Pushkin Hills / Заповедник. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“Mitrofanov was seeing you off. He’s an extremely learned Pushkin scholar. Are you good friends?”

“I’m good friends,” I said, “with his bad side.”

“How do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

“You should read Gordin, Shchegolev, Tsyavlovskaya… Kern’s memoirs[4 - Gordin, Shchegolev, Tsyavlovskaya… Kern’s memoirs: Arkady Gordin (1913-97) was a Pushkin expert who wrote a number of books on Pushkin in Mikhailovskoye, where the Pushkin Preserve is now located. Pavel Shchegolev (1877–1931) and Tatyana Tsyavlovskaya (1897–1978) were also noted Pushkin specialists. Anna Kern (1800-79) was briefly Pushkin’s lover. The two met in nearby Trigorskoye in 1825.]. and one of the popular brochures on the dangers of alcohol.”

“You know, I’ve read so much about the dangers of alcohol that I decided to give it up. reading, that is.”

“You’re impossible to talk to.”

The driver glanced in our direction. The tourists were in their seats.

Aurora finished the ice cream and wiped her fingers.

“In the summer,” she said, “the museum pays very well. Mitrofanov makes close to two hundred roubles.”

“And that’s two hundred roubles more than he’s worth.”

“Why, you’re also bitter.”

“You’d be bitter too,” I said.

The driver honked twice.

“Let’s go,” said Aurora.

The Lvov bus[5 - Lvov bus – автобус, выпущенный на Львовском автобусном заводе (ЛАЗ)] was stuffy. The calico seats were burning hot. The yellow curtains intensified the feeling of suffocation.

I was leafing through the pages of Alexei Vulf’s Diaries[6 - Alexei Vulf’s Diaries: Alexei Nikolayevich Vulf (1805-81) was a bon vivant and close friend of Pushkin.]. They referred to Pushkin in a friendly and sometimes condescending manner. There it was, the closeness that spoils vision. Everyone knows that geniuses must have friends. But who’ll believe that his friend is a genius?!

I dozed off to the murmur of some unintelligible and irrelevant facts about Ryleyev’s mother[7 - Ryleyev’s mother: Kondraty Ryleyev (1795–1826) was a leader in the Decembrist Revolt of 1825, which sought to overthrow the Tsar, and a publisher of Pushkin’s work.]…

Someone woke me when we were already in Pskov. The kremlin’s freshly plastered walls brought on a feeling of gloom. The designers had secured a grotesque Baltic-style emblem made of wrought iron above the central archway. The kremlin resembled a gigantic model.

One of the outbuildings housed the local travel bureau. Aurora filed some paperwork and we were driven to Hera, the most fashionable local restaurant.

I wavered – to top up or not? If I drank more, tomorrow it’d be even worse. I didn’t feel like eating…

I walked onto the boulevard. Low and heavy, the lindens rustled.

Long ago I realized that as soon as you give way to thinking, you remember something sad. For instance, my last conversation with my wife.

“Even your love of words – your crazy, unhealthy, pathological love – is fake. It’s nothing more than an attempt to justify the life you lead. And you lead the life of a famous writer without fulfilling the slightest requirements. With your vices you should be a Hemingway[8 - Hemingway – Эрнест Хемингуэй (1899–1961), американский писатель, журналист, лауреат Нобелевской премии] at the very least.”

“Do you honestly think he’s a good writer? Perhaps Jack London’s a good writer, too?”

“Dear God! What does Jack London[9 - Jack London – Джек Лондон (1876–1916), американский писатель, журналист и военный корреспондент] have to do with this?! My only pair of boots is in the pawnshop… I can forgive anything. Poverty doesn’t scare me. Anything but betrayal!”

“What do you mean?”

“Your endless drinking. Your. I don’t even want to say it. You can’t be an artist at the expense[10 - at the expense – за счёт] of another human being. It’s low! You speak of nobility, yet you are a cold, hard and crafty man.”

“Don’t forget that I’ve been writing stories for twenty years.”

“You want to write a great novel? Only one in a hundred million succeeds!”

“So what? In the spiritual sense a failed attempt like that is equal to the greatest of books. Morally it’s even higher, if you will, since it excludes a reward.”

“These are just words. Never-ending, beautiful words. I’ve had enough. I have a child for whom I’m responsible…”

“I have a child, too.”

“Whom you ignore for months on end[11 - for months on end – месяцами подряд]. We are strangers to you…”

(In conversations with women there is one painful moment. You use facts, reasoning, arguments, you appeal to logic and common sense. And then suddenly you discover that she cannot stand the very sound of your voice.)

“Intentionally,” I said, “I never did any harm…”

I sat down on a sloping bench, pulled out a pen and a piece of paper, and a minute later scribbled down:

My darling, I'm in Pushkin Hills now,
Monotony and boredom without a switch,
I wander through the grounds like a bitch,
And fear is wracking my very soul!

And so on.

My verses had somewhat preceded reality. We still had about a hundred kilometres to Pushkin Hills.

I stopped by a convenience store and bought an envelope that had Magellan’s portrait[12 - Magellan’s portrait – Фернан Магеллан (1480–1521), португальский и испанский мореплаватель. Соль юмора диалога в том, что продавец не знает имени человека, который является частью мировой истории и которого должен знать каждый] on it. And asked, for some reason:

“Do you know what Magellan has to do with anything?”

The sales clerk replied pensively:

“Maybe he died… Or got decorated…”

I licked the stamp, sealed the envelope and dropped it in the mailbox.

At six we reached the tourist centre. Before that there were hills, a river, the sweeping horizon with a jagged trim of forest. All in all, a typical Russian landscape without excess. Just those ordinary features that evoke an inexplicably bittersweet feeling.

This feeling had always seemed suspect to me. In general, I find passion towards inanimate objects irritating. (Mentally I opened a notepad.) There is something amiss in coin collectors, philatelists[13 - philatelist – филателист, собиратель почтовых марок и других знаков почтовой оплаты], inveterate travellers and lovers of cactuses and aquarium fish. The sleepy forbearance of a fisherman, the futile, unmotivated bravery of a mountain climber and the haughty confidence of the owner of a royal poodle are all alien to me.

They say that the Jews are indifferent to nature. That’s one of the grievances levelled against the Jewish nation. The Jews, supposedly, don’t have their own nature, and they’re indifferent to everyone else’s. Perhaps that’s true. It would seem that the bit of Jewish blood in me is beginning to show.

In short, I don’t like exalted spectators. And I am mistrustful of their rapture. I believe that their love of birch trees triumphs at the expense of the love of mankind. And grows as a surrogate for patriotism.