And Time Was No More, page 4
Liza was now sitting quite still, sighing heavily and looking at her thin legs in their deathly blue stockings. That was it. She was dead. Dead.
But something was buzzing, buzzing, closer and closer… and then—bop!—it flew right into Liza’s forehead. A fat May-bug, drunk on sunshine, had crashed into Lisa’s forehead and fallen to the ground.
Liza jumped up and broke into a run.
“Nyanya! Nyanya! A bug hit me! A bug attacked me!”
Nyanya took fright, then gave her an affectionate look. “What’s the matter, you silly little goose? There isn’t even the least little mark on you. You just thought it was attacking you. Now sit down, my clever little thing, and I’ll give you some foam, some lovely foam. Wouldn’t you like that? Ahh?”
“Fo-oam! Fo-oam!” Deep in her soul, which God’s angels hadn’t yet had time to carry away, she could hear joyful laughter.
“Nyanya, I won’t ever die, will I? I’ll have lots of soup, and drink lots of milk, and I’ll never die. That’s right, isn’t it?”
1916
translated by anne marie jackson
Kishmish
Lent. moscow.
In the distance, the muffled sound—between a hum and a boom—of a church bell. The clapper’s even strokes merge into a single, oppressive moan.
An open door, into murky predawn gloom, allows a glimpse of a dim shape, rustling stealthily about the room. Now it stands out, a dense patch of grey; now it dissolves, merging into the surrounding dark. The rustling quietens. The creak of a floorboard—and of a second floorboard, further away. Silence. Nyanya has left—on her way to the early morning service.
She is observing Lent.1
Now things get frightening.
Barely breathing, the little girl lying in bed curls into a small ball. She listens and watches, listens and watches.
The distant hum is becoming sinister. The little girl is all alone and defenceless. If she calls, no one will come. But what can happen? Night must be ending now. Probably the cocks have greeted the dawn and the ghosts are all back where they belong.
And they belong in cemeteries, in bogs, in lonely graves under simple crosses or by forsaken crossroads on the outskirts of forests. Not one of them will dare touch a human being now; the liturgy is being celebrated and prayers are being said for all Orthodox Christians. What is there to be frightened of?
But an eight-year-old soul does not believe the arguments of reason. It shrinks into itself, quietly trembling and whimpering. An eight-year-old soul does not believe that this is the sound of a bell. Later, in daytime, it will believe this, but now, alone, defenceless and in anguish, it does not know that this is a bell calling people to church. Who knows what this sound might not be? It is sinister. If anguish and fear could be translated into sound, this is the sound they would make. If anguish and fear could be translated into colour, it would be this uncertain, murky grey.
And the impression made by this predawn anguish will remain with this little creature for many years, for her whole life. This creature will continue to be woken at dawn by a fear and anguish beyond understanding. Doctors will prescribe sedatives; they will advise her to take evening walks, or to give up smoking, or to sleep in an unheated room, or with the window open, or with a hot water bottle on her liver. They will counsel many, many things—but nothing will erase from her soul the imprint of that predawn despair.
The little girl’s nickname was “Kishmish”—a word for a kind of very small raisin from the Caucasus. This was, no doubt, because she was so very small, with a small nose and small hands. Small fry, of little importance. Towards the age of thirteen she would suddenly shoot up. Her legs would grow long and everyone would forget that she had ever been a kishmish.
But while she still was a little kishmish, this hurtful nickname caused her a great deal of pain. She was proud and she longed to distinguish herself in some way; she wanted, above all, to do something grand and unusual. To become, say, a famous strongman, someone who could bend horseshoes with their bare hands or stop a runaway troika in its tracks. She liked the idea of becoming a brigand or—still better—an executioner. An executioner is more powerful than a brigand since it is he who has the last word. And could any of the grown-ups have imagined, as they looked at this skinny little girl with shorn, flaxen hair, quietly threading beads into a finger-ring—could any of them have imagined what terrible dreams of power were seething inside her head? There was, by the way, yet another dream—of becoming a dreadful monster. Not just any old monster, but the kind of monster that really frightens people. Kishmish would go and stand by the mirror, cross her eyes, pull the corners of her mouth apart and thrust her tongue out to one side. But first she would say in a deep voice, acting the part of an unknown gentleman standing behind her, unable to see her face and addressing the back of her head: “Do me the honour, Madam, of this quadrille.”
She would then put on her special face, spin round on her heels and reply, “Very well—but first you must kiss my twisted cheek.”
The gentleman would run away in horror. “Hah!” she would call after him. “Scared, are you?”
Kishmish had begun her studies. To start with—Scripture and Handwriting.
Every task one undertook, she learned, should be prefaced with a prayer.
This was an idea she liked. But since she was still, among other things, considering the career of brigand, it also caused her alarm.
