November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  “What a crazy notion. Why should you land in jail?”

  He had a full set of carpenter’s tools, and against and on the wall there were plant stands, shelves, and little cupboards of his making. When he married he had left everything at Bolshoi Afanasiev Street, as if acknowledging that this was the home he would never really leave. By now he had five children, and the family had moved from one apartment to another, from town to town. But this was still the nest in which he was most at home.

  What with his display of explosive high spirits, the warmth of his welcome, and the stories of his lively versatility, Alina herself cheered up. (What a good idea it had been to bring her here! This was how it should be. Life goes on, and we mustn’t let ourselves stagnate.)

  They reminisced briefly about Usdau and Rothfliess—events which now seemed almost as remote as the war with Japan. They remembered Aleksei Konstantinovich holding out there, at the station in Rothfliess with Nechvolodov. “A remarkable soldier,” Aleksei said of him, “but a monarchi-i-ist! A national-i-i-ist!”

  It turned out, however, that Aleksei’s older son, Boris, who was now an officer and had been at the front for a year, was also a monarchist and a nationalist, and displeased with his father.

  Well, well.

  Aleksei’s father-in-law, Infantry General Malakhov, was a courageous man. In 1905 it was he who, as commander of the Moscow Military District, had restored life to normal in the shattered city, and he had twice been a target for terrorists. Had none of this rubbed off on his son-in-law? Those disparaging remarks about Nechvolodov …!

  But there is a time for everything, entertainment included, and Aleksei did not intend to go on talking about the army in the field.

  “What about a little music?” he said.

  Was he a musician as well as everything else? Yes, he even composed, and wrote the lyrics for love songs.

  Alina was all smiles, eager to hear him. She was almost herself again—unconstrained and poised, and she even had color in her cheeks.

  “No, not that, Tchaikovsky would be better, what a pity Mikhail isn’t here.”

  He said it as though Mikhail was not away commanding a grenadier artillery brigade in the middle of the Great War, but had simply slipped out for an hour. As though the primary and permanent thing in the world was their family, and all else was incidental. What Aleksei meant was that Mikhail’s absence disrupted their trio: he played the cello. Vsevolod came limping in with his violin, and Aleksei skipped over to the piano and raised the lid.

  Tchaikovsky? He had written all sorts of romances. Heaven forbid that Aleksei should play one of the tragic ones, “Alone once more …” Alina was quite capable of bursting into tears before the whole company (and who could blame her? “After all that’s happened? I couldn’t help it!”). But whether it was just his cheerful nature, or because he was so glad to be back, or because he sensed that the lady visitor needed it, Aleksei struck up a cheerful, rollicking tune and sang in a rich baritone, emphasizing the humor with his intonations.

  Alina was laughing helplessly. And Vorotyntsev blessed his luck—she had no competition, since the “Japanese” lady had not arrived, and there were no happy couples for her to envy. This household of detached persons was ideal. Alina was enjoying herself, and had moved to sit at the piano with Aleksei Konstantinovich and turn his pages.

  The second love song was also a playful one, and Aleksei contrived to play and to sing while pretending to address his declaration to Alina, with the aid of the expressive bushy brows under his mirror-smooth scalp.

  “I shall say not a word, trouble you no more …”

  A splendid family, no doubt about it, and so versatile, with all their scientific, artistic, and practical skills. Why, then, as soon as the conversation turned to politics, did they echo so unoriginally the Kadets and the zemstvo hussars?

  The five brothers—one a general, the others colonels or lieutenant colonels—were all exceptional people, all experts. Five brothers! And just the kind of people who should be taking the initiative! Yet—could any one of them be relied on?

  “The night flowers sleep the long day through.

  But when the sun sinks behind the copse …”

  But perhaps this was how it should be? They were all ready to sacrifice their lives. What more could you ask?

  Next there was a duet, violin and piano. (An “ensemble,” Georgi remembered. Just what was needed.)

