September 15
THE TRAIN WAS late, and Lyolya, brushing her cheek against my chin (the touch of it was indescribably fresh and tender), began to tell me with great animation how the train had been stopped right outside the station and how all the passengers had been made to show their papers (clearly, they were looking for some fugitive criminal), how pleasant and easy the journey had been, how at night a man—in an attempt to flirt with her—had offered up the seat next to him, after which she had got some rest and slept “better, more comfortably than at home”: why is it that people who have not seen each other in a long while, having prepared themselves to listen and talk about everything under the sun, everything remarkable, important, and new that has happened to each of them, suddenly immerse themselves in idle, meaningless chatter about whatever has gone on immediately before their encounter? Perhaps it is the accidental, the inconsequential, that is simply more alive in our memory than anything else, anything old and important, which we so rarely recall even in ordinary, mundane, more humdrum times, not broken by long separations; still more likely is that we unconsciously strive to adjust ourselves to the most recent circumstances of our newly encountered friend, while just as unconsciously we reattune the friend to ourselves. And sure enough, soon after those first meaningless words and joint struggles with her luggage, in the taxi as we approached her new and more expensive hotel, Lyolya, as if only just having found me, suddenly said with conviction and emotion:
“Really, you are such a dear.”
I was immediately put at ease by this: Lyolya was with me, and for the time being I no longer had to fear her every word, her every smile, those long pauses, or to interpret everything, as I used to do, examining it from every angle— worrying that she was angry but hiding her irritation, or that she had calmed down, but only for a short while. That most blessed day of recompense seemed to be upon me, a reward bestowed simply for a period of friendship, for the agonies and ecstasies of some arbitrary length of time, for the good days and the bad that we had already shared, for the fact that I had spent months waiting for Lyolya faithfully, for the fact that we had both of us had our infidelities, for the fact that we now shared a respectable patchwork “history” that was uniquely our own. Much in this unaccustomed and sweet camaraderie of ours is connected, I find: pride in the past, in our easy mutual understanding, in our friendly equality, and another thing altogether—the neurasthenic’s beloved sense of respite after something longed for and finally attained.
When a relationship like this has been established—one that demands thoughtfulness and a cool head, one that is truly calm and not exasperating—we accept more simply and benignly what in other circumstances would have piqued us and caused an argument: scarcely did I even notice Lyolya’s admission about the money given to her by Sergei N. (he has gone off to shoot a film in America) or the elusive change in her that this sudden security has wrought—plans for the future, notions of business and travel, all expressed in a new tone of almost absolute certainty—without the least disapproval I accepted that Lyolya should feel no shame over Sergei N.’s generosity, and that she should be glad to be free of cares, delighted with tomorrow’s expensive dresses, with this clean, almost-grand hotel. With a strange incoherence—perhaps on account of that typical bold candor of hers—Lyolya informed me, with a reassuring, encouraging smile, how terrible it had been with Sergei when finally it became clear that they just could not get along together, that they had to break up, and how Sergei—“after everything that’s happened”—would of course never leave her “in poverty.” Feeling no real, genuine sense of reproach, I hardly registered not only Lyolya’s reckless promiscuity, but also my own squeamishness in that regard: after all, I was agreeing, in a certain sense, to take on somebody else’s concern for Lyolya, to show the generosity of a man or, essentially, a lover. However, my swift consent to this cannot be explained by some self-serving sense of indolence (that I am myself in no way obliged to Lyolya, I admit freely; I have no need to put on airs now or to prove myself), I simply declined to dwell upon anything that fell beyond what was essentially obvious, beyond what had revealed itself to me little by little and now suddenly consumed me: namely, that Lyolya was at last in the same city as me and reachable at a moment’s notice—for answers given in person, for hand-kissing or sweet, seemingly accidental contact, for the constant admiration of her voice, her choice of words, her complicity in my inner tension, everything about our hotly felt proximity. In one sense, I have changed—somehow instantly and unaccountably—in my ability to manage my internal work, to direct my indifferent daily efforts wherever and however I will: only yesterday I was able to arrange everything in whatever dazzling order I pleased (hence all my efficiency, a modicum of success, and an unaccustomed sense of ennui); how effortlessly I induced myself to daydream of Lyolya until such-and-such an hour (my eternal mode of rest and relaxation), only then to prepare for a business meeting or, as proved hardest of all, to devise my evening pages, to wring out the words, to find their proper semantic and rhythmic order, whereas today I have been absorbed exhilaratingly in Lyolya’s delightful presence, and to deny myself it—for the sake of anything else—would be unnatural and pointless form of self-injury.
Occasionally I will try to understand the nature of such unabashed, all-consuming obsession as I have now. Many attempts to explain it (putting it down to attraction, inevitable conflict, fear of loss) speak only of the trigger, of what can cause, underpin, or intensify obsessions such as ours, while its essence, its soul, so to speak, lies elsewhere: a woman with whom we are so inordinately, so trustingly preoccupied becomes invisible, unaware of her role as the arbiter of our actions, our conversations, even our secret, never-to-be-divulged decisions, and we blindly adopt her views (regardless whether genuine or merely attributed to her by us), or rather her tastes—whatever she approves of or praises with unconscious conviction—and we alter our own views and tastes in line with hers and even single-mindedly alter ourselves, for we need unconditional, unbroken, minute-by-minute approval, and, like savages before our own god, we will continually (and, of course, mentally) ask a woman who has reluctantly conquered our hearts about every littlest, most inconsequential thing, making her imperceptibly into a kind of semi-abstraction of our conscience, and hence our romantic obsession is inspired and enlivened by a special, heightened consciousness (as in its naïve awareness is the body by the soul), one that makes us uncommonly demanding of ourselves, and so we needs must have a clear and unblemished conscience—for the stronger and keener the original cause and stimulus of such obsession, whatever it may be (obscurity, fear of loss, conflict—alone or in combination, all at once), the more we need that approval. And now, having fallen on words about this astonishing romantic conscience that metamorphoses simply into conscience, I once again come up against an assumption that is, for any religious person, arbitrary and blasphemous, an assumption about the possibility of replacing something otherworldly and supposedly irreplaceable with a local, all-pervading, human love.
All this unusually high-flown emotion of mine seems to depend somewhat on a certain depth in the relationship that has now taken shape between me and Lyolya—I desire nothing for myself, nor do I ask questions or make accusations (which I have so long and spitefully prepared), and it feels both strange and easy to remain indifferent, incurious, and patient. The blissful clarity of that first day was interrupted quite unexpectedly. We were sitting together in a café from which Lyolya, conscientious and punctual as ever, was expected to make a telephone call on the instruction of some Berlin acquaintance. When she got up, I looked at her with mock entreaty, as though begging her to allow me to accompany her to the telephone and not to be left alone—previously, such “unnecessary things” were not allowed, but now that the relationship is less obtrusive, “without strings,” and has a friendly air about it, Lyolya can no longer quibble with every one of my apparently romantic demands, and, with a laugh, she indicated her approval with a nod. We found ourselves—as though in sequestration—in a tiny, dark booth; I offered to connect Lyolya with the number she required and occupied myself with the tedious task, after which, having succeeded, at liberty now, I suddenly saw her glowing tenderly in the dark, right there beside me—practically up against me and within terrifying reach—and I was struck by that mysterious, gnawing fear that reawakens everything we once held dear and then suppressed or else cravenly set aside for an indefinite period of time, and so what I had suppressed once again came to life—the sweetness of our embrace, the possibility that we should never be parted, loyalty, the hope of coming to some lasting arrangement with her, a kind of hard-won sanctity for my mortal love. It seemed simply ridiculous not to caress Lyolya, not to touch her with my hand, not to kiss her, and the melodious sound of her low-pitched voice seemed to pour forth just for me, and it was deeper, more imbued with meaning than those impersonally polite phrases that she had to shout down the telephone. My patience reached its end. Lyolya intuited this immediately and, without making a single movement—amid the uninterrupted flow of the telephone conversation—somehow brought me down to earth with her disappointment and dissatisfaction. My half-forgotten state of rejection, bitterness, and pain returned to me at once, and I simply marveled at the precision of the coincidence—how closely had two so asynchronous states of mine coincided, two feelings of resentment, the former already forgotten, and the latter novel and acute—as if I had been liberated from a suffocating chloroform mask, only for the mask to be replaced again after a few minutes of sweet fresh air. Such precision of coincidence never happens in verbal communication, in the dutiful, deliberate act of remembering, and this fact has mystified me numerous times already: I keep returning to the same thing, tying myself in knots and never quite managing to disentangle myself—why should it be that the artificial reconstruction of the past (provided that it is both diligent and conscientious) is so often stronger, sharper than what we try to reconstitute ourselves—even if it is forever distinct? We can create something that has never been, that resembles what has been and yet is more than what it was, something palatable to our discriminating, pampered consciousness, but we shall never recreate what has been, while nature occasionally returns the past to us in all its charming and impermanent bloom. Observing this staggering difference—between this accidental, intrusive recreation and our own attempts to imitate it—I find myself contemplating a river of eternity flowing toward us but never away from us, thinking that what is created by us is unique, inimitable, exceptional, and yet it will never be eternal—hence its poignancy, its isolation from dull life the whole world round, and hence its heroic futility.
I had to take significant pains so that all this, at first confusing, series of thoughts that sparked from so minor an incident—fleeting fear in a telephone booth—but seemed so important, so that all this could be set aside until evening, so that later, as I walked home from Lyolya’s, I could recall everything, contrive to organize my thoughts, and, late that night—right now, in fact—set them down in writing, habituating myself (if only in some small way) to that mental discipline that in Lyolya’s absence—because of poverty, a dearth of temptations and distractions—had come so easily, that is now almost impossible, but without which there can be no creativity. There is still a kind of resistance in me—the remnant of prolonged indifference and dull obduracy—and this befits my current restraint and incuriosity regarding Lyolya: this is why I have quickly and painlessly overcome a dangerous rush of hope and an even more dangerous feeling of bitterness brought on by detachment and disillusionment. But for that moment, the day passed rather monotonously, in a touching, amicable clarity that seemed to dispel the possibility of love’s reciprocity, for which—clandestinely and with blithe confidence—I had been preparing myself more than anything. But then, such a possibility was always imaginary and so implausible after all my woeful experiences with Lyolya, which have only confirmed to me time and again that love cannot be forced. These exaggerated, inane hopes reappeared, I think, in Blainville, one of those salubrious holiday spots in Normandy; though a casino is under construction there and a fashionable resort is being planned, it is, for the moment, cheap and quiet, hence my having spent two restful weeks there at the end of summer. After long being habituated to the city, to the prospect of distraction each and every minute of the day (every crowd, every couple, every young woman in a café, in the street and on the Métro fascinates me), after my unjustified scorn for any foreign, hopelessly alien nature, those weeks in Blainville proved simply and unexpectedly enchanting. I wound up there quite by chance, on the advice of an acquaintance, and, excited, uplifted by my first bit of good luck—that I had managed to install myself in a pleasant and well-appointed pension—I set out at once for a stroll, taking a childish, unspoiled pleasure in the unfamiliar wonders of a country walk: the recent rain and the glinting, not yet importunate sun, had imbued the air with a lively sense of exultation, of lightly sparkling droplets (like tears of joy after irrepressible, rollicking laughter), the exultation of exhaustion, freshness, and purity—for some reason it put me in mind of great, thirsty gulps of sharp-tasting spring water. I followed the unpaved, muddy road, stepping cheerfully on the bona-fide naked earth (and regretting only my shoes, which were rustified and mud-spattered), and suddenly I was struck by the vague recognition of something that once belonged to me, something distant, long forced out by time, feelings, and events. I wanted to be alone, to see no one, lest the locals interfere with the return of my past, with my as yet unestablished concentration—I hurried past the last building on the road, the empty, unfinished casino, past the silent, hostile-looking workers in their soiled white shirts (the casino was to the left, while to the right there was a pale little lake, from which a fine layer of water came rushing over the uneven ground, creating turbid, slippery little impromptu waterfalls that rumbled and trembled like aspic); after that point I encountered nobody else, and before long I found myself in a long, dark alley that was lined on both sides with a neat row of trees, placed so close together that they formed a continuous, lofty canopy. For some while, I had felt as though at any moment I could enter a cave or a barn, one that was dangerous and completely isolated—truly, it was all so deserted, frightening, and damp, just like a dungeon—but the solitude, the invigorating chill in the air and the absence of people (forever judging and getting in the way) helped to foster a sense of elation, one that had begun earlier and demanded immediate action, a fierce and conquering will. To my right, the waterfall’s yellowish foam babbled and gurgled as it was borne away, while to the left of the alley a patch of woodland rose steeply (it was small, but so wild and overgrown, so dense that one could conceivably lose one’s way in it)—I walked along the echoing, solid earth (likely, the rain had not penetrated here because of the leaves), past roots that reminded me of springboards in a gymnasium, and more and more I wanted to take a run and jump, deftly, powerfully, and go flying off into the distance. I began to climb the steep, difficult embankment, breaking off branches and leaves, scattering sand, kicking up—as though they were balls—clumps of hardened, dried-out moss, and somehow I managed to convince myself, cheerfully, drunkenly, passionately, that nothing was beyond my reach. Like Tchaikovsky’s symphony, the impersonal, solitary grandeur of the place remade me in its own image, ennobled me, made me hope that Lyolya would understand, believe that she could not fail to grasp the unselfishness of my devotion, my readiness to enrich her and never to ask anything in return, that all she need do was make her way to that marvelous, revelatory place, and that I, with all the stubbornness that I had accrued there, would be able to bring her, by force if necessary, and surround her with all that friendly, foolproof scenery. But then, as I led Lyolya there in my mind, I forgot about the unselfishness of my devotion and began to take charge of Lyolya’s fate much too expediently for my liking: what seemed so attainable was the very miracle of not being parted, which, as far as I could see, was possible only in marriage (the commonplace naïveté of an aging bachelor), and I imagined, or rather, no, I did not hesitate to believe, that our correct and tender family life was in some way guaranteed—in gentle companionship throughout work and rest, in agreeable, amenable, as it were, harmonious conversations, in a dignified, rarely expressed love, with well-earned trust and implicit freedom, with the bedroom door on a lock (so as to shut out the world), with occasional strolls through this very alley, reverently renewing our manifest love. With quick steps (as though driven on by my overheated, overjoyed imagination) I left the alley and made my way back toward the lake. Not far from it, on a lawn at the bottom of a hill, there was a modest country café—round tables on thick wooden legs, folding chairs, a tiny building in the middle where everything was laid out and prepared—but, as in a genuine “tea-room,” there were starched girls in caps running deftly about the lawn with trays and people lounging about who seemed so out of place after the wildness and solitude of the past hour that I had spent—now I delighted in them, as new sources of inspiration, as witnesses of hope and recently sprung immense joy, and so I ensconced myself among them, kindly, almost ingratiatingly observing, sympathizing even with the ones I assumed to be enamored young couples; together with them, I reveled in the charm of the light breeze blowing from the lake, my face turned to it, my eyes closed, sharing my pleasure also with Lyolya, and I was taken unawares when the time eventually came to reckon with the late hour: I suddenly imagined that I was paying for Lyolya, taking care of her, that she was pleased with the day, complimenting me and proud of me. In the evening, in my rather narrow but cozy room, along with the books that I had brought with me, along with the chaste, somewhat too-firm bed, along with the walls that let through, that broadcast any and every noise, I—owing to my faith in Lyolya’s long-standing, time-honored, head-spinning proximity—might well have thrown open the door and come face-to-face with her, as though after many years of marriage, devoid of any importunate passion, as though I were meeting a faithful, reliable, never-deceitful friend. Secretly, hiding behind the fact that I knew of its fictiveness, I held this prospect of love’s reciprocity, fidelity, marriage—the most precious and touching thing that Blainville had to offer—at arm’s length, fueling it all the while, but when Lyolya eventually arrived back in Paris, eliciting from me a new, wary, defensive sense of restraint, this prospect instantly vanished, far too immaterial as it was, having been born not of reality, but of some ethereal conditions (lofty though they were) inspired by music or nature, and having crumbled at the first touch of real life, at the first words I heard spoken on Lyolya’s living lips, and, when I tried to insist on the trip (my reason, as usual, lagging a little behind), my attempts at persuasion seemed to lack conviction and even the secret knowledge that I was right.
