Sletov shrugged; both Liza and Seryozha, however, would scarcely have been able to repeat Sergey Sergeyevich’s tale, so removed from the conversation were they. Seryozha had no appetite whatsoever and hardly ate anything; he kept thinking over and over that as of tomorrow he would no longer see Liza. Liza knew he was thinking about this and shared in his suffering. Subconsciously, however, he was more egotistical than she: he did not think the situation was all that bad, since it was equally difficult for both of them. Sergey Sergeyevich could not help noticing this suspiciously concurrent depression of theirs. He was, however, far from the thought that this might be explained by anything other than chance coincidence or, ultimately, a feeling of grief that was only natural. He considered Seryozha’s having spent his entire life until now in the company of two women, his mother and his aunt, and that this must have had an effect on his character. He supposed, however, that Oxford, where he himself had studied in his time (before he began attending lectures at the university in Moscow), ought to steer Seryozha in the right direction. His son’s sustained emotional emollescence, which he had inherited from his mother and which, until recently, Sergey Sergeyevich had not attempted to combat, nevertheless seemed to him a negative trait. After dinner, once he was alone with Liza, he mentioned this in passing, as usual. Liza answered him very sharply:
“A hunchback probably considers the absence of a hunch to be a deficiency.”
“If, Liza—”
“If what?”
“If he’s not only a hunchback, but also a fool into the bargain.”
“I don’t see what’s so bad about the boy’s having a good heart. From any vantage point, that’s a positive attribute.”
“You’ve never boxed, have you, Liza?”
“How is it that you fail to understand that one cannot reduce everything to that idiotic sport? We talk about the soul, you compare it with boxing; about love, with rational physical development; about misery, grief and misfortune… I don’t know what you’d compare those with, perhaps football?”
“I’m afraid you don’t follow, Lizochka. It isn’t a question of a direct…”
“Out with it, for God’s sake! A direct what?”
“Comparison, voyons.* But that’s the point. You strike a blow of equal strength to one man and then to another. The first falls unconscious, while the second remains standing, as if nothing has happened. Why?”
“Because one is weak and the other is strong.”
“No, they’re absolutely identical.”
“Why then?”
“Because the first is lax, and the second is well trained. But at the start they were both equally susceptible.”
“So you mean to train Seryozha?”
“Precisely.”
“Why?”
“Because, Lizochka, he’s my son. Because I love him. Because I want him to experience as little pain and suffering as possible—pain and suffering that will be inevitable if he remains as he is. Do I make myself clear?”
“What right do you have to do this? Let him live as he pleases. Leave your philosophy for yourself. Just think how many people, thank God, manage without it. It would strangle them.”
“So they’ll be strangled. But even if that’s true: the weak ones will be strangled, the strong ones will live.”
“What a primitive notion!”
“Nothing satisfies you, Liza, you don’t like anything. What’s happened to you lately? You’re even defending softness, which isn’t exactly in your nature.”
“And who told you that?”
“It just seemed that way to me.”
“Because you don’t know me, my dear.”
“You’re shattering my finest illusions mercilessly, Liza. We’ll talk more when you’re in a better mood—if such a time ever comes. Perhaps I don’t know you. On aura tout vu,† as they say. Goodnight, beautiful stranger.”
He kissed her hand and went through to his study to work. He had been so gay and sarcastic, as was his wont. However, Liza, who had been observing him with hostility, to which was added a distant, almost forgotten but still very palpable feeling of regret, seemed suddenly to spot a fleeting look of affliction in his eyes, which hitherto she had never noticed; she suspected that Olga Alexandrovna’s leaving was still a great blow to him, one that, for all his perfect “training”, he could not help feeling much more acutely than one might have been led to believe.
