…He likes to come here; I can see that. But why? What does he see in me? It’s true that our tastes are similar. Neither he nor I like poetry; neither of us understand art. But how much better than me he is! He’s calm, but I’m forever anxious; he has a definite path, a goal – but where am I going? Where is my nest? He’s calm, but all his thoughts are far off. The time will come when he’ll leave us for ever, will go home, will go there, beyond the sea. So? Good luck to him! But all the same I’ll be glad that I got to know him while he was here.
Why is he not a Russian? No, he couldn’t be Russian.
Mama loves him too: she says he’s a modest man. Dear kind Mama! She doesn’t understand him. Paul says nothing: he’s realized I find his hints unpleasant, but he’s jealous of him. Spiteful boy! What right has he? Have I ever…
This is all nonsense! What puts all this in my head?
…Yet it’s strange, however, that hitherto, up to the age of twenty, I haven’t loved anyone. It seems to me that D. (I’m going to call him D. – I like his name Dmitry) is so clear-sighted because he is utterly dedicated to his cause, to his dream. Why should he become agitated? Whoever dedicates himself utterly… utterly… has no cause for sorrow; he is not responsible for anything. For him it’s not a matter of “I demand”, but “it demands”. Incidentally, he and I like the same flowers. Today I picked a rose. One petal fell off and he picked it up… I gave him the whole rose.
For some time I’ve been having strange dreams. What could that mean?
…D. often comes to see us. Yesterday he spent the whole evening here. He wants to teach me Bulgarian. I feel at home with him. Better than at home.
…The days fly by… I feel happy and, for some reason, frightened, and I want to thank God, and I’m close to tears. Oh, bright, warm days!
…My heart is still as light as before, and only occasionally, just occasionally a bit sad. I’m happy. Am I happy?
…I won’t forget yesterday’s outing for a long time. What strange, new, terrifying impressions! When he suddenly took hold of that giant and threw him into the water like a ball, I wasn’t frightened… but he frightened me. And then what a sinister expression on his face, almost cruel! How he said: “He’ll swim out!” It stunned me, which means I hadn’t understood him. And then, when everyone laughed, when I laughed, how I felt for him! He was ashamed, I could feel it. He was ashamed of me. He told me that later, in the coach, in the darkness, when I was trying to fathom him and was afraid of him. Yes, you can’t take liberties with him and he knows how to take your side. But why the rancour, the trembling lips, the venom in the eyes? Or maybe nothing else is possible. Is it not possible to be a man, a fighter and yet stay meek and mild? “Life is a crude business,” he told me recently. I repeated these words to Andrei Petrovich; he did not agree with D. Which of them is right? But how the day began! How I enjoyed walking with him, even in silence… But I’m pleased with what happened. Clearly, it had to be…
Anxiety again… I’m not so well.
…I haven’t written anything in this notebook for days, because I didn’t feel like writing. I felt that whatever I wrote would reflect what lay in my heart… And what does lie in my heart? I had a long conversation with him, which revealed a great deal to me. He told me his plans. (Incidentally I now know why he has a scar on his neck! My God! When I think he was condemned to death, that he only just escaped, that he was wounded…) He has a presentiment of war and rejoices in it. Yet despite all this, I’ve never seen D. so sad. What can it be that makes him – him! – sad? Papa came back from town, found us both together and gave us a strange look. Andrei Petrovich arrived; I noticed that he’d become very thin and pale. He reproached me for being too cold and offhand with Shubin. And I’d completely forgotten about Paul. When I see him I’ll try to make it up to him. I’ve no time for him now… or for anyone else in the world. Andrei Petrovich spoke to me in a sort of commiserating way. What does all this mean? Why is everything so dark around me and within me? I think that around me and within me something mysterious is going on, for which I have to find the right words…
…I didn’t sleep last night. I had a headache. What’s the point of writing? He left so quickly today and I wanted to talk to him… It’s as if he’s avoiding me. Yes, he’s avoiding me.