In checking my initial, irrational élan, I lost that heroic blindness that occasionally leads us to utterly irreparable consequences and found myself in my usual state of wariness, circumspection, and fearful calculations—how to handle money, how to get enough of it for two, would it not be better to stop agonizing so much and not to alter anything: it was as if I had been forced to give up everything that I had once held to be my own—reciprocated love, a robust and long-lived happiness—but then, if all of this had in fact come about, I should have been immediately wracked by fear of penury, by my responsibility to Lyolya, by the inadequacies of what I had done for her, and these many cruel fears, this constant insatiable struggle, would have surpassed and supplanted my love.
It often seems to me that I have been cast into this world helpless and unwanted; any bit of luck, particularly in matters of money, will seem accidental, the last of its kind, and if the money begins to dry up, I prefer to wring myself out to the point of poverty, to the most disgraceful destitution, until the incomprehensible miracle of money appears yet another “last” time—and to live so precariously, all the while having to think about Lyolya too, about her pitiful dependence on this haphazard way of life, is simply unbearable; I have neither the courage for it, nor, in all likelihood, the shamelessness. Besides, I know by habitual, quickly humbling instinct, developed over the course of many defeats, that Lyolya, no matter how tender or sweet she may be with me, will leave me, give our reciprocity the slip, that in degrees, in the fullness of joy, I have my limits—and this prudence in matters of love coincides with my prudence in life itself.
Nevertheless, a certain circumspection was also apparent in the way in which I prepared to meet Lyolya, and, before her arrival, like a bridegroom or a husband, I tried to disentangle myself from those “frayed threads of bachelorhood”—or rather, it was not so much the circumspection as it was the straightforward obstinacy of a maniac, one who gets his own way and, blind to the wrong he has done, carries on removing one obstacle after another. Granted, my “liberation from the threads of bachelorhood”—from Ida Ivanovna and from poor Zina who has recently taken ill—was no mere detail among the many others that heralded and paved the way for Lyolya’s arrival, but something pleasing in its own right: I had, long before, brutely decided to deliver myself from both women; all I lacked was the impetus to see through these latest excruciating explanations. Having since found that impetus, however—in the fact of Lyolya’s arrival—these explanations have at last taken place, and what is more, they proved to be cruel, cold, almost businesslike.
It was easier, of course, to get rid of Ida Ivanovna: I braced myself, knowing full well that I should have to spend ten agonizing minutes, minutes that would be forgotten instantly and after which I would return to my pleasant thoughts about Lyolya. For a solitary moment, there was even a temptation—from some calculating and apparently deep-rooted instinct of mine—not to leave Ida Ivanovna, to dodge those ten minutes of agony. Lyolya would never learn of my secret “affair,” while the affair itself would be unwittingly translated into a counterbalance, a cynical mode of self-defense, one that was previously lacking yet is so necessary in unequal relationships, in such cases as my helplessness before Lyolya’s feminine wiles. But so often my head—because of the examples that I have long tried to emulate, because of my own worthy deeds and the tender feeling of pride that I nurture on their account—proves nobler than my true nature, and it was in this mind that I resolved to be pure of intention and uncalculating with respect to Lyolya, to have it tediously out with Ida Ivanovna and, even though it would have been far more convenient, not to send her a letter ending things, one that was slighting through and through and, as it were, put paid to her. The nobility in my head is also expressed in the fact that I am tacitly (within the limits of “gentlemanliness”) frank with both women and do not contest assertions that I am in love not with either of them, but with Lyolya. On the basis of this well-established and unaffected spirit of utmost candor, I decided simply to inform Ida Ivanovna of Lyolya’s imminent arrival, certain of the impression that this information would make and leaving her to draw and articulate her own conclusions. In the event, when I carried out my decision, I saw once again just how skillfully Ida Ivanovna can make herself inconspicuous, unobtrusive, and invisible, and how she could never demand the same of me.
“Yelena Vladimirovna will be arriving any day now, you know.”
“I thought she might. So, you won’t be coming anymore?” (Then, after my affirmative silence.) “There’s nothing worth saying. We’ll say good-bye—and that will be the end of it.”
“You’re right, of course—as always.”
I was delighted by her laconic, masculine grit. In fact, she seemed less bewildered than usual: perhaps this was her role in life—to endure the insults, the slights, the scorn from whomever she was seeing. Or, likelier still, she was simply indifferent to me and needed me (as she would have done any other) for nothing more than to “divert her sensuality.”
Having it out with Zina was a far more difficult affair, since she was, quite evidently, in love with me, although she aroused in me (slightly spoiled though I am) only a combination of irritation and pity—even when she is out of sight and I recall her pale, downcast face preparing itself for a humiliating rebuff, I find myself annoyed at both myself and fate, that it is Zina—unpretentious, helpless Zina—whom I insult and torment, alone or in front of everybody; whenever she pays me a visit, and especially when she takes an age, an eternity, to leave, I can scarcely master myself enough to conceal my impatience, to avoid speaking a truth that she has long already known. Seemingly for the first time in all our acquaintance (and now—oh, the irony—so that we should go our separate ways), I asked her, of my own accord, to meet me in a café. I began as I did with Ida Ivanovna, with the news of Lyolya’s arrival, but Zina—whether out of discretion or pride—never said in so many words what she would have been within her rights to think, and what she complained of nevertheless faintly and confusingly. In that moment, she did not betray herself, but only blushed dimly, while her eyes glittered indignantly.
“You will not see Yelena Vladimirovna. The doctor X-rayed me today. I’m very, very ill and I’m going away to Switzerland with Papa. You must come and be with me.”
“But I can’t right now—and not at all because of Yelena Vladimirovna.”
“You mean your business affairs, finances. Oh, please … That’s a fiction. Anything is possible if you truly put your mind to it.”
I had the intolerable, hateful urge (because of this encroachment on my freedom) to get up, walk out, and never to see Zina again, and this forced me—contrary to my usual persuasive délicatesse in such circumstances—to declare rudely and indignantly:
“I will not be going.”
Zina looked at me with unexpected tenderness, as though she were rephrasing the question, as though she were giving me time to reconsider and to comprehend in full the merciless cruelty of my refusal, but without so much as a word— with only a perplexed gesture of my hand and a shrug—I communicated that there was nothing to reconsider. Then, with a passionate reproach that reminded me of our first intimacy and my lengthy subsequent repentance, she said solemnly, almost theatrically:
“You’re committing a murder.”
I paused to think for a moment—such an evocative phrase, fit for the stage—but as I departed, having bid her farewell, having left her standing there motionless, as though unable to believe this final, definitive act of cruelty on my part, I felt as though I ought to have vindicated myself somehow, riled myself with honest, logical thoughts—that I had not sought Zina’s love, that if at first she had allowed herself to think that I might reciprocate her feelings, then now she could no longer harbor any doubts (after all, I was never the first to call her, and never once had I forced myself to utter any obliging words of love, however tender or heartfelt)—but even if my reasoning was logical, sound, correct, still I could not shake off this feeling of agitation, and I experienced a lingering sense of treachery and dishonesty. As I walked along the street, delighting in the animation and warmth of summer, free now of the difficult task that I had set myself, experiencing the particular sweetness of security (not for all the world would I ever return to that café, never again would I see Zina or surrender myself to her reproaches, and now I could await Lyolya without impediment), I continued to take comfort in certain truths learned long ago—of the inadmissibility of encroaching on somebody else’s freedom, of the need to hold one’s own, of the shamelessness in coercing others or disregarding them—granted, all these easy truths, with which I now defended myself, I learned through experience that was inverse, remorseless, suicidal even, when it was I who was ashamed of my importunate and wholly unwarranted attempts to curtail somebody else’s freedom, a fact from which I would often run. But even if I was right in my treatment of Zina and tried to act irreproachably in these situations, her injunction—“You will not see Yelena Vladimirovna”—remained lodged in my memory, so decisive (doubtless she had thought that was the way to handle people) and yet so defenseless, as did her bewilderment as I left the café and she cried out after me with such pitiful solemnity: “Murderer!” We often hold those we love to be accountable to us, and sometimes we simply cannot get away from the obviously absurd demands we make of them—recalling and knowing this (and precisely because I recalled and knew it), I could not get away from the opposite, from a feeling of responsibility to Zina, who loved me, from comparing her weakness to my strength, from the straightforward conclusion that I am in some way obliged to take care of her. It even seemed unfair to have forgotten about Ida Ivanovna altogether—only because she had said nothing, because the meek forever lose out—but it just so happened that this rivalry of the unloved was equalized naturally and easily: I loved another, a third, an outsider to them both—Lyolya—and the joy I felt for her immediately supplanted everything else. Calm reason, so cruel in poor Zina’s case, yet so noble where Lyolya is concerned, has proved victorious—my only regret is that the heights I have reached with her will not last and will be broken by our forthcoming trip, by the excessive hopes that I place on this trip, hopes that will never be realized. This was the only failure of my reasoning today—as though I had unleashed some previously shackled desires and, having gone dashing after them, was unable to stop them in their tracks.
Keeping this diary has become easier for me—I have more words at my disposal, words ready to express something of my own, I have a greater variety of ways in which to combine them and I have developed the habit of summoning them at will; my observations are no longer exhausted at once, but rather they cling to one another, allowing me to extract everything about them that is new. I even fear this indefatigable ease, I deliberately linger over some difficult point and pedantically, stubbornly seek out elusive verbal solutions, solutions that seem the only true and exact ones; no artificiality can replace my natural inner efforts, however, and, having found the words I need, I carry on hastily writing these entries, as though in pursuit of everything that would otherwise be lost and forgotten: of course, diligent diaristic work, as with any other endeavor, will, with time and exertion, become a craft, a practice, and will no longer entail difficulty or novelty, the passion to conceal or to exalt what has been recorded with such enduring mystery. I cease now to think of the benevolent, loving woman who alone shall have the honor of reading and understanding—but no, I envisage the reader, indifferent, impartial, and, of course, I can foresee the disdainful perplexion: for in trying in good faith, without any duplicity, to depict something of my own, I end up, as it were, betraying myself—I will discover something bad therein, the things that people ordinarily hide (often even from themselves), and so, despite myself, I sometimes feel ashamed of what I achieve.
