The drizzle was gradually slackening off and the sun came out for a moment. Yelena got ready to leave her place of shelter. Suddenly she saw, ten paces from the shrine, Insarov. Wrapped in a cloak, he was walking along the same road which Yelena had taken; he appeared to be hurrying home. Grasping the rickety handrail of the steps, she wanted to call out to him, but her voice failed her… Insarov had already gone past without looking up…
“Dmitry Nikanorovich!” she said finally.
Insarov suddenly stopped and looked round… At first he did not recognize Yelena, but then he went up to her at once.
“You! You, here!” he exclaimed.
She retreated without speaking into the shrine. Insarov followed her.
“You, here!” he repeated.
She still did not speak and merely cast a kind of long, affectionate look at him. He lowered his eyes.
“Were you coming from our house?” she asked.
“No, not from your house.”
“No?” Yelena echoed, trying to smile. “Is that how you keep your promises? I waited for you from first thing today.”
“Yelena Nikolayevna, remember I promised nothing yesterday.”
Yelena again gave a faint smile and ran her hand across her face. Both her hand and her face were very pale.
“So you wanted to leave without saying goodbye to us?”
“Yes,” said Insarov in a grim, toneless voice.
“How so? After our friendship, after those conversations, after everything… So if I’d not met you here by chance” – Yelena’s voice cracked and she fell silent for a moment – “you would indeed have left, without shaking my hand for one last time, and you would not have minded?”
Insarov turned away.
“Yelena Nikolayevna, please, don’t talk like that. I’m unhappy as it is. Believe me, my decision cost me a great deal. If you knew—”
“I don’t want to know why you are going,” Yelena interrupted fearfully. Evidently it’s necessary. Evidently we have to part. You would not have wanted to hurt your friends for no reason. But do friends part like this? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“No,” said Insarov.
“What?” said Yelena, her cheeks colouring slightly.
“I’m leaving precisely because we’re not friends. Don’t force me to say what I don’t want to say, what I will not say.”
“You were open with me before,” said Yelena in a tone of mild reproach. “Do you remember?”
“I was able to be open then. I had nothing to hide. But now…”
“But now?” asked Yelena.
“But now… But now I must get away. Goodbye.”
If at that moment Insarov had raised his eyes to Yelena, he would have noticed that her face became ever more radiant the more his mood darkened and became more morose; but he stubbornly kept his eyes on the ground.
“Well, goodbye, Dmitry Nikanorovich,” she began. “But at least give me your hand, since we’ve already met.”
Insarov was on the point of offering his hand.
“No, I can’t do it,” he said, and again turned away.
“You can’t?”
“No. Goodbye.”
With that he made for the way out of the shrine.
“Wait a little longer,” said Yelena. “You seem to be afraid of me. But I’m braver than you,” she added, her whole body suddenly trembling slightly. “I can tell you – do you want me to? – why you found me here. Do you know where I was going?”
Insarov looked at Yelena in astonishment.
“I was going to see you.”
“To see me?”
Yelena covered her face.
“You wanted to force me to say that I love you,” she whispered. “There. I’ve said it.”
“Yelena!” cried Insarov.
She took his hands, looked at him and fell onto his breast.
He embraced her warmly and said nothing. He did not have to tell her that he loved her. His exclamation alone; the instant transformation of his whole being; the rise and fall of his breast, to which she clung so trustingly; the way his fingers touched her hair – everything told her she was loved. He did not speak and she did not need words. “He’s here; he loves me. What else is there?” Blessed tranquillity, the tranquillity of the sheltered harbour, of the goal reached, that heavenly tranquillity which lends both sense and beauty even to death, filled her completely with its divine wave. She wanted nothing, because she possessed everything. “Oh, my brother, my friend, my darling!” whispered her lips, and she herself did not know whose heart it was, his or hers, beating so sweetly and melting within her breast.
