“The Lord has given us such a glorious day!” she kept repeating. She was unrecognizable and seemed twenty years younger. Bersenev remarked on this to her. “Yes, yes,” she said, “I too was quite someone in my time. You wouldn’t have discounted me.”
Shubin had placed himself next to Zoya and was constantly trying to refill her glass of wine; she would try to refuse, he would press her to have some more and end up by drinking the glass himself and then again pressing her to have some. He also tried to persuade her that he wanted to lay his head on her knees, but she had absolutely no intention of allowing him “such a great liberty”. Yelena seemed the most serious of everyone, but there was a wonderful calmness in her heart such as she had not experienced for a long time. She felt herself infinitely kind; all the time she wanted not only Insarov beside her but Bersenev too… Andrei Petrovich dimly understood what this meant and gave a surreptitious sigh.
The hours flew past; evening was drawing in. Anna Vasilyevna suddenly became alarmed. “Good grief! How late it is,” she said. “We’ve wined and dined, ladies and gentlemen. Time to go.” She started to bustle about and everyone else started to bustle about; they got to their feet and made for the castle, where their carriages were. As they passed the ponds, they all halted in order to admire Tsaritsyno for one last time. All around glowed the bright colours of early evening; the sky was crimsoning; there was an iridescent gleam of leaves, stirred by a breeze newly sprung up; the distant waters streamed like molten gold; the reddish turrets and summer houses, scattered here and there throughout the grounds, stood out sharply against the dark green of the trees. “Goodbye, Tsaritsyno, we won’t forget today’s outing!” said Anna Vasilyevna… But at that moment, as if to underline her last words, a strange event occurred which was really not at all easy to forget, to wit:
No sooner had Anna Vasilyevna bid farewell to Tsaritsyno when suddenly, a few paces from her, behind a tall lilac bush, there rang out raucous exclamations, laughter and shouting – and a whole gaggle of dishevelled men, the same connoisseurs of song who had applauded Zoya so enthusiastically, spilt out onto the path. The connoisseurs seemed to be thoroughly inebriated. On seeing the ladies they paused, but one of them, a huge fellow with a bull-like neck and inflamed bull-like eyes, detached himself from his friends and, bowing clumsily and swaying as he walked, approached Anna Vasilyevna, who was petrified with fear.
“Bonjour, madame,” he said in a hoarse voice. “How are you?”
Anna Vasilyevna staggered backwards.
“But why,” the giant went on, “did you not want to do an encore, when our whole company was calling for one and crying ‘bravo’ and ‘more’?”
“Yes, why didn’t you?” came voices from the ranks of the company.
Insarov was about to step forward, but Shubin stopped him and shielded Anna Vasilyevna himself.
“Allow me, esteemed stranger,” he began, “to convey to you the genuine astonishment which you occasion in us by your actions. As far as I can judge, you belong to the Saxon branch of the Caucasian race; consequently we must assume in you knowledge of social decorum. Meanwhile, however, you address a lady to whom you have not been introduced. Believe me, on another occasion I would be very glad to get to know you better, for I observe in you such phenomenal development of the biceps, triceps and deltoids that, as a sculptor, I would consider it a real blessing to have you as my life model; but, for the present, leave us in peace.”
The “esteemed stranger” heard Shubin out, his head cocked contemptuously and his hands on his hips.
“I no understand what you speak,” he said finally. “You thinks, maybe, I am a cobbler or a watchmaker? Ach, I am Offizier, an official, yes.”*
“I don’t doubt it,” Shubin began.
“And this is what I say,” the stranger continued, brushing him aside with his powerful arm, like a branch from a road. “I say, why you not give an encore when we called for it? Now I will go away, this instant, this minute – only this is what is necessary: that this Fräulein – not this lady, no is not necessary for her – but for this or this (he pointed to Yelena and Zoya) give me einen Kuss,* as we say in German, or potsaluishnik* in Russian, yes. What about it? It’s nothing.”
“Nothing, einen Kuss is nothing,” again came the voices from the ranks.
“Der Sakramenter!”* said a German, choking with laughter and already very full of himself.
Zoya grabbed Insarov’s hand, but he broke away from her and planted himself directly in front of the towering lout.