September 19
THERE IS A certain something that I have come to realize—concerning the imprudence, the folly of this trip to Blainville—and I feel no pride whatsoever on account of this realization; I have no vain, inner pretense. I simply have no time for all that—for the period prior to Lyolya’s return seems to me an extraordinary, unique happiness, even if it did pass slowly, tediously, contemptibly. Right now, I find myself in that most hateful of conditions—an unending fit of jealousy—and my rival, unexpected as he is, is the unaccountably lucky Bobby Wilczewski, for whom, even as my rival, I foster little curiosity. It was I who suggested that Lyolya bring Bobby to Blainville, to ward off disappointment (our idyll could never have lasted) and the temptation of adjoining rooms, late-night strolls, and conversations: I had anticipated Lyolya’s resistance and wanted to maintain a prudent, comfortable levelheadedness. Alas, however, there is much that I had not counted on—not only Lyolya’s caprices and Bobby’s ridiculous success, but also my own enduring thralldom to the nature at Blainville, to the dark tree-lined alley, to the hill with the café by the lake, to everything that they represented for me and for which I needed their help. Was there a hidden poison in all this nature, one that I encountered when I was alone here, or is it rather that my embellishments and exaggerations have infected my travelling companions and, by some strange, dubious logic, cast them together, fresh and new, while casting me aside, exhausted by all this? At any rate, I have missed my chance for a worthy friendship with Lyolya forever, lost all hope of winning and keeping her friendship, and I have forsaken that feeling of equilibrium that comes from contenting myself with that friendship. I am sick of people preferring another over me, sick of pride, sick of what is rudely, cruelly apparent, and the only thing that could now cure me is my own triumph, a clear sign of victory, the acceptance of far-fetched conditions—that Lyolya would settle down with me forever and never see or hear from Bobby again. How ridiculously at odds all this is with the true state of our relations, and unceasingly I hatch naïve and childish plans (both vengeful and placatory), forever telling myself how I shall disappear, how I shall leave Lyolya alone with Bobby, and how she, having lost me, with only Bobby to rely on, will be horrified and inevitably repent.
We arrived toward evening and were informed at the pension of our exceptional good luck (“quelle veine vous avez”)—that the casino was opening that very evening. I invited Lyolya to go for a stroll before dinner and to sit in the open air at the café, which back in Paris I had so rapturously and long-windedly described to her (praising it, as though it were my own), but Lyolya said that she preferred to rest and get herself ready. Bobby disappeared immediately, apparently to telephone his father, and so I set out alone down the familiar path. It was windy, cool, and damp—ahead of me, a discerning gentleman was revealing to his lady-friend the absurdity of opening a casino at the very end of the season. They, too, were heading in the direction of the café, and I—on account of some mischievous curiosity—took the table next to them. My curiosity was aroused by the lady, who was still quite young—pale, slender, and tall, like many a fashionable dancer—and, judging by her accent, undoubtedly Russian. She spoke little, however, and only in reply— distractedly, at that, and often missing the point entirely. Her companion, puce from all those aperitifs, a thickset and bald Frenchman with a graying moustache and a rosette bestowed by the Légion d’honneur, was trying to drag her into an absurd argument about Russia, attacking her rather ungraciously and showing off his formidable erudition and arguments: “un peuple mérite le régime qu’il a, vous, les Russes—c’est Lénine ou bien Ivan le Terrible … voyez ceux qui entouraient ce pauvre tzar, ils l’ont tous abandonné, c’étaient tous des lâches, lâches, lâches.” It is possible that he was just teasing her, or that this pale demoiselle, following the example set by so many émigré women, was for this foreigner “du meilleur monde” and, hence, “of the tzar’s inner circle,” in which case his insulting words were directed at her—at any rate, she was hardly listening, argued with him reluctantly and lackadaisically, and, unnoticed by him, exchanged several glances with me, lowering her limpid blue eyes, as it were, too expressively and revealing her protruding upper set of rather elongated teeth. I wanted to wade in on their argument, to startle her with the fact that I am Russian and on the same side, so to speak, and to charm him with my upstanding, sensible, winning objections. But I was almost out of time; I was drawn more to Lyolya, and I hadn’t the strength to overcome unfamiliarity and the difficulty of taking that first step. On the way back, however, abuzz with unspent energy, I romantically imagined that poor Russian woman’s financial dependence (and I doubt I was mistaken in this), how the wealthy Frenchman must “lord it over her,” and how I would recount this exceptional, wistful, affecting observation, this slice of life, to Lyolya. Perhaps it was not quite so astonishing and unique as I had believed (I often exaggerate the things I save up for Lyolya—because of the enormity of the inspiring resonance that I find in her), or perhaps I simply failed to choose the right moment, but Lyolya heard me out with polite, insultingly contrived attention, nodding patiently (if only not to prolong the experience), only then to resume her conversation with Bobby, which I had interrupted—about the telephone, what news there was, and the health of his sister. I felt disproportionately piqued by this slight, for I had previously been so certain of the impression that the story would make, that it would hit the mark, that she would appreciate how it was packed with kindness, friendliness, nobility even. At the same time, my clumsy interference made me look like an outsider, surplus to Lyolya and Bobby’s grown-up conversation, and this unbearable feeling carried on till the morning, becoming only more justified.
It suddenly struck me that I was quibbling, as so often I have done before, over minutiae, and that nothing, essentially, had changed—so as to test this, I convinced Lyolya (and, despite myself, out of politeness, Bobby too) to accompany me straight after dinner to that very same tree-lined alley, expecting once again to find there some much-needed friendly support. Lyolya agreed without any enthusiasm and only asked solicitously:
“Won’t you be cold, Bobby dear?”
All the way, with uncustomary (for her) and in no wise ironic gentility, Lyolya kept harping on the same questions, while I, in my torment, wondered why she showed no care or solicitude for me, the mirror image of Bobby, although clearly less hardy and healthy, and I settled on what seemed to be the only conciliatory hypothesis possible—that Lyolya held me to blame for this frivolous stroll and so that was why she insisted on being so defiantly and unilaterally solicitous. We passed by the radiant, white, noisy casino, right on the lake—gusts of sharp, raw cold seemed to blow from it—and all of a sudden Lyolya cheered up:
“Here’s what we’ll do, Bob.”
She deftly threw off her thick warm cardigan and placed its left sleeve over Bobby’s left shoulder and the right one over her own—they had to clutch the cardigan firmly (each holding the end of one arm) and press close to each other—we found ourselves once again in a dark spot, where the two of them together (Bobby, big and broad, and Lyolya, smaller and narrower, sharing the cardigan, which hung at a slant from Bobby’s shoulders down to Lyolya’s) resembled some monstrous four-legged creature. I walked to the right of Lyolya, not touching her, making an offended show of my distance and alienation—of course, were it not for Bobby and Lyolya’s strange behavior, I myself would have been pressing close to her and there would have been none of this scornful froideur or propriety. We at last came upon my beloved alley, black, forbidding, howling with the drone of invisible dry leaves, and it occurred to me that in such darkness, in such a sinister, secluded spot, there was bound to be some danger lurking (at the very least, a sudden attack) and that we, the two men, should have to forget our rivalry and join forces to defend Lyolya. As though bearing out these and similar thoughts of mine, somebody nearby shone a torch at us—emboldened like never before, I made ready to jump on him first, but the figure that drew into view was a tall gentleman in a smoking jacket, apparently making his peaceable way to the casino, and, in the light of his torch, with incontrovertible clarity, I saw Bobby embracing Lyolya with his free arm and caressing her—with immediate, instinctive cunning, I thought to lag behind a little (before the light vanished) and was just as incontrovertibly convinced that Lyolya, too, had her arm around Bobby.
I was struck by a desire to ask something caustic—“Well, how are you feeling now? Quite cozy?”—to prick them somehow, to show them that I saw and knew what was going on, but I feared the tension it would cause, the inopportunity of the words, and so, for the umpteenth time, I feebly held my tongue. The pain has not yet appeared, only the foresight of its duration, its immeasurable strength and implacability, some correspondence between it and what has happened today or may yet happen, and with each new blow I ask myself, with ever-growing amazement, how far will this pain go? how much more must I endure? while for now—before the pain comes—I feel recklessly and merrily intoxicated, as people do, listening to the swelling sounds of an orchestra as it drowns out a recognizable melody, or as they contemplate scandalous, destructive events, or even the very possibility of their own death—to spite someone, a stranger whom they blame for everything.
We turned around and, to warm ourselves, hurried along to the “grand opening.” The event was a flop: the discerning bald Frenchman, who was there already with his bored companion, had been right, of course: there were indeed very few people in attendance. The casino resembled other such second-rate establishments—with a dining hall, a dance hall, two or three gaming rooms, and a terrace that had been made redundant by the inclement weather—everything had a phony, slapdash aura that masked something far more cobbled together, the tasteless décor somehow reminiscent of a Russian dacha. There appeared to be more organizers and employees (musicians, waiters, danseurs) than patrons, and while they imitated liveliness and good cheer as best they could, running hither and thither, dancing with one another and blowing industriously into their trumpets, the casino’s proprietress, a youthful woman with auburn hair and a prodigious décolleté, met the guests on the terrace and reluctantly, scarcely concealing her chagrin, smiled at those others whom she had to let go, who had been frightened off by those vast, half-empty halls.
I invited Lyolya to dance a slow foxtrot with me—on occasion, we would pull it off rather well—but now she grimaced in annoyance:
“I’d rather we didn’t go up first. Let’s sit this one out.”
But when Bobby asked her for the very next dance, she stood up and accompanied him without objection—Lyolya must have forgotten my invitation, overlooked it, for I am sure that she did not mean to offend me deliberately (whatever her feelings for Bobby may be), but it was that forgetfulness of hers that now enraged me, and childishly I promised myself never, but never to dance with her again.
All I could do was look at them and suddenly, accidentally discover how radiant they both were, how comfortable and well they looked together, both sitting and dancing. There was something else that I observed, something that seemed even crueler to me: no sooner had they set off than their embrace became all the more brazen and unseemly, one cheek resting on another (I could even feel the vicarious touch of Lyolya’s sweet, soft, velvety skin), and, after they came toward me, as though in cahoots with each other, as though conspiring together against me (I always resent that sense of lovers’ complicity), they set off once more, but not before I spotted in Lyolya’s eyes a long-familiar, sincere, somewhat misty gleam, which now seemed cruel and unforgiving. From this Lyolya, who was dangerous, so very hostile and alien to me, who had at last brought to bear what I had vaguely and blindly expected from the very outset—like an entranced animal that is lured by a plaintive cry into the trap that it has discovered—from this Lyolya’s greedy summons, addressed to another, an overwhelming fear of helplessness came over me, the long-forgotten fear of childhood dreams—that I was sinking, that I had nobody to turn to, that nobody would come to my rescue. The pain, a real, physical pain—chills interspersed with nausea and faintness—has already reached me and found its way into everything (my head, my chest, my stomach), and there is yet another, indescribable pain—that caused by the fact that I shall never again sit with Lyolya, never get up and leave, never entreat or quarrel with her, by the same infidelity, the destructiveness of every step, every situation that I am faced with. Bobby and Lyolya carried on dancing, demanding applause, that the band play another number, and failing to notice how the remaining dancers dwindled. In the middle of one dance, Lyolya, still smiling, pushed Bobby away (I could already foresee something absolutely excruciating coming down the tracks) and quickly returned to her seat. They talked, as though I were invisible, gaily and tenderly—ever more like conspirators—and that fear of helplessness inside me grew ever more acute, as did the constant chills and pain. I could no longer think things through or reach decisions—my flickering, foreshortened thoughts were groping for something new and previously unnoticed in both my companions, something that had manifested itself so very suddenly but now could not be found: as ever, Bobby seemed to be wearing an inane grin and was only a little pinker than usual; Lyolya, on the other hand, was flushed, beaming with satisfaction and gratitude, and ravishing enough for two. Granted, she remained, as it were, entirely closed to me (as far as she was concerned, I was, quite simply, not there, and never once did she turn to me or notice that I, in my umbrage, would not dance with her, never did she appreciate my crestfallen silence), but this Lyolya, in thrall to dark, greedy impulses, isolated and withdrawn from me, I recalled perfectly—by other, already present signs, only I had failed to recognize their cruel, affronting combination. Other disparate, disfigured thoughts also flashed through my mind—why was Bobby here (or was all this torment not sooner the rule for me, my fate, and did Bobby in fact have nothing at all to do with this), and why did neither Lyolya nor any of the people around us seem to recognize that the three of us had come here as friends, that out of nowhere the two of them had conspired to torment me, the third wheel, that this was not decent behavior? I also tried to uncover the reason behind this unexpected favor: no matter how high I set myself, no matter how my tenacity, my inspired and necessary work moves me, inwardly I always register the successes of others, their victories over me, and I cannot settle for the excuse that I myself disdainfully refuse to fight, or that I am the victim of some misunderstanding or injustice (the perpetual mania of the defeated)—no, I persistently, instinctively seek out what it was that led my opponent to victory, what it was that I lacked, and so, as I looked at Bobby, stifled by the hopelessness and intractability of each passing moment, not knowing what to do with myself or where to hide—right now, at home, tomorrow—I somehow managed to stumble upon the semblance of an explanation, an unexpected question that suggested so much—why were Bobby and Lyolya both radiant while Zina and I were dull? and why, of the four of us, am I the only one who apparently does not know his place (by Zina’s side)? But since a semblance of an explanation had been found—albeit in the law of outward consistency (not inner, mind, much as I should have liked to find it and much as it would have been truer)—I had inadvertently found my way out of a dead end (if only mentally, continuing all the while in my heart to mourn) and could now preserve some sorry dignity, forget about my fragility, and avoid courting pity: after all, the “law” cannot be changed. Then again, I did not even feel the urge to talk to Lyolya—because of the blind barrier that has sprung up between us and that is, moreover, clear to us both: in any friendship between two people, where one is somehow subordinate to the other (a son to a mother, a pupil to a teacher, a worker to his manager, one who is loving to another unloving), there comes a moment of danger when power begins to manifest itself, when friendship turns into control, a moment that is, for the subordinate, humiliating, painful, unforgivable—for me this rude change, this end to the usual warmth of friendship, this new imperious tone, the imposition of a new relationship is immensely difficult, instills long-running resentment, particularly where women are concerned, particularly where it is a matter of “loving” and “unloving,” and such a cruel, arbitrary change, as Lyolya has had, always robs me of both courage and the hope of coming to some arrangement. To the bitter end, not once did I reproach Lyolya; the whole evening I spent in stubborn silence, evincing a certain irreproachability—back there in the alley, owing to a combination of awkwardness and witlessness, there in the ballroom, owing to fear, insult, maybe even a well-reasoned sense of despair—among the myriad reasons that had provoked this chance irreproachability were both my weakness and my strength.