  They asked Alina to play. She sat at the piano, erect and solemn, and played three virtuoso pieces in succession, with backward jerks of the head.

  They congratulated her loudly. Aleksei clapped, and Alina looked like the happiest person on earth.

  Yes, it would all work out. This lively, comical character with the beard and the bald head had jolted Vorotyntsev too out of his anxiety. During those days at the guesthouse the world had not shrunk, not contracted, and one must not allow oneself to be constricted either. The tribulations which an hour ago had seemed intractable now proved to be in part imaginary. What, in reality, had happened? No one had died, no one was sick, no one had lost a limb or an eye—things that happened every minute in the front line. He hadn’t even suffered a flesh wound in the leg.

  He looked on as Aleksei, at the piano, recited one of his own poems. Alina listened with exaggerated attention, head bowed over the music rest. Vorotyntsev accepted another cup of tea from their hostess. He even felt drawn to the taciturn Pavel (who had uttered not a word—but had written a manual with Przewalsky).

  If only he could slip away without further explanation, without further delay, avoid a row—and leave for GHQ tomorrow.

  He had completed his tour of the two capitals. And found … Found whom? Found what?

  [59]

  From the Smyslovskys’ they hadn’t far to go: along Tsaritsyn Street to Prechistenka, then by Vsevolozhsky Street, past the headquarters of the Moscow Military District (Vorotyntsev’s own) to Ostozhenka Street, and they were home. By himself Georgi would have walked faster and been there in five minutes. But with the present awkwardness between them, and Alina deliberately dawdling, and Georgi adjusting his pace to hers, as she always wanted him to, progress was neither quick nor comfortable. Silence would have been oppressive, so he had to say something. But what could he possibly talk about?

  Well, their evening with the Smyslovskys, obviously. Who had done and said what. One sentence at a time. With pauses. Remarkable family. How versatile Aleksei Smyslovsky is.

  Alina listened. Said nothing, walked on.

  As they entered Tsaritsyn Street, Vorotyntsev suddenly saw a brilliant light directly ahead of him. He looked up. Dark cloud covered the sky, but you only knew that because it was pierced by a deep hole with pitch-black edges and a luminous interior. Through this rift you could see not the moon itself but a subdued light like that from a mysterious lantern, or an opaque window in the wall of a dark castle.

  He halted, and held Alina back.

  “Just look at that!”

  Ordinarily she would have been thrilled, deeply moved even, and would have stood admiring the sight. But now she gave it one indifferent stare, said nothing, and stirred impatiently.

  They walked on. Things looked bad.

  Good, here was Prechistenka. Cabbies were converging on an all-night tearoom, leaving their vehicles lined up along Ostozhenka Street. They gave their horses oats in nose bags, and, whip handle lodged in boot, went to warm themselves with a glass of tea and exchange a few words.

  The Sunday evening quiet was broken by a rumbling, distant at first, then gradually, alarmingly louder. It was an army truck, empty of course, except for two soldiers in the back. It emerged from the square, rounded the corner with squealing tires, honked earsplittingly at a cab and a bunch of slow-moving pedestrians outside Military District HQ, and drove on just as noisily toward the Supply Depot.

  Vorotyntsev had noticed more than once, in Moscow and in Petersburg, this new habit of driving empty trucks at high speed (loaded they w
ere slower), as though the outcome of the war hung on their pointless careering. Soldiers not sent to the front charged around out of sheer joie de vivre: Look at us go! Look what a punch we pack! Out of our way! Their officers for some reason did not try to restrain them. Civilians were exasperated and alarmed by their behavior. It made them feel that something dreadful was about to happen.

  Alina did not turn her head, did not notice the truck. But her neck was unbent and her head held high.

  They entered Vsevolozhsky Street, and it was impossible not to see that the way ahead was brightly lit: the castle in the sky had been blown away, nothing was left of it, and the moon, already beginning to wane, and chipped on its right side, floated freely among the bright little clouds.

