It doesn’t stop raining. We are at the tail end of winter; the snow makes a slushing sound when trodden. It’s better not to go outdoors unless absolutely necessary, or to do so only in the evening when merciful darkness hides all that dirt. She ought to be happy: she has managed to get her publisher to pay her some money. She should buy something for dinner, at least for her children. But she doesn’t have enough strength to do so. She would prefer to sit on the pavement or in front of a church. Yes, in front of a church like that ancient sage with whom she had flown between the chimneys. What would he advise her to do now?
After days, weeks, of sadness that she found all but unbearable, under the weight of which she had collapsed, now she feels completely empty. She doesn’t want to even think about writing. Her health has deteriorated; she is coughing and spitting blood. Aside from her cough, there is nothing else left inside her. Not a single thing to look forward to, not a trace of joy when she sees something beautiful. Not even hope.
She passes the lit windows of the cafe frequented by her friends. Perhaps through the glass she will see the face of somebody to whom she can explain her sorrow. She is empty but the weight of her sadness has not left her, she’s aware of that. Only to speak, to let herself go! But what can she tell them? I have lost love? I have lost everything? I have lost life? All of them, absolutely everybody, would laugh at that. She knows that they don’t care for her lover and consider him a charlatan and a fraud. Those who would listen to her would be running off to share this latest gossip with their friends a moment later. This has happened to her before. But what does she care? She needs to speak, to get rid of the weight pressing down on her, to hold someone’s hand and tell them. Tell them what, really? Tell them her life is over.
That woman sitting over there isn’t. Indeed, it is Vítězka. She approaches her window. Vítězka is sitting among some friends who are in the middle of an animated discussion, but she doesn’t seem to understand their words. Her eyes are frightened, big brown eyes like . . . Like a deer’s, like a wild goat’s. . . No, like a little donkey’s. Vítězka is like a tender, timid donkey who was born to be used by others. Vítězka is made of that same stuff, as are all those who have to hide their suffering in order to give the impression they are getting ahead in life, in order to make the world look like a happy place.
She taps the glass, close to Vítězka’s ear. The young woman who seems so distracted looks through the glass out into the street and Božena realizes, suddenly, that Vítězka looks somewhat frightened and perhaps a little compassionate.
She leans on Vítězka, who had come out to say hello, and took her over to the Vltava. There, next to the water, she looked at her sideways. Yes, with those big, innocent, sad eyes she looked like a little kind-hearted donkey. For the first time in a long while, Božena saw tears in the other’s eyes and she put her arms around the neck of that little donkey looking about without understanding a thing, her big eyes blinking. With her head on this young woman’s shoulder, eyes bright with tears, she began to let herself go, saying she had lost love . . . that she had lost everything, that she had lost life. She spoke and sobbed, and her words fell like drops of slow autumn rain.
Vítězka was about to open her mouth to say: “But your lover hasn’t left you! He doesn’t want anybody else! His love is sincere. What he couldn’t stand, and I find hard to put up with too, is that you are so great and famous, as well as being so beautiful, whereas he is just a mediocre student, one of many. It also riled him that you could escape from him, that you fled into the books you were writing, into your willow tree. And he couldn’t cut it down like Vítek does in the folktale. That’s why he ran off with other women, not with the most stunning ones, but with the ones who were easy to ditch, the ones who had nothing memorable about them, who could feel nothing but uncritical admiration for him. Once he had filled his cup of self-esteem with them, he came back to you. Then one day he definitely did not come back because the secret police, who were after you, moved him away from Prague. They sent him far from the capital to a practice in a distant place, and they did that because they didn’t need him anymore. Your wise Czech friends had already distanced themselves from you, shocked by your relationship with him, and by getting him out of the way the police did you additional harm. They were afraid of you because you dared to proclaim in public that you are Czech. You are proud of it, you do as you please, and, on top of that, you are brilliant. All these things together are unforgivable.”