Indeed, Sergey Sergeyevich was much pained by Olga Alexandrovna’s leaving him, although his feelings were entirely different from those one might expect of a husband when his wife forsakes him. In life he always acted more or less in accordance with the aesthetic system he had devised for himself, in which principles that were exterior and ornamental, as it were, played the leading role. It was not based, as it ought to have been, on private emotions, and he himself would have been hard pressed to explain why, in fact, it was necessary to act one way and not another; nevertheless, he was firmly convinced that it was necessary to act this way. The system comprised many simply absurd and ridiculous things; he must have known this, yet he considered them essential all the same. There had to be a family; there had to be an heir to his name and fortune, and someone to continue the family line; there had to be a wife. But now, one aspect of his system had suddenly vanished, and this had been her grossest transgression. Of course, Sergey Sergeyevich knew that Olga Alexandrovna’s departure marked not only the vanishing of this aspect: it also created a void where once there used to be her tender eyes, her caressing, quick patter and her enduring charm, which, objectively speaking, Sergey Sergeyevich prized greatly. However, the moral side of her departure was her own private affair, in which he considered himself unable to intervene. He recalled how still quite recently, only a few months ago, he had wanted Olga Alexandrovna finally to find a man on whom she could settle; his dream had come true, but not in the way he had intended. Now he found this discrepancy between his intent and reality unpleasant. What was more, he had imagined that Olga Alexandrovna would have stayed also because Seryozha’s interests demanded this: not his immediate interests, since he was going to England, but those of tradition. In short, he allowed all deviation from private morals, but was an adherent of several almost patriarchal principles. Like many people lacking in robust, rigid convictions, he understood the poverty of political doctrines, which he scorned, and the questionability and often senselessness of those questions that were, at a particular moment, considered topical—and, moreover, in spite of his extreme scepticism, he was an advocate of so-called family values, the frailty of which he ought to have known better than anyone else. All his experience of life convinced him that there was nothing, or almost nothing, that one could rely on, that political opinions, principles of state, personal attributes, moral frameworks, even economic laws—of this he was certain—were the very essence of conditionality, understood variously by different people and being themselves almost devoid of any substance whatsoever. From this stemmed his broad tolerance of everything, his acceptance of many things that clearly did not merit it, in a word, what was ascribed to his magnanimity, generosity and perfect character, and what in actual fact was the result of uncertainty. He acted only when required, and would always do so reluctantly. There had been, however, few such instances in his life, yet he would always recall them with disgust. For example, there was a duel, happily lacking a fatal outcome, which Sergey Sergeyevich felt duty-bound to honour, although he would always say that he considered it to have been foolish. Naturally, there had been stock-market transactions in completing which he knew he would ruin certain people—but here he was dealing with figures, and so he felt more at ease. Generally speaking, however, he had no taste for action, although everything within him seemed to have been made for specifically for this: his alacrity of mind, his perpetual equanimity, the total subjugation of his faculties—spiritual, intellectual and physical—to his will; in this sense he was like a beautiful spring, whose qualities, however, did not go to waste. He
would rise to the occasion in every tragic circumstance—thus had it been in the Crimea when the White armies were retreating; thus had it been when a second attempt was made on his life in a busy street, when he alone managed to spot the quick movement of a man whipping out a knife, and arrest his hand. Until the most dreadful conditions forced him to act, however, he would talk derisively about everything, delight in manifestly stupid people and remain invariably benevolent and passive. In this way, no one who knew Sergey Sergeyevich socially, apart from Liza, who, nevertheless, was also unsure of this, could have suspected that Olga Alexandrovna’s second marriage was essentially the first defeat in his life—that is, in that narrow realm, beyond which he admitted everything, but whose inviolability he had hitherto managed to safeguard.
After the departures of Seryozha, whom Sergey Sergeyevich accompanied to London, where he stayed on for two days, and Olga Alexandrovna, there were only three left at home: Sergey Sergeyevich, Liza and Sletov. They would convene for lunch and dinner, but they each led a very different life, to the point that there was almost nothing connecting them. In the first days after Seryozha left, however, Sergey Sergeyevich could not help noticing that Liza was quite out of sorts, which is to say nothing of the fact that when he approached her he would meet with an invariably cold gaze, and it became apparent that no recommencement of their former relations was possible for the time being—she stopped taking care over her appearance, having her hair set, powdering her face and painting her lips, and there was always a fixed expression of concentrated melancholy on her face.