Though I knew well (from past experience) that any attempt to shake off this lingering, miserable immobility was doomed to failure and would only lead (once a substitute had been found) back to a reality made even worse by the proven impossibility of escaping it, even so, to sit tight, to listen to Lyolya’s gentle words (once addressed to me and so full of blissful meaning, but now, because of their repetition, because they have been handed on to Bobby, so ridiculous-sounding), to see her decidedly uncharacteristic attentions lavished every minute on a bewilderingly third-rate rival—no, this I could no longer endure, nor did I wish to do so, and so I waited for a convenient pretext to get up and leave—one that was credible, not cutting or provocative. I had long already been eying up our Russian neighbor (with that imperceptible and, nevertheless, prying concentration with which people who appear to be absorbed in their own woes see and commit to memory every little outside trifle accompanying them), so pale and mirthless, intending all the while to dance with her; I even harbored the dubious hope of riling Lyolya with this, but then there was the danger of refusal, after which would come my exposure and indisputable, definitive despair. Then again, matters could not get any worse, and, besides, the Russian lady was smiling at me encouragingly, so I made up my mind there and then—with a sense of mortal risk (perhaps posturing a little into the bargain)—to go up to her. As I got to my feet, blushing on account of my belated appeal, I said far too brazenly and in an unaccountably loud voice:
“Lyolya, you won’t mind if I invite someone else to dance, will you? Our neighbor, for instance?”
“By all means.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, the Russian lady stretched out her hand amicably, affectionately even, as though to a respectable, eccentric, and unduly shy admirer, while the Frenchman smiled at me, pleased to see her amused and clearly having discussed the three of us with her already. In the middle of the dance, my partner suddenly and with a naïve show of sympathy asked:
“Why were you sitting there so forlorn, while your friends were having a jolly time?”
She danced marvelously, leading imperceptibly and in perfect step with me (I myself am an uneven dancer, forever at the mercy of my partner), responding to every caprice and quickening of the music. She seemed to lack any bones (she was at once putty in my hands, and yet possessed of an almost balletic poise); I glided after her, admiring her unceasingly suggestive flexibility, and was ready to transfer my admiration onto anything else that she might have to offer, even to compare her limp conversation with Lyolya’s, especially with today’s, hostile as it was, but it was in her conversation that I divined something long-familiar and, next to Lyolya, irredeemably gray—the young ladies’ institute, the provinces, the superficial sheen of Paris. Very likely it would have been amusing to ask her about the conversation that I had overheard in the café by the lake, about my incensed speculations—if only Lyolya had listened to me then with her usual attention—but now I feared losing the last visible remnants of my dignity and decided not to let myself be drawn, lest it remind me of Lyolya’s humiliating aloofness. When I, after thanking the Russian lady and her patron much too effusively, returned to Lyolya in trepidation (vaguely hoping that everything would suddenly change), I found her sitting there as before, distant, flushed, misty-eyed, and seeming to notice neither my presence, nor the deliberate, immoderate plaudits from my new acquaintance.
I decided to take a wander through the bright, empty halls and was stopped by the auburn hostess in her décolleté at the only card table where there were people playing—she persuaded me to join them, in doing which she revealed herself to be no fool, but much too artless and frankly avaricious: for some reason, she put me in mind of the ginger dancer at the restaurant I had patronized together with Lyolya and on the eve of her arrival, and, as I compared both these luridly seductive women to Lyolya, I satisfied myself once again of her resplendent irreplaceability, one that was, as far as I was concerned, now lost, squandered, for I felt myself consumed entirely, emptied even, when I unwittingly compared our first evening together, and how the dancer had paled before Lyolya, and how I had delighted in this, believing that I had won Lyolya, or at least that she was destined for me—if only as a friend—with this evening, this hopeless, unforgettable turning point. While I conversed with the hostess, I could see Lyolya and Bobby dancing again in the distance, and I felt myself drawn toward the ballroom—but not into the room itself, and not to my seat—so that I should be able to observe them safely and unnoticed, not missing a single movement, a telling smile, hitting upon some—doubtless bitter—truth, only then to tell myself: I am no longer with Lyolya, though she may not know it, and though she may well be indifferent to the fact—this is how I shall prove myself shrewder and more dignified, and only thereby shall I have any peace. There were, in fact, more than sufficient grounds for the break (if one can call it such, this private, unilateral decision for which Lyolya cares nothing and to which it would be ridiculous of her to admit), yet I retain the craven hope that I am mistaken, that I have simply done something to upset Lyolya, that she is being capricious, and that tomorrow everything will be as it was before; if, however, I were to stop believing in such arrant nonsense, I should still seek—conscious of my own impotence—to pin the blame on something indisputable and unforgivable, lest I live to regret the mistake, while to find the strength to make the break now, in a blaze of indignant anguish, would mean not seeing each other, or leaving Paris altogether. As I stood in a room leading off from the ballroom, in the midst of a certain commotion at the snack bar, I saw Lyolya and Bobby now right before me, now reflected in various mirrors, while I myself, with ostensible indifference, drank Bénédictine and Curaçao—sometimes they would draw close, almost bearing down on me, silently clinging to each other with weary affection, and yet thus far I had seen nothing that might console me, nor indeed anything that was indisputably amiss.
We returned home along the autumn streets, which recalled the desolation of our Russian countryside; Lyolya and Bobby walked arm in arm, while I, resentful, pressed on ahead, guiding them with as few words as were necessary. Other than my strangled directions, not a word was spoken, and it seemed to me that Lyolya was maintaining an especially stubborn silence—doubtless, she had been reticent to strike up conversations with me even in former times, but now it was so wanting, so hurtfully unlike the contrition, the passionate remorse that had given me vague reassurance all evening, that it was as if I failed to notice, to catch her indifferent words. Like others who are weak or in some way enfeebled, my miserable attention was concentrated not on the general (that Lyolya prefers Bobby over me), but on the latest, minor (albeit telling) trifle—why now was Lyolya, as she walked beside me, knowing full well how much it would hurt me, clinging fast to Bobby’s arm and not to mine, or—in camaraderie—to both his and mine at once? There was clearly no fault in my reasoning, although for me it was frankly humiliating: everything was over, Lyolya had given me the slip, cheated me, unwittingly betrayed me; I am prepared to tolerate and accept any inevitable wrongdoing, but why was she causing such excessive, easily avoidable torment? It was Bobby who unexpectedly broke these morbid, self-indulgent thoughts of mine with an ill-judged question, one that seemed bizarre in the midst of our solemn silence:
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. My old man has received a rather interesting proposition. It’s just the thing for Derval. We just have to run a few checks on their bilan first.”
I do not know whether Bobby had divined my growing hostility or had really recollected some possible business venture; in either case, it struck me that he, the victor, was trying to engage me in conversation out of a sense of pity, and this put my back up—my anger had until then been directed mostly at Lyolya (this is what she had done to me)—and at the same time I realized, gloatingly, with a certain malicious joy, that Bobby had made a fool of himself, that he could not but make a fool of himself, that not only were his clueless Gallicisms ridiculous and absurd, but so too was this preposterous act of his, that Lyolya must have understood all this perfectly, that such a nonentity could never be the object of love or jealousy, and so I composed myself and only shuddered as we approached our sleepy pension—after all, the long night (which has somehow escaped my memory) spread out before us, and so with it countless fears and their cruel familiarity, forgotten and revived many times over, like bouts of a slow, sometimes subsiding, yet all the same incurable and hateful illness. Unbearable memories of Lyolya flashed instantly before my eyes, each one alike the next—my old jealousy toward her husband (which now seemed perfectly puerile), her at times sinister inscrutability, which I felt keenly, and which led her away from me, her dazzling feminine splendor—and all my fear, all my uncertain jealousy, my helplessness (the invariably sad consequences of our love and unlovability) suddenly materialized in Bobby, grinning, clumsy, all-powerful, in those silly pension rooms, in that improbable night that I was forced to suffer (after which I would be fine, I would change, forget, run away), that night that, like a mousetrap, suddenly ensnared me, overwhelmed me, cruelly cut me off from outside help, so that I could not escape the inevitable mockery and torment.
Only after some quite persistent ringing of the bell did we gain entry and make our way quietly upstairs—all three of us—to Lyolya’s room. Lyolya lay down on the bed, while Bobby sat at her feet and I—with a certain defiance—collapsed in the only armchair, anxiously waiting to see whether Bobby would so much as graze the tip of Lyolya’s toe. Watching them resentfully, vigilantly, and with hostility, I concocted (as any person would in a hopeless situation) the most unlikely means of escaping this desperation and guaranteeing for myself some quiet hours before morning, and my mind came to rest on one means in particular, an especially clumsy and desperate rouse that was prompted by my old dealings with Lyolya, by our former intimacy, which I have hardly mentioned until now. My veil of silence has been by no means accidental: I have always imagined that my notebooks may someday fall into the hands of another (it has always horrified me to think that Zina or some curious acquaintance waiting for me might pick them up, or that, in a fog after hours of grueling labor, I might carelessly forget them in some café); I have never given them to another to read, nor do I even have anybody to whom I might show them, but I wanted to keep alive the hope, the prospect that I may yet find an understanding reader, some “appraiser” selected by me—then I should have the time to tear out the only dangerous page (stashing it away, of course, for myself) and to cross out a few unnecessary words. Considerations of gentlemanliness notwithstanding, and likewise my reluctance to lay bare my own private affairs, I was simply afraid to put into cumbersome, revealing words the vast difference between what people understand by a harmonious, romantic intimacy and what we had together; but more importantly, such candor was hampered by my constant reckoning with Lyolya, by a certain physical and mental clamming up, which happened even when she was not physically present in the room—this unrewardable irreproachability of mine in her absence surprised and touched me: after all, never once did I speak of Lyolya or commit to paper (perhaps the thought never even occurred to me, so wholly was I consumed by her) those unavoidably treacherous opinions about a person who is absent—however true or insignificant they may be—which might have caused Lyolya offense and driven her away from me (I need not count the vindictive thoughts, the whole painful arena of “Lyolya and me”—each imaginary conversation that I had with her turned out to be either a complaint or an appeal to love me). But now Lyolya has been the first to break our comradely sense of loyalty, our bond of reciprocal clemency, the kindness so characteristic of our relationship, and now I am no longer minded to make allowances for her, to maintain my irreproachability, to repress anything in myself that she finds objectionable; no, I am quite prepared—naturally, without crude and indifferent witnesses—to declare right here, in this very notebook, at a most significant time for me, as sincerely and mercilessly as possible: yes, Lyolya and I were once close, and even if she did pity me, overcoming her indifference, yet she could never deny this intimacy, nor ever take it from my memory, which in its audacity has preserved and can so easily retrieve the incomparable enchantment of our many evenings spent together—how Lyolya, without embarrassment (like a wife before her husband), would throw off her dress, unfasten her stockings, and slowly reappear in front of me, a new woman, thrillingly tangible and yet unfathomable, a tiny, tender angel, suddenly warm and now irresistibly feminine and seductive. It feels odd to write down everything about Lyolya that previously seemed forbidden, sacrilegious, simply impossible, but I am accustoming myself to this, and the act itself has at last prompted me—in Lyolya’s room, when the three of us were together, amid my mutinous despair—to try disregarding her in the open and, no matter her own wishes, to foist on her our own now-salutary past—such was the pathetic, absurd means, dreamed up in a single moment, by which I hoped to avoid a long, lonely night of jealousy and incessant eavesdropping, a jealousy that was, alas, justified: I decided—even though Lyolya and I, after Sergei N.’s first letter from abroad, had never spent the night together (I can think of no better way to put it), and had since then (granted, without having agreed to it in so many words) always gone our own separate ways in the evening—I decided to feign ignorance and, as a naïve warning to Lyolya, to ensconce myself, or rather not to leave her side.
All of a sudden, Bobby, without having said a word to us and only making a comic gesture of resignation (he had won, was free to do as he pleased, and hence was playing the magnanimous victor), disappeared behind the door, giving me a chance to warn Lyolya of my decision, but I was already vaguely aware of the pointlessness of such an attempt and began to yield to the understandable desire to put it off, to the suicidal spirit of abandon and indolence. We both of us remained silent; with an incorrigible submissiveness, I waited for Bobby’s hurried steps, and soon enough I thought I distinctly heard them, but it turned out to have been a mistake, and here the momentary ordeal of bitterness and fear for what had been lost imbued me with the courage to address a few hasty words to Lyolya:
“It’s high time we all went to bed. We’ll retire shortly, and I’ll come straight back. If you’ll permit me, that is.”
She stared at me, first with a look of dissatisfied surprise (as though she had suddenly been woken up, and for no good reason), and then, indicating the door significantly, with a look of affront and reproach, one that said to me, no, it’s unseemly for two to conspire to deceive a third. I could have reminded her of her own quite recent and not at all dissimilar culpability in that regard, but I was seemingly dumbstruck with fear, with the mortal need to reconcile, and after this first exchange—albeit strange and mute—I no longer accused Lyolya of anything and instead felt the need to justify myself to her, contriving something absurd and limply believing in my own invention:
“Maybe you’re right. I only wanted to have a little chat with you.”