“Please go away,” he said, in a sharp but quiet voice.
The German guffawed mightily.
“What do you mean – away? I like that! Can’t I enjoy myself also? What do you mean – away? Why away?”
“Because you had the audacity to upset a lady,” said Insarov, suddenly turning pale. “Because you’re drunk.”
“What? Me drunk? Are you hearing that? Hören Sie das, Herr Provisor?* I am an Offizier, and he dares… Now I demand Satisfaktion! Einen Kuss will ich!”*
“If you take one step…” Insarov began.
“Well? What then?”
“I’ll throw you in the water.”
“In the water? Herrje!* Is that all? Well, let’s see. I’m curious to know how you’d throw me in the water…”
Herr Offizier raised his hands and moved forward, but suddenly something extraordinary happened: he grunted, the whole of his massive body tottered and left the ground, his legs kicking, and before the ladies had time to cry out, and before anyone realized how this happened, the whole bulk of Herr Offizier hit the surface of the pond with a mighty splash and immediately disappeared beneath its swirling waters.
“Oh!” screamed the ladies as one.
“Mein Gott!”* came from the other side.
A minute passed… and a round head, all plastered with damp hair, appeared above the water; the head was blowing bubbles; two hands splashed about convulsively near its lips…
“He’ll drown! Save him! Save him!” Anna Vasilyevna shouted to Insarov, who was standing on the bank, legs apart and breathing heavily.
“He’ll swim out,” he said, with contemptuous and merciless nonchalance. “Let’s go,” he added, taking Anna Vasilyevna by the arm. “Let’s go, Uvar Ivanovich, Yelena Nikolayevna.”
“Ah! Ah! Oh! Oh!” came a howl at that moment from the hapless German, who had managed to grab hold of a reed on the bank.
Everyone followed Insarov, and everyone had to go past the gaggle of Germans. But, deprived of their leader, the revellers had calmed down and did not utter a word. Only one, the bravest of them, muttered, with a shake of the head: “Well, but this… God knows what after this.” Another, however, even removed his hat. Insarov seemed very threatening to them, and not without cause. Something vicious, something dangerous had entered his expression. The Germans hurried to pull out their friend, who, as soon as he found himself on dry land, launched into a tearful tirade, berating these “Russian scoundrels”. He said he would make a complaint and would go to His Excellency Count von Kieseritz himself…*
But the “Russian scoundrels” paid no attention to his vociferous cries and hurried on to the castle as quickly as possible. While they were crossing the garden, no one spoke; only Anna Vasilyevna sighed slightly. But when they reached the carriages, they halted, and a wave of irrepressible, prolonged Homeric laughter broke out among them. First came a shrill, almost maniacal burst from Shubin, then Bersenev began to chuckle drily; then Zoya cast her pearls of laughter, while Anna Vasilyevna was suddenly convulsed with laughter, and even Yelena could not help smiling; in the end even Insarov could not resist the temptation. But the one who laughed louder, and longer and more unrestrainedly than anyone else was Uvar Ivanovich; he laughed so much he got a stitch, a sneezing fit and a coughing fit… When he had calmed down a little, he said through tears: “I… thought… what’s that c
rash?.. And it was him… flat out…” And together with this last word, squeezed out convulsively, a new explosion of laughter shook his whole frame. Zoya egged him on even more: “I saw these legs in he air,” she said.
“Yes, yes,” replied Uvar Ivanovich, “legs, legs…. and then – crash! And he’s f-flat out!”
“But how did he manage it? The German was three times his size, wasn’t he?” asked Zoya.
“I’ll tell you,” replied Uvar Ivanovich, wiping his eyes. “I saw it all: he put one arm round his waist, tripped him up and – crash! I heard this noise and wondered what it could be. It was him – flat out…”
The carriages had already moved off and Tsaritsyno Castle had vanished from view, but Uvar Ivanovich was still unable to compose himself. Finally, Shubin, who was again travelling with him in the calash, shamed him into silence.
