November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  But it was late, he was so very tired … and doing his best to look more tired than he was.

  He needn’t have bothered. Alina proudly raised her head. There was no sign of illness or exhaustion as she looked into his eyes and said slowly and clearly, “It’s my birthday. You’ve ruined it for me. And it was to have been such an important one.”

  She turned away, slipping out of his slack hold, walked, heels clicking, over the parquet floor, and disappeared into the bedroom, noisily turning the key left there in readiness.

  What a relief! How good to sleep alone, at ease, unconstrained, with no need at all to pretend! He could have his sleep at last.

  He would have liked a bite of supper. Should he raid the sideboard? Look in the kitchen? No, it would be safer to put the light out quickly, and not risk a replay of their conversation.

  One last cigarette—in the dark. In one sense this birthday had come around just in time. He had disgraced himself with his response to Guchkov. But Guchkov might have been even more upset to be told that the Russian soldier was the least of his concerns. How could you expect him to think of anything except a brilliant victory? Besides, there was no knowing what Guchkov might have involved him in. Was that really the path he wanted to follow? Surely not.

  It was very easy to be mistaken about those you thought were on your side.

  He felt just as much at odds with Shingarev.

  It was only on the train on the way home, not last night at Cubat’s, that Vorotyntsev had seen the trap he was falling into. The Emperor was boundlessly devoted to the Allies, whatever the cost in Russian blood, but so were the Kadet opposition, and so were the conspirators—just as devoted to the same Allies, and at the same price.

  He had imagined himself at one with them—but had quickly reached the parting of the ways. He had found no cause worthy of his efforts. And now there was this other problem: what did the future hold for Alina and himself?

  It was sickening to have to lie—lie with his looks, even with his hands. And it was a dirty trick to play on her.

  He wouldn’t be able to stand it for long. He would have to slip away and get to GHQ.

  All that she had suffered that week could not be so easily forgiven. It wasn’t just a red-letter day, an annual celebration, it symbolized their togetherness.

  After that evening at Muma’s, when Georgi, without doing or saying anything very much, had unexpectedly made such a favorable impression on everybody, Susanna and others had insisted on seeing him again when he returned, and this had given Alina the idea of inviting lots of guests on her birthday to hear all that he could tell them. They had all been given advanced notice.

  It would not have been like her to spend that week passively waiting after he had fallen silent, broken contact, trampled everything underfoot. She was temperamentally more inclined to rush in impetuously and demand an explanation. He was still less than two days late when she bought a ticket for Petrograd, and imagined herself confronting him there—how abjectly apologetic he would be! But suddenly she felt unwell … a chill, a heavy cold, a headache … she lost her appetite … took to her bed … and the days in which she might have reassured herself ran out. Her pride left her with only one course of action—to put off her guests, pretending that she and her husband had decided to celebrate by themselves, away from Moscow. It was not too late, perhaps, but she could not possibly renew the invitations now.

  Georgi had become infinitely rougher and more bearish as the war went on. She had realized it last year, when she visited him in Bukovina. It had been her birthday then too—an important one, her thirtieth—the end of a decade—and that too had been a dismal event. Her husband had forgotten how they used to cherish and revel in all their family anniversaries: the day on which he had proposed, the day of their first kiss, the day of their betrothal, their wedding day. He had become insensitive, and it was her womanly duty, no matter how long it took, to soften him and humanize him again.

  She had heard a musicologist say, in an interesting lecture, that Pushkin had shown his psychological insight in crediting Herman with no emotions except those of the compulsive gambler: Lisa, to him, was no more than a front-door key. It was the Chaikovsky brothers who had, implausibly, introduced Herman’s love for Lisa, and ruined what had been a straightforward story line.

  Maybe Georgi was like Pushkin’s hero, except that his passion was not cards but—but what? Maps, perhaps.

  She could, of course, leave it at that—act as though nothing had happened. His delay was unpardonable, but still, he had returned, and it was still the day before her birthday.

  Alina was certainly not one to look for quarrels and lengthy arguments. She liked domestic harmony, with nothing to disturb the orderly and comfortable routine which she had created. But with this went a need to feel, to be constantly aware, that she was appreciated.

  [52]

  The light of the morning sun rising over the Moscow River found its way through two of their windows. The last two days had been cold and dull—indeed the weather had been foul throughout the autumn months. But suddenly, on Alina’s birthday the sun had peeped out. A good omen! A symbol! Time to shed the cares that weighed so heavily. To behave as if last night had seen the end of all that was bad, and only good things could happen today. Alina had no wish to nurse a grudge.

  She emerged from the bedroom fully dressed, wearing a dress with a high collar.

  Georgi had already shaved and put on his uniform, complete with sword belt. He sat waiting for her in the living room. When he was anxious to please he could be very sweet, and even found it in himself to be gallant. He rose to meet her with a friendly smile. And carrying a present.

  He embraced her tenderly, and kissed her.

  The present was nothing very much, not something planned long in advance, just a little thing picked up the other day in Petersburg—an expandable bracelet in finely wrought gold. In a pretty little case.

  He put it around her arm himself.