Vítězka was about to say all that, but at the last minute she did not. She couldn’t. She remained silent. This was her most heartfelt rebellion against the person who was better than she in every way, even as she now cried in her arms.
Božena talked and cried and talked. Her words fell upon the gray waves of the Vltava and the river carried them far away.
This was Vítězka’s final revenge.
One day in May, Herr Anton von Päumann, the prefect of Prague, sat down at his work desk in the prefecture, and found that two items had been delivered to him. Both were from the same sender: Fräulein Zaleski. The first, a large envelope, contained a pretty sizable text, dated December 1854—March 1855; and the other one, much smaller, clearly contained a letter. The prefect picked up the first envelope. The note accompanying the text said, among other things: “You contracted my services in order to reveal the existence of a conspiracy, to ensure that the bad would be punished. I have sent you a detailed report on the current relationship between Němcová and her latest lover.” Anton von Päumann started to read:
The woman, still young, accompanied the doctor to her bedroom. His eyes, shy but glinting, gave the room a once over.
“I’m just a medical student, but I hope that . . . “
She smiled. “Everyone has had to learn sometime, even Purkyně.”
“Yes, even Purkyně, you’re quite right. I’m fairly well-acquainted with Central European medical methods and procedures, but not with those alone. I’ve travelled in the Orient, where I learned lots of things; I discovered their methods.
At this point, von Päumann skipped a few pages, then went on reading:
“Do you know” the doctor said unexpectedly, in a changed voice, as he put away his medical instruments in his case and she buttoned up her blouse, “you once asked me about my travels. Deep down, I don’t really believe in travel as a way of discovering things. Do you follow me?”
When Herr von Päumann finished reading, he smiled. He didn’t quite believe it all. To the contrary, he was convinced that Fräulein Zaleski, with that sick mind of hers, had invented a great deal of it or rather, had made it all up. But as he now had the story in his hands, Herr von Päumann selected the most believable extracts for police use with a view to demonstrating the moral degradation of the writer Božena Němcová. Not long afterward, the abridged version of the story that Vítězka had written started to circulate by word of mouth among the most notorious gossips of Prague, and confirmed the rumors with which Božena’s “friends” had justified their distance from her, thus leaving their consciences clear.
Then the prefect of Prague picked up the little envelope, which contained a single sheet of paper. He read:
Antonia Zaleski to the Illustrious Prefect of Prague, Herr
Anton von Päumann.
May 1855
Most Illustrious Prefect,
Given that you can now dispense with my services, as you put it on the occasion of our last appointment, I consider that my most sacred obligation is now to inform you about the meeting between Božena Němcová and the Czech writer and journalist Karel Havlíček, an object of police concern.
As you know, the police released him from his confinement in the Tyrol and just recently that feared revolutionary and fighter for the rights of the Czechs and the Czech language has shown up in Prague. All his friends avoid him and when they see him they cross over to the other side of the road so as not to run into him. They fear him, knowing he is an outlaw. A few days ago, Bož
ena Němcová was walking along Avenue Na Příkopě and spotted Havlíček there. Pleased, she ran over to him and gave him a most cordial welcome. She was the only one to do so. He warned her not to appear in public with an exile and outlaw such as himself, but Božena made a gesture indicating that none of that was of any importance whatsoever and said, laughing: “Come on! I don’t give a hoot what the government says or does!”
Most sincere greetings,
Vítězka Paul
(previously Antonia Zaleski)
Vítězka Paul died in May of 1856 at the age of twenty-four. Božena Němcová went to her funeral, and afterwards wrote to her son: “Vítězka’s death fills me with pain; she was truly a noble girl.”