“What’s the matter with you, Liza?”
“Nothing. Leave me in peace.”
On several occasions she chose not to spend the night at home, but Sergey Sergeyevich did not even consider the possibility of a visit to rue Boileau—he knew Liza too well to have any illusions about how he would be met. Yet he found her condition almost alarming.
Once, at dinner, an argument about Seryozha flared up. Sergey Sergeyevich claimed that now, for the first time in his life, Seryozha was living more or less independently, that this was a fine thing and very necessary, so that he could develop in a new environment and become a man.
“By the way, I’ll soon be going to England,” said Liza, “I should see how he’s getting on.”
“I think that’s absolutely unnecessary. All the more so, since I’m there often enough.”
“You know that Seryozha has far less in common with you than he does with Lyolya and me.”
“More’s the pity. But this is a shortcoming that you and I have previously discussed.”
“In my opinion it’s a pointless argument. We have different views on upbringing.”
“Undoubtedly. However, there’s one detail that escapes you: Seryozha is my son, and it is I who bring him up.”
“That’s something of a belated realization.”
“I do hope it hasn’t come too late.”
Liza received a letter from Seryozha every other day, sent to her apartment in rue Boileau. Seryozha wrote that without her nothing was of any interest to him, that his life was spent in anticipation of her arrival. “Everything is like a dream,” he wrote, “everything is unreal, because you are not here. I know that I have to study, but I feel no desire to do that, and I learn a lot of useless things, which, perhaps, would be worthwhile if you were here with me. When I am alone, they seem entirely unnecessary.” Liza would reply to him, asking him to wait a little longer and not to pine after her, but her letters lacked persuasion, since she herself always felt a deathly, unceasing ennui. Everything exasperated her; she slept little and poorly, ate little and poorly, and could not concentrate on anything or read. In a very short time she lost weight and her good looks, so much so that Sergey Sergeyevich said to her:
“I’m afraid, Lizochka, that if this continues, your radiance risks diminishing somewhat.”
Left alone, he racked his brains over the meaning of this. In the end, he came to the conclusion that Liza must have had some abortive romance in the Midi and was now suffering the usual disappointment more strongly than she had done on previous occasions. To a certain degree this was only natural: she was no longer twenty, life was pressing on and she could not have failed to notice this. One day Sergey Sergeyevich even hinted to her that, in light of Olga Alexandrovna’s marriage, it would perhaps be desirable to…
“I’d rather die than marry you,” she said in a rage.
“How does one define romanticism?” mused Sergey Sergeyevich. “Exagération du sentiment personnel?‡ Yes, it seems so. You were born almost a century and a half too late, Liza. You ought to have met Byron. He was a bit of a lame poet, but a very, very sweet chap, and capable of appreciating exaggeration.”
“You’re a clown,” said Liza before leaving and slamming the door behind her. Sergey Sergeyevich’s smiling face appeared behind the door, which immediately swung open again, and his voice said:
“You’re like the heroine of some melodrama, Liza. You don’t know just how enchanting and classic you are! C’est de la Comédie-Française le jour des abonnés.”§
However, he in fact found Liza’s condition almost as unpleasant as Olga Alexandrovna’s behaviour. In essence, what had happened was what he had always expected—the gradual departure of those nearest to him. Solitude clearly awaited him in the future. Several times Liza had spoken of a trip to England; perhaps the object of her desire was there and for some reason unable or unwilling to come to Paris.
More and more often he would go out for a stroll around Paris, wandering through the streets with uncustomary aimlessness. Since many of his acquaintances lived in more or less the same area, he would often come across them; he once spotted Lyudmila in a very solid automobile that was passing by, sitting beside a pleasant-looking elderly man, the very one for whom she had divorced her first husband. Another time he saw the latter, plodding along the street, hands thrust in his pockets and looking straight ahead with dull, vacant eyes.
