On the Eve: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Elena met Bersenyev cordially, though not in the garden, but the
drawing-room, and at once, almost impatiently, renewed the
conversation of the previous day. She was alone; Nikolai Artemyevitch
had quietly slipped away. Anna Vassilyevna was lying down upstairs
with a wet bandage on her head. Zoya was sitting by her, the folds of
her skirt arranged precisely about her, and her little hands clasped
on her knees. Uvar Ivanovitch was reposing in the attic on a wide and
comfortable divan, known as a 'samo-son' or 'dozer.' Bersenyev
again mentioned his father; he held his memory sacred. Let us, too,
say a few words about him.

The owner of eighty-two serfs, whom he set free before his death, an
old Gottingen student, and disciple of the 'Illuminati,' the author
of a manuscript work on 'transformations or typifications of the
spirit in the world'--a work in which Schelling's philosophy,
Swedenborgianism and republicanism were mingled in the most original
fashion--Bersenyev's father brought him, while still a boy, to Moscow
immediately after his mother's death, and at once himself undertook
his education. He prepared himself for each lesson, exerted himself
with extraordinary conscientiousness and absolute lack of success: he
was a dreamer, a bookworm, and a mystic; he spoke in a dull,
hesitating voice, used obscure and roundabout expressions,
metaphorical by preference, and was shy even of his son, whom he loved
passionately. It was not surprising that his son was simply bewildered
at his lessons, and did not advance in the least. The old man (he was
almost fifty, he had married late in life) surmised at last that
things were not going quite right, and he placed his Andrei in a
school. Andrei began to learn, but he was not removed from his
father's supervision; his father visited him unceasingly, wearying the
schoolmaster to death with his instructions and conversation; the
teachers, too, were bored by his uninvited visits; he was for ever
bringing them some, as they said, far-fetched books on education.
Even the schoolboys were embarrassed at the sight of the old man's
swarthy, pockmarked face, his lank figure, invariably clothed in a
sort of scanty grey dresscoat. The boys did not suspect then that this
grim, unsmiling old gentleman, with his crane-like gait and his long
nose, was at heart troubling and yearning over each one of them almost
as over his own son. He once conceived the idea of talking to them
about Washington: 'My young nurslings,' he began, but at the first
sounds of his strange voice the young nurslings ran away. The good old
Gottingen student did not lie on a bed of roses; he was for ever
weighed down by the march of history, by questions and ideas of every
kind. When young Bersenyev entered the university, his father used to
drive with him to the lectures, but his health was already beginning
to break up. The events of the year 1848 shook him to the foundation
(it necessitated the re-writing of his whole book), and he died in the
winter of 1853, before his son's time at the university was over, but
he was able beforehand to congratulate him on his degree, and to
consecrate him to the service of science. 'I pass on the torch to
you,' he said to him two hours before his death. 'I held it while I
could; you, too, must not let the light grow dim before the end.'

Bersenyev talked a long while to Elena of his father. The
embarrassment he had felt in her presence disappeared, and his lisp
was less marked. The conversation passed on to the university.

'Tell me,' Elena asked him, 'were there any remarkable men among your
comrades?'

Bersenyev was again reminded of Shubin's words.

'No, Elena Nikolaevna, to tell you the truth, there was not a single
remarkable man among us. And, indeed, where are such to be found!
There was, they say, a good time once in the Moscow university! But
not now. Now it's a school, not a university. I was not happy with my
comrades,' he added, dropping his voice.

'Not happy,' murmured Elena.

'But I ought,' continued Bersenyev, 'to make an exception. I know one
student--it's true he is not in the same faculty--he is certainly a
remarkable man.'

'What is his name?' Elena inquired with interest.

'Insarov Dmitri Nikanorovitch. He is a Bulgarian.'

'Not a Russian?'

'No, he is not a Russian,'

'Why is he living in Moscow, then?'

