“And the grief of my poor, forsaken mother?” she asked herself, becoming flustered and finding no riposte to her own question. Yelena did not know that everyone’s happiness is based on the unhappiness of another; that, to have even comfort and well-being requires, as a statue does a pedestal, that others should lack them.
“Rendich,” Insarov whispered in his sleep.
Yelena went up to him on tiptoe, bent over him and wiped the sweat from his face. He tossed his head a little on the pillow and was still again.
She went up to the window again and was again lost in thought. She began to try to persuade herself, to reassure herself that there was no reason to be afraid. She even felt ashamed of her weakness. “Is there danger? Is he no better?” she whispered. “You know, if we hadn’t been to the theatre today, none of this would ever have entered my head.” At that moment she saw, high above the water, a white seagull; it had probably been disturbed by a fisherman and was wheeling silently, as if seeking a place to land. “If it flies this way,” thought Yelena, “it will be a good sign…” The seagull circled, folded its wings and, with a plaintive cry, sank, as if shot, somewhere in the distance, beyond a dark ship. Yelena shuddered, then felt ashamed that she had shuddered and, without undressing, lay down on the bed beside Insarov, whose breathing was heavy and rapid.
34
Insarov woke up late, with a dull headache and a feeling, as he put it, of ghastly weakness throughout his body. However, he got up.
“Has Rendich not come?” was his first question.
“Not yet,” replied Yelena, giving him the latest number of the Osservatore Triestino,* in which there was much talk of war, of the Slav lands and the Principalities. Insarov began to read; Yelena set about making coffee for him… Someone knocked at the door.
“Rendich,” they both thought, but the visitor said in Russian: “May I come in?” Yelena and Insarov looked at each other in amazement and, without waiting for their answer, into the room came a fashionably dressed man with a small, sharp-featured face and lively little eyes. He was beaming all over as if he had just won an enormous sum of money or heard the most pleasant of news.
Insarov rose from his chair.
“You don’t recognize me,” said the stranger, going jauntily up to him and bowing affably to Yelena. “Lupoyarov. Do you remember, we met at the E—s’ in Moscow?”
“Yes, at the E—s’,” said Insarov.
“Indeed, indeed! Please introduce me to your wife. Madam, I’ve always had profound respect for Dmitry Vasilyevich.” He corrected himself: “Nikanor Vasilyevich – and I’m very happy that I finally have the honour of making your acquaintance. Imagine,” he continued, turning to Insarov, “it was only yesterday evening that I learnt you were here. I’m also staying at this hotel. What a city this Venice is – poetry, no more, no less! Only one drawback – blasted Austrians at every end and turn! I hate these Austrians! By the way, have you heard there’s been a decisive battle on the Danube: three hundred Turkish officers killed. Silistra taken.* Serbia has already declared independence. As a patriot, you must be delighted, mustn’t you? Even my Slavic blood is on fire! However, I advise you to be more careful: I’m certain you’re being watched. The spying here is terrible. Yesterday a suspicious-looking character came up to me and asked whether I was Russian. I told him I was a Dane… Only you must be unwell, my dear Nikanor Vasilyevich. You must have treatment. Madam, you must get treatment for your husband. Yesterday I was running about the palaces and churches like a thing possessed – you’ve been to the Doge’s Palace, haven’t you? What riches everywhere! Especially that great hall and the place where Marino Faliero* should be: “Decapitati pro criminibus”* it says. I’ve also been in the famous prisons; that really turned my stomach – perhaps you recall how I always liked to concern myself with social questions and opposed the aristocracy. That’s where I’d put the supporters of the aristocracy – in these prisons. Byron was quite right when he said: ‘I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs’;* however, he was an aristocrat too. I’ve always been in favour of progress. The younger generation is all for progress. But what about the Anglo-French? Boustrapa and Palmerston.* Let’s see if they’ll do much. Did you know Palmerston has become Prime Minister?* No, whatever you say, the Russian fist is not to be trifled with. That Boustrapa is a terrible crook! Would you like me to give you a copy of Les Châtiments by Victor Hugo? It’s amazing! ‘L’avenir – le gendarme de Dieu’* – rather strongly put, but what strength, what strength. Prince Vyazemsky also has some good lines:
“…Europa
Repeats Bash-Kadyk-Lar* but pays heed to Sinope.