  It was the same moon that Olda had pointed out to him when it was new.

  “Do look!” He could not help himself, though it might seem like an attempt to distract her with a weather report.

  She gave it the briefest of glances, and this time did not even pause.

  As they reached the end of Vsevolozhsky Street a black paw stole across the sky and clutched the moon in its claws.

  “That duet of theirs was really nice. And to think they can even manage a trio.”

  “So how did I play today?”

  Hmm, yes, missed a trick there. Should have started with that. Georgi was out of practice, and had forgotten that he was expected always to take note of what she played, and how. Not that he ever failed to enjoy her playing. He had loved her for that first of all, from the moment they met. He had always enjoyed it without reservation. But today there had been a nagging doubt. He could, of course, say “marvelous,” “better than ever,” but petty deception weighed upon him. More honest, surely, to speak his mind? Keep up the candor, the complete honesty, which had so unexpectedly begun to color their relationship at the deserted guesthouse? It was like shedding a burden and finding that you could straighten your back again.

  Something bothered me a little, my dear girl. Let me tell you about it in the friendliest possible way, it will make things easier for both of us.

  “Do you know what I particularly like about the way the brothers play? It’s their demeanor. They’re quite good players, of course, but they know very well that they aren’t geniuses. So they behave in that half-humorous, unbuttoned way. As if they were making fun of themselves and apologizing for their inadequacy.”

  They were passing under a streetlamp at that moment and he could see that Alina was frowning.

  Should he go on? Now that he had started … But try to let her down lightly.

  “Whereas you … there’s none of that jokiness in you. You sit there looking every inch the virtuoso, completely absorbed in your playing, assuming that everybody is listening with rapt attention.”

  “Yes,” Alina said, with a toss of her head, “because I take music very seriously. Because it’s my life.”

  They were too far from the streetlamp now for him to see her clearly, but her speech was clipped and toneless.

  More gently still: “That’s true, Alina dear. But good taste demands that even at serious moments we mustn’t look pretentious.”

  Alina, upset, missed her step.

  “This is something new! Are you saying that I have poor taste? Till now our tastes seemed to coincide completely, which was why we got along so well.” Alina’s voice hardened. “And now you’ve realized that I don’t have good taste! It’s since Petersburg, is it?”

  “Petersburg has nothing to do with it. It’s not something new. You don’t always realize, Alina dear, how … positive … you are in your opinions … in company you’re sometimes just a little … uncompromising …”

  Now you’ve put your foot in it! Talk yourself out of this! … What possessed you to start bringing up such trifles? When all he need do was to hold out for a few hours until Svechin’s telegram came.

  “No, it’s since Petersburg!” Alina insisted, almost affectionately, placing her hand on the lapel of his greatcoat. “Admit it, you can see now what you couldn’t see before.”

  They were now completely out of step. He gripped her arm and hurried her along.

  “Petersburg doesn’t come into it … All right, it’s since Petersburg, but it’s really since …”

  Alina had started walking briskly, there was no need to draw her along. She started speaking in short bursts, as if she was slashing him with a whip.

  “Tell me. Is she really such a remarkable woman, such a prodigy of a woman, that she could completely change your whole outlook in a few days? Transform your tastes?”

  Georgi was careful not to sound irritated himself. But he could not leave such a blunt question unanswered.

  “Well, you know … we learn something from everybody we meet in this life … it isn’t just her … but in a way it’s partly her …” (A thrill ran through him at the memory of Olda, even when her name was not mentioned.)

  “She has nothing but good qualities? Broadly educated, a genius? Effortless expertise in absolutely everything, not just history? Only she can’t play the piano!”

  They were now crossing Ostozhenka Street, and nearly home. The sky was dark. The little church half hidden among the houses was in darkness. But a gas lamp projected just enough light to the middle of the street for him to see that Alina’s face, from chin to temple, was contorted by suffering. Oh, God—what had he done now, idiot, clumsy oaf that he was!