'He came here to study. And do you know with what aim he is studying?
He has a single idea: the liberation of his country. And his story is
an exceptional one. His father was a fairly well-to-do merchant; he
came from Tirnova. Tirnova is now a small town, but it was the capital
of Bulgaria in the old days when Bulgaria was still an independent
state. He traded with Sophia, and had relations with Russia; his
sister, Insarov's aunt, is still living in Kiev, married to a senior
history teacher in the gymnasium there. In 1835, that is to say
eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov's mother
suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she
was found murdered.'

Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped.

'Go on, go on,' she said.

'There were rumours that she had been outraged and murdered by a
Turkish aga; her husband, Insarov's father, found out the truth,
tried to avenge her, but only succeeded in wounding the aga with his
poniard. . . . He was shot.'

'Shot, and without a trial?'

'Yes. Insarov was just eight years old at the time. He remained in the
hands of neighbours. The sister heard of the fate of her brother's
family, and wanted to take the nephew to live with her. They got him
to Odessa, and from there to Kiev. At Kiev he lived twelve whole
years. That's how it is he speaks Russian so well.'

'He speaks Russian?'

'Just as we do. When he was twenty (that was at the beginning of the
year 1848) he began to want to return to his country. He stayed in
Sophia and Tirnova, and travelled through the length and breadth of
Bulgaria, spending two years there, and learning his mother tongue
over again. The Turkish Government persecuted him, and he was
certainly exposed to great dangers during those two years; I once
caught sight of a broad scar on his neck, from a wound, no doubt; but
he does not like to talk about it. He is reserved, too, in his own
way. I have tried to question him about everything, but I could get
nothing out of him. He answers by generalities. He's awfully
obstinate. He returned to Russia again in 1850, to Moscow, with the
intention of educating himself thoroughly, getting intimate with
Russians, and then when he leaves the university----'

'What then?' broke in Elena.

'What God wills. It's hard to forecast the future.'

For a while Elena did not take her eyes off Bersenyev.

'You have greatly interested me by what you have told me,' she said.
'What is he like, this friend of yours; what did you call him,
Insarov?'

'What shall I say? To my mind, he's good-looking. But you will see
him for yourself.'

'How so?'

'I will bring him here to see you. He is coming to our little village
the day after tomorrow, and is going to live with me in the same
lodging.'

'Really? But will he care to come to see us?'

'I should think so. He will be delighted.'

'He isn't proud, then?'

'Not the least. That's to say, he is proud if you like, only not in
the sense you mean. He will never, for instance, borrow money from
any one.'

'Is he poor?'

'Yes, he isn't rich. When he went to Bulgaria he collected some relics
left of his father's property, and his aunt helps him; but it all
comes to very little.'

'He must have a great deal of character,' observed Elena.

'Yes. He is a man of iron. And at the same time you will see there is
something childlike and frank, with all his concentration and even his
reserve. It's true, his frankness is not our poor sort of
frankness--the frankness of people who have absolutely nothing to
conceal. . . . But there, I will bring him to see you; wait a
little.'

'And isn't he shy?' asked Elena again.

'No, he's not shy. It's only vain people who are shy.'

'Why, are you vain?'

He was confused and made a vague gesture with his hands.

'You excite my curiosity,' pursued Elena. 'But tell me, has he not
taken vengeance on that Turkish aga?'

Bersenyev smiled

'Revenge is only to be found in novels, Elena Nikolaevna; and,
besides, in twelve years that aga may well be dead.'

'Mr. Insarov has never said anything, though, to you about it?'

'No, never.'

'Why did he go to Sophia?'

'His father used to live there.'

Elena grew thoughtful.

'To liberate one's country!' she said. 'It is terrible even to
utter those words, they are so grand.'

At that instant Anna Vassilyevna came into the room, and the
conversation stopped.

Bersenyev was stirred by strange emotions when he returned home that
evening. He did not regret his plan of making Elena acquainted with
Insarov, he felt the deep impression made on her by his account of the
young Bulgarian very natural . . . had he not himself tried to deepen
that impression! But a vague, unfathomable emotion lurked secretly in
his heart; he was sad with a sadness that had nothing noble in it.
This sadness did not prevent him, however, from setting to work on the
_History of the Hohenstaufen_, and beginning to read it at the very page
at which he had left off the evening before.

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