…I’ve found the right words. Light has dawned on me! My God! Have pity on me… I’m in love!
17
On the same day that Yelena was writing these last, fateful words in her diary, Insarov was sitting in Bersenev’s room; Bersenev was standing before him, a puzzled expression on his face. Insarov had just announced his intention of moving to Moscow the next day.
“Good Heavens!” Bersenev exclaimed. “We’re just coming into the best part of the year. What’ll you do in Moscow? What an unexpected decision! Or have you received news of some sort?”
“I haven’t received any news,” returned Insarov, “but the way I see it, I can’t stay here.”
“But how can that be so—”
“Andrei Petrovich,” said Insarov, “be so good as not to insist, please. It’s hard for me to part company with you, but there’s nothing for it.”
Bersenev looked at him fixedly.
“I know,” he said at length, “there’s no dissuading you. So, it’s settled?”
“Definitely settled,” replied Insarov. He rose and left.
Bersenev paced about the room, took his hat and set off for the Stakhovs’ house.
“Do you have something to tell me?” said Yelena to him as soon as they were alone.
“Yes. How did you guess?”
“Never mind. Tell me, what is it?”
Bersenev told her of Insarov’s decision.
Yelena turned pale.
“What does it mean?” she said with difficulty.
“You know,” said Bersenev, “that Dmitry Nikanorovich doesn’t like to account for his actions. But I think… Let’s sit down, Yelena Nikolayevna; you don’t seem very well… I think I can guess what actually was the reason for this sudden departure.”
“What, what was the reason?” Yelena echoed, gripping Bersenev’s hand in her own cold hand without noticing she was doing so.
“You see,” Bersenev began with a sad smile. “How can I explain it to you? I’ll have to go back to spring this year, to the time when I got to know Insarov better. I met him at the house of a relative of mine. This relative had a daughter, a very pretty girl. It seemed to me that Insarov was not indifferent to her, and I told him so. He laughed and replied that I was mistaken, that it was not an affair of the heart and that if anything like that did happen to him he’d soon be off, since he didn’t want – these were his actual words – to betray his cause and his duty for the sake of personal satisfaction. ‘I’m a Bulgarian,’ he said, ‘and I don’t need Russian love…’”
“Well then, so what… do you now…” whispered Yelena, involuntarily turning her head away, like someone anticipating a blow, but still not letting go of Bersenev’s hand.
“I think,” he said, likewise lowering his voice, “I think that what I assumed wrongly then has now happened.”
“You mean… you think… don’t torment me!” burst suddenly from Yelena’s lips.
“I think,” Bersenev hastily interposed, “that Insarov has now fallen in love with a certain Russian girl and, as he promised, decided to flee.”
Yelena gripped his hand even tighter and bowed her head even lower, as if wanting to hide from prying eyes the blush of shame which had suffused her whole face and neck in sudden flame.
“Andrei Petrovich, you’re kind, you’re an angel,” she said. “But he’ll come and say goodbye, won’t he?”
“Yes I suppose so. He’ll certainly come because he doesn’t want to go.”
“Tell him, tell him…”
But at that point the poor girl could hold out no longer;
tears poured from her eyes and she ran out of the room.
“So that’s how much she loves him,” thought Bersenev as he made his way slowly home. “I didn’t expect that; I didn’t expect it would be so powerful. I’m kind, she says,” he mused further. “Who’s to say what my feelings and motives were in telling all this to Yelena? But it wasn’t out of kindness, not kindness. Was it all this accursed desire to convince myself that the dagger really was still in the wound? I must be content – they love each other and I helped them… Shubin calls me ‘a future intermediary between the sciences and the Russian public’ – it’s clear I was born to be an intermediary. But if I’m mistaken? No, I’m not mistaken…”
Andrei Petrovich felt bitter and had no thoughts of Raumer.
