“Yes,” replied Olga Alexandrovna, but this “yes”, despite her best intentions, sounded flat and unintentionally theatrical.
“Far away?”
“To Italy.”
“A fine country,” said Sergey Sergeyevich dreamily. “But then, you know that just as well as I do; indeed, it isn’t the first time you’ve gone there. You’ve been out of sorts lately; I think it’s an admirable idea, it’s sure to cheer you up. I’m delighted for you. Well, all the best. Do write.”
He kissed her hand and left. She stood for a few seconds, then sighed and began making her way downstairs to the entrance, where a motor car was already waiting for her. Neither Seryozha nor Liza was at home—they had been out since morning.
Sergey Sergeyevich returned to his apartment, where a familiar visitor awaited him—the celebrated actress Lola Aînée, who had come to ask him to finance a music hall she was planning to open. She was a very old woman, of an age with Sergey Sergeyevich’s mother, yet she remained firmly convinced of her irresistibility; she had undergone many surgical operations and spent hours daily on massages, her appearance and her toilette. At first sight, particularly from afar, she really might have looked young. Sergey Sergeyevich glanced momentarily at the motionless skin on her face and those long black eyelashes, starkly curled heavenwards, and recalled that only a year or two ago this woman had married a man more than thirty years her junior.
“Toujours délicieuse, toujours charmante,” said Sergey Sergeyevich, greeting her. “Je suis vraiment heureux de vous voir.”*
She smiled, revealing a fine set of teeth. Yet she felt none too well—as she had done now for many years. These days she was tormented by haemorrhoids; it was as though she were sitting on red-hot coals, and whenever she laughed or blew her nose, a sharp pain beginning in that very place shot through her whole body. When the pain abated, she would start to feel deathly tired and struggled not to let her head drop down onto her chest. Occasionally this would prove beyond her, and she would lapse into slumber for a second. Opening her eyes later and starting, she would explain that she suffered from such momentary éblouissements,† which she attributed to strenuous work. Hers had been a long, tumultuous and, ultimately, difficult life; there was almost no one left alive who had witnessed her stage debut. But she would never pause to reflect on this. She never paused to reflect on anything. Her memory was cluttered with all the songs, cues, accents and intonations of her endless repertoire. Since she was essentially stupid, she had learnt nothing, in spite of her long career; she understood nothing of art and had blind faith in theatre critics. She truly believed the unfortunate La Dame aux camélias to be a masterpiece; but then, she had been a very close acquaintance of the author’s and believed him to be a genius. She went into raptures over Corneille’s tragedies, which, among other things, she could not understand on account of her lack of culture; however, it was with no less enthusiasm that she regarded many contemporary plays, which were wholly unskilled and devoid of even the remotest connection to art, whose authors were situated on the level of her mental faculties—with the sole difference that while her mind was static, theirs exhibited a certain primitive dynamism. Her life had passed in plays and romances, each one of which she recalled, despite their monstrous quantity. In her youth she had indeed been rather pretty, and in fact it was this incontestable animalistic radiancy of hers that had determined her career. She had come to Paris from Normandy as a sixteen-year-old girl with the intention of becoming a parlour maid, and even before her departure her elderly aunt, who had spent many years in Paris, taught her how she ought to behave, how best to rob her employers, how to talk to suppliers, and generally provided her with a great many pieces of advice, which Lola—her real name was Marie—intended to follow to the letter. Yet it turned out differently, for she immediately stumbled upon a man who was utterly alone, a passionate lover of the theatre. He was reasonably wealthy and headed the theatre column in one of the right-leaning newspapers. Since even in those days he was beginning to grow old, and seeing as a tempestuous life had worn him out, signs of this weariness and also of a certain naivety born of his enthusiastic but limited mind began to tell in the style of his articles and reviews, which acquired a conversationally declamatory tone. “Est-il possible que ce soit ainsi? Allons, allons!” or “Mais si, mon pauvre lecteur, mais si!”‡