“I love poetry. I’ve also got Proudhon’s latest book;* I’ve got everything. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad of the war; but supposing I get summoned home? That’s why I intend to go from here to Florence and Rome. I can’t go to France, so I think I’ll go to Spain. They say the women there are amazing, but there’s poverty and a lot of insects. I would nip off to California – nothing’s beyond us Russians – but I promised some editor to make a detailed study of trade in the Mediterranean. You’ll tell me the subject is dull, specialized, but we really do need specialists. We’ve done enough philosophizing: we need pragmatism, pragmatism… But you’re very unwell, Nikanor Vasilyevich; perhaps I’m tiring you. Never mind, I’ll just sit here for a bit…”
Lupoyarov rattled on like this for a long time and, as he left, promised to call again.
Exhausted by this unexpected visit, Insarov lay down on the sofa.
“There,” he said bitterly, glancing at Yelena, “there’s your younger generation for you! Some of them swagger and put on airs, but at heart they’re as fatuous as that gentleman.”
Yelena did not reply to her husband; at that moment she was more worried about Insarov’s weakness than the state of the entire younger generation in Russia… She sat down beside him and took up her work. He closed his eyes and lay motionless, pale and gaunt. Yelena looked at his sharply delineated profile, at his outstretched arms, and sudden fear made her heart ache.
“Dmitry,” she began.
He started.
“What? Has Rendich come?”
“Not yet… You’ve got a fever, you’re really not very well. What do you think – should we send for a doctor?”
“That windbag has scared you. There’s no need. I’ll rest for a bit and everything will pass over. After dinner we’ll go out again… somewhere.”
Two hours passed… Insarov still lay on the sofa but could not sleep, although he did not open his eyes. Yelena did not leave him; she let her work fall onto her knees and did not stir.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” she asked him finally.
“Just a moment.” He took her hand and placed it under his head. “There…that’s nice. Wake me at once as soon as Rendich arrives. If he says the boat is ready, we’ll set off at once… We must pack everything up.”
“It won’t take long to pack,” replied Yelena.
“What was that fellow blathering on about a battle, about Serbia,” said Insarov after a short pause. “He must have made it all up. But we must go. We must. We can’t waste any time… Be ready.”
He fell asleep and everything fell quiet in the room.
Yelena leant her head against the back of the armchair and gazed out of the window for a long time. The weather had worsened; the wind had risen. Big white clouds scudded quickly across the sky, a slender mast swayed in the distance, a long pennant with a red cross repeatedly rose, fell and rose again. The pendulum of the old-fashioned clock swished mournfully to and fro. Yelena closed her eyes. She had slept badly all night; gradually she too fell asleep.
She had a strange dream. She was in a boat on the pond at Tsaritsyno with some people she did not know. They were not speaking and were sitting motionless; no one was rowing – the boat was moving of its own accord. Yelena was
not afraid but was bored; she wanted to know who these people were and why she was with them. She looked, and the pond grew wider and the banks disappeared – it was no longer a pond but a troubled sea; huge, silent, azure waves rocked the boat majestically; something tumultuous and threatening rose from the depths; her unknown companions suddenly jumped up, yelling and waving their arms… Yelena recognized their faces: her father was among them. But a kind of white whirlwind whipped up the waves… everything began to spin and merge…
Yelena looked round: everything around was white, as it had been before, but this was snow, snow, endless snow. And she was no longer in the boat; she was in a sledge, as she had been when she left Moscow. She was not alone: beside her sat a small figure, wrapped in an old cloak. Yelena looked more closely: it was Katya, her destitute friend. Terror seized Yelena. “Surely she’s dead,” she thought.
“Katya, where are you and I going?”
Katya did not answer and wound her cloak around her; she was freezing. Yelena was also cold; she looked along the road: a town could be seen through the powdery snow. Tall white towers with silver cupolas… “Katya, Katya, is that Moscow? No,” thought Yelena, “it’s the Solovetsky Monastery;* it’s like a beehive – in it there are lots and lots of narrow little cells. It’s stuffy and cramped in there, and it’s where Dmitry is locked up. I must free him.” Suddenly a grey, yawning chasm opened up before her, The sledge was falling. Katya was laughing. “Yelena! Yelena!” came a voice from the chasm.
