“Will I find out?” whispered Yelena. “Do you think he talks to me?”
14
The next day, shortly after one o’clock, Yelena was standing in the garden in front of a small kennel in which she was rearing two mongrel puppies. (A gardener had found them abandoned under a fence and brought them to the young mistress; the laundresses had told him that she loved animals of every kind, both wild and domesticated. The gardener was not mistaken in his calculation; Yelena gave him twenty-five copecks.) She looked into the kennel, assured herself that the puppies were alive and had been given fresh straw bedding, turned round and almost shrieked. Coming towards her along the avenue of trees was Insarov, alone.
“Hello,” he said, approaching her and doffing his cap. She noticed that he had indeed got very sunburnt over the previous three days. “I wanted to come here with Andrei Petrovich, but he got delayed somehow, so I set off without him. There’s no one in your house – everyone is either asleep or out walking – so I came here to the garden.”
“You seem to be apologizing,” Yelena replied. “You don’t need to. We’re all very glad to see you… Let’s sit down on the bench in the shade.”
She sat down. Insarov took his place next to her.
“It seems you haven’t been at home recently?” she began.
“Yes,” he replied. “I went away… Did Andrei Petrovich tell you?”
Insarov looked at her, smiled and began to play with his cap. As he smiled, he blinked and pursed his lips; this gave him a very affable look.
“Andrei Petrovich probably also told you that I went off with some… unprepossessing characters,” he said, continuing to smile.
Yelena grew slightly embarrassed, but at once sensed that Insarov always had to be told the truth.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“What did you think of me?” he asked her suddenly.
Yelena raised her eyes to him.
“I thought,” she said, “I thought that you always know what you’re doing and that you’re incapable of doing anything bad.”
“Well, thank you for that. You see, Yelena Nikolayevna,” he began, edging closer to her in a somehow trustful manner, “there’s a little group of us here. There are poorly educated people among them, but they’re all firmly committed to the common cause. Unfortunately, quarrels are inevitable, but they all know me and trust me. That’s why they summoned me to sort out a quarrel. Off I went.”
“A long way from here?”
“I went more than forty miles, to Sergiyev Posad.* We’ve also got people there, attached to the monastery. At least my efforts weren’t in vain: I settled the matter.”
“And was it difficult?”
“Yes. One man kept being obstinate. He didn’t want to hand over money.”
“What? Was the quarrel about money?”
“Yes. And small sums of money at that. What did you suppose?”
“And you went forty miles over such trivial matters? You lost three days?”
“They’re not trivial, Yelena Nikolayevna, when your fellow countrymen are involved. To refuse would be criminal. I see you don’t refuse help to puppies, and I salute you for that. And as for losing time, it’s not disastrous; I’ll make it up later. Our time does not belong to us.”
“To whom does it belong?”
“To everyone who needs us. I’ve told you all this apropos of nothing, because I value your opinion. I can imagine how Andrei Petrovich surprised you.”
“You value my opinion,” said Yelena under her breath. “Why?”
Insarov again smiled.
“Because you’re a nice young lady, not an aristocrat… That’s all.”
A short silence ensued.
“Dmitry Nikanorovich,” said Yelena, “do you know that’s the first time you’ve been so frank with me?”
“Really? I thought I always told you everything I was thinking.”
“No, it’s the first time and I’m very glad of it. I want to be frank with you too. May I?”
Insarov laughed and said: “You may.”
“I warn you: I’m very inquisitive.”
“Never mind. Say what you’re going to.”
“Andrei Petrovich has told me a lot about your life and your early years. I know about one event, one horrible event… I know that later you went back to your native country… For Heaven’s sake, don’t answer if you think my question improper, but one thought torments me. Tell me, did you meet that man…”
Yelena caught her breath. She was both ashamed and afraid of her own audacity. Insarov fixed his gaze on her, slightly screwing up his eyes and fingering his chin.