Our rooms were on the same corridor but separated from one another; Bobby’s room, more to the point, was situated between mine and Lyolya’s, so it was simply impossible for me to hear anything going on in her room. True, I did listen nevertheless with an intense, unrelenting, likely unerring keenness, like a burglar or a soldier on reconnaissance, risking life and limb, but there is an obvious limit to what a person can do, and, no matter how I persevered, I was unable to determine anything conclusively. At times it seemed to me as if I were mastering myself and reading my book attentively, whereas in actual fact—being absent—I was skimming the words and leafing through its pages, and, when at last I forced myself to pay attention, I found that I despised (and today I despise it yet) the elevated, prophetically dry, lifeless tone of this much-vaunted work—I was reading Les Nourritures terrestres, an undertaking that I shall never repeat, even though the reason for its incomprehensibility and my loathing, of course, lay in me, and even though in other circumstances I find myself much affected by André Gide and capable of learning something from him. Now and then I would hear (as is inevitable in such moments) some alarming, odious noises, and then, unable to endure the pain of suspicion, after so many sensible attempts to escape it (in some seemingly deliberate sequence, as though trying to satisfy myself that the sensible attempts had not been enough), I sought help in certain desperate fictions that briefly consoled me from this agony: I imagined myself softly stealing through the garden to Lyolya’s half-open window, seeing “everything” clearly, and then, having ensured, having prepared the way for Lyolya’s absolute humiliation, spitefully and imperiously, no longer stealing, but bursting into her room from the corridor, tearing off the duvet, and Lyolya, caught in the act, red-handed, suddenly straightening up and looking me in the eye with proud, cruel, almost shameless defiance. Next, my imagination divided in two—either, having learned the bitter truth, I would leave Lyolya once and for all, only for her to realize that she would have to make do with Bobby alone, or else she would drive Bobby out forthwith, holding me back, and we should passionately and touchingly make our peace (there was, of course, a third option—hardly considered, lazy, quickly dismissed: my vindictive suicide)—in each of these cases, Lyolya would be proved wrong and put to shame, while I, every time (and each in a different way) would triumph. Gradually, I became so used to all these imaginary possibilities (and in particular to their identical beginning—in the garden, by Lyolya’s window) that I decided not to undress, fearing to miss such a patently far-fetched hope, nor to credit the famous saying about the early bird, the pale sky, or the impending abandonment of hope. I tried to go to sleep only after the first light, but soon—lacking the courage to lie there in the light and remain deathly still—I got up and went out to wander the streets, which were unrecognizably clean and tidy, trying to think calmly and rationally how I should now extricate myself from my present desperation, if only to put an end to the torments, blows, and insults of this humiliating and undeserved night. Having ventured off a long way, I suddenly remembered, reckoned that Lyolya would probably be awake already, and so I rushed back without thinking, with a single aim in mind, one that betokened new agonizing nights and new humiliations—to see Lyolya as soon as possible.
When, after knocking, I entered her room, I found Bobby and Lyolya sitting at either end of an already made-up bed, both of them unbearably radiant and contented—in a kind of harmonious, brazen, exceedingly friendly pose (each of them attending to their morning manicure)—and once again I had occasion to see for myself how relaxed and happy they were together, although I still managed to calm myself a little, for I had hungered for Lyolya, and now, having got my hands on her (failing to recall at once her iniquity—grateful, blind, reckless as I was), I slowly imbibed her presence.
September 20
I HAVE FOUND it more difficult than ever to force myself to write—it seemed impossible to tear myself away from my passionate, feverish preoccupation with Lyolya and to drag my innumerable, incoherent observations through the blur of those two days at Blainville: what captivates us, even fleetingly, rends us unavoidably from everything else, and until recently I had thought it a great feat to be able to commit my sudden rush of emotion, the excitement from Lyolya’s proximity in a telephone booth, to pages in a notebook—now all that seems impossibly charmed and so very easy. In despair, in jealousy, in such impatience as I feel now, suspicious every minute, when shaving or taking dinner are harrowing experiences and, as it were, lead me away from what is essential—namely, not to leave Bobby and Lyolya alone together, to be ever on the alert when I am with them, to catch every scarcely perceptible change that takes place—in such unbridled fever, in which to find the strength if only to maintain my dignity and not to reveal my humiliating affliction, and in which to find such immeasurable strength to sit there for a long while, to set in order the mad onslaught of thoughts and events, simply to lead my pen across the paper.
After we arrived back from Blainville—yesterday—Lyolya said that she was tired and wanted to go to bed early, while Bobby and I, hostile and taciturn, parted ways on her doorstep; another sleepless night lay in store for me—I went home and, without anything particular in mind, electing not to frighten myself unnecessarily with the impending yet inevitable ennui and anxiety, I threw down my notebook on the table, spread it open, and began writing immediately. More and more, I became absorbed in the act of writing (more, in fact, than ever before); I made recollections, judgments, comparisons; I paced back and forth endlessly along the narrow little rug—lest my steps make a noise—and gradually I managed to calm myself (with a touch of childishness, as though I had had a good cry and a good snivel, before finally settling down). I was very likely helped by the fact that there was no chance of my seeing Lyolya until the following morning, and so it was no use agonizing or snooping around—in any event, after yesterday’s scribblings I have in reserve enough composure and concentration, enough self-renewing inner curiosity, for today’s. True, by morning, as soon as I stopped writing, the unnaturalness and desperation of this miserable distraction was immediately revealed to me: yet again I had not slept, and yet again I had tormented myself—setting down what I had retained and found in my memory, carrying out the task I had set myself—stubbornly, foolishly, and to no avail. On the other hand, I do now have a vague renewed sense of pride—that I am cracking the whip unsparingly, that I have translated, that I can translate one state of mind into another and, more to the point, even at a time when I am in the grip of unrelenting, indomitable pain, when I have succumbed to it and can no longer offer up any resistance, and when the first thrust of effort entails all the violence and vigor of a surgeon—and together with this pride in what I have achieved comes the age-old question, one that is natural, eternal, and without answer, one of fairness and reward: will it really ever vanish from the world?—not the pain of loving, which I know well and continues yet, but this very endeavor—imposed who knows by whom, tormenting me and draining me of all strength—to acknowledge that pain, and to put it into words.
My second and final day at Blainville was even more miserable and loathsome than the first, and so ridiculously unlike what I had envisaged and what I had promised Lyolya. Late in the afternoon, Bobby, as he had done on the previous day, again went to make a telephone call. He returned terribly upset:
“Everything’s working out splendidly for you. My old man asked me to tell you that Derval says the paperwork is almost ready.” (This should have been my greatest success, but even this news could not banish the pain and loathing and only raised the kind of inner smirk that it would have done in anybody in such circumstances—what else is money and wanton success good for?) “But things aren’t so grand chez nous. Zina is very ill and they’re leaving tomorrow morning at ten. This could spell disaster for our plans—I’m afraid the old boy will bungle the whole thing.”
“Perhaps you’d better go with Zina. That way, your father can see to the business affairs and take your place later.”
This suggestion of mine seemed—to me, at least—quite apropos and, on the face of it at least, sensitive to Bobby’s distress and panic, although of course it derived not from any sympathy, but from a certain sense of malicious joy, from the fleeing hope that I might forget all about him, even if only for a while, along with his outrageous behavior those past few days—making me play the detective, drawing humiliating, importunate, jealous comparisons, comparisons that are uncharitable, always hurtful, and quite unnecessary. Lyolya apparently managed to fathom the nefarious intent behind my ostensibly friendly interference and, enraged by this, with a tremor in her voice, objected:
“You aren’t going anywhere, Bob. These illnesses are no laughing matter, so let your father take care of things like the grown man that he is, and, God willing, the business affairs will take care of themselves.”
I was mortified that Lyolya had caught me out, likewise that her outburst had been so indignant, so vitriolic toward me, and that it had betrayed such deep, tender affection for Bobby: her devotion to him seemed remarkably unfair, as did her sweet, motherly care—no matter what befell him, Bobby forever remained exactly the same, a nonentity without a single distinguishing feature, a mediocrity without even good or wicked intent, a nobody who spoke in foreign, approximate words, apparently unable to deceive anybody. I had at the ready any number of objections that Lyolya would have found insulting, objections that were, at any rate, substantial enough: that it was only because of our ridiculous rivalry that I had become unchivalrous in my dealings with Bobby; that Lyolya herself had fashioned that artificial rivalry in the first place; that she, with her vulgar and provocative behavior, had awakened my sense of amour-propre, which had been lacking in the bygone days of our more equal partnership, and which could no longer be placated and stood only to sour me against any other prospective suiter of hers; that one simply cannot—sans reason or explanation—treat people with such thoughtlessness. Of course, I kept a feeble silence, but I was so incensed, so filled with rage—so much in fact that for a time I was delivered from my mistrustful jealousy, from the maniacal need to observe them every minute that they were with me, and to imagine what they got up to in my absence, and in a daze, barely holding back the tears, I went out into the garden, where I spent a long time pacing around, thinking up ever newer and more scathing lines of argument with which to destroy Lyolya. Perhaps it was not only her perspicacity, nor even her condemnation of my unraveled advice, that hurt me and forced me to make excuses and go on the attack, but also something that all this concealed, something that had reared its head previously and was, very likely, anathema to Lyolya: with inexplicable regularity I find myself cast together with victors and persecutors, siding with them in fortune, might, and arrogance; I myself am at times possessed of brute strength and am able to regard the defeated and wretched with a detached, almost curious sense of indifference, and without the least pity or warmth. I so desperately wanted to reply that the human struggle really does not interest me all that much, that I am just as incurious about my victorious allies as I am about my own worldly success, and that I am not ashamed of my at times brutal strength, which inevitably passes, only to be replaced, as it has been now, by a sense of frailty—in this case, one that derives from Lyolya and is, perforce, all-consuming. I returned to the balcony where I had left Lyolya and Bobby and, of course, said nothing of what I had prepared, so certain was I of my defeat, and so I decided, since I could expect no help, no protection, no vindication from Lyolya, that it was for me to outwit and stave off the desperation of that evening, that night, our last in Blainville (because of Zina’s impending departure), a night that seemed singularly dangerous.
After lunch, feeling as though I were committing some irreparable deed and, with a certain spiteful exhilaration, trying to act as naturally and nonchalantly as possible, I announced, as though in passing:
“I’m sorry, truly, but I must leave at once, and I may be gone quite some time.”
Lyolya looked up at me strangely, as though on the cusp of realizing what I was up to and meaning to stop me. I am convinced that I was not mistaken in this, but after so many blows and disappointments I could not compose myself without conducting a new experiment—and a last, lingering smile from Lyolya would have altered my mood for the entire evening. When, as I was leaving the garden, I looked back at the balcony, Lyolya was not looking in my direction (as I had expected) and was laughing gaily with Bobby, immediately dispelling my hopes for even the most dubious kind of loyalty. Once again, I set out to wander down that long-familiar path, somewhat buoyed by the fact that the bitter monotony of those days in Blainville had been broken (a monotony that pretended to eternity, just like any ghastly present) and that I was at last alone with myself, having of my own accord torn myself away from Lyolya, able to take a proper look at what had gone on, and, with a slow clarity—unmolested by the nagging ache of jealousy—to ponder calmly and rationally how I might deliver myself from this bondage, how I might become—however miserably, however grudgingly—free. The walk, the solitude, and the thinking, however, soon seemed ridiculous and unbearable, and I felt drawn once again to people, to the casino, where even the previous night I had distinguished something vaguely animating and agreeable, and where Lyolya and Bobby, by my reckoning (because of Zina’s departure, and so as to be alone together), would not show their faces—and even if they did, I would show Lyolya just how easy it was to get by without her (much later, weary from all that feigned exuberance, I was obsessed by the thought of Lyolya’s arrival, of a reprise of that miracle at the bistro, when in the space of a minute her hopelessly late appearance placated the long hours of my despair).
