there.
“Wer?”* asked Zoya in German. When caught unawares she always expressed herself in her native language. Yelena straightened. Shubin looked at her with a playful little smile on his lips. She grew annoyed, but said nothing.
“You heard,” he said, and repeated that “Mr Insarov is coming here”.
“I heard,” she replied, “and I heard what you called him. I’m surprised at you, really I am. Mr Insarov has not set foot inside this house and you already think it necessary to put on an act.”
Shubin suddenly sank down.
“You’re right. You’re always right, Yelena Nikolayevna,” he muttered, “but honestly, it’s just my way. We spent the whole day walking with him, and I assure you, he’s an excellent fellow.”
“I didn’t ask you about that,” said Yelena, rising to her feet.
“Is Mr Insarov young?” asked Zoya.
“He’s a hundred and forty-four years old,” replied Shubin irritably.
A servant boy announced the arrival of Bersenev and Insarov. They came in. Bersenev introduced Insarov. Yelena asked them to sit down and did so herself, while Zoya went upstairs. Anna Vasilyevna had to be forewarned. A conversation began. It was fairly trivial, like all first conversations are. Shubin observed from a corner in silence, but there was nothing to observe. In Yelena he discerned the traces of suppressed annoyance with him, Shubin – and that was all. He looked at Bersenev and Insarov and, as a sculptor, compared their faces. “Neither,” he thought, “are good-looking. The Bulgarian has a face full of character, a sculptural face. At this moment it’s well lit. The Russian’s face is more suitable for a painting: he has nondescript features, but there’s expression in it. Perhaps it’s possible to fall in love with either of them. She doesn’t love anyone yet, but she will fall in love with Bersenev,” he decided inwardly. Anna Vasilyevna appeared in the drawing room, and the conversation turned to dacha life – dacha life rather than country life. It was an extremely varied conversation, with an abundance of subjects discussed, but was interrupted every three minutes by brief, wearisome pauses. During one of these pauses Anna Vasilyevna turned to Zoya. Shubin understood her silent hint and pulled a sour face, while Zoya sat down at the piano and played and sang all her pieces. Uvar Ivanovich made to emerge from behind the door, but waggled his fingers and retreated. Then tea was served, after which the whole company went for a walk in the garden… It began to grow dark outside and the guests went away.
Insarov actually produced less of an impression on Yelena than she had expected – or, to be more precise, he did not produce the impression she had expected. She liked his straightforwardness and unconstrained manner, and she liked his face; but Insarov as a whole, with his firmness, calmness and everyday simplicity, did not accord with the image which had formed in her mind as a result of Bersenev’s stories. Without suspecting it, Yelena had expected something more “fatal”. “But,” she thought, “he didn’t say much today. It’s my fault – I didn’t question him. Let’s wait for another occasion. And his eyes – how expressive and honest they are!” She felt that she did not want to idolize him
, but rather to offer him the hand of friendship, and she was puzzled. This was not the picture she had formed of people like Insarov, “heroes”. This last word reminded her of Shubin and, as she lay in bed, she flared with anger.
“How did you like your new friends?” Bersenev asked Insarov on the way home.
“I liked them a lot,” replied Insarov, “especially the daughter. She must be an extremely nice girl. She gets excited, but in her it’s good sort of excitement.”
“We must go to see them more often,” remarked Bersenev.
“Yes, we must,” said Insarov, and said nothing else until they reached home. He immediately shut himself in his room, but a candle burned there until well after midnight.
Bersenev had not had time to read a page of Raumer when a handful of fine sand rattled against his window panes. He gave an involuntary shudder, opened the window and saw Shubin, who was as white as a sheet.
“What a restless fellow you are! You’re like a night-flying moth!” Bersenev began.
“Sh!” Shubin interrupted. “I’ve come to you on the quiet, like Max to Agatha.* I must have a couple of words with you alone without fail.”
“Then come into the room.”
“No, that’s not necessary, leaning his elbows on the window sill. It’s more fun like this, more like Spain. First, I must congratulate you. Your shares have risen. The man you think so exceptional, and praise so much, has failed. I can vouch for that. And to prove my impartiality, listen to this: here is a formulary for Mr Insarov. Talents – none. Poetry – zero. Capacity for work – colossal. Memory – vast. Mind – uniform and shallow, but sound and lively; has a dry-hearted, powerful character; even has the gift of speech when the conversation turns to the – between ourselves – extremely boring subject of his Bulgaria. What? You think I’m unfair? One further observation: you’ll never be on familiar terms with him and no one has ever been; as an artist, I am repugnant to him, and I’m proud of the fact. A dry-hearted character who can grind us all to powder. He’s bound to his native soil, not like our empty vessels who fawn on the common people, saying ‘pour into us, o living water!’* On the other hand, his task is easier and more comprehensible: he’s only got to turf the Turks out. No problem! But, thank God, women don’t like these qualities. There’s no appeal, no charme, not like there is in you and me.”
“Why’ve you dragged me into this?” muttered Bersenev. “And you’re wrong about the rest. You’re not at all repugnant to him, and he’s on familiar terms with his fellow countrymen… I know that for a fact.”
“That’s another matter. For them he’s a hero – but I have to confess I see heroes differently. A hero mustn’t be able to talk. A hero bellows like a bull, but one shove with his horns and walls come down. And he doesn’t have to know why he’s doing it; he just does it. However, it may be that heroes of a different calibre are called for.”