He, however, stood motionless, clasping in his firm embrace this young life which had been given to him; in his breast he could feel this new, endlessly dear burden; a feeling of tender emotion, of ineffable gratitude, broke his firm resolve, and tears he had never known welled up in his eyes…
But Yelena was not crying, but merely repeating: “Oh, my friend! Oh, my brother!”
* * *
“So you’ll go everywhere with me?” he said to her a quarter of an hour later; as before he was holding her and supporting her in his embrace.
“Everywhere. To the ends of the earth. Wherever you are, there also will I be.”
“And you’re not deceiving yourself? You do know that your parents will never agree to our marriage?”
“ I do know that. I’m not deceiving myself.”
“You know I’m poor, almost destitute?”
“Yes.”
“You know I’m not Russian, that I’m not fated to live in Russia, that you’ll have to break all your ties with your homeland and family?”
“I know, I know.”
“You also know that I have dedicated myself to a difficult, thankless cause, that I… that we… will have to subject ourselves not only to dangers but perhaps also to privation and humiliation?”
“I know. I know everything… I love you.”
“You know that you will have to renounce everything you’re accustomed to, that there, alone, among strangers, you may be compelled to work…”
She placed her hand on his lips.
“I love you, my darling.”
He began to kiss her slender pink hand ardently. Yelena did not take it away from his lips and, with a certain childlike joy and smiling curiosity, watched him cover first her hand, then her fingers, with kisses.
Suddenly she blushed and hid her face in his breast.
He gently raised her head and gazed intently into her eyes.
“All hail then,” he said to her, “my wife before men and before God!”
19
An hour later, her hat in one hand and her mantilla in the other, Yelena quietly entered the drawing room of the dacha. Her hair was slightly disarranged and there was a small patch of pink on each of her cheeks; a smile persisted on her lips, and her eyes, hooded and half-closed, were also smiling. She could barely walk from weariness, but this weariness was agreeable to her. Everything seemed soft and sweet to her. Uvar Ivanovich was sitting by the window; she went up to him, put her hand on his shoulder, straightened and, almost involuntarily, began to laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked in surprise.
She did not know what to say. She wanted to kiss Uvar Ivanovich.
“Flat out!” she said finally.
But Uvar Ivanovich did not so much as raise an eyebrow, and continued to look at her in surprise. She dropped both her mantilla and her hat on him.
“Dear Uvar Ivanovich,” she said, “I’m tired. I want to go to bed.” Again she began to laugh and fell onto the armchair beside him.
“H’m,” grunted Uvar Ivanovich, and wagged his fingers. “One ought to, yes…”
Yelena looked round her and thought: “Soon I must
part with all this. It’s strange – I have no fear, no doubts, no regrets… No, I’m sorry for Mama!” Then the shrine rose up before her again, she heard his voice again and felt his arm around her. Her heart leapt joyfully, but faintly: the languor of happiness had taken over. She remembered the old beggar woman. “It’s as if she did take my grief away,” she thought. “Oh, how happy I am! And how undeservedly! How quickly!” Had she given herself just a little leeway, sweet, never-ending tears would have flowed. She only held them back by laughing. Whatever attitude she adopted, it seemed the best and most relaxed, as if she were being rocked to sleep. All her movements were slow and smooth; what had happened to her hastiness and angularity? Zoya entered; Yelena decided she had never seen a more charming face. Anna Vasilyevna came in; something caused Yelena a stab of pain, but how tenderly she embraced her kind mother on the forehead, just touching her already greying hair. Then she went to her room; how everything there seemed to smile at her! What feelings of sheepish triumph and humility she experienced as she sat down on her bed, the same bed where, three hours previously, she had passed such bitter moments. “And yet even then I knew he loved me,” she thought. “And even before that… Oh, no! No! That’s a sin.”
“You’re my wife,” she whispered, and, covering her face with her hands, threw herself to her knees.