Progressivists were simply, in his opinion, des gens de mauvaise volonté.§ Deep down, however, he was a good man with a pure heart, which was all the more astonishing given that he had spent his life in the theatre. His love for Lola was so peculiarly and unexpectedly intense that it did not at all correspond to his physical abilities. Because he was very much in love, there was not a single virtue he failed to find in Lola, and so he decided that the only thing worthy of her was the stage. He was a very influential man, closely acquainted with all the actors and directors of the theatres, and so, thanks to him, Lola, following several months of rehearsals, debuted at a small theatre on the outskirts of Paris. Since then, her career had been unstoppable. Her first benefactor soon died, after a sumptuous dinner with champagne and wines of the very best vintage, the cruel perfection of which his already flagging body was unable to withstand. He died immediately afterwards, scarcely having managed to get into bed, and Lola, covering her naked body with an overcoat, set out in search of a doctor, who arrived and said: “Il n’est plus, mon enfant.”¶ She stood by the bed, her overcoat flung open, and the doctor, unable to resist—suddenly, for the first time in his life—the overwhelming, uncontrollable urge, began kissing this submissive body in absolute ecstasy and at that very moment whisked Lola away to his apartment, where she remained for some time.
Such were the key events in her life; they had happened so infinitely long ago—more than half a century. Thereafter everything had followed according to a set formula that had been established once and for all: plays, benefactors, benefactors, plays. When she was twenty, she met her first lover: that is, the first man for whom she felt any strong physical attraction. But he, too, died soon after, throwing himself from the fourth floor of a stairwell in a drunken stupor—he was a decorator by trade. He was the only man she had ever loved. The rest of them—with those stock phrases that forever reminded her of lines from a play, with their absurd, pitiful furore, and others, some truly remarkable people in their day—left her indifferent: elle les laissait faire.|| Among them numbered politicians, writers and musicians, but none could even remotely compare in terms of allure with her dead decorator, a Corsican by birth, who with his firm hand would deliver a resounding smack on her naked behind, and who had smelt so pleasantly of cheap wine and the strong sweat of a peasant’s unkempt body. As time marched on, however, several journalists constructed an entirely disparate image of Lola, which bore no resemblance to her at all. She let them write as they pleased—and so there appeared discourses on the plastic arts, on Spanish theatre, on Italian painting and even on Russian literature, of which she knew nothing at all. Little by little a reputation for erudition formed around her. Once, having had a little too much to drink, she reproached an old friend of hers, an expert author of short articles about classical ballet: “Tu m’as traitée d’érudite, tu croyais peut-être que je ne le saurais pas?”**
The expert author of short articles about classical ballet was unsure how to take this and decided in the final analysis that it must have been a joke. The years passed, but her life remained exactly the same: dawn, rising late, love affairs, those same words about love, divinity, ecstasy, restaurants, wine, divans—and despite that most robust of constitutions, by the age of forty her heart began to play up, mysterious pains appeared in her stomach region, and a renowned doctor prescribed a more measured pace of life. Sometimes she would suddenly think that it was too late, and she had wasted the past twenty years in a struggle with age and ailment. Little by little it reached a stage whereby she was forbidden everything she enjoyed. She could no longer eat or drink to her heart’s content; she could no longer take very hot ba
ths—she could no longer do anything. But even with this did she make her peace. She had long been in possession of a certain fortune, and she could have headed off to the south, where she owned a splendid villa near Nice, but she refused outright to forgo the stage, to which she had become too accustomed over the course of fifty years. Most recently she had started performing in the music hall, and so now, having resolved to open her own theatre, but grudging the money for it, she turned to Sergey Sergeyevich, whom she knew just like everyone else. She explained to him that it would be a magnanimous gesture on his part, for which a substantial Parisian audience would be grateful to him, but that, essentially, it would be an extraordinarily lucrative investment at the same time, since the music hall would immediately be a sell-out. She told Sergey Sergeyevich that she already had ideas for a revue, which could be called Ça à Paris—“Il y aura des décors somptueux,”†† and she showered Sergey Sergeyevich with a whole cascade of words, unpersuasive in their lush banality, as if they had been borrowed from that wretched language used to pen newspaper reviews of opening