by Andrei Bely
‘What’s that?’ Varvara Yevgrafovna cried sternly, applied her pince-nez to her nose, and bent over the book …
‘What’s this you’ve got? Who gave you it?’
‘Baroness R.R.…’
‘Why, of course … But what is it?’
‘Henri Besançon …’
‘You mean Annie Besant … Man and His Bodies? … What nonsense is this? … And have you read Karl Marx’s Manifesto?’
The little blue eyes blinked timidly, while the crimson lips pouted resentfully.
‘The bourgeoisie, sensing its end, has seized upon mysticism: we shall leave the sky to the sparrows and from the kingdom of necessity create the kingdom of freedom.’11
And Varvara Yevgrafovna triumphantly looked the angel over with a peremptory glance through her pince-nez: and Angel Peri’s little eyes began to blink more helplessly; this angel respected Varvara Yevgrafovna and Baroness R.R. equally. And now she had to choose between them. Fortunately, however, Varvara Yevgrafovna did not make a scene; crossing her legs, she wiped her pince-nez.
‘It’s about this … You will, of course, be going to the Tsukatovs’ ball …’
‘Yes, I will,’ the angel replied, guiltily.
‘It’s about this: according to the rumours that have reached me, our mutual acquaintance Ableukhov will also be going to this ball.’
The angel flushed crimson.
‘Well, then: please give him this letter.’ Varvara Yevgrafovna thrust a letter into the angel’s hands.
‘Give it to him; and that’s all there is to it: you’ll give it to him?’
‘I … will …’
‘Very well then, and I’ve no time to idle away with you here: I’m going to a mass meeting …’
‘Varvara Yevgrafovna, be a dear and take me along with you.’
‘But won’t you be afraid? We may get beaten up …’
‘No, take me, take me – be a darling dear.’
‘Oh well then, all right: let’s go. Only you’re going to change; and the rest of it, powder yourself … So be quick about it …’
‘Oh, instantly: in a flash!’
‘O Lord, quick, quick … My corset, Mavrushka! … My black woollen dress, yes, that one: and shoes – those ones, any ones. Oh, but no: the high-heeled ones.’ And the skirts rustled in falling: the pink kimono flew across the table on to the bed … Mavrushka got into a muddle: Mavrushka knocked a chair over …
‘No, not like that, but tighter: even tighter … those are not hands you have – they’re stumps … Where are the garters – eh, eh? How many times have I told you?’ And the corset crackled its bone; while her trembling hands could still on no account pile up at the nape of her neck the black nights of her tresses …
Sofya Petrovna Likhutina, an ivory hairpin in her teeth, began to squint: she was squinting at a letter; and the letter bore the clear inscription: To Nikolai Apollonovich Ableukhov.
That she would meet ‘him’ tomorrow at the Tsukatovs’ ball, talk to him, give him this letter – that was both frightening and painful: there was something fateful here – no, one must not think of it, must not think of it!
A disobedient black lock sprang out from the nape of her neck.
Yes, a letter. The letter was clearly marked: To Nikolai Apollonovich Ableukhov. Only the strange thing was that this handwriting was the handwriting of Lippanchenko … What nonsense!
Now, in a black woollen dress that fastened at the back, she fluttered forth from the bedroom:
‘Well, let’s go, let’s go, then … By the way, that letter … Who is it from? …’
‘?’
‘Oh well, never mind, never mind: I’m ready.’
Why was she in such a hurry to be off to the mass meeting? In order, en route, to try to find out what was going on, to ask questions, to try to get what she wanted?
And ask what questions?
Outside the entrance porch they collided with the khokhol-Little Russian Lippanchenko:
‘Well, well, well: where are you going?’
Sofya Petrovna waved in vexation both a plush velvet hand and a muff:
‘I’m going to a mass meeting, a mass meeting.’
But the crafty khokhol was not to be put off so easily:
‘Splendid: I’ll come with you.’
Varvara Yevgrafovna flared up, stopped: and stared fixedly at the khokhol.