  No good comes of prolonging quarrels. Alina did not want to dwell on her grievances. She was determined to be happy. Georgi couldn’t help the way he was—why be annoyed with him.

  Shortly afterward the little Chinese bell summoned him to breakfast.

  A quiet, cozy breakfast. With the sun shining. Alina was as cheerful as a little bird. Her very own, special day. Today she had to be merry, had to be happy.

  “But you see, Georgi, I told everybody that you and I would be away today. We simply can’t stay here now, we’ll have to go somewhere.”

  He frowned slightly. He didn’t much like the idea. A cloud passed over his brow.

  “We can invite people some other day.”

  “Grumpy! You just want to sit at your desk the whole time. It’s your own fault you were late. And just look at the weather! Let’s go out of town!”

  “Where, though?”

  They exchanged suggestions. Alina wanted somewhere with a hotel or guesthouse, so that they could stay overnight if they felt like it.

  “Maybe S …? There’s an idea! The lake, at S …!”

  “Lake, you call it? More like a pond!”

  “Well, you used to call it a lake!”

  They agreed on that.

  But although they wasted no time getting ready the sun was shining less brightly when they left the house, and the sky was grayer all the time.

  In spite of the weather, the canceled party, and the guests forgone, Alina had resolved not to sulk or show resentment, but to act as though it was all for the best. He must, sometime or other, be made to feel what it meant to have a wife. Back with the army he would soon get hard and cross again.

  But as they traveled in the suburban train a keen wind sprang up, chasing dark gray rain clouds until they covered the sky.

  Alina thought of a game to while the time away: they would both try to recall all their birthdays, wedding anniversaries, Christmases, and New Years—where they were, in what circumstances, and with whom they had celebrate
d.

  Alina did most of the remembering. Georgi seemed rather halfhearted about it. She noticed again, as she had earlier that morning, that from time to time he sighed heavily.

  “Why are you sighing like that?”

  He was surprised. “Was I? I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “Very deep sighs. You were the same after East Prussia. You kept sighing just like that all the time you were in Moscow.”

  He shook his head in surprise.

  She took pity on him, and laid her hand on his to soothe him.

  “Have you got a lot of worries? Was your trip a disappointment?”

  He frowned.

  “Y-yes, I suppose so … yes … it was disappointing.”

  Alina had looked forward to boating on the lake. Not a chance! The rowboats were all beached and upside down, there were no oars, and the sky was now so dark that no one would wish to go out on the water.

  But she so much wanted to do something out of the ordinary!

  Their one stroke of luck was with the guesthouse: it was open, there were vacancies, and meals were served. There were several rooms to choose from, and they took a pleasant corner room on the second floor, with one window looking out on a forest, and a view of the lake from the other. It was warm in the room too. And the chambermaid had stoked up the Dutch stove from the corridor side—wood was plentiful there, not like in town. Hurrah, let’s stay the night! It will be so cozy!

  Once settled in, once thoroughly warmed—what next? A walk?

  They went for a walk.

  Alina took it into her head to gather a bouquet of autumn leaves, a medley of beautiful autumn colors. But there were no red leaves to be found anywhere. And hardly any pure yellow ones. Nothing but withered brown things, and twigs with cones.

  What was to have been a thing of beauty never took shape.

  Anyway, it’s no fun unless both of you have your hearts in it. If you are like a frolicsome child, and your companion like a severe and humorless nursemaid who doesn’t want to hop and skip and climb trees, and won’t let you do any of those things … She had forgiven him, but he wasn’t grateful, there was no break in the clouds. Something was weighing on his mind.

  More sighs. Why had he gotten into that habit again? Just for today he might try to restrain himself.

  The weather was steadily worsening, the wind was freshening, driving the clouds into a compact gray mass. Chilled to the bone even with her fur collar up, Alina started shivering. Her husband did then put one arm around her. And they went back to the guesthouse.

  I know—maybe there’s a piano here? I could play for you, I would love to play for you!

  Yes, there was an upright piano. But it was badly out of tune, it jarred on the ear. Alina was so annoyed that she flared up and scolded the landlady.

  “How can you keep an instrument in this condition? Why have it at all if this is the best you can do? Some guesthouse this is!”

  She was as distressed by the plight of the out-of-tune piano as if it were a neglected living creature. Which was what she was beginning to feel like herself…

  On her special day. She had meant to enjoy it at all costs, and now it was almost in ruins.

  How could she make it enjoyable all by herself? It took two. But Georgi was gloomy, as gloomy as could be. He had spoiled everything, upset everything. He’d been forgiven—and now look at him.

  Swirling showers, not very heavy, and soon over, swept the guesthouse, coming from different directions, as they could tell from a multitude of rapid, oblique drops on the windowpanes, more and more conspicuous as they began to turn into sleet or snow. Whenever such a flurry of rain and snow, whipped up by a gusty wind, lashed and bespattered the guesthouse, it seemed that foul weather had set in for a week.

  Left with nothing else to do, they went downstairs to dine. There wasn’t much choice, but the food they had ordered an hour earlier was ready for them. Port wine was served.