“Why does Insarov preoccupy you so much?” asked Bersenev. “Did you really run all the way here simply to describe his character to me?”
“I came here,” Shubin began, “because I felt very sad at home.”
“Well, well. You’re not going to burst into tears again, are you?”
“You can laugh! I came here because I’m tearing my hair out, I’m consumed by despair, anger, jealousy…”
“Jealousy? Of whom?”
“Of you, of him, of everybody. I am tormented by the thought that if I’d understood her sooner, if I’d gone about things more skilfully… But what’s the use of talking! It’ll all end with me laughing all the time, playing the fool, putting on an act, as she puts it, and then I’ll go and hang myself.”
“Come on – you won’t hang yourself.” Bersenev observed.
“On such a night as this, of course not – but let’s just wait till autumn. On such a night as this people also die, but of happiness. Ah, happiness! Every tree shadow cast across the road seems now to be whispering: ‘I know where happiness is… Do you want me to tell you?’ I would have invited you for a walk, but you are now under the influence of prose. Sleep, and may you dream of your mathematical figures! But my soul is being rent asunder. You, gentlemen, see a man laughing and think that things are easy for him; you’re able to prove to him that he’s contradicting himself – that is to say, he’s not suffering… Well good luck to you!”
Shubin quickly moved away from the window. Bersenev was on the point of shouting “Annushka!” after him, but restrained himself. Shubin’s face was really pale. Some two minutes later Bersenev fancied he heard sobbing; he got up and opened the window; everything was quiet. It must have only been a passing peasant singing ‘The Mozdok Steppe’.*
13
During the first two weeks following his move to the Kuntsevo neighbourhood, Insarov did not visit the Stakhovs more than four or five times; Bersenev visited them every other day. Yelena was always pleased to see him; an interesting and lively conversation always developed between them, but he nevertheless often came home with a sad look on his face. Shubin barely appeared at all, but worked at his art with feverish energy, either sitting shut in his room, and popping out occasionally in a clay-spattered smock, or spending days in Moscow, where he had a studio, to which models, Italian moulders, his friends and his teachers came to see him. Not once did Yelena speak to Insarov as she would have wanted; in his absence she prepared herself to question him about many things, but when he came she grew embarrassed at having so prepared. Insarov’s very calmness disconcerted her; she felt she had no right to compel him to speak, and she decided to wait. In spite of all this, it seemed to her that, however insignificant the words exchanged between them might be, with each visit Insarov attracted her more and more. However, no opportunity arose for her to be alone with him – and, in order to become close to someone, at least one face-to-face conversation is needed. She spoke a great deal about him to Bersenev. Bersenev realized that Insarov had caught Yelena’s imagination and was delighted that his friend had not failed, as Shubin had asserted he had; he told her everything he knew about him, passionately, down to the smallest detail (when we want somebody else to like us, we often extol our friends in conversation with him, hardly ever suspecting that in so doing we are praising ourselves). Only occasionally, when Yelena’s pale cheeks coloured slightly and her eyes gleamed and widened, did he again experience a feeling of heartache.
On one occasion Bersenev arrived at the Stakhovs not at his usual time but before eleven in the morning. Yelena came out into the hall to meet him.
“What do you know?” he began, with a forced smile. “Our Insarov has disappeared.”
“How do you mean – disappeared?” said Yelena.
“Disappeared. The day before yesterday he went off somewhere and hasn’t been back since.”
“He didn’t tell you where he’d gone?”
“No.”
Yelena sank down onto a chair.
“He’s probably gone to Moscow,” she said, trying to appear indifferent and at the same time surprising herself by so doing.
“I don’t think so,” returned Bersenev. “He didn’t go alone.”
“Who was he with then?”
“The day before yesterday two men turned up at his place before dinner. They must have been his fellow countrymen.”
“Bulgarians? Why do you think that?”
“Because, as far as I could make out, they were talking to him in a language I didn’t know… Yelena Nikolayevna, you still think there’s little mysterious about Insarov – what could be more mysterious than this visit? Picture the scene: they went in to his room – and they started shouting and arguing savagely, bitterly. He was shouting too.”
“Him too?”
“Him too. He was shouting at them. They seemed to be complaining about each other. And if you’d seen these visitors! Swarthy, vacant faces, high cheekbones, hooked noses; both of them were over forty, poorly
dressed, dust-covered and sweaty. They looked like artisans, or rather not quite artisans and not quite gentlemen… Lord knows what they were.”
“And he went off with them?”
“He did. He fed them and left with them. The landlady told me that between them they ate a huge pot of kasha. She said they vied with each other in guzzling it like wolves.”
Yelena smiled faintly.
“You’ll see.” she said. “All this will turn out to be something extremely prosaic.”
“I hope to God you’re right! But you’re wrong to use that word. There’s nothing prosaic about Insarov, although Shubin asserts—”
“Shubin!” interrupted Yelena, shrugging her shoulders. “But you must admit that these two gentleman guzzling kasha…”
“Even Themistocles ate on the eve of the Battle of Salamis,”* remarked Bersenev with a smile.
“Indeed. But the next day there actually was a battle. All the same, let me know when he comes back,” Yelena added, and tried to change the subject, but the conversation flagged.
Zoya appeared and began to tiptoe round the room, thus indicating that Anna Vasilyevna had not yet woken up.
Bersenev left.
That same evening a note was brought from him to Yelena. “He’s back,” he wrote, “sunburnt and covered in dust from head to foot – but why or where he went I don’t know. Will you find out?”
On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 7