‘I think I know you: you rent a room … from the Manpon woman.’
Here the shameless, crafty khokhol was thrown into the most violent embarrassment: he suddenly began to puff and pant, to back away, raised his hat a little and fell behind.
‘Tell me, who is that unpleasant individual?’
‘Lippanchenko.’
‘Well, that’s quite untrue: his name isn’t Lippanchenko, it’s Mavrokordato, a Greek from Odessa; he visits the room through the wall from me: I wouldn’t advise you to receive him in your home.’
But Sofya Petrovna was not listening. Mavrokordato, Lippanchenko – it was all the same … The letter, now, the letter …
Noble, Slender, Pale …
They were walking along the Moika.
To their left the last gold and the last crimson of the garden trembled in the leaves; and, approaching more closely, one could have seen the blue tit as well; while from the garden on to the stones obediently stretched a rustling thread, in order to twine and chase at the feet of the passing pedestrian and to whisper, weaving from the leaves yellow and red alluvial deposits of words.
‘Ooo-ooo-ooo …’ – thus did space resound.
‘Do you hear?’
‘What is it?’
‘Ooo-ooo.’
‘I don’t hear anything.’
But that sound was heard softly in towns, woodlands and fields, in the suburban expanses of Moscow, Petersburg, Saratov. Have you heard this October song of the year nineteen hundred and five? This song did not exist earlier; this song will not exist …
‘It must be a factory siren: there’s a strike at a factory somewhere.’
But no factory siren was sounding, there was no wind; and the dog was silent.
To the right, below their feet, was the blue of the Moika canal, while behind it above the water rose the reddish line of the embankment’s stones, crowned by trellised iron lace: that same bright building of the Alexandrine era rested on its five stone columns; and the entrance showed gloomy between the columns; above the second storey still passed the same stripe of ornamental stucco: ring upon ring – the same stucco rings.
Between the canal and the building, drawn by its own private horses, an overcoat flew past, concealing in its beaver fur the freezing tip of a haughty nose; and a bright yellow cap-band swayed, and the pink cushion of the driver’s hat flickered ever so slightly. Drawing even with Likhutina, high above his bald spot flew the bright yellow cap-band of one of Her Majesty’s Cuirassiers: it was Baron Ommau-Ommergau.
Ahead, where the canal curved, rose the red walls of the church, tapering to a high tower and a green steeple; while more to the left, above a ledge of houses and stone, the dazzling cupola of St Isaac’s rose sternly in a glassy turquoise.
Here too was the embankment: depth, a greenish blue. There far away, far away, almost further than was proper, the islands fell and cowered: the buildings also cowered; at any moment the depths might come washing, surging over them, the greenish blue. And above this greenish blue an unmerciful sunset sent here and there its radiant crimson blow: and the Troitsky Bridge shone crimson; and so did the Palace.
Suddenly under this depth and greenish blue a clear silhouette appeared against the crimson background of the sunset: in the wind a grey Nikolayevka beat its wings; and a waxen face with protruding lips nonchalantly threw itself back: in the bluish expanses of the Neva its eyes constantly looked for something, could not find it, flew past above her modest little fur hat; did not see the hat: did not see anything – either her, or Varvara Yevgrafovna: saw only the depth, and the greenish blue; rose a
nd fell – there fell the eyes, on the other side of the Neva, where the banks cowered and the buildings of the islands showed crimson. While ahead, snuffling, ran a dark, striped bulldog, carrying a small silver whip in its teeth.
Drawing level, he came to his senses, screwed up his eyes slightly, touched his cap-band slightly with his hand; said nothing – and walked off there: there only the buildings showed crimson.
With completely squinting eyes, hiding her little face in her muff (she was now redder than a peony), Sofya Petrovna helplessly nodded her little head somewhere to the side: not to him, but to the bulldog. While Varvara Yevgrafovna fairly stared, breathed heavily, fastened her eyes.
‘Ableukhov?’
‘Yes … apparently.’