nights. It was that same style employed by her first benefactor, countless examples of which she would have occasion to read her whole life. They included “décors somptueux”, “tableaux enlevés à un rythme endiablé”, “le charme étrange de mademoiselle”, “la voix chaude et captivante de monsieur”,‡‡ and so on. Lola was unable to speak using any other words; no one ever explained to her that this language was poor and inexpressive. She herself had no inkling of this. Sergey Sergeyevich listened attentively to Lola, occasionally intoning “merveilleux”, “admirable”, “il fallait le trouver…”§§ and mused that had Lola been younger, she would have been able to arrange all this at once and would not have turned to him. Now he had to find a pretext to avoid having to fund this enterprise, which would have been a ludicrous waste of money. Therefore, as soon as Lola had finished, he said in a thoughtful and convincing tone:
“J’aime beaucoup votre projet, madame. Oui, je l’aime beaucoup.” He paused for a second, as if thoughtfully imagining all the splendour of the project. “Une salle pleine à craquer et la foule en délire, la même foule qui vous a toujours adorée.”¶¶
He paused again, then sighed and added:
“Unfortunately, I leave for London tomorrow, for several weeks. As soon as I return I’ll telephone, and, believe me, I should be both delighted and proud… you understand…”
With a deliberate, quick motion, Lola rose from her chair, which creaked gently, and throughout her weary body flowed a multitude of pains, mingling with each other in a single sensation of haziness and light-headedness: her legs, now suffering pins and needles, cracked at the joints, her haemorrhoids ached, there was a throbbing in her right temple, yet her face retained that same “dazzling” smile, the very one that had figured in every photograph of her and seemed so strange, because it should have accentuated her false dentures, which were made of the highest-quality material. She held out a trembling hand, its nails painted bright red, to Sergey Sergeyevich and made her way to the door with lively little steps, which only two people were capable of appreciating fully: her doctor and Lola herself. On the way home, she recalled Sergey Sergeyevich’s words about la foule qui l’a toujours adorée, and again she smiled. She truly did believe that they adored her, truly did believe in her theatrical calling, her sole reason to suffer and to live, since everything else had vanished already. It was for the sake of this that she accepted the humiliation, the rejection, for this—for the illusion of her unfading youth—that she had recently married a man who, despite his best intentions, at certain moments could not hide his disgust at her—and she would feign that it slipped her attention. All this was done for la foule qui l’adorait, which in actual fact was as non-existent as her youth. Yet Lola never credited this, for to do so would have been to admit that all that remained for her was death, which was more terrible than all her ailments combined.
The next visitor, who detained Sergey Sergeyevich for only a few minutes, was a famous playwright, director and actor, all in one, the author of countless plays, a full-bodied man of fifty, affected like a coquette, who was forever changing his facial expressions and tone of voice, was extraordinarily satisfied with both himself and his successes, and was so convinced of his superiority over others that it even came across as good-natured. He was completely impervious to art, in the sense that everything professing true skill, true understanding and true inspiration did not exist for him and failed to leave any impression on him whatsoever—so alien and far-removed was it from his own works, in which everything was determined once and for all, having been reduced to the sole theme of adultery, with rather copious but not infrequently amusing variations. Occasionally, however, his characters would touch on general themes and even social ones, but these would always fall flat, so much so that he was given to expressing a conviction that the public had no interest in them. He arrived happy and beaming, although, generally speaking, he had no great love for Sergey Sergeyevich, because he thought the latter regarded him with insufficient reverence. Though he would forgive him: “Avec sa fortune, il peut se permettre…”|||| He offered Sergey Sergeyevich a ticket to a ball that he was organizing in aid of impoverished artists. Sergey Sergeyevich apologized, saying that it could not be, since he was going away, but he would naturally take a couple of tickets and offer them to his friends, and, not wishing to place the organizer at any risk, he would pay for them up front. In addition, he asked that the gentleman accept a modest sum that… He then wrote out a cheque, handed it over and, without taking a single ticket, shook the hand of his guest and bid him farewell.