“Yelena!” sounded distinctly in her ears. She raised her head quickly, turned round and was stunned: Insarov, as white as snow, the snow of her dream, had half-risen from the sofa and was looking at her with big, bright, terrifying eyes. His hair was plastered over his forehead, his lips were strangely parted. Horror, mingled with a kind of wistful tenderness, was expressed in his suddenly altered features.
“Yelena!” he said. “I’m dying.”
She fell to her knees with a cry and pressed herself to his breast.
“I’m dying,” Insarov repeated. “Everything is finished. Goodbye, my poor darling. Goodbye, my homeland!”
And he fell flat on his back onto the sofa.
Yelena ran out of the room and began to call for help; the cameriere rushed off to get the doctor. Yelena clung to Insarov.
At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, a broad-shouldered, sunburnt man in a thick frieze coat and a low-brimmed oilskin hat. He paused, perplexed.
“Rendich!” cried Yelena. “It’s you! Look at him, for Heaven’s sake. He’s in a bad way! What’s the matter with him? My God! My God! He went out yesterday and was talking to me just now…”
Rendich said nothing and merely stood aside. A small bewigged and bespectacled figure slipped rapidly past him. It was a doctor who was staying in the same hotel. He went up to Insarov.
“Signora,” he said after a few moments, “the foreign gentleman has died – il signore forestiere e morto – from an aneurism and a disorder of the lungs.”
35
The next day, in the same room, Rendich was standing by the window; in front of him, wrapped in a shawl, sat Yelena. In the next room Insarov lay in a coffin. Yelena’s face was frightened and lifeless; two creases had appeared on her forehead, between her eyebrows. They imparted a strained expression to her immobile eyes. On the window ledge lay an opened letter from Anna Vasilyevna. She was inviting her daughter to Moscow, if only for a month, and complaining about her loneliness and about Nikolai Artemyevich; she sent regards to Insarov, enquired after his health and asked him to allow his wife to accept the invitation.
Rendich was a Dalmatian, a seaman whose acquaintance Insarov had made during his visit to his homeland and whom he had sought out in Venice. He was a stern, rough-hewn man, brave and devoted to the Slav cause. He despised the Turks and hated the Austrians.
“How long do you have to stay in Venice?” Yelena asked him in Italian. Her voice was lifeless, as was her face.
“A day, so as to load up and not arouse suspicion. Then straight to Zara. This will not be good news for our fellow countrymen. They’ve been waiting for him for a long time; they had pinned their hopes on him.”
“Had pinned their hopes on him,” Yelena repeated mechanically.
“When will you bury him?” Rendich asked.
Yelena did not immediately reply.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I’ll stay. I want to throw a handful of earth into his grave. Then I must help you too. But it would be better for him to lie in Slav soil.”
Yelena looked at Rendich.
“Captain,” she said, “take us both with you across the sea, far from here. Is that possible?”
Rendich pondered the matter.
“It’s possible, but a lot of trouble. We’ll have to negotiate with the cursed local officialdom. But suppose we sort everything out and bury him there, how will I get you back here?”
“You won’t have to.”
“What? But where will you stay?”
“I’ll find a place for myself. Just take us; take me.”
Rendich scratched the back of his neck.
“As you wish, but it’ll all be a lot of trouble. I’ll go and try; wait for me here in about two hours.”
He left. Yelena went into the next room, leant against the wall and stood for a long time as if turned to stone. Then she sank to her knees, but could not pray. There were no reproaches in her heart; she did dare to question God as to why he had not spared them, taken pity on them or protected them. Why was their punishment greater than their guilt, if indeed they were guilty? Each of us is guilty by virtue of being alive, and there is no thinker so great, no benefactor of mankind who, because of the good he has done, can rely on having the right to live… But Yelena could not pray: she was turned to stone.
That same night a broad-beamed boat cast off from the hotel where the Insarovs had stayed. In the boat were Yelena and Rendich and a long box covered with a black cloth. They rowed for about an hour, arriving finally at a small two-master which stood at anchor right at the harbour entrance. Yelena and Rendich went on board; the sailors took in the box. Around midnight a storm broke, but by early morning the ship had already passed the Lido. In the course of the day the storm raged with terrible force and the experienced seamen in Lloyds offices shook their heads and expected the worst. The Adriatic between Venice, Trieste and the Dalmatian coast is extremely dangerous.