“Yelena Nikolayevna,” he began finally. His voice was quieter than usual, a fact which Yelena found almost frightening. “I realize who it is you’ve just referred to. No, I haven’t met him, thank Heavens! I wasn’t looking for him. This was not because I didn’t consider myself justified in killing him – I would have killed him without a qualm – but this is no time for personal vengeance, when what matters is national, general retribution – no, that’s not the right word – when what matters is national liberation. The one would hinder the other. Its time will come… Its time will come,” he repeated, shaking his head.
Yelena gave him a sidelong look.
“Do you love your native land very much?” she said shyly.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied. “When one of us dies for his country, you can say that he loved it.”
“So if you were deprived of the possibility of returning to Bulgaria,” Yelena went on, “would you find things very hard in Russia?”
Insarov lowered his eyes.
“I don’t think I could endure that,” he said.
“Tell me,” Yelena began again, “is it difficult to learn Bulgarian?”
“Not at all. A Russian ought to be ashamed of not knowing Bulgarian. A Russian should know all the Slavonic languages. Do you want me to bring you some Bulgarian books? You’ll see how easy it is. What songs we have! Every bit as good as Serbian songs. Wait a moment, I’ll translate one for you. It’s about… Do you know a bit about our history?”
“No, I know nothing about it.”
“Wait, I’ll bring you a book. You’ll find the main facts in it. So, listen to the song… But maybe it’d be better for me to bring you a written translation. I’m sure you’ll come to love us: you love all oppressed people. If you knew how bountiful our land is! Meanwhile it is being trampled, torn apart,” he continued, making an involuntary gesture, his face darkening. “We’ve been robbed of everything: our churches, our rights, our lands. The filthy Turks drive us like cattle and slaughter us…”
“Dmitry Nikanorovich,” Yelena cried.
He paused.
“Forgive me. I can’t talk about this dispassionately. But you’ve just asked me whether I love my native land. What else can one love in this world? What is the one immutable thing, what is beyond any doubt, what is it – next to God – that one cannot help believing in? And when this native land of yours needs you… Mark this: the last peasant, the last beggar and me – we desire one and the same thing. We all have a single goal. You cannot fail to understand what assurance and strength that bestows.”
Insarov fell silent for a moment, then again began talking about Bulgaria. Yelena listened to him with profound, all-consuming, sorrowful attention. When he had finished, she again asked him:
“So you wouldn’t remain in Russia for anything?”
When he left, for a long time she followed him with her eyes. That day he became a different man for her. The man she saw off was not the same man she had greeted two hours previously.
From that day onward he began to come more and more often, while Bersenev came more and more rarely. Something strange grew up between the two friends, of which they were both aware but to which they co
uld not put a name and which they were afraid to clarify. A month passed in this way.
15
As the reader already knows, Anna Vasilyevna liked to stay at home. Sometimes, however, quite unexpectedly, she manifested an irresistible longing for something out of the ordinary, some sort of amazing partie de plaisir;* the more involved the partie de plaisir was, the more planning and preparations it required, the more flustered Anna Vasilyevna became, the more she liked it. If she got this craving in winter, she would hire two or three adjacent boxes, gather all her friends and go to the theatre or even to a masked ball; in summer she would go out of town, to some more distant spot. The next day she would complain of a headache, groan and keep to her bed, but after a couple of months she would again be fired by a longing for the “out of the ordinary”. That is what happened on this occasion. Someone mentioned the beauties of Tsaritsyno* in her presence, and Anna Vasilyevna suddenly announced that she intended to go to Tsaritsyno in two days’ time. Alarm bells rang in the house: a messenger galloped off to Moscow to fetch Nikolai Artemyevich; with him went the butler to buy wine, pies and all sorts of other provisions; the order went out to Shubin to hire a calash and driver (her own coach was not enough) and arrange post horses; the servant boy twice ran round to Bersenev and Insarov, bringing them two invitations written by Zoya, the first in Russian, the second in French; Anna Vasilyevna herself busied herself with the young