The casino stood empty, as before, and guests were few and far between—the Franco-Russian couple, the gentleman in the smoking jacket, who on the previous evening had so frightened us in the alley, and another group who were placing small bets on a game of boules. I invited the hostess to sit with me for a while and soon, to her great surprise and proprietorial delight, began to intoxicate myself with an array of various liqueurs in turn, trying to avoid that ambiguous, transitional state: I envisaged that inspired sense of elation that sometimes comes with inebriation at the hand of despair but is often just missed because of the sluggishness or inertia of the transition. Intoxication came quickly, however—it is forever associated for me with the psychological state that precedes it, almost accentuating it, pinpointing it, or, if I cannot put my finger on it, underscoring it, but this connection with my recent past, the emphasis on it, can be especially harsh, if that past is hopeless, if I am ill, mentally crippled, so completely constrained that I cannot breathe, while drunkenness liberates my sorry past, casting off the veil of some barren, lengthy immobility, revealing all the creative tension and strength that despair entails and that will someday take their toll. And so now, as usual, I succumbed to the ostensibly quickening movement around me and was imbued with a feeling of benevolence for all these people, but this was not some chance drunken folly, one born of love and nonsense—the sort that I often experience and can identify at the drop of a hat—no, this was, to be specific, a liberation, an eruption of hidden, buried, tender feelings, feelings that had been misplaced, that had reached nobody and had been accepted by none: that same feeling of despair persisted, unbroken and unremittingly palpable, yet it withdrew, alleviated somewhat, as though obscured by the nice people around me and by my fraternal, sympathetic feelings of friendship toward them. Such contentment in the midst of despair (or equally a sad glance in the fullness of happy love) is the redemptive contradiction that leads us away from the animal, the thoughtless, the voiceless thrall to subsequent, sometimes lofty, possibilities: poignant conclusions and their poetic revelation, the necessary fortitude in life’s struggle (which, next to this, seems demonstrably petty), and even a certain indifference to death; mentally (and not monetarily) we are often generous; the richer we are, the more generous we become, and then—without greed, without regret—we find ourselves ready to give up what is ours, and even our very selves. Granted, this contentment of mine seems somewhat artificial, inebriated, accidental, but I know from long experience that it is none other than this inebriation that crowns our hopelessness, our love, everything within us that is fruitful and awaiting expression; it lingers on in our soul’s memory, and I know that the words and thoughts to which it gives rise are often disjointed and erratic, but at heart they are refreshingly true. There, in the casino, I came unhesitatingly—with courage and inspiration—to the realization that my despair had only just begun and would be yet greater than in those first days—the most unendurable blow for a lover is that which is yet to come, although one must live in the constant expectation of it—but, all the same, there will be bouts of contentment similar to this, even if they are forcibly produced, and they will grow, envelop, and gradually displace my despair, and from them I shall extract the strength to share in the movement of life itself, with old age, disgraceful failures, and petty, foolish aims, to experience it with tenfold enthusiasm and, as it were, to enjoy it from without. I also had a premonition that after the despair, after having made my peace with it, a sense of friendship would remain, one that did not require evidential proofs, splendid words, vociferous addresses, but contented itself with gestures, tenderness, a tenor, an air of courtesy and brotherhood. I must have begun to broadcast these thoughts unconsciously even then, amid the inebriation (and, indeed, not only because of the inebriation)—I myself was surprised to discover this in the appreciative and trusting warmth of the responses, when I gathered almost everybody around my table—the hostess, the Russian lady, the Frenchman with the rosette (I revealed to him that I had overheard his excusably ignorant conversation about Russia) and the gentleman in the smoking jacket, who enquired sympathetically about Lyolya and seemed healthy, composed, well-protected against an affliction such as mine, and, given this protection, I was touched by his sympathy, by his offer of support in my own affliction. We drank copiously, but I remained as alert as ever, paying careful, devoted attention to my newfound companions and forever returning to the same point—to the miracle of this prospective epiphany after Lyolya’s impending departure, strange and unendurable though it seemed. To content myself with my original explanation suddenly appeared (as is often the case) ridiculously inadequate and naïve: thoughts that had been inadvertently set in motion rushed uncontrollably, alarming and seducing me with an all-permitting, intimate, half-grasped elegance—to those former thoughts (about the necessary renunciation of the animalistic fullness of sensations, about the humanizing and creative power of rejection) something willful had now been added, something that drew comparisons and made calculations. I approached it as though from afar, and my reasoning ran roughly thus: if everything flops and comes crashing down on you, you will eventually tire of indignation and only turn your cheek, although an undeniable feeling of guilt will remain—that you lack the power to deter, the “reins,” a sense of proportion—yet this feeling, this guilt, will rear its head even when your luck is in (at the card table, with women, in your career), when, unable to stave off fate, you have so confidently taken everything for granted, and then you will find yourself obliged, compelled even, to let go a part of that luck, but it is not misfortune in its entirety that crashes down, nor are you entombed by it; so must you not allow luck to unravel you, nor yourself to lash out blindly and predatorily, but rather you must learn to brace yourself, to step aside, as it were, and there shall you find yourself in a realm of unceasing mental effort, one that rebels against totality, wholeness, sweet, blissful self-dissolution—therein lies, in a modest way, from the bottom up, without any rash faith, without divine grace, the only possible ascension that is achievable by man, an ascension that is unspeakably arduous, one that failure threatens by the minute, one in which the infinitely powerful, inimitable upward flight of an individual human soul has more meaning and value than the cumbersome and weighty movement of “society” (which is slow and will never catch up with it), than any superficially heroic act—one that is wingless, dumb, and able to be accomplished by a savage and a child alike.
Even now I bear a trace of that drunken evening, of its dulcet charm (the trace disappeared, inexplicably, only after Zina had been seen off, when some understanding, sympathetic kindness was especially called for); some feeling of reconciliation remains, although absurd and unfortunate circumstances—the fact that I am too often busy, that Lyolya is not always available, that she and Bobby take pains to meet without me—lead me to such helplessness, chase me into such a vice-like trap from which I seemingly cannot escape, yet it just so happens that helplessness like this also bolsters my sense of reconciliation: I cannot interfere with anything and, therefore, I have no cause to fight, and it was not without reason that I rushed from Blainville back to my, oh, so dubious sense of Parisian security, apparently anticipating that I should be able to write there—fear, you see, makes writing impossible, as it did before Lyolya left for Berlin—for I find writing to be not only a useful and distracting enterprise, but also a means, perhaps the only means, of speaking freely about what matters most to me, whereas with Lyolya, for whom all this “what matters” is carefully and pointlessly kept, there is obligation, excessive, frightened consideration, and enslavement.
October 2
ONCE AGAIN, I appear to be caught in a rut—one that seems fixed and unalterable—but I need only imagine myself as I was recently and the view I should then have taken of myself as I am now, and it becomes simply incomprehensible to me how I could have permitted such a humiliating change to take place. I have been stricken by an affliction to which I have grown accustomed, as one accustoms oneself to the dark or ennui, an affliction that from day to day does not prevent me from doing (hastily and haphazardly) anything that a healthy person might—being fastidious, kind, careful with money—but all this hardly touches me, and I find it only easier to pass over any hindrance or blunder, since they do not affect anything that matters. What does matter, on the other hand, what began back then in Blainville, became intractable, and has perhaps since then become—owing to habit, time, despair—a little less keen, is that I am sick with jealousy: that, and Lyolya’s disfavor. I spend entire days at her hotel, and I know no calm unless I am there—it forever seems to me that something irreparable will happen without me there, that I suicidally abet this “something irreparable” with every hour of my absence. I have long detested the hotel lobby where I am made to wait eternally for Lyolya (“madame descend tout de suite”), but all the same, it does have a certain calming quality in comparison to the street or my room, which are located somewhere in another world, one quite unconnected to Lyolya. We are rarely alone—Lyolya avoids this, insofar as she is able, and often, on various pretexts, disposes of me, whereas I am so accustomed, so habituated to this humiliation, I so fear giving Lyolya cause for quarrel or not to receive me, that I hardly appear to notice it. It is Bobby who usually impinges on our would-be solitude, and the worst of it is that I, taking advantage of Lyolya’s patience (and, perhaps, her well-bred sense of tact), prevent them in turn from secluding themselves, caring nothing that my sorry station is only too apparent to them (sparing no thought whatsoever for my bond of friendship or for that same much-needed sense of tact), and I only rejoice when I leave together with Bobby, able to rest assured that at least they are not together and no treachery is being committed. If, on the other hand, Lyolya and I ever find ourselves alone together, on that rarest of occasions, we are silent, or else pick over such trivial things that mean nothing to us, smiling limply at each other now and then, and this is so staggeringly unlike that first mutual curiosity, those former conversations of ours, full of hasty, insatiable questions, answers that feverishly awaited approval, the indescribable charm of that shared approval and respect. There was a time when Lyolya was proud of our intelligent and equal-footed friendship and believed it to be crucial for us both; perhaps she still holds it to be so even now and feels as though she needs to make excuses to herself—and partly to me—for the hurtful change that has taken place. She occasionally makes insinuations:
“No friendship can withstand the passage of time. Sooner or later, people will finish saying whatever it is that they have to say, and then you’ll know everything a priori—there won’t be a single thing left to surprise you. Maybe it’s different for people who just don’t pay attention or aren’t perceptive enough, but really that isn’t friendship.”
Lyolya is wrong, of course: it is that first flush of curiosity, that exchange of superficial appraisals that is not really friendship, and those who settle for it are not in fact inclined to friendship, or else are spiritually impoverished, but there are certain people, very few—and only in rare, selected cases, at that—who have the almost boundless ability to venture further, toward mutual inspiration, quick and easy tacit understanding, the subconscious, unerring ability to help, guide even, and such a relationship between two people is never exhausted, nor can it be broken off (at least, not on purpose, not by design or whim), although there can also be something sobering in the awareness of being responsible for somebody, especially somebody quick-witted and hence mistrustful, and even though there will inevitably come an of course temporary period of natural dissatisfaction, one that arises from the fatigue of unrelenting strain. Nothing will come of my relationship with Lyolya, however; not because we are spiritually impoverished or not disposed toward friendship (I am dispensing with all modesty here), but because there is no friendship between us, and I am always ready for Lyolya’s criticisms and ridicule, I am always anxious, watching my every word, I commit to memory the great multitude of my likely successful remarks that in former times Lyolya would have gratifyingly endorsed, but which I now swallow, lest she find, lest she suspect some inference that irritates her—and I only regret the relative freedom with which I would, even recently, write to her. Our encounters are spoiled also by the very presence of a third person, by the fact that any friendship, union, conversation is diluted by the intrusion of new participants: to any friend or vis-à-vis we show a particular side of ours, one that they will find interesting and that will touch them, whereas a friendship or a conversation with several people is the combined force of all such unilateral aspirations of ours, the result of all our individual parts, each of which is, moreover, immeasurably less than the whole and must be made to conform at once to a great many dissimilar people, thereby diminishing and anonymizing us. Some find it easy to attune themselves to this, for which they need an inner flexibility and speed, the kind that an orator has, for instance, or somebody widely regarded as a wit or “the life and soul of the party.” I have the opposite, intolerable disadvantage of appreciating, with a certain exaggerated sense of shame, the whole artificiality of such situations, the folly of seeking them out, the futility of all that effort, and I prefer conversations—where any third party is present—that are indifferent and blasé, leaving anything of real substance to tête-à-têtes. What is simply beyond me is the knack for dealing with Bobby and Lyolya when they are together (dealing with each of them alone is difficult enough), and, after however many blunders, I can now see almost graphically how my pitiful attempts to find the right tone for one and the other (friendly and light-hearted for Bobby, and ironically afflicted for Lyolya) cross each other but never converge, and how I attempt to ingratiate myself, as it were, with each of them by turns, trying to land on a much-sought-after middle tone. I am also disturbed by the incessant radiance that continues to emanate from them, a radiance that is powerful beyond measure and much too coordinated if they are nearby. I never cease to be aware how clever, how cheerful, how charming Lyolya is—enough for two—or how she fails to notice Bobby’s tedious clumsiness. At her every elegant posture (she apparently knows how to strike them like nobody else), at her every vivacious, instinctively deadly look, at Bobby’s every gaffe, I am quite ready to boil over with rage because of this whole mismatch and injustice, as if I were witnessing an old man marrying a young girl. Sometimes I feel a growing sense of indignation, not only on my own account, but also on Sergei N.’s, who did so much for Lyolya and who has been so cheaply, so summarily replaced by Bobby, and then I begin to feel twice the anger, twice the anguish, twice the abhorrence. Sergei N.’s victory, his triumph, would have been a deliverance for me (doubtless there is a similar joy—that in the lesser evil—to be had when the husband of the woman we love, a man who is ready to make any sacrifice and to endure anything for her sake, trounces and sends packing some smooth-talking cad who has been telling of his conquests with a grin). Besides, Sergei N.’s victory is the victory of my chaste beginning with Lyolya over Bobby’s hateful one—I have finally understood the source of his enduring charms. But this victory is yet to come, and any prospective rapprochement between me and Sergei N. would be comic and humiliating, the rapprochement of philosophizing losers who have been punished by somebody who can, who by his very nature knows how to inspire love—truly and without sophistication. I have also understood at last that both Sergei N. and I were Lyolya’s attempts to raise her prospects, while Bobby and her husband before him speak to her base, passionate reality, that no “union” (as I previously imagined) will ever now take place, and that Lyolya will have to content herself with the singularly coarse and tedious Bobby, who could never unite anything and is just the ticket for her.