Some three weeks after Yelena left Venice, Anna Vasilyevna received the following letter in Moscow:
My dear parents,
I am writing to say goodbye to you for ever. Dmitry died yesterday. Everything is finished for me. Today I’m leaving for Zara with his body. I will bury him and don’t know what will happen to me! But I already have no other homeland but D.’s homeland. An uprising is in the making there; they are preparing for war. I will join the Sisters of Mercy* to care for the sick and the wounded. I don’t know what will happen to me, but even after D.’s death I will stay true to his memory and his whole life’s work. I’ve learnt Serbian and Bulgarian. Probably I shall not survive all this – so much the better. I’ve been brought to the edge of the abyss and must plunge in. Fate did not unite us in vain; who knows, perhaps I killed him; now it’s his turn to draw me after him. I sought happiness – and maybe I’ll find death. Clearly that’s as it should be; clearly, there was guilt… But death covers and reconciles everything, does it not? Forgive me for all the grief I have caused you; it was not of my volition. But why return to Russia? What can I do in Russia?
Accept my last kisses and blessings and don’t condemn me.
Ye.
Some five years have passed since then and there has been no more news of Yelena. All letters and enquiries were fruitless; in vain, after the conclusion of peace, Nikolai Artemyevich went to Venice and Zara. In Venice he learnt what the reader already kn
ows, and in Zara no one could give him any positive information about Rendich and the boat he had hired. There were dark rumours that, several years previously, after a violent storm, the sea had disgorged onto the shore a coffin in which a man’s body was found. According to other, more reliable reports, the coffin had not been disgorged by the sea but had been brought to the shore and buried by a foreign lady who had come from Venice. Some people added that this lady had been seen in Herzegovina with the forces that were mustering there; they even described her dress – black from head to foot. However that may be, all trace of Yelena disappeared irrevocably and for ever and no one knows whether she is still alive, whether she is hiding somewhere or whether her hour upon the stage is over, whether the brief ferment of life is over and death has taken its turn. It sometimes happens that a man, on waking up, asks himself with an involuntary frisson of terror: “Am I really thirty already? Forty? Fifty? How has life passed so quickly? How has death come so close? Death is like a fisherman who has caught a fish in his net and leaves it for a time in the water; the fish is still swimming, but the net is around it and the fisherman will extract it – whenever he wants.”
* * *
What became of the other characters in our story?
Anna Vasilyevna is still alive; she has aged greatly after the blow which struck her, complains less but is a much sadder woman. Nikolai Artemyevich has also aged and gone grey, and has broken with Avgustina Khistianovna… Nowadays he berates everything foreign. His housekeeper, a good-looking Russian woman of about thirty, goes about in silk dresses and wears gold rings and earrings. Kurnatovsky, as a man of temperament, energy and dark hair, and an admirer of attractive blondes, has married Zoya. She obeys him in everything and has even stopped thinking in German. Bersenev is in Heidelberg; he was sent abroad at public expense. He has visited Berlin and Paris and has put his time to good use; he will make an efficient professor. Academic circles have taken note of his two articles: ‘On Some Special Characteristics of Ancient German Law in the Matter of Judicial Punishment’ and ‘On the Significance of the Urban Principle in Questions of Civilization’. It is only a matter of regret that both articles are written in a somewhat heavy style and are littered with foreign words. Shubin is in Rome; he has committed himself wholeheartedly to his art and is considered one of the most remarkable and promising young sculptors. Strict purists find that he has not made sufficient study of the ancients and lacks “style”; they assign him to the French School; he gets lots of commissions from the English and the Americans. Recently a Bacchante of his caused a great stir; Count Boboshkin, a well-known wealthy Russian, was on the point of buying it for 1,000 scudi, but preferred to give 3,000 to another sculptor, a Frenchman pur sang,* for a group depicting A Peasant Girl Dying of Love on the Bosom of the Spirit of Spring. Shubin occasionally corresponds with Uvar Ivanovich, who alone has not changed at all in any respect. “Remember,” he wrote recently, “what you told me the night we learnt of the marriage of poor Yelena, when I was sitting on your bed and talking to you. Remember I asked you then, ‘Will we have real people here?’ and you answered: ‘There will be.’ Oh, force of the black earth! And now today, from my ‘beautiful afar’* I again ask you: ‘Well then, Uvar Ivanovich, will there be?’”
On the Eve (Alma Classics) Page 18