Božena Němcová died in January of 1862, not long before her forty-second birthday. Shortly before her death she had to sell her grandmother’s garnet necklace because she was in abject poverty. Thousands of people went to her funeral. At the head was Father Štulc, who spoke in a tearful voice at the writer’s grave in Vyšehrad Cemetery of Prague. Also present was Pospíšil, Němcová’s publisher, who was one of the people responsible for the material poverty she lived in, as he had not paid her the full royalties due from her book sales, knowing that the more extreme Němcová’s poverty, the more likely she would be to accept any payment he saw fit to give her. The poet Hálek declared that the circumstances surrounding Němcová’s death were a shame on the Czech people, who had allowed their great writer to sink into extreme poverty, and added that the nationalists and the thinkers, “an intellectual rabble,” had distanced themselves from her so as not to have to give her any money.
A volcano on Venus and a planet between Mars and Jupiter bear the name of Božena Němcová.
IS LIFE GOING TO WAIT?
ONE
The French live in the moment, whereas we prefer to philosophize about life. That is what I thought when I heard the noise, laughter, and music that were coming from the Bullier, the wooden dance hall. The painters were holding their annual charity ball there and I went out of curiosity. I recognized Derain and Braque among those who were dancing. But the Paris summer, with its pleasures and distractions, meant nothing to me. I left that gay place and decided to drop by Larionov’s place. He had invited me to a party and there, at least, I could have a couple of beers.
I entered a dark apartment, which a few candles barely managed to illuminate. The shadows made one think more of fall than of the brilliant light of summer, but I felt at home. In the dark corners and in the middle of the veil of cigarette smoke, I started to recognize all kinds of people I knew: painters, writers, philosophers—the splendor of our Russian exile culture in all its misery. The guests drank and argued in groups and pairs. They weren’t having a good time; they weren’t happy, which also made me feel like I fit in. There was no beer, but someone offered me a glass of white wine that refreshed my fingers pleasantly. I moved from one group to another. The circle around Larionov talked about Russian passports that now were in fact Soviet ones. In time, when everything had settled down, a few people said they would go back to their country.
“Go back? But why?” Larionov asked with a grimace.
“I want to give my support to our new, young country,” said a bald student from the shadows.
“And how exactly are you going to do that?”
“Through art. I’m a painter.”
“You know what I think? You go and give your support to the land of the revolution, and when you’re behind bars some place in Siberia, I will weep for your misfortune from a cafe terrace in Montparnasse and will toast your health with champagne.”
I moved away. This type of conversation was very much in vogue among the Russians and bored me to death. I sat down in an empty chair, letting myself be swayed gently by the talk around me. Bunin was holding forth that the tsar was at fault for the atrocities that had taken place in Russia after the revolution, for he was too soft and had a weak character. Everybody pretended noisily that they were in agreement with this.
I preferred to dedicate myself to the white wine. I had a look around the shadows and, from the best lit spots, I caught sight of a hand holding a glass or some smiling lips or a worn out shoe . . .
My eyes came to rest on a very young girl who had the air of something Chinese about her, like an oriental princess. Someone must have brought their daughter. She was sitting in a corner as if she wanted to melt into it. Next to her, a dark-haired woman was snoozing on the sofa. She woke up and addressed the girl. I recognized her as Natalia Goncharova and went over to say hello. She introduced me to her young friend, pronouncing her name for me slowly: Nina Nikolayevna Berberova. Then she started to complain, the way she usually did, that she had to work hard, that she often worked fourteen hours a day whereas Larionov, her husband, only painted when he felt like it.
“But he’s a great artist.”
The voice came from the corner, a voice with a contralto tone to it that I would never have suspected from such a young girl.
“Yes, indeed he is,” Goncharova sighed, and when she bowed her head, I noticed the thick net of white threads that embellished her black hair. “Sit down, Igor, if Nina doesn’t mind,” she told me. “I have to look after the other guests for a while.”
I sat in her place. But maybe because the young girl had such a fragile air about her, I sat on the sofa as far as I could from her, until I was rubbing up against the knees of some noisy young man. The girl kept giving furtive looks at a corner on the other side of the room, which was so dark I was unable to see if there was someone there or if the corner were empty. When she looked at me, Nina’s wide eyes had a touch of irony in them, but when they looked over at whatever was in the corner, they shone, dewy. The candlelight revealed a look of surrender. But, to whom?