  Their path was briefly barred by a horse pulling, with head held high, bell jingling, a cab on pneumatic tires, and seated in it a dignified lady wearing an enormous hat.

  “And I’m a nonentity, is that it?” Alina asked, standing in the middle of the street, her voice rising to a shriek, as if she hoped for, demanded confirmation.

  He drew her away, led her to the sidewalk, but made up his mind to say no more. This only made matters worse, but he couldn’t truckle to her, couldn’t say, “You’re brilliantly talented.”

  They had reached the front door of their building. They went upstairs. Silently. Entered the home they shared—strangers to each other. Second floor. Still without a word. Third floor. What a stupid conversation.

  “Please forgive me, Alina dear. I didn’t mean it. Of course I don’t think anything of the sort. You know that I just… Oh—a telegram … For me. From GHQ. Urgent recall. Report without delay … That’s it, then. I’ll have to go. Wasn’t expecting this. Please forgive me, Alina, love …”

  She seemed not to have understood or even seen the telegram.

  He helped her off with her coat. She wrenched herself out of it as if it were on fire.

  She rushed across their little dining room into her own room. But she returned immediately, lit the big lamp in the dining room, went up to her husband, who had barely had time to unbuckle his sword and was still holding it in his hand, and said in a strained voice, “Let me look at you! Let me look at you!”

  Pent-up anger flared in her eyes. Where now was that spellbound docility, that trancelike indifference? That emanation of a spiritual radiance acquired by bitter suffering?

  What did it mean, this “let me look at you”? He simply could not understand. She had something extraordinary in mind, but what? She stared at him, he stared back. As well as her blazing anger and the harshness of her expression he could see the bitterness welling up in her defenseless slender neck. She was utterly unlike herself—the self that he knew. Looking at that painfully swollen throat, he felt a sharp pang of pity for her helplessness. And although he had already begged her to forgive him—why, oh, why had he hurt her so unnecessarily. He held out his hands again, and took her elbows, to say it all again, more fully, more eloquently.

  “Compare us all you like! If she really is such a superior person she won’t want to share her life with a mediocrity, a failed army officer!”

  She freed her elbows, turned on her heel, and went back to her room. He heard her lock the door.

  He stood there, lost in thought, still wearing his greatcoat. Yes,
what she had said was probably true.

  He took off his coat and hung it up. Share his life? But when, if ever, had Alina ever shared his way of looking at things?

  What should he do? Knock on her door, crawl to her? He had begged her forgiveness, that was enough.

  He put out the light in the dining room. All the lights.

  All right, then, get some sleep on this last night, instead of listening to her sobbing and whispering, and trying to soothe her.

  He stretched out on the sofa in his study and lit a cigarette.

  Things would look better in the morning.

  He slept a deep, dreamless sleep, without once awakening, even when he turned over.

  He woke up later than usual. Instead of jumping out of bed at once he lay there in the unbroken silence.

  Whatever happened he would not stay there another day. No matter what new twist she thought up. Not even if she clung to him in the doorway and screamed. Perhaps he could slip out quietly, without breakfast, while she was still asleep, and catch the first train?

  He rose, walked on tiptoe, and put on his slippers—boots might creak.

  But the door from the dining room to Alina’s room was open. In the dining room everything was as it had been the night before. No preparations for breakfast had been made.

  In the middle of the table stood a photograph of Alina wearing a broad-brimmed hat, and there was a sheet of white paper propped up against its inclined frame.

  A note written in her mannered hand, with curlicues like the tails of comets. But with a new savagery about it.

  “I despise myself for humiliating myself, for tolerating, for wanting a show of affection from you in that wretched guesthouse! It was like committing incest!” The upstrokes and downstrokes were like so many sturdy stems onto which the letters were grafted. But Georgi knew that their sturdiness was only apparent and that they would scarcely support those word clusters for another five minutes.