But now, I, too, find myself in a base reality, and there is nothing sublime about my current state of unremitting despair—all poetically or intellectually inclined people, with the unconscious, pompous dishonesty so characteristic of them, unwittingly contrive later, when their perception of hours and minutes abandons them, to invent, as it were, a sense of time, which they reconstruct (such is the case with war as it happens, as it is subsequently written down, and as it is certainly, even if inadvertently, fabricated—whether in the way of heroic deeds or humanity and kindness). Right now, I find myself caught in a vicious circle of loathsome jealous thoughts, and the keener my despair, the more obsessive and importunate these petty cares become, cheapened still by the awareness of their end, which end, granted, is perceived only in the mind, yet is as apparent as any end, as even the end of a happy, true, poetic love, no matter how we might try to idolize it and stretch it out to infinity—but what matters is to believe it boundless. The end of despair will come—in the form of disregard, ennui, replacement, perhaps even a foolish and pitiful death from exhaustion—but for now, broodingly and egotistically, I am filled with those same old calculations about Lyolya’s disposition toward me, the exact, ultimate configuration of her loyalty. I incessantly register every word that she utters, every gesture, every look, even her very silences, and I compare how all this transpires with me and how she is with Bobby. I will knock, enter, and find Lyolya busy with a book or her toilette (“Oh, it’s you,” she will say), and, having neglected to offer me her hand, she will once again immerse herself in her interrupted activity, which is so inaccessible to me, and so vexing. But whenever Bobby comes in, she will immediately throw aside the book and ask with a smile: “Well, where shall we go, then?” These eternal comparisons and calculations of mine involve a strange combination of coldness, insight (which by now comes easily), and some feverish, almost absurd superstition: if, as I leave of an evening, Lyolya asks me distractedly, “Will you come tomorrow?” (needless to say, she will not trouble herself to listen to the answer), I feel almost relieved, for this throwaway remark will help me sleep; if, on the other hand, she says nothing, or—as is more likely, more often the case—turns only to Bobby, asking what he is doing and insisting that he come early tomorrow, I—indignant and embittered (how could she disregard my sense of self-respect so, how am I to forget this slight?)—shall remain awake for a long time yet, possibly until morning, crushed by the weight of ready declarations, those well-turned, murderous phrases that I shall never utter, and it will slip my mind that there can be no doubting whom Lyolya has favored and chosen, and that no charity on her part will fundamentally change anything. As I did during Lyolya’s recent absence, I find myself constantly comparing something, and since the object of that comparison is being transferred from the realm of the imaginary into that of the real, it is all the bitterer, more painful, more indelible, and at times manifestly seems to age me. It is particularly awful to compare the degree of bodily (and not only sensual) intimacy—with Bobby everything is permitted, encouraged, while remaining forever out of reach for me. My surprise and indignation know no end: why may Bobby continually touch Lyolya’s hand, button up the back of her dress, fix her hair, brush his own with her brush; why may he suddenly, on a lark, take Lyolya dancing about the room, lie down on her bed, while I am paralyzed by the memory of all her rebuffs and her unabashed, ever-ready disapproval? Besides, Lyolya is not (at least, not outwardly) as exuberant as many other women are, and she smiles with embarrassment if she dances with Bobby—as though she does so against her will—but in her gaze there often appears a misty, loathsome glimmer of real pleasure and a craving for even more of it, and this demure excitement is more dangerous than the deliberate, false defiance of simple, coarse, sometimes senseless women, and all the more dangerous for the fact that it is natural and can happen in my presence—whereas in Lyolya’s presence I am paralyzed when it comes to any other woman and hence utterly defenseless. This paralysis of mine, this terror, often reaches absurd proportions: just this morning I happened to find myself alone with Lyolya, and I felt irresistibly drawn to go up to her and touch her hair, but I was sitting there, several paces away, in the armchair, with a newspaper that I was not reading, and could not bring myself to move from my spot, and so I decided that in order to take those few steps, in order to alter my position, I needed a pretext, however foolish it may be—I went out, allegedly to make a telephone call, spent a long time pacing back and forth between one staircase and another, and, when I returned, I involuntarily, awkwardly, for no reason whatsoever, pressed my lips to her hair. She remained perfectly still, declined to look up, and said sympathetically, but with a hint of contempt: “You needn’t have gone on such a journey just for that.” For some reason—in spite of all appearances—it strikes me that Lyolya, although temporarily distracted by Bobby, ought to have the foresight to keep me, and that she risks losing me: because of her favor—physical, demonstrable—because of somebody’s (anybody’s) victory over me, my attraction to her is being crippled, disfigured, diminished, destroyed (whether because a boundary has been crossed or because of my delicate, morbid sensitivity): Lyolya’s allure is waning. I am lost and can no longer tell whether this unspeakable threat is true (or is it an invention of my own vengeful resentment?), whether that common trait—to give in to temptation, to the “thrill of the chase”—applies to me, or whether I am so in love that success and rejection no longer hold any meaning for me, for I shall never convince myself to fall out of love and shall always be able to distinguish between reality and self-indulgence, and that, still, how paralyzingly sweet it would be to stay with Lyolya forever, to be her husband—and hence to be at once her guardian and her lover. But if my feelings have not in fact weakened, then Lyolya’s disfavor has instilled and inspires yet in me something resentful and petty, something that reveals itself in ever more diverse ways, and drives out kindness, thoughtfulness, and the immaculate sincerity of my feelings for her.
When I am alone, without Lyolya (and not only at night, in the grip of insomnia), I spend hours lustily imagining our vitriolic attempts to set the record straight, our ill-mannered yet well-founded rebukes, and, at the end of each disquisition, the irrevocable, pernicious words: “Yes, I know you well enough by now—why only kick a man who’s down when you can finish him off entirely?” I have so lost my last stake in humanity that I await Bobby’s inevitable departure (when he will take his father’s place with Zina) with a mixture of curiosity and hope, and, in all likelihood, I should be terribly put out if Zina were suddenly to recover. Indeed, it begins to occur to me that Bobby’s departure will solve my trivial differences with Lyolya, that she will wake up, as it were, from this fog and, repentant, aghast at what has gone on, return to me with a sense of shame, and that her present betrayal is in some way even to my advantage. We are often prepared to take comfort in our mistreatment by those whom we love and whom (presumably, or according to the foolish habit of trust) we suppose to love us too, and we take comfort—despite the enormous, unbearable sense of despair—not only in all manner of objectionable trivia, but occasionally in things that are far worse: it will seem to us that our relationship has not yet been broken off, but rather that some kind of right to reproach, some advantage, has been added—much like the accuser before the accused—and half-consciously we decide that the more we accumulate such curious and affronting advantages, the stronger and more confident we shall be. All this, of course, is wrong: we judge the women who have left us by putting ourselves in their place entirely, with all our love, with all the righteousness of that love, with all our suffering and our own sympathy for that suffering, and we ourselves repent for them and thereby assuage the pain they have caused us. If, however, we recall similar instances of our own gross betrayal, we shall see that either we considered them insignificant, being unhappy both with ourselves and with those whom we betrayed, preferring to hide, not to think or to pity, repenting only for show and fearing tedious, tear-filled rows, or else we were too strongly attracted by new relationships and would try to find fault with anything if only to leave and have done with all this dull obligation. In this way, by being irascible and deceitful, we ought to verify the perspective of others, for, if we do, it shall become clear to us at once that neither our own irreproachability, nor any guilt before us, is in the least useful or advantageous. And yet, the knowledge of being right, the unexpected blows after so many promises, even the very act of playing the constant, eagle-eyed, meticulous detective, refines us somehow, sharpening our insight and sensitivity, and hence petty calculations, baseness, and the bitterness of spurned, disfigured love can in fact teach us something, whereas a happy, contented love—for all its generosity and provision—is like unto wealth: it at times only coarsens us.
I am fixated with Lyolya’s responsibility to me, but I do not blame Bobby for anything, and it is impossible to determine what he makes of his victory, to understand whether he loves Lyolya, whether he has come to some sort of understanding with her, whether he knows of my defeat. Never once has he broken the cycle—that of approximate words, inanely dazzling smiles, vague desires to undertake something and go somewhere—and so I make no effort to suppress my usual contempt for him, and am even glad to maintain it, glad also that it persists even in those moments of dispassion and equanimity. In vain do I strive to guess why Lyolya has such feelings for him—an enamored woman ought, nay, must be stirred by something—but I do not have a single, even slightly credible, inkling. Bobby seems to me, as so few do, to be spiritually impoverished—that is why, in all respects, he has a wretched, soon-reached limit (not only in his ability to express himself, but also in the very essence of what he says, and in the degree of his friendship and love), and the degree of affection that constitutes for others the beginning, the point of inception, is for him the ultimate achievement, which Lyolya and I undoubtedly attained. With his usual—and so very inept—deference, he will quiz me about Derval, the bourse, and business affairs, which never fails to put Lyolya’s back up, and so, with the unjustness of a lover, she will refuse to forgive me for his schoolboy tone and humiliation, yet all the same she will look to me expectantly to see whether I will help him, whether I shall give him any advice: she is tormented by Bobby’s proclivity for failure and outraged by my heartlessness, whereas for me this is my only means of avenging myself and bringing home to her (granted, in the most vulgar way) my unacknowledged superiority. All this mute conversation with Lyolya is exceedingly illuminating and grants me the independence and strength that I ordinarily lack in her presence. On the other hand, her power over me—because of how easy it is to offend, hurt, and torment me—is at times simply overwhelming, and every minute I must watch myself, lest I provoke her dissatisfaction or a scathing rebuke, and I dare now to speak only of what is benign, pale, and insignificant. Lyolya sees my terror, pusillanimous and unflattering as it is, and this provokes her natural loathing, the desire to be rid of me, to get shot of me, and often she will hear out something perfectly harmless—condescendingly, mockingly, perniciously—only to pounce on me with inexplicable malice, and then, satisfied now, and ever so slightly shamefaced, she conceals her remorse out of pride, is particularly cold, and only now and then—going much too far—flashes a conciliatory and, as it were, felicitous smile, certain that I shall forgive her ere long. I am so put upon, so deprived of agency, that I will sometimes begin a phrase, some thought, only to be stopped dead in my tracks by the fear of Lyolya’s irony, her objection, her gaze, and have to finish it differently than I intended. Before, such lack of agency seemed merely superficial; I believed that I knew the degree of my fall, which I myself had allowed and which was of my own making, and, hence, that I still retained some kind of inner independence, but now, more and more, I find myself changing so many of my former opinions about Lyolya and about my fear of her opinions. Lyolya’s power—inadvertent yet boundless—consists in the extraordinary effect of her slightest favor or discontent, especially the latter—perhaps because she does not love me and has no desire to smooth over any grievances or misunderstandings, and I have no right to hope for such amends. All this is amplified still by the awareness of endless injustice—not in the opposition of love and indifference alone, but also in that Lyolya torments me, that she has brought, that she brings me unhappiness, whereas I am forever kind to her: in my confused, delirious fever, such “kindness”—the doing of good because of the desire to do it, persistently, consciously, soberly—appears real and tangible.
During rare moments of calm, I can see that all my accusations, my indignation, my compulsion to be so exacting, are wholly unfounded, that Lyolya is right about love, that what is happening is inevitable, maybe rightful, but even in this knowledge I still, with hidden lust, blame her for every little thing; another manifestation of love’s curious inconsistency is knowing one thing yet still believing the exact opposite, believing wholeheartedly in what has been thoroughly refuted by the experience of others, as if success in love or despair never ends, and as if those who do not love us are guilty of something.
October 15
BOBBY HAS GONE away for a month—I had been patiently awaiting his departure and the undoubted changes that it would ring in Lyolya, but those changes, such as they are, have rather taken me aback: so as to provide some restitution to Lyolya’s diminished stature, I resolved to assure myself of her ingenuousness and magnanimity—neither of which was in evidence either with Bobby or earlier on with me. As soon as Lyolya learned of Bobby’s impending departure, her attitude toward him altered, cooled; she was clearly avoiding him, as though, having accustomed herself to depending on someone, she now feared to wind up without support and was slowly habituating herself, with unexpected selfish prudence, to Bobby’s imminent absence. This new trait—precipitate inconstancy and adaptability—diminished Lyolya in my eyes, but proved fortunate for me, for who else could she rely on? I alone was within easy reach, her obvious, only possible source of support. And so I decided—owing to some not entirely absurd superstition—not to submit to her at once, and to make the violent internal rearrangement that was necessary (from bitterness to benevolence and irreproachability) dependent on the time, the duration of our reconciliation—would it happen right away or only after Bobby’s departure? If Lyolya has the courage, if I mean enough to her, enough to cut Bobby out of the picture once and for all, I can and should “forgive” her; but if this is not the case, if Lyolya is sold on Bobby and I am but a fleeting comfort, then all is lost. I had not counted on the admittedly vague degree of loyalty that Lyolya still retained with regard to Bobby (the insufficiency of which had so infuriated me); I forgot how those treacherous words, uttered all but to his face, would have hurt him so, and I obeyed only my own, incautious, irrational sense of amour-propre, my age-old, violent hopes, and was sore, as though having been rejected, that my conciliatory and well-overdue conversation with Lyolya took place only this evening—a whole day after Bobby’s departure—and now, in my usual pursuit of veracity and conscientiousness, I hasten to commit it to writing, lest the bitter emotional resonance of this exhausting conversation be lost or forgotten, a conversation that was again novel and more alarming than Lyolya’s “confessions,” revelations, and so many other exchanges over the course of our friendship, and I have—for all my fatigue, for all my desire to rest without having to think—a need to pin it down, a need that will not admit of any temptation or distraction: it is as if I have led a diary of a dangerous voyage up to a particularly gripping part—with scenes of peril and sudden, miraculous salvation—and can no longer stop myself.
I could, in fact, have had it out with her earlier, but from experience (even prior to Lyolya) I can say without reservation that nothing would have come of it, that Lyolya was too distant and impenetrable like crystal, and so I stubbornly—as though proving my fortitude and strength—kept silent. Today, Lyolya drew elusively nearer, an approach that revealed itself neither in a single word, nor in a single smile, not until evening—in my room—when, handling me skillfully as ever, and, intelligent and articulate as ever, she initiated the conversation.
“It’s about time that you and I had a little chat, don’t you think? The time has come for it.”
“It’s high time, Lyolya.”
“You’re unhappy with me. Tell me honestly, don’t be shy.”
“You won’t be offended? Very well, then. I find that you’re both greedy and miserly with me.” (I had prepared this in advance.) “Greedy, because you mean to keep me, and miserly because you won’t give anything of yourself to me.”
“True enough, and to the point. But if I’m greedy, that’s still to your advantage.”
For all her confidence in dealing with me, however, Lyolya spoke with difficulty, under duress, and grasped at little things that might exculpate her, or demonstrate our inseparability, or else simply flatter me.
“I knew how difficult it was for you,” she continued, “but I couldn’t, I was simply too ashamed to say it.”
“More’s the pity—you might have helped me.”
“Next time … No, forgive me, darling. I mustn’t joke.”
“How easy and pleasant it is when you aren’t morose and do joke with me.” (This simply came out—doubtless prematurely, and to my disadvantage.) “But how often have I thought that I’d never live to hear another of your friendly jokes, that I should just throw it all in.”
“You mustn’t think such foolish things. You’re very dear to me: you know this perfectly well.”
“Lyolya, if I’m so very dear to you and you wish to retain some future for us, there’s an awful lot that has to be accounted for. Really, I don’t understand anything anymore. You need to give me some explanations. Forgive me, but I must know what’s been going on.”
“Ask away.”
“Are you and Bobby intimate?”