Sergey Sergeyevich’s final guest was a very young actress. She too had come with a personal invitation, to the premiere of a play in which she was starring. She was in particularly high spirits, for before coming to see Sergey Sergeyevich she had gone to the doctor, who had assured her that the syphilis she had recently developed—she was only at the start of her career—had been completely remedied, leaving no trace. She told Sergey Sergeyevich that everything was “épatant”,*** that the other actors were “tous de chics types”,††† and that she was very happy.
“Alors, mon petit,” said Sergey Sergeyevich, “qu’est-ce que tu veux?”‡‡‡
She explained that invitations by telephone or post were, to her mind, ineffectual, and so she had decided to do it in person.
“Thank you so much. I’ll try to be there.” He considered it unnecessary to explain to her that he was going abroad.
Liza and Seryozha returned only towards dinner. Sergey Sergeyevich said:
“Well, my children, I’m glad to see you. I was beginning to think I was some sort of impresario. Just imagine, three visitors, and each one a theatrical type.”
Sergey Sergeyevich immediately noticed that something was amiss with Liza: several times she had started laughing—which was unusual for her—and her eyes sparkled, their movements more rapid. However, Sergey Sergeyevich did not enquire the reasons for this. Seryozha was in high spirits following his walk, but this was understandable: he was like this every time he returned from the Bois de Boulogne.
“People are beginning to leave,” said Sergey Sergeyevich. “The day after tomorrow I have to be in London. Lyolya left earlier today.”
“Mama’s gone?”
“Lyolya’s gone?”
However, while Seryozha asked this in a voice expressing at once shock, upset and surprise, Liza articulated those same words as if she had meant to say: “Just as I thought. Very nice of her, but of course not entirely unexpected.”
“Italy?” asked Liza.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, I said Italy, but I might as well have said Australia or Turkey.”
“Oddly enough, you’ve hit the mark. She has indeed gone to Italy. I’d imagine we’ll receive a letter from her in a week’s time. I’ve no reason to doubt it will turn out all right, as ever.”
“Yes, as ever,” said Liza.
“What about you, Liza?” said Sergey Sergeyevich after a brief but alarming pause occasioned by thoughts about Olga Alexandrovna’s departure. “Will you be going?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Liza in her usual slow voice. “I think I’ll go. I think.”
“We know you think, Liza,” said Sergey Sergeyevich patiently, “but what exactly is it that you’re thinking?”
“Liza and I have decided to go to the Midi,” Seryozha quickly put in. “Tomorrow.”
“Am I not invited?”
“You’re going to London,” said Liza, shrugging.
“One can also get there from London.”
“Come from London,” she said in a tone of voice as if she had wanted to say: “Fine, if there are no two ways about it.”
“Your invitation seems less than enthusiastic.”
“Darling, one cannot always go through life with enthusiasm. You of all people should understand this—you’ve never shown an ounce of enthusiasm for anything.”
“Oh, but I have,” said Sergey Sergeyevich, as though himself astonished by the thought. “But, of course, as you so profoundly put it, one cannot always go through life with enthusiasm—it wears one down. Just give it a few years.”
“Leave my age out of it…”
“Liza,” said Sergey Sergeyevich calmly, “your temper’s getting the better of you. Have you noticed, by the way, that a bad temper and good taste are opposed to one another and strive for mutual destruction?”
“I have,” said Liza drily and ironically.
The Flight Page 3