And, hearing an affirmative reply (she was short-sighted), Varvara Yevgrafovna began to whisper to herself excitedly:
Noble, slender, pale,
Hair like flax has he;
Rich in thought, in feeling poor
N.A.A. – who can he be?12
There, there he was:
Famous revolutionary,
Though aristocrat.
But better than his shameful folks
A hundred times, mark that.
There he was, the regenerator of the rotten order, to whom she (soon, soon!) was going to propose a citizens’ marriage upon the accomplishment of the mission that had been appointed to him, upon which there would follow a universal, world-wide explosion: here she choked (Varvara Yevgrafovna was in the habit of swallowing her saliva too loudly).
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing: a lofty motif came into my head.’
But Sofya Petrovna was not listening any more: unexpectedly to herself, she turned and saw that there, there on the front square of the palace in the light purple thrust of the Neva’s last rays, somehow strangely turned towards her, stooping, and hiding his face in his collar, which caused his student’s peaked cap to slip down, stood Nikolai Apollonovich; it seemed to her that he was smiling in a most unpleasant manner and in any case cut a rather ridiculous figure: wrapped tightly in his overcoat, he looked both round-shouldered and somehow lacking arms, with the wing of the overcoat dancing most preposterously in the wind; and, seeing all that, she swiftly turned her little head.
Long yet did he stand, bent, smiling in an unpleasant manner and in any case cutting the rather ridiculous figure of a man without arms, the wing of his overcoat dancing so preposterously in the wind against the crimson stain of the sunset’s wedge. But in any case he was not looking at her: was it indeed possible for him, with his awkwardness, to study retreating figures; he was laughing to himself and staring far, far away, almost further than was proper – there, where the island buildings sank, where they barely glimmered through the mist in the crimson smoke.
While she – she wanted to cry; she wanted her husband, Sergei Sergeich Likhutin, to go up to that scoundrel, suddenly strike him in the face with a cypress fist and say, apropos of this, his honourable, officer’s word.
The unmerciful sunset sent blow upon blow from the very horizon itself; higher rose the immensity of the rosy ripples; yet higher the small white clouds (now rosy) like fine impressions of broken mother-of-pearl were disappearing in a turquoise all; that turquoise all poured evenly between the splinters of rosy mother-of-pearl: soon the mother-of-pearl, drowning in the heights, as if retreating into an oceanic depth – would extinguish in the turquoise the most delicate reflections: the dark blue, the bluish-green depth would surge everywhere: over houses, granite and water.
And there would be no sunset.
Comte–Comte–Comte!
The lackey served the soup. Before the senator’s plate, as a preliminary, he placed the pepper-pot from the cruet-stand.
Apollon Apollonovich appeared out of the doorway in his small grey jacket; just as quickly did he sit down; and the lackey removed the lid from the smoking tureen.
The left-hand door opened; swiftly through the left-hand door sprang Nikolai Apollonovich, wearing a student’s uniform jacket buttoned up to the neck; the jacket had a very high collar (from the time of Emperor Alexander I).
Both raised their eyes to each other; and both were embarrassed (they were always embarrassed).
Apollon Apollonovich flung his gaze from object to object; Nikolai Apollonovich felt his daily confusion: his two completely unnecessary arms hung down on both sides of his waist; and in an access of fruitless obsequiousness, running up to his parent he began to wring his slender fingers (finger against finger).
A daily spectacle awaited the senator: his unnaturally polite son overcame, with unnatural swiftness, at a skip and a run, the expanse of distance from the door – all the way to the dinner table. Apollon Apollonovich impetuously rose (anyone would have said – leapt up) before his son.
Nikolai Apollonovich tripped against the table leg.
Apollon Apollonovich proffered to Nikolai Apollonovich his pudgy lips; to these pudgy lips Nikolai Apollonovich pressed two lips; the lips touched one another; and two fingers shook the customarily sweating hand.
‘Good evening, Papa!’
