Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“And that,” I said, “is how it always happens. First they drive the man into the ground and then begin looking for his personal effects. That’s how it was with Dostoevsky, that’s how it was with Yesenin, and that’s how it’ll be with Pasternak[49 - Yesenin. Pasternak: Sergei Yesenin (1895–1925), a Russian lyrical poet who committed suicide at the age of thirty. His works were widely celebrated, but many were banned by the authorities. The poet and novelist Boris Pasternak (18901960) suffered enormously at the hands of the authorities, especially after being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958 for the novel Doctor Zhivago, which was banned in the Soviet Union.]. When they come to their senses, they’ll start looking for Solzhenitsyn’s[50 - Solzhenitsyn’s: Alexander Solzhenitsyn (1914–2008), dissident writer and activist.] personal effects…”

“But we are trying to recreate the colour, the atmosphere,” said the curator.

“I see. The bookcase, is it real?”

“At the very least it’s from that period.”

“And the portrait of Byron?”

“That’s real,” beamed Victoria Albertovna. “It was given to the Vulfs… There is an inscription. By the by[51 - by the by – однако, кстати], you’re quite pernickety. Personal effects, personal effects. It strikes me as an unhealthy interest.”

I felt like a burglar, caught in someone else’s apartment.

“Well, what kind of a museum,” I said, “is without it – without the unhealthy interest? A healthy interest is reserved strictly for bacon.”

“Is nature not enough for you? Is it not enough that he wandered around this hillside? Swam in this river? Delighted in these scenic views…”

Why am I bothering her, I thought.

“I see,” I said. “Thank you, Vika.”

Suddenly she bent down, plucked up some weed, pointedly slapped my face with it and let out a short nervous laugh before walking off, gathering her maxiskirt with flounces.

I joined a group headed for Trigorskoye.

To my surprise, I liked the estate curators, a husband and wife. Being married, they could afford the luxury of being friendly. Polina Fyodorovna appeared to be bossy, energetic and a little conceited. Kolya looked like a bemused slouch and kept to the background.

Trigorskoye was in the middle of nowhere[52 - in the middle of nowhere – у чёрта на куличках] and the management rarely came to visit. The exhibition’s layout was beautiful and logical. Pushkin as a youth, charming young ladies in love, an atmosphere of elegant summer romance.

I walked around the park and then down to the river. It was green with upside-down trees. Delicate clouds floated by.

I had an urge to take a dip[53 - to take a dip – искупаться], but a tour bus had pulled up just then.

I went to the Svyatogorsky Monastery. Old ladies were selling flowers by the gate. I bought a bunch of tulips and walked up to the grave. Tourists were taking photographs by the barrier. Their smiling faces were repugnant. Two sad saps with easels arranged themselves nearby.

I laid down the flowers at the grave and left. I needed to see the layout of the Uspensky Monastery. An echo rolled through the cool stone alcoves. Pigeons slumbered under the domes. The cathedral was real, substantial and graceful. A cracked bell glimmered from the corner of the central chamber. One tourist drummed noisily on it with a key.

In the southern chapel I saw the famous drawing by Bruni[54 - the famous drawing by Bruni: In 1837, Fyodor Bruni (1799–1875) sketched Pushkin on his deathbed.]. Also in there glared Pushkin’s white death mask. Two enormous paintings reproduced the secret removal and funeral. Alexander Turgenev[55 - the secret removal and funeral… Alexander Turgenev: Alexander Turgenev (1784–1846), a close friend of Pushkin’s, transported the poet s body to the family vault in Svyatogorsky Monastery, near Mikhailovskoye.]looked like a matron…

A group of tourists entered. I went to the exit.

I could hear from the back:

“Cultural history knows no other event as tragic… Tsarist rule carried out by the hand of a highsociety rascal.”

And so I settled in at Mikhail Ivanych’s. He drank without pause. He drank to the point of amazement, paralysis and delirium. Moreover, his delirium expressed itself strictly in obscenities. He swore with the same feeling a dignified older man might have while softly humming a tune – in other words, to himself, without any expectation of approval or protest.

I had seen him sober twice. On these paradoxical days, Mikhail Ivanych had the TV and radio going simultaneously. He would lie down on the bed in his trousers, pull out a box marked “Fairy Cake” and read out loud postcards received over the course of his life. He read and expounded:

“Hello Godfather!… Well, hello, hello, you ovine spermatoid… I'd like to wish you success at work. He’d like to wish me success. Well, fuck your mama in the ear! Always yours, Radik. Always yours, always yours. The hell I need you for?”

Mikhail Ivanych was not liked in the village. People envied him. I’d drink, too, they thought. I’d drink and how, my friends! I’d drink myself into a motherfuckin’ grave, I would! But I got a household to run. What’s he got? Mikhail Ivanych had no household. Just the two bony dogs that occasionally disappeared for long stretches of time, a scraggy apple tree and a patch of spring onions.

One rainy evening he and I got talking:

“Misha, did you love your wife?”

“Whatsa?! My wife?! As in my woman?! Lizka, you mean?” Mikhail Ivanych was startled.

“Liza. Yelizaveta Prokhorovna.”

“Why do I need to love ’er? Just grab her by the thing and off you go…”

“But what attracted you to her?”

Mikhail Ivanych fell silent for a long time.

“She slept tidy,” he said. “Quiet as a caterpillar.”

I got my milk from the neighbours, the Nikitins. They lived respectably. A television set, Kramskoy’s Portrait of a Woman on the wall.[56 - Kramskoy’s Portrait of a Woman on the wall: Ivan Kramskoy (1837-87), Russian painter and critic.] The master of the house ran errands[57 - to run errands – (зд.) заниматься делами] from five o’clock in the morning. He would fix the fence, potter around in the garden. One time I see he’s got a heifer strung up by the legs. Skinning it. The blade gleamed clearest white and was covered in blood.

Mikhail Ivanych held the Nikitins in contempt[58 - to hold in contempt – презирать]. As they did him, naturally.

“Still drinking?” enquired Nadezhda Fyodorovna, mixing chicken feed in the pail.

“I saw him at the centre,” said Nikitin, wielding a jointer plane. “Laced since the morning.”

I didn’t want to encourage them.

“But he is kind.”

“Kind,” agreed Nikitin. “Nearly killed his wife with a knife. Set all ’er dresses ablaze. The little ones running around in canvas shoes in winter… But yes, other than that he’s kind…”

“Misha is a reckless man, I understand, but he is also kind and noble at heart.”

It’s true there was something aristocratic about Mikhail Ivanych. He didn’t return empty bottles, for example; he threw them away.

“I’d feel ashamed,” he’d say. “How could I, like a beggar?”

One day he woke up feeling poorly and complained:

“I’ve got the shakes all over.”

I gave him a rouble. At lunchtime I asked:

“How goes it, feeling any better?”

“Whatsa?”