ladies’ travelling outfits. Meanwhile the partie de plaisir almost collapsed: Nikolai Artemyevich arrived from Moscow in a sour and malevolent frondeur mood (he was still sulky with Avgustina Khristianovna); when he learnt what was afoot, he declared flatly that he would not go, that to gallop from Kuntsevo to Moscow, then from Moscow to Tsaritsyno, from Tsaritsyno back to Moscow and from Moscow back to Kuntsevo again was ridiculous. Finally, he added, if it could be first proved to him that one point on the earth’s surface was more cheerful than another, then he would go. Of course, no one could prove this to him, and Anna Vasilyevna, for lack of a respectable escort, was ready to abandon her partie de plaisir when she remembered Uvar Ivanovich and in desperation sent for him in his room, with the words: “A drowning man will clutch at a straw”. He was woken up; he came downstairs, listened in silence to Anna Vasilyevna’s proposal, waggled his fingers and, to general astonishment, agreed to it. Anna Vasilyevna kissed him on the cheek and called him a dear; Nikolai Artemyevich smiled contemptuously and said: “Quelle bourde!”* (He loved on occasion to use “chic” French words.) The following morning, at seven o’clock, the coach and the calash, both piled high, rolled out of the yard of the Stakhovs’ dacha. In the coach sat the ladies, the maid and Bersenev; Insarov installed himself on the box; in the calash were Uvar Ivanovich and Shubin. Uvar Ivanovich, with a movement of his finger, had beckoned Shubin to him. He knew that Shubin would tease him the whole way, but between the “force of the black earth” and the young artist there existed a strange bond and a cantankerous openness. However, on this occasion, Shubin – silent, distracted and mild – left his stout friend in peace.
The sun was already high in a cloudless sky when the carriages rolled up to the ruins of Tsaritsyno castle, gloomy and forbidding even at midday. The whole company got out onto the grass and immediately moved off into the garden. In front walked Yelena and Zoya together with Insarov; behind them, with an expression of total happiness on her face, came Anna Vasilyevna on the arm of Uvar Ivanovich. He was waddling along and puffing; his new straw hat was cutting into his forehead and his feet were getting hot in his boots, but even he was enjoying herself. Shubin and Bersenev brought up the rear. “We will be in the reserve, my friend, like veterans,” Shubin whispered to Bersenev. “Bulgaria’s in it now,” he added, indicating Yelena with his eyebrows.
The weather was superb. Everything round about was blossoming, buzzing and singing; in the distance the waters of ponds glistened; a radiant, festive feeling pervaded the soul. “Oh, how nice! Oh, how nice!” Anna Vasilyevna repeated incessantly. In reply Uvar Ivanovich wagged his head approvingly and once even said: “Can’t add to that!” From time to time, Yelena exchanged a word with Insarov; Zoya held the broad brim of her hat with two fingers, her tiny feet in light-grey round-toed shoes peeping coquettishly out from beneath her pink barège dress; she cast glances now sideways, now backwards. “Aha!” exclaimed Shubin in an undertone. “Zoya Nikitishna seems to be looking round her. I’ll go to her. Yelena Nikolayevna despises me now, but Andrei Petrovich respects you, which comes to the same thing. I’ve had enough of moping. I advise you, my friend, to do some botanizing; in your situation it’s the best you can come up with; it’ll also be useful from an academic point of view. Farewell!” Shubin ran up to Zoya, offered her his arm, said: “Ihre Hand, Madame!”* and, with that, seized her hand and pressed on ahead with her. Yelena halted, called Bersenev to her and likewise took his arm, but continued to talk to Insarov. She asked him what lily of the valley, oak, maple and lime were in his language… (“Bulgaria!” thought the wretched Andrei Petrovich.)
Suddenly a cry rang out ahead of them; everyone looked up. Shubin’s cigar case flew into a bush, flung there by Zoya. “Just you wait, I’ll pay you back for that!” he exclaimed, dived into the bush, found the cigar case there and went back to Zoya. But, no sooner had he got to her when the cigar case again flew across the path. These shenanigans were repeated five times, with him laughing and threatening the while and Zoya merely smiling slyly and huddling herself up like a kitten. Finally he caught hold of her fingers and squeezed them so hard that she squealed and for a long time afterwards blew on her hand and feigned anger, while he sang something softly into her ear.
“Full of mischief, these young people,” Anna Vasilyevna observed happily to Uvar Ivanovich.