One day he set out on his usual Sunday stroll towards evening. It was the end of October and the weather was surprisingly mild for Paris at this time of year. He walked in the Bois de Boulogne, then went up to the place de l’Étoile, exited at avenue Victor Hugo and turned onto rue de la Pompe. There was scarcely any traffic; it was rather warm, but in the light breeze that got up from time to time there was a distinct, deceptive scent of winter. As he walked, he thought that by now it was already too late, perhaps, to change anything about this essentially absurd guiding principle that he had imposed on himself and that he had unswervingly adhered to his entire life—that of la bonne mine à mauvais jeu!¶ In the long run, it usually did more harm than good. Why was it necessary, he thought, to feign this all his life and to play it out as though upon a stage? These thoughts, however, were almost devoid of bitterness—rather they were meditative. This could be attributed to the fact that the weather was still very fine, that the air was gentle and fragrant. On reaching the corner of rue de la Pompe and rue de Passy, Sergey Sergeyevich thought to himself that he would very much enjoy a cup of tea. He went into La Marquise de Sévigné. All the tables were taken. Not far from the entrance, with her back to him, sat a very elderly lady in mourning. There was something familiar in the shape of her back and shoulders. Sergey Sergeyevich drew nearer. The lady turned to him—it was Lola Aînée. It was he who recognized her, for all that she had changed. Those old, tender, nonchalant eyes of hers stared at him and she bowed her head, smiling. Sergey Sergeyevich recalled that since her visit to him, soliciting financial backing for her music hall, her husband had died—he had sent her a letter of condolence immediately, but since then had heard nothing of her.
“May I?” he asked, approaching her table.
“Yes, yes, by all means,” she replied.
After exchanging a few words, Sergey Sergeyevich found that the Lola he was now talking to was divorced by an entire life from the one who had come to him before. Now it was impossible to think of her as anything but a ve
ry old woman. When the conversation turned to her late husband, her eyes momentarily filled with tears, which very much surprised Sergey Sergeyevich, who had, like everyone else, known full well that her conjugal life had been difficult and unsuccessful. Neither of them mentioned the music hall—it seemed as unnatural as, for example, a conversation about Lola’s planning to return to school would have done. Thus, Sergey Sergeyevich, just like the rest, could not fail to notice an astonishing inward change in Lola. She told him, as she did others, what a wonderful man her husband had been and how she had loved him, adding that she had nearly finished her memoirs. Sergey Sergeyevich did not ask about her plans for the stage; it would have been an obvious gaffe. She did mention, in particular, that in a few days’ time she planned to travel to London on business, but that she would quickly grow tired and worried about the fatigue of the journey.
“You travel a great deal,” she remarked. “Which means of transport do you recommend?”
Sergey Sergeyevich replied that in his opinion the least fatiguing option would be a journey by aeroplane—she could be in London in less than two hours.
“C’est une idée,”|| said Lola. “I may well heed your advice.”
Sergey Sergeyevich left the shop, wholly impressed by this meeting and the astonishing change that had taken place in Lola. The late-autumn sun was shining. Two well-dressed ladies were walking ahead; one of them drawled in Russian:
“It’s all the same to me what they say. They’re just swine, my dear, that’s about the size of it.”
Sergey Sergeyevich set off down avenue Mozart. At first he seemed to be wandering without any destination in mind. Then it occurred to him that he ought for once in his life to speak to Liza about everything without any irony, exhaustively and in all earnestness. He ought to tell her that she was all he had left, that essentially he had never loved anyone but her, save for a fleeting infatuation with her elder sister. He ought to tell her that he was prepared to do anything to become the man of her dreams, and that he would succeed in this. What was more, he ought to tell her that he would be kinder and more sensitive, that he understood now, since only very recently, what the most valuable thing in the world was—love—and, however much people might mock him, it would always be so.
The Flight Page 20