Lyolya blanched instantly; even her eyes, usually deep blue and bold, seemed to quiver and grow dim—she narrowed them slowly and lowered her head, as though unable to spit out the shameful, crucial word. I was struck by an inexpressibly uncanny feeling, and suddenly I saw all the difference in our recent situations; my mind was instantly cast back to the uncertainty and a certain hope when I suffered and lamented—insufficiently, as it turns out—and a chill ran through me when I thought about what was so terrible and yet so apparent, and what I should now have to suffer and lament: when Bobby was around, I would often imagine, with giddy, unduly sweet ecstasy, how I would catch and expose Lyolya, imagine her shame and my vindictive, mortifying departure—now there was no desire to leave, to part forever in enmity, yet all the bitterness, humiliation, and repression that had accumulated over the many months (before Lyolya’s departure and during her absence) and in these cruel recent weeks—all this broke out and possessed me, supplanting my readiness to reconcile gracefully and without fuss, and so I decided in turn to torment Lyolya, to force her, however partially, to atone for her unpardonable guilt:
“When? Where? I don’t understand—after all, I was always there when the two of you were at home.”
“Don’t ask, please. Can’t you see how hard this is for me?”
“All the same, tell me as a friend—seeing that you’ve already forgiven my impertinent curiosity.”
“If you really must know—at the Wilczewskis’.”
I pictured clearly the small drawing room, and the daybed on which I had kissed Zina, and on which even yesterday Lyolya might have kissed Bobby, and I automatically thought of the strange twist of fate. Lyolya was sitting opposite me, helpless but stubborn, trying not to give in to my resentment or to stray from that initial tone of benevolent mutual sincerity. She turned to me with the utmost conviction, as though wishing to impress on me some new, unimpeachable chastity, said:
“If only you knew how unbearable it is for me—you know what I’m talking about—how I wish it wasn’t a part of me. After all, it’s the reason for each—yes, each and every one of my misfortunes. It’s why Sergei left me back then, in Moscow, and now again … He told me everything: his fear, his ignorance of me, how he was sure that it would all end badly. It’s why I got involved with my husband, and now with Bobby. You’re an intelligent man—tell me how to change. Really, I don’t want to be like this.”
Lyolya’s candor failed to make an impression on me: I was too preoccupied with a point of clarification, some investigative work that had yet to be completed:
“And that’s all you had with Bobby—nothing noble or tender?”
She paused for a moment or two and then suddenly sat up:
“No, I would have preferred love. To you, he’s a nonentity—and you aren’t wrong. I know what he’s worth. But doesn’t it move you when some good-for-nothing suddenly shows a bit of promise? What mattered to me was that Bobby, so vacant and insignificant, raised his sights, stood on his own two feet. You don’t need love like he does; you’re a good sort and can stand well enough on your own.”
It occurred to me that I had at last apprehended Lyolya’s “idea” of love; more to the point, she did not disavow this idea, and so must love him yet.
“But you’re still in love with Bobby?” (Once again, as though in confirmation and shame, Lyolya lowered her head.) “So what am I to do? How am I to return to you? Don’t forget, you used to say that your greatest fear was inconstancy. Sergei taught you to fear it with his sudden departure, and now you’ve taught me. Just think, how can I ever feel settled with you now?”
“Yes, it’s a sorry situation. I resolved to be perfectly candid, and just look how terribly it’s all turned out. Women really ought to lie.”
“Lyolya, you’re right to be candid. The truth will always out—only, after a lie, it’s so much the worse. But you can’t, in the space of a single hour, do away with all the impressions that have accumulated over a whole month.” (My “idea” of not exacting revenge suddenly reared its head.) “After all, it’s as though you’ve been deliberately pushing me away this last month. You went around as if you were blind and didn’t even notice the difference in generosity, and that difference doesn’t come from the fact that we’re different people, but rather from the fact that we treated each other differently. You ignored a thousand little things.” (I would write them down at home, in a separate notebook, under the heading “Parallels,” and I have often reread it, relishing the chance to compare and to place the blame squarely on Lyolya.) “Shall I give you an example? Whenever you made some observation, found some similarity, and I didn’t agree with you, there would be an awkwardness, as though I had failed to understand you and you were actually right, and then you would try to cut me down to size—‘how so?’, ‘oh, please!’, ‘what nonsense!’—and then you would shrug dismissively. It’s a pity I can’t imitate that look of triumph you always wore whenever I didn’t know something—but if, on the other hand, I happened to mention something you didn’t know, then you and Bobby would laugh: ‘He’s trying to show off his erudition.’ And how many other examples of that there were.”
It was a relief to air these pent-up accusations at long last, but Lyolya, it seemed, had begun to grow indignant and was now attempting to pick herself up and defend herself:
“I can assure you: I saw everything—only I couldn’t see what I could do to help matters. Imagine, you have a friend who’s fallen on hard times or is getting on in years—is it really possible to console him? To my mind, you oughtn’t even to pity his situation with others, lest he read in their eyes those terrible words ‘sympathy’ and ‘consolation.’ Would it not be better, more considerate, simply to say nothing and thereby show him: ‘Yes, you have it bad, but I know you’re strong, that you can handle it yourself’?”
“It’s only now that I find that I’m strong—now that Bobby’s gone.”
It just slipped out—just as the delight that Lyolya was joking and being sweet to me did earlier—and, yet again, it was premature and disadvantageous: all my future independence was immediately made plain—and, what was more, in the worst possible light. I decided to remind Lyolya of the advantage that I had gained, of a certain resilience that I had displayed in the case of Bobby:
“With every passing minute, you confirm to me what I saw and what I remember—namely, that you were touched by everything except me. It seems wrong of me to commend myself, but really, did I not conduct myself at times very well—better, in fact, than you and Bobby did?”
“I was annoyed with you, and even those instances of your self-restraint seemed stalely heroic—or, forgive me, my dear, simply stale.”
“But it was up to you to set the tone, through your behavior to change and channel mine, to dignify it a little. Did it not occur to you that some things cannot be unsaid or undone?”
“I came here to make it up with you in all good faith, but all you’re interested in doing is trying to rattle and antagonize me. Well, I won’t be rattled—take that as you will. You keep asking what happened back then, why I did this or that. My answer is that it was despite myself. But that isn’t enough for you, and so you’re forcing me to say what you already know full well. Yes, I hated you. There you have it. It’s a known condition—irritation to the point of hatred, directed against those who dare to love us, those we can’t get rid of—unless we ourselves love.”
A thought struck me: here was an untimely explanation for all my callousness toward Zina, after all that obliging kindness that had suddenly brightened me. Interrupting this thought, Lyolya carried on implacably explaining, indignant at my attacks and her own unspoken rebukes that had doubtless accumulated over a long period of time:
“You used to tell me to take a good look at myself. But if only you could have seen yourself, too—how unpleasant you were at times. You hounded me every minute. I could always feel that scrutiny, that detective’s gaze of yours—especially if I was dancing, or if I was lying on the bed and Bobby was sitting beside me. You almost seemed to want something to happen right there in front of you. You were shameless! Bobby used to ask me, over and over again, what right you had to watch and why I allowed it. Don’t forget: you were spoiling a rare and, for all that, pleasant time for me.”
Then, with glaring inconsistency (as if she had been unburdened, just as I had been, of everything that was weighing her down), Lyolya, for the first time since our trip, smiled at me as she used to do, gratifyingly and knowingly—granted, she was exhausted, half-unconvinced, and distant—and, as she used to do, she embraced me tenderly—this embrace proved kinder, more real than any of our thorny accounts of the past—and just then I rediscovered those familiar, but forever alive, caresses of ours. Tired now, Lyolya gently pushed me aside:
“So, it’s to be friendship—that’s settled then. I’m glad. Now go home and get some sleep—you look ghastly. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to fatten you up, and you’re going to do exactly as I say.”
Lyolya’s solicitude is a sign of my partial rehabilitation, a sign that I have reappeared, that, quite simply, she sees me. I am content and I am weary, and, in my contentment, I am curiously excited by the prospect of our future encounters—how will it be with Lyolya now, after her clarification about Bobby, after all this news, which will undoubtedly diminish her and require of me a new (perhaps censorious) kind of gentleness and pity? I recall our conversation without the least animosity—for it was the natural, long-awaited collision of Lyolya’s and my truths of love: thus has it always been that the lover notices and recalls only his own love, its delights and the wrongs inflicted on it, whereas the wrongs brought to bear on another’s love are forever superficial and pale in the mind and in the conscience. This is yet another proof of the diminished capacity that love results in, of the changes it rings for all human rules and relations, of the need for flexible, somewhat arbitrary, lenient laws for those in love—just as there are for children and the insane.
Now I can speak of love more soberly and soundly than usual: now begins that most pleasant part of writing, the most truthful and focused, when the resistant lull of lethargy, the temptation to dream and rest, has been overcome, when the outside world—my greatest challenge—has more or less been put to bed, when all that remains are self-evident conclusions that have long been apparent, conclusions that suggest themselves readily, matter-of-factly, and dispassionately. Long pent-up inspiration (or, more accurately, that obscure force that drives the soul, which we are granted by some miracle, out of nothingness, but which grows and spreads out infinitely, for reasons that are not in the least accidental—because of everything that has touched us or is bound to us)—and, after so many trials and errors, this unwieldy force is unleashed by me, leading me into a particular state of mind, one that is intensely feverish, attentive to minutiae, most productive, and altogether exhausting, a state that is doubly perturbing for the fear that I might let something slip through my fingers forever. In this state, I can see better what is happening to me, I can see more clearly, and often do I correct the mistakes of my ecstatic, more exaggerative hours. So it is that love now seems—in spite of many things that I have previously determined—to be something mundane, shameless, boastful, and even its non-exclusivity (that “universality” that would sometimes move me—“everyone remembers their beloved”) now, in my sobriety, while I am neither inebriated with drink nor intoxicated by some Gypsy romance, diminishes love’s fascinating charm, its high value, much as the war caused so many people—because of the similar “universality” of mortal danger and suffering—to lose their ability to relate proportionately, rationally, properly, not only to their own inevitable death, but also to that of others, likewise to any illness or affliction, and also to adventure and danger. I should find it shameful now to reread how I worshipped at the altar of love—now, when I discover that I have naïvely been deceived, that I in no way differ from the “ideological” or the faithful, whom I used to mock (admittedly, with a dash of envy) from on high—but my disappointment does not lie in Lyolya, who has proved worse than I imagined, nor in her lack of reciprocity, nor even in that all love is changeable, finite, and within reach of a nobody like Bobby, but rather it lies in one thing alone, something that struck me suddenly, intensely, irrevocably: like everything we know, like faith and the noble ideals for which we sacrifice ourselves, love is here, among us, not on the other side, but on this side, in this world, and love will not reveal to us that other world—undoubted though impenetrable—nor can it ever do so.
It is impossible to live without deceit, however: we are made so that we shall never find our way out of this dead end, and, amid the other ever-present contradictions that seem to mock us is the need for deceit, at the very least for an erroneous, arbitrary conjecture, or, more precisely, for that curious mental exertion that can be produced only by deception, and from which alone derives that most intriguing, most inexplicable activity of ours—shaking off the desolate human darkness, extracting more and more fragments of indisputable knowledge. Without this, there can be only ordinary, everyday, loathsome, impotent ennui, or else an icy sense of elation that is blind to both time and people and constitutes a living death. Yet it so happens that I have within me a surfeit of ardor, enthusiasm, life’s fullness, a reserve that leads—through my devotion to love, through my attempts to idolize it—to an awareness of deceit, its necessity, and its inevitability, an instinct that is equipped with a sufficient degree of circumspection and that has tempered and refined itself: I must find a use for it, I must, in reckoning with a fate that has already been determined, direct my enthusiasm unerringly—not in the pursuit of happiness (which is a gift and a miracle), but for the sake of the individual’s struggle with blindness, or so that this obscure, doomed, lofty struggle shall be visible. Any human transcendence—whether it be lovingly idealistic and self-sacrificing or achieved through faith—provided that it does not become a wonted, stagnant duty, is a kind of ardor that is cooled, only for it continually to re-emerge somewhere, and it is a genuine ardor, one that we cannot replace and cannot force. To descend, to fly off and not attain some new transcendence, is impossible, and since other possible attempts have been killed by my natural ineptitude, by some unforgettable and crushing blow, I will not mortify the only possibility that remains: if I have been given no other pinnacle than love, and no other love than Lyolya, and if love, as well as any pinnacle, is but a deception, and Lyolya embodies deceit, and if today, alone with her, without any rival, in the moment of my most passionate hope, she has definitively pushed me away, then I shall not run away, nor shall I repress anything inside me, but rather I shall offer up my already dwindling strength to the cruel and fertile whims of love’s divinity, to the god of love who has never forsaken me, nor yet claimed my victory. One could easily suspect that all this is a game, that I am embellishing and, as it were, crafting an artificial love, or, on the contrary, that I am contriving clever arguments lest I pluck out my beating love for Lyolya, but then it is I who must suffer because of this love, I who must wait for Lyolya’s uncomprehending callousness, who must horribly and irreparably debase myself before her, who must depend on Bobby and on absurd external circumstances, I who must witness their intolerable power, at night, in the midst of insomnia, I who must curse my suicidal triviality and, in my improbable nightly fantasies, disfigure and blacken that same Lyolya for whom all this was begun and endured; what’s more, experience has taught me to prepare for the worst when the going is good, and that I shall find no good in the bad—more than that, that I have a sense of honor like any other man, and that I do not have any special aptitude for self-edification, that a reciprocated earthly love is, I believe, the most worthy and beautiful kind of love, and that the first pain will come the very moment the work distracting you from that love ends—such a hopeless choice is not a sophistry, nor is it a pose or a game, but an attempt to remain true (even amid misfortune) to some human purpose, perhaps misunderstood, but binding me all the same, if I am to understand it in this way, and can find no fault in such understanding.