He waggled his digits.
“What do you think of Zoya Nikitishna?” said Bersenev to Yelena.
“What do you think of Shubin?” she replied.
Meanwhile the whole company had arrived at a summer house known as the Milovidova* and stopped to admire the view of the Tsaritsyno ponds. These stretched away, one after the other, for several miles; beyond them were dense, dark woods. The lush grass which covered the whole slope of the hill as far as the main pond gave the water an unusually brilliant emerald colour. Nowhere, not even at the water’s edge, did a wave break or the surf whiten; not even a ripple ran across the smooth surface. It seemed as if a frozen lump of glass had settled heavily down on a huge baptismal font; the sky reached down to the bottom of it and the full-leaved trees were reflected motionless in its transparent depths. For a long time they all admired the view in silence. Finally they all decided unanimously that they wanted to go boating. Shubin, Insarov and Bersenev raced down the grassy slope. They found a large painted rowing boat and two oarsmen, then summoned the ladies. The ladies made their way down to them; Uvar Ivanovich cautiously followed the ladies down. While he was getting into the boat and taking his seat, there was a deal of laughter. “Mind you don’t drown us, sir,” remarked one of the oarsmen, a young snub-nosed lad in a gaudy cotton alexandriika* shirt. “That’s enough of that, you young dandy!” said Uvar Ivanovich. The boat cast off. The young men made to take up the oars, but only Insarov knew how to row. Shubin proposed singing a Russian song together and himself struck up with “Down Mother River Volga…” Bersenev, Zoya and even Anna Vasilyevna joined in (Insarov could not sing), but discordance was the result: the singers got mixed up in the third verse and only Bersenev tried to go on singing in his bass voice: “In the waves naught to be seen”* – but he soon became embarrassed. The oarsmen exchanged winks and grinned silently. “What?” said Shubin, turning towards them. “Could it be that gentlefolk can’t sing?” The lad in the alexandriika shirt merely shook his head. “Right. Just you wait, snub nose,” retorted Shubin, “we’ll show you. Zoya Nikitishna, sing us Niedermeyer’s ‘Le Lac’.* Stop rowing, you two!” The wet oars were lifted skywards, like wings, and hung there, dripping noisily. The boat went on for
a little and stopped, turning slightly in the water like a swan. Zoya feigned reluctance. “Allons!”* said Anna Vasilyevna pleasantly… Zoya threw off her hat and began to sing: “Ô lac! l’année à peine a fini sa carrière…”*
Her small but pure voice carried across the mirror-like surface of the pond; every word re-echoed in the distant woods. It seemed as if there someone was singing in a clear, mysterious but non-human, unearthly voice. When Zoya had finished, a loud “bravo” rang out from a summer house on the bank, from which emerged several florid-faced Germans who had come to Tsaritsyno to have a “bit of a Bierfest”. Several of them were without frock coats, cravats or even waistcoats, and were yelling “encore” so vehemently that Anna Vasilyevna ordered the boat to be taken as quickly as possible to the other end of the pond. But before the boat reached the bank, Uvar Ivanovich again succeeded in surprising his friends: noticing that in one spot in the woods the echo repeated every sound with especial clarity, he suddenly began to imitate the song of the quail. At first everyone shuddered, but then they felt genuine pleasure, all the more so because his calls were very accurate and lifelike. This encouraged him, and he tried meowing, but he was less successful at this. He gave one more quail call, looked at everybody and fell silent. Shubin rushed to embrace him, but Uvar Ivanovich rebuffed him. At that moment the boat reached the bank and the whole company got out.
Meanwhile, the coachman, the footman and the maid brought baskets from the carriage and laid out a picnic on the grass under the old lime trees. Everyone sat down round a spread-out table cloth and tucked into the pies and other provisions. They all had excellent appetites, and from time to time Anna Vasilyevna pressed food on her guests, trying to persuade them to take more and assuring them that eating in the fresh air was very healthy. She turned to Uvar Ivanovich and said much the same thing. “Don’t worry,” he muttered to her, his mouth full.
On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 8