Insarov, however, was uneasy. He was sitting in the coach opposite Yelena (Bersenev was on the box) and saying nothing; she too said nothing. He thought that she disapproved of him, but she did not. For the first few moments she had been very afraid; then she had been struck by the expression on his face; then she reflected on things generally. The feeling she had experienced during the day had gone and she was aware of the fact. However, it had been replaced by something else, which she still did not understand. The partie de plaisir had gone on too long; evening had imperceptibly turned to night. The carriage was speeding along, now beside ripening cornfields – where the air was heavy, fragrant and redolent of grain – now beside broad meadows – where a sudden wave of coolness blew lightly into their faces. The sky seemed to dissolve into smoke at the edges. At last the moon came out, dull and red. Anna Vasilyevna dozed; Zoya leant out of the window and gazed at the road. At length it occurred to Yelena that she had not spoken to Insarov for more than an hour. She addressed a trivial question to him; he immediately gave a delighted reply. Indistinct sounds began to fill the air; it seemed as if thousands of voices were speaking in the distance: Moscow was coming to meet them. Ahead, lights began to glimmer, their number growing all the time. At length there came the rattle of cobblestones beneath their wheels. Anna Vasilyevna woke up; everyone in the coach began to talk, although no one could make out what the conversation was about, so loudly did the highway ring beneath two carriages and sixteen pairs of horses’ hooves. The leg of their journey from Moscow to Kuntsevo seemed long and tedious; everyone either slept or kept silent, their heads resting in various corners; only Yelena did not close her eyes but kept them fixed on the dark figure of Insarov. Shubin had fallen into a sad mood; the breeze was blowing into his face and irritating him. He pulled his greatcoat collar round him and was on the point of weeping. Uvar Ivanovich was snoring contentedly, swaying from left to right. At last the carriages came to a halt. Two footmen helped Anna Vasilyevna out of the coach; she was in a complete state and, as she took her leave of her travelling companions, announced that she was barely alive. They started to thank her, but she merely repeated: “Barely alive.” Yelena shook Insarov’s hand for the first time and sat beneath her window for a long time without undressing. Shubin, meanwhile, seized the opportunity of whispering to the departing Bersenev:
“What do you mean – not a hero? He throws drunken Germans into the water!”
“You didn’t even do that,” retorted Bersenev, setting off for home with Insarov.
Dawn was already breaking in the sky when the two friends got back home. The sun had not yet risen, but a chill had developed, a grey dew had covered the grass and in the approaching dusk the first larks were singing high in the airy chasm above them. Out of it, like a single eye, gazed the last big star.
16
Shortly after meeting Insarov, Yelena began (for the fifth or sixth time) to keep a diary. Here are some extracts from it:
June… Andrei Petrovich brings me books, but I can’t read them. I’m ashamed to admit this to him; I don’t want to give the books back, to lie and say I’ve read them. I think that will upset him. He takes notice of me all the time. He seems very attached to me. Andrei Petrovich is a very nice man.
…What do I want? Why is my heart so heavy, why are my heartstrings being plucked? Why do I view with envy the birds flying past? I feel I would like to fly with them; where I would fly to I don’t know, but it would be far away from here. And is this not a sinful desire? I have a father, a mother, a family here. Can it be I don’t love them? No, I don’t love them as I would like to love them. I find it terrible to say this, but it’s the truth. Perhaps I’m a great sinner; perhaps that’s why I’m sad, why I have no peace. An oppressive hand is upon me. It’s as if I’m in prison and the walls are about to fall in on me. Why do others not feel this? Who then will I love if I’m cold towards my nearest and dearest? Obviously Papa is right when he reproaches me for loving only dogs and cats. I must think about this. I rarely pray; I must pray… And it seems to me I am capable of love!
…I still feel shy when Mr Insarov is there. I don’t know why; I’m a big girl now, I think, and he is so straightforward and kind. Sometimes he has a very serious face. He must have little time for the likes of us. I sense this and feel somehow awkward about taking his time. Andrei Petrovich is another matter. I’m ready to spend the whole day talking to him if need be. But he talks to me about Insarov the whole time. And what terrifying details! Last night I dreamt I saw him with a dagger in his hand. He seemed to be saying to me: “I’ll kill you and I’ll kill myself!” Such nonsense!