‘My respects, sir …’
Apollon Apollonovich sat down. Apollon Apollonovich caught hold of the pepper-pot. It was Apollon Apollonovich’s custom to over-pepper his soup.
‘From the university? …’
‘No, I’ve been out for a walk …’
And a froglike expression fleeted across the grinning mouth of the courteous offspring, whose face we have had time to examine taken in isolation from all the grimaces, smiles or gestures of courtesy that were the bane of Nikolai Apollonovich’s life, if only because of the Grecian mask there remained not a trace; these smiles, grimaces, or simply gestures of courtesy streamed in a kind of constant cascade before the fluttering gaze of the absent-minded papa; and his hand, as it brought the spoon to his mouth, clearly trembled, splashing soup.
‘Have you come from the Institution, Papa?’
‘No, from the minister …’
We saw in the foregoing that when he sat in his office Apollon Apollonovich came to the conviction that his son was an arrant rogue: thus daily did the sixty-eight-year-old papa commit upon his own blood and his own flesh a certain act which, though comprehensible, was none the less an act of terrorism.
But those were abstract, office conclusions, which were not taken out into the corridor, nor (even more so) into the dining-room.
‘Would you like some pepper, Kolenka?’
‘I’d like some salt, Papa …’
Apollon Apollonovich, looking at his son, or rather fluttering around the grimacing young philosopher with fleeting eyes, according to the tradition of this hour gave himself up to a rush of, so to speak, paternality, avoiding the office in his thoughts.
‘Well, I like pepper: pepper makes everything tastier …’
Nikolai Apollonovich, lowering his eyes to his plate, banished the tiresome associations from his memory: the Neva sunset and the inexpressible quality of the rosy ripples, the most delicate reflections of mother-of-pearl, the bluish-green depth; and against the background of most delicate mother-of-pearl …
‘Indeed, sir! …
‘Indeed, sir! …
‘Very good, sir …’
Apollon Apollonovich was engaging his son (or rather – himself) in conversation.
The silence over the table grew heavier.
This silence during the eating of the soup did not trouble Apollon Apollonovich in the slightest (old people are not troubled by silence, while nervous youth is) … As he searched for a topic of conversation, Nikolai Apollonovich experienced genuine torment over his now cold plate of soup.
And unexpectedly to himself he burst out:
‘I say … I …’
‘I say, what?’
‘No … Just … nothing …’
Over the table silence weighed.
Nikolai Apollonovich again, unexpectedly to himself, burst out (this was true fidgetiness, now!)
‘I say … I …’
But what was this ‘I say I’? He had not yet thought up a sequel to the words that leapt out; and there was no idea to accompany the ‘I say … I …’. And Nikolai Apollonovich stumbled …
‘I shall have to think up something to go with “I say I”,’ he thought. And could think of nothing.
Meanwhile Apollon Apollonovich, disturbed a second time by his son’s preposterous verbal confusion, suddenly hurled up his gaze questioningly, sternly and capriciously, indignant at the ‘mumbling’ …
‘I’m sorry: what did you say?’
While in the head of his dear offspring senseless words frantically began to revolve:
‘Perception …
‘Apperception …’13
‘Pepper is not pepper, but a term: terminology …
‘Logia, logic …’
And suddenly out whirled:
‘I say … I … read in Cohen’s Theorie der Erfahrung …’14
And stumbled again.
‘Well, and what sort of book is that, Kolenka?’
In addressing his son, Apollon Apollonovich involuntarily observed the traditions of childhood; and in intercourse with this arrant rogue addressed the arrant rogue as ‘Kolenka’, ‘dear offspring’, ‘my friend’ and even – ‘my good fellow’ …
‘Cohen, the most important representative of European Kantianism.’
‘I’m sorry – Kantianism?’
‘Kantianism, Papa.’
‘Kan-ti-an-ism?’
‘Precisely …’
‘But wasn’t Kant refuted by Comte?15 Is it Comte you mean?’
‘Not Comte, Papa – Kant! …’
‘But Kant is not scientific …’
‘It’s Comte who’s not scientific …’