“Which of Natalia Goncharova’s paintings do you like best, Nina Nikolayevna?” I asked to break the silence that had risen between us.
“I never tire of looking at her pictures of Moscow in the snow. But the one I like the most is that blue cow that looks like a pet. It seems as sweet as a teddy bear. If I had money, that’s the painting I’d buy from her.”
I started to talk about the The Donkey’s Tail, the group of painters that Larionov had founded when he still lived in Moscow ten or twelve years earlier, but Nina, clearly uninterested, only answered me in monosyllables. So I tried more philosophical subjects: freedom, my freedom, the freedom of one who depends on no man and no woman, on no government or ideology. The more she listened to my words, the more restless the girl got, and I realized that her face expressed a rejection so strong I lost the courage to go on. We fell silent. She must have gone on thinking about something while I wondered what else I could say. The silence made me feel uncomfortable.
But, as if she had read my thoughts, the girl said, “I like silence and solitude. I prefer to be silent, you know? But I want to tell you that I don’t agree with what you have just said. Because freedom, once obtained, is not difficult to bear, don’t you agree? In any event, it shouldn’t be for an adult person capable of reflection.”
Once again, it seemed to me that her words didn’t match her youthful appearance, and even less with the teddy bear she’d mentioned just a moment earlier. I wanted to protest, but Nina went on:
“I’m one of those people for whom the place where they were born has never been a symbol of safety or refuge. The awareness that I do not have this refuge, I find satisfying; I can even say that I like it. I have no homeland or political party, family or tribe. I don’t look for any, I don’t need any.”
Young people obliged to live without a defined set of values, often substitute theories for values. However, I didn’t want to initiate any controversy, not least because I wasn’t quite sure of my own position on this topic. So I limited myself to saying, “You live in Paris, you have a new homeland, new friends. Isn’t that a refuge?”
“We are just passing through Paris. The day after tomorrow, we go back to Berlin. But Berlin will not
become home for me, I’m sure of that.”
I looked at her, perplexed. Nonetheless it felt good to be next to her. Maybe in her company I could even manage to enjoy being silent. I felt respect and a little fear in her presence. But above all I needed to think about everything that we had said. While I shifted about on the sofa, restless, Nina sent another look into the darkness. I followed her eyes: a man’s figure moved in the corner on the other side of the room, a head was shaken, and a mane of long hair spread over the back of the chair.
“Monsieur, ce métro va à Billancourt?”
“Oui, monsieur. But there’s nothing interesting in Billancourt. Just factories and immigrants. The Russians were there before the war, and recently a lot of North Africans have moved there. I would suggest that you . . . ”
“Vous êtes très gentil, monsieur, mais je connais Paris assez bien. Bonne journée!”
Why tell him that my destination was the Renault factory? In any case, he wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told him I was going there to work; engineers usually travel by taxi. It is difficult to make someone understand that, after so many years, what I want is to savor the Paris metro. It hasn’t changed. I find the same weird characters as always: little old ladies heavily made up, who look like clowns giving their last performance; drunken and ever-courteous clochards. The only difference now is that there are more, and louder, tourists.
So this is Billancourt. The working-class outskirts that didn’t belong to Paris in our time and where, ever since the time of the Commune, the streets have been named after the leaders of the workers’ movement. I recognize a cafe; it had been a Russian dance hall and is now decorated with marble and mirrors as in the belle époque. But, as far as I can see, it doesn’t have many customers. Today people prefer to get out of the city, which has become disagreeable and inhumane; back then it was the city itself that didn’t accept people. It was very expensive. That is why Tsvetaeva lived in Meudon, Berdyaev in Clamart, Shestov and Remizov in Boulogne.
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