By evening she had become more reflective. Sorrow had taken hold of her with the thought that she would not see Insarov for a while. He could not remain at Bersenev’s house without arousing suspicion, and so this is what he and Yelena had decided: Insarov was to return to Moscow and come and visit them two or three times before the autumn; for her part she promised to write him letters and, if possible, arrange a rendezvous with him somewhere near Kuntsevo. She came down to the drawing room for tea, and found her whole family there, plus Shubin, who looked sharply at her as soon as she appeared. She had wanted to begin a friendly conversation with him, as in the old days, but she was afraid of his shrewd insights and afraid of herself. It occurred to her that it was not for nothing that he had left her in peace for more than two weeks. Soon Bersenev arrived and brought greetings from Insarov to Anna Vasilyevna, together with apologies for having returned to Moscow without paying his respects to her. It was the first time that day that Insarov’s name had been uttered in Yelena’s presence; she felt that she blushed; at the same time she realized that she should express regret at the sudden departure of such a good friend, but she could not bring herself to dissimulate and so remained sitting, neither moving nor speaking, while Anna Vasilyevna lamented and sighed. Yelena tried to stay close to Bersenev; she was not afraid of him, although he too knew part of her secret; she sheltered under his wing from Shubin, who still continued to gaze at her – not mockingly, but attentively. During the course of the evening, Bersenev too was bemused: he had expected to see a sadder Yelena. Fortunately for her, an argument about art developed between him and Shubin; she moved away and listened to their voices as if in a dream. Gradually, not only they but the whole room too, everything that surrounded her, seemed to her like a dream – everything: the samovar on the table, Uvar Ivanovich’s short waistcoat, Zoya’s smooth nails and the old painting of Grand Duke Konstantin Pavlovich* on the wall – everything faded away, everything was shrouded in mist, everything ceased to exist. She merely felt sorry for them all. “What do they live for?” she thought.
“Are you sleepy, Lenochka?” her mother asked.
She did not hear her mother’s question.
“Do you say that’s a half-justified insinuation?…” These words, uttered abruptly by Shubin, suddenly aroused Yelena’s attention. “Why, the whole thrust lies in that. A justified insinuation arouses despondency – that’s not Christian; people are indifferent to anything unjustified, but things half-justified make them feel irritation and impatience. For instance, if I say that Yelena Nikolayevna is in love with one of us, what sort of an insinuation would that be, eh?”
“Oh, Monsieur Paul,” said Yelena, “I would like to demonstrate my irritation to you, but I really cannot. I’m very tired.”
“Why don’t you go to bed?” said Anna Vasilyevna, who herself always had a snooze in the evening and was therefore keen on sending others to bed. “Say goodnight to me and off you go. Andrei Petrovich will excuse you.”
Yelena kissed her mother, bowed to everyone and went out. Shubin accompanied her to the door.
“Yelena Nikolayevna,” he whispered to her on the threshold, “you trample Monsieur Paul underfoot, you walk all over him without mercy, and yet Monsieur Paul blesses you, and your feet, and the shoes on your feet, and the soles of your shoes.”
Yelena shrugged her shoulders and reluctantly extended her hand to him – not the hand which Insarov had kissed – went back to her room, undressed, lay down and fell asleep. She slept a deep, untroubled sleep… even children do not sleep like that: only a convalescent child sleeps like that when its mother sits by its cradle, gazes at it and listens to its breathing.
20
“Come into my room for a moment,” said Shubin to Bersenev as soon as the latter had taken his leave of Anna Vasilyevna. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Bersenev went with him to his room. He was startled by the number of studies, statuettes and busts wrapped in wet cloths and placed in every corner of the room.
“I can see you’re doing some serious work,” he remarked to Shubin.
“You’ve got to do something,” Shubin replied. “If one thing doesn’t work, you have to do something else. However, I, like a Corsican, am more concerned with vendetta than pure art. Trema Bisanzio.”*
“I don’t understand you,” said Bersenev.
“Wait a second. There – please do take a look, my dear friend and benefactor, at my Revenge Number One.”