The next day, some time after one o’clock, Insarov appeared at the Stakhovs’. At this time, as if on purpose, a guest was sitting in Anna Vasilyevna’s drawing room, her neighbour, the archpriest’s wife, a very good and respectable woman who had nevertheless been involved in an unpleasant incident with the police, because she had taken it into her head, during the heat of the day, to take a dip in a pond by a road, along which the family of some important general often passed. The presence of an outsider at first pleased Yelena, from whose face the blood had drained as soon as she heard Insarov’s footfall; but her heart froze at the thought that he could take his leave without having a private conversation with her. He did seem embarrassed and avoided her look. “Is it possible he’ll take his leave now?” thought Yelena. In reality, Insarov was about to address Anna Vasilyevna; Yelena hastily called him over to one side, by the window. The archpriest’s wife, taken by surprise, tried to turn round, but she had laced herself so tightly that her corsets creaked at her slightest movement. She remained immobile.
“Listen,” said Yelena hurriedly, “I know why you’ve come – Andrei Petrovich told me of your intention – but please don’t say goodbye to us today, I beg you. Come tomorrow, a bit earlier, about eleven. I have a couple of things to say to you.”
Insarov bowed his head silently.
“I won’t detain you… Do you give me your promise?”
Insarov again bowed, but said nothing.
“Lenochka, come here,” said Anna Vasilyevna. “Look what a lovely reticule the lady has.”
“I embroidered it myself,” remarked the archpriest’s wife.
Yelena moved away from the window.
Insarov remained at the Stakhovs’ for no more than a quarter of an hour. Yelena observed him surreptitiously. He shuffled on the spot and, as before, did not know where to look; his departure was sudden and somehow strange, as if he had just disappeared.
The day passed slowly by for Yelena; even more slowly did the long, long night drag by. One minute Yelena would sit on her bed, her arms wrapped round her knees and her head resting on them; the next minute she would go up to the window, place her burning brow against the cold glass and think, think, think the same thoughts to the point of exhaustion. It seemed her heart had either turned to stone or vanished completely from her breast; she no longer felt it, but the veins were throbbing violently in her head, her hair was on fire and her lips parched. “He’ll come... He hasn’t said goodbye to Mama… He won’t let me down… Could Andrei Petrovich really have been telling the truth? He can’t have been… He didn’t promise to come in so many words… Can it be that we’ve parted for ever?” Such were the thoughts that did not leave her… literally did not leave her: they didn’t come; they didn’t return – they hovered over her constantly, like fog. The words “He loves me!” flared up suddenly throughout her whole being, and she gazed fixedly into the darkness. There was no one to see the secret smile which parted her lips… but she immediately shook her head and brought her clasped fingers to the back of her neck. Once again her former thoughts hovered over her like fog. Before morning she undressed and got into bed, but she could not sleep. The first fiery rays of the sun struck into her room… “Oh, if he loves me!” she exclaimed suddenly and, unashamed of the light which illuminated her, threw wide her arms…
She got up, dressed and went downstairs. No one in the house was yet awake. She went into the garden; but in the garden it was so quiet, so green and cool, the birds were twittering so trustfully, the flowers looked so joyful, that she felt afraid. “Oh!” she thought. “If that’s true, there isn’t a blade of grass happier than me. But is it true?” She went back to her room and, in order to kill time, began to change her clothes. But everything kept falling and slipping out of her hands, and she was still sitting half-dressed in front of her dressing-table mirror when she was summoned to morning tea. She went downstairs; her mother noticed her pallor, but merely said: “How interesting you look today,” and, casting a glance over her, added: “That dress really suits you – always wear it when you want to appeal to someone.” Yelena did not reply, and took a seat in the corner. Then she promised herself she would walk up and down one of the avenues a hundred times. This she did. Then she spent a long time watching Anna Vasilyevna laying out patience… and then she looked at the clock. It wasn’t yet ten. Shubin came into the drawing room. She tried to talk to him and apologized to him, without knowing why herself… Her every word did not exactly cost her effort, rather it aroused some sort of bemusement. Shubin leant towards her. Expecting a jibe, she raised her eyes and saw before her a sad and friendly face, at which she smiled. Shubin smiled too, without saying anything, and left quietly. She wanted to detain him but, for the moment, could not remember his name. Finally eleven o’clock struck. She began to wait, to wait and listen. She could do nothing; she had stopped thinking even. Her heart revived within her and began to beat ever harder, and – strange to relate – the time seemed to fly past more quickly. A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour, then, so she thought, several more minutes, and suddenly she shuddered: the clock struck not twelve, but one. “He won’t come. He’ll leave without saying goodbye…” The thought rushed into her head, as did the blood. She felt short of breath, felt she was on the verge of tears… She ran to her room and fell onto the bed, burying her face in her hands.