…Oh, if only someone would say to me: “This is what you must do!” To be good is easy enough. To do good – yes, that’s the important thing in life. But how does one do good? Oh, if only I were mistress of myself! I don’t understand why I think of Mr Insarov so often. When he comes and sits, listening attentively, making no effort, no fuss himself, I gaze at him and enjoy doing so – but that’s all. But when he leaves, I keep recalling his words and get annoyed with myself, and even get agitated – without knowing why myself. (He speaks French badly and is not ashamed of the fact. I like that.) However, I always think a great deal about new people. When I was speaking to him I suddenly thought of our butler Vasily, who dragged a legless man from a burning house and almost perished himself. Papa called him a good lad and Mama gave him five roubles, but I wanted to bow down low before him. And he had a simple, almost stupid face and became a drunkard subsequently.
…Today I gave half a copeck to a beggar woman, and she said to me: “Why are you so sad?” And I had not even suspected that I looked sad. I think this happens because I’m alone, all alone, with all the good and the bad in my nature. There’s no one I can reach out to. Whoever approaches me, I don’t need, and anyone I do want passes me by.
…I don’t know what’s the matter with me today; my head is scrambled, I’m ready to fall on my knees and ask for, beg for, mercy. I don’t know how or by whom, but I feel I am being killed. Inwardly I cry out and rebel; I weep and cannot keep silent. My God! My God! Temper these impulses within me. You alone can do this; everything else is powerless. Nothing but nothing can help me, not my paltry almsgiving, nor my activities. I would like to go off and be a servant girl somewhere. Really. It would be easier for me.
What’s the point of youth? What am I living for? Why do I have a soul? What is all this for?
…Insarov, Mr Insarov – I really don’t know how to put this – continues to preoccupy me. I would like to know what he has in his heart. He seems so open, so approachable, but I see nothing. Sometimes he looks at me with such searching eyes… or is that just my imagination? Paul is always teasing me – I’m angry with him. What does he want? He’s in love with me… but I don’t need his love. He’s in love with Zoya too. I’m unjust to him; yesterday he told me that I can’t be unjust by halves. That’s true. It’s very bad.
Oh, I think that you need to be unhappy, or poor, or sick; otherwise you get above yourself.
Why did Andrei Petrovich tell me today about
those two Bulgarians? He seemed to do it deliberately. What’s Mr Insarov to me? I’m angry with Andrei Petrovich.
…I’m taking up my pen, but I don’t know how to begin. How unexpectedly he began talking to me in the garden today! How kind and trusting he was! How quickly it happened! As if we were old, old friends and had only just recognized each other. How did I fail to understand him till now! How close he is to me now! And this is what is surprising: I’ve become much calmer now. I find it ludicrous; yesterday I was angry with Andrei Petrovich and with Insarov. I even called him Mr Insarov. But today… Here, at last, is a right-minded man; here is someone you can rely on. He doesn’t lie; he’s the first man I’ve met who doesn’t lie. Everyone lies; everything lies. Nice, kind Andrei Petrovich, why do I offend you? No! Perhaps Andrei Petrovich is cleverer than him and more educated… But I don’t know: he seems so small compared with Insarov. When he talks about his homeland, he grows and grows, his looks become finer and his voice like steel, and it seems then that there is no one in the world before whom he would lower his gaze. And he not only talks – he has done things and will do things. I will question him… How suddenly he turned to me and smiled!… Only brothers smile like that. Oh, how contented I am! When he came to us for the first time, I had no idea that we would become close so quickly. And now I even feel glad that I remained indifferent when he came the first time… indifferent! Surely I’m not indifferent now.
…It’s a long time since I felt such inner calm. My heart is so tranquil, so tranquil. There’s nothing to write down. I see him often, that’s all. What else can I write down?
…Paul has locked himself in; Andrei Petrovich has begun to come less frequently… poor man! It seems to me that… But that can’t be so. I love talking to Andrei Petrovich; never a single word about himself; always talks about something sensible and useful. It’s different with Shubin. Shubin is flamboyant, like a butterfly, and he’s proud of his flamboyance. Butterflies are not. However, both Shubin and Andrei Petrovich… I don’t know what I mean.
On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 9