Shubin unveiled one of the figures, and Bersenev saw an excellent, superbly lifelike bust of Insarov. Shubin had caught his facial features accurately, down to the smallest detail, and invested them with a fine expression: honest, noble and bold.
Bersenev was ecstatic.
“But that’s simply delightful,” he exclaimed. “Congratulations. You should exhibit it! Why do you call this splendid work Revenge?”
“Because, sir, I intend to present this splendid work, as you are kind enough to put it, to Yelena Nikolayevna on her name day. Do you understand the allegory? We’re not blind, we see what’s going on around us, but we’re gentlemen, my dear sir, and we take revenge in a gentlemanly manner.”
“And here,” Shubin added, unveiling another figure, “since the artist, according to the latest aestheticians, enjoys the enviable right of embodying in himself all sorts of abominations, exalting them into pearls of creation,* so we, in exalting this pearl Number Two, have taken revenge in quite ungentlemanly fashion, simply en canaille.”*
He whipped the cloth away and Bersenev beheld a statuette in the Dantan manner, again of Insarov. It was impossible to imagine anything more malicious and more witty. The young Bulgarian was represented as a ram standing on his hind legs and lowering his horns, ready to strike. Obtuse gravity, fervour, obstinacy, maladroitness and narrow-mindedness were stamped on the physiognomy of the “consort of the fine-fleeced ewes”,* and yet the likeness was so striking, so unmistakable, that Bersenev could not refrain from laughing out loud.
“Well? Do you find it funny?” said Shubin. “Do you recognize the Heroic Figure? Do you advise me to exhibit this too? This one, my dear fellow, I’m going to give to myself on my own name day… Your Eminence, allow me to dance a little jig!”
So saying, Shubin jumped three times, striking himself from behind with the soles of his shoes.
Bersenev picked the canvas up from the floor and threw it over the statuette.
“Oh, big-hearted you!” Shubin began. “Who was it in history who was considered especially big-hearted? Well, never mind! And now,” he went on, solemnly and sadly unveiling a
third, fairly large lump of clay, “you will behold something which will prove the humility and perspicacity of your friend. You’ll be convinced that he, once again a true artist, feels the need for, and usefulness of, self-flagellation. Behold!”
The canvas was whisked away and Bersenev saw two heads, placed close beside each other, as if they had fused… He did not immediately understand what was what, but, on closer inspection, recognized in one of them Annushka and in the other Shubin himself. However, they were more caricatures than portraits. Annushka was represented as a plump, attractive wench, with a low forehead, puffy eyes and a pertly turned-up nose. Her thick lips grinned insolently; her whole face bore an expression of sensuality, nonchalance and forwardness and was not uncongenial. Shubin had depicted himself as an emaciated and haggard roué with sunken cheeks and dangling strands of thinning hair, a vacant expression in lustreless eyes and a pointed nose, like the nose of a corpse.
Bersenev turned away in disgust.
“What about those two, brother?” said Shubin. “Would you mind composing an appropriate title? For the first two pieces I’ve already thought of titles. Under the first it will read: ‘A hero intent on saving his country’. Under the statuette will be: ‘Caution: sausage-makers!’. But under this piece – what do you think? ‘The future of the artist Pavel Yakovlevich Shubin…’ Is that all right?”
“Stop it,” retorted Bersenev. “Was it worth wasting time on such…” He could not immediately find the right word.
“Filth, is that what you mean? No, my friend, I’m sorry, but if anything is to be exhibited, it’s this group.”
“Filth is the word,” echoed Bersenev. “But what is this nonsense? You are entirely lacking in the sort of development with which, unfortunately, our artists are so bountifully endowed. You’ve simply defamed yourself.”
“You think so? said Shubin gloomily. “If I lack it and it is grafted onto me, the guilty party will be… a certain person. Did you know,” he added, furrowing his brows tragically, “that I’ve already tried drinking?”
On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 11