  Georgi started proposing a toast, to her. All that was lacking was a sparkling table, and a dozen guests, like those she had previously invited. But even with just the two of them, and even in that half-dark dining room, he could have said something more eloquent and more heartfelt. Why, when there was no one else to hear, when he was almost whispering in her ear, why was it costing him such an effort, why was he speaking so clumsily, so unlike him—words tumbling over each other, sentences unraveling, as if he’d completely forgotten how to do it? He rambled, said nothing explicit about their love for one another, or their future, or, really, about his wishes for her on her birthday …

  Instead of being happy she felt sick at heart.

  Then the dinner turned out to be an unsavory mess, not a bit birthday-like. The rice that came with it was sticky, soaked in something brown, and, even so, quite dry.

  “Do you remember,” Alina asked, “we read somewhere that in China a man suspected of a crime is made to eat dry rice, and if he’s too agitated to salivate, and can’t swallow, that’s taken as proof of his guilt?”

  The untouched heap of brown rice on her plate suddenly seemed to swell as she looked at it—like a symbol of her ruined and ravaged birthday. And perhaps of something more. From now on, whenever she found herself remembering birthdays, those dark flurries outside and that brown rice would surface.

  Alina’s eyes filled with tears. But she held herself in check.

  Her husband seemed not even to notice. He was smoking. The blustering wind hurled spinning snowflakes in waves against the windows. By now it was so dark inside that lamps were brought in with the dessert.

  When they went up to their room the lamp had been lit there. But it was not yet night: there was still a long, long evening ahead of them.

  A small square room: two beds, two bedside tables, a chest of drawers, and a dressing table. The dreariness of it. If only they were in town! Should they go back? … In that storm and in the dark?

  If only there had been a piano! I’d have played and played for you, all evening.

  Yes, oh yes! He wished it as fervently as she did, he always liked that. Liked to soften his harsh nature with music.

  What, though, what could they do to pass the time? If they hadn’t been in too much of a hurry to think of it they could have brought some roast nuts. She would lie down, and he would sit by the bed and crack them: one for you, one for me, bad ones don’t count.

  At home they could think of lots of things, and they both had things of their own to do, but here, alone together and with nothing on hand, what could they think up?

  Georgi found a nail and hung his sword on the bare wall, not in the closet. He wandered around like a lost soul, pausing now and then to press his forehead against the windowpane.

  Alina sat before the mirror. For a birthday girl she looked pretty miserable.

  “Well—this is some birthday we’re having, thanks to you. Worse than a bad joke.”

  He just stood there, pressing his forehead against the dark windowpane.

  She felt like crying. It cost her a great effort not to burst into tears.

  Georgi came over and sat on the bed, arms folded. Saying nothing. Sighing again.

  “Look at you!” Alina burst out. “Why are you so gloomy? Why do you keep sighing all the time, as if you’d just come from a funeral?”

  She could see the tragic look in his eyes reflected in the mirror—and suddenly, without knowing why, she was afraid, she recoiled from the mirror, and screamed, beside herself: “Wha-a-a-at is it? What’s wrong?”

  He was not surprised by her scream—and that frightened her all the more. He averted his eyes, rested one hand on the bedstead, and sat there hanging his head.

  His sword hung like a threat on the naked wall behind them.

  Alina faltered. Perhaps she ought not to ask, perhaps it was better not to look for an explanation.

  But how could she hold out till morning, cooped up in that poky little room with those funereal sighs?

  “Georgi! What has happened?” Alina a
sked, fearfully, urgently. “Why aren’t you looking at me? Look at me!”

  He looked. As though every bit of him ached, as though his lips could not form words. His voice was muffled, hollow, broken.

  “I … I … don’t know how to tell you …”

  If Georgi had ever lived through such a luckless day it was so long ago that he had forgotten. Every movement, every word cost him an effort. How he longed to be out of it, the very next day, to take the train and be off to Mogilev. But no, he had to do something to make amends for his lateness and for the wrecked birthday. Had to stay on in Moscow for a while. He dared not say a word about GHQ just yet.

  For the first time in his life he had to pretend to his wife, show emotions which he did not feel, celebrate, when he felt numb all over, let his tongue utter words which came neither from his heart nor from his head.

  For one day it might be possible—but must it now be forever?

  A ball and chain too heavy to drag.

  But he was conscience-stricken, and sorry for Alina. He had sincerely wanted to be kind and attentive today. But he felt completely lifeless.

  He was sorry for her, and his pity was especially acute when she had almost burst into tears over the brown rice that was impossible to swallow. Surely she deserved a better birthday than this?

  He could see everything falling apart, everything going to rack and ruin, and there was nothing he could do to put it right. He could not alter his looks, his tone of voice. (Lifeless he felt, yet deep, deep down in his breast, though no longer full of her, he clung to Olda, cherished her, felt her stirring within him.)

  If only we could get out of here and back to Moscow, this very evening! But no, we have to wait for good weather.

  Shut up in a little square room, condemned to togetherness, tête-à-tête.

  So lifeless that pretending was the hardest thing of all. And anyway, how could he go on hiding all his life? He would not give up Olda for anything in the world, so was this how it would be for the rest of his life?