For half an hour she lay motionless; tears poured through her fingers onto the pillow. Suddenly she sat up; something strange had taken place within her: her face changed, her moist eyes dried of their own accord and began to gleam; she knit her brows and pursed her lips. Another half-hour passed. For the last time she strained her ears: was that not a familiar voice she could hear? She got up, put on her hat and gloves, threw her mantilla over her shoulders and, slipping unseen out of the house, set off with rapid strides along the road leading to Bersenev’s house.
18
Yelena walked with head down, looking fixedly ahead. She did not fear anything, nor did she take thought for anything; she wanted to see Insarov again. She walked along, not noticing that the sun had long since disappeared, obscured by heavy black clouds, that the wind was gusting noisily in the trees and ruffling her dress, that the dust rose suddenly and spiralled down the road… Heavy rain began to fall, but she did not notice that either. However, it grew heavier and more frequent, lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Yelena halted and looked round… Fortunately for her, not far from the place where she had got caught by the storm, stood a decrepit abandoned shrine over a ruined well. She ran up to it and got herself under its low roof. The rain lashed down; the sky had filled in all around. Yelena watched the curtain of rapidly falling raindrops in silent despair. Her last hope of meeting Insarov was disappearing. An old beggar woman came into the shrine, shook the water off herself and said with a bow: “Because of the rain, lady.” Moaning and groaning, she sat down on a ledge by the well. Yelena put her hand in her pocket; the old woman noticed her movement and her face, wrinkled and yellow but once beautiful, became animated. “Thank you, kind lady,” she began. Yelena did not have her purse in her pocket and the old woman was already holding out her hand…
“I haven’t any mon
ey, grandma,” said Yelena, “but take this. You’ll find it useful for something.”
She gave her kerchief to her.
“Oh, my beauty,” said the beggar woman, “what do I need your kerchief for? Maybe I’ll give it to my granddaughter when she gets married. May the Lord bless you for your kindness!”
There was a clap of thunder.
“Good Lord above,” muttered the beggar woman, crossing herself three times. “But I think I’ve seen you before,” she added after a slight pause. “Was it you gave me alms in the name of Christ?”
Yelena looked closely at the old woman and recognized her.
“Yes, grandma,” she replied. “You asked me why I was so sad.”
“Yes, my dear, that’s right. I was sure I recognized you. But you seem to be sad even now. And your kerchief’s damp; must be with tears. Oh, you young girls, you all have the same sorrow, the same great unhappiness.”
“What sorrow, grandma?”
“What sorrow? No, my fine lady, you can’t be cunning with an old woman like me. I know what’s making you grieve. You’re not the only one to do so. I too was young once, my dear; I too went through these trials and tribulations. Yes. And I’ll tell you something in return for your kindness: if you find a good man, a reliable type, hang on to him like grim death. What will be, will be; if not, then it’s God’s will. Yes. Why are you looking so surprised at me for? I can tell fortunes, I can. Do you want me to take your grief away along with your kerchief? I’ll take it away – that’s all there is to it. Do you see, it’s started to drizzle; you wait for a bit, but I’ll go. It won’t be the first time I’ve got wet. Remember then, my dear: sorrow came, sorrow went, and left no trace. The Lord have mercy upon you!”
The beggar woman rose from the ledge, left the shrine and went on her way. Yelena watched her go in astonishment. “What does this mean?” she whispered involuntarily.
On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 10