“What about brigands?” she asked. “Must they say a prayer before they go out briganding?”
No one gave her a clear answer. All people said was, “Don’t be silly.” And Kishmish did not understand. Did this mean that brigands don’t need to pray—or that it is essential for them to pray, and that this is so obvious that it was silly even to ask about it?
When Kishmish grew a little bigger and was preparing to make her first confession, she underwent a spiritual crisis. Gone now were the terrible dreams of power.
“Lord, Hear our Prayer” was, that year, being sung very beautifully.
Three young boys would step forward, stand beside the altar and sing in angelic voices. Listening to them, a soul grew humble and tender. These blessed sounds made a soul wish to be light, white, ethereal and transparent, to fly away in sounds and incense, right up to the cupola, to where the white dove of the Holy Spirit had spread its wings.
This was no place for a brigand. Nor was it the right place for an executioner, or even a strongman. As for the monster, it would stand outside the door and cover its terrible face. A church was certainly no place to be frightening people. Oh, if only she could get to be a saint. How marvellous that would be! So beautiful, so fine and sweet. To be a saint was above everything and everyone. More important than any teacher, headmistress or even provincial governor.
But how could she become a saint? She would have to work miracles—and Kishmish had not the slightest idea how to go about this. Still, miracles were not where you started. First, you had to lead a saintly life. You had to make yourself meek and kind, to give everything to the poor, to devote yourself to fasting and abstinence.
So, how would she give everything to the poor? She had a new spring coat. That was what she should give away first.
But how furious Mama would be. There would be a most unholy row, the kind of row that didn’t bear thinking about. And Mama would be upset, and saints were not supposed to hurt other people and make them upset. What if she gave her coat to a poor person but told Mama it had simply been stolen? But saints were not supposed to tell lies. What a predicament. Life was a lot easier for a brigand. A brigand could lie all he wanted—and just laugh his sly laugh. How, then, did these saints ever get to be saints? Simply, it seemed, because they were old—none of them under sixteen, and many of them real oldies. No question of any of them having to obey Mama. They could give away all their worldly goods just like that. No, this clearly wasn’t the place to start—it was something to keep till the end. She should start with meekness and obedience. And abstinence. She should eat only black bread and salt, and drink only water straight from the tap. But here too lay trouble. Cook would tell on her. She would tell Mama that Kishmish had been drinking water that hadn’t been boiled. There was typhus in the city and Mama did not allow her to drink water from the tap. But then, once Mama understood that Kishmish was a saint, perhaps she would stop putting obstacles in her path.
And then, how marvellous to be a saint. There were so few of them these days. Everyone she knew would be astonished.
“Why’s there a halo over Kishmish?”
“What, didn’t you know? She’s been a saint for some time now.”
“Heavens! I don’t believe it!”
“There she is. See for yourself!”
And she would smile meekly, as she went on eating her black bread and salt.
Her mother’s visitors would feel envious. Not one of them had saintly children.
“Are you sure she’s not just pretending?”
Fools! Couldn’t they see her halo?
She wondered how soon the halo would begin. Probably in a few months. It would be fully present by autumn. God, how marvellous all this was. Next year she’d go along to confession. The priest would say in a severe voice, “What sins have you committed? You must repent.”
And she would reply, “None at all. I’m a saint.”
“No, no!” he would exclaim. “Surely not!”
“Ask Mama. Ask her friends. Everyone knows.”
The priest would question her. Maybe there had, after all, been some tiny little sin?
“No, none at all!” she would repeat. “Search all you like!”
She also wondered if she would still have to do her homework. If so, this too might prove awkward. Because saints can’t be lazy. And they can’t be disobedient. If she were told to study, then she’d have to do as they said. If only she could learn miracles straight away! One miracle—and her teacher would take fright, fall to her knees and never mention homework again.
Next she imagined her face. She went up to the mirror, sucked in her cheeks, flared her nostrils and rolled her eyes heavenward. Kishmish really liked the look of this face. A true saint’s face. A little nauseating, but entirely saintly. No one else had a face anything like it. And so—off to the kitchen for some black bread!
As always before breakfast, Cook was cross and preoccupied. Kishmish’s visit was an unwelcome surprise. “And what’s a young lady like you doing here in the kitchen? There’ll be words from your mama!”
There was an enticing smell of Lenten fare: fish, onions and mushrooms. Kishmish’s nostrils twitched involuntarily. She wanted to retort, “That’s none of your business!”, but she remembered that she was a saint and said in a quiet voice, “Varvara, please cut me a morsel of black bread.”
She thought for a moment, then added, “A large morsel.”
Cook cut her some bread.
“And will you sprinkle a little salt on it,” she continued, looking up as if to the heavens.
She would have to eat the bread then and there. If she went anywhere else with it, there would be misunderstandings. With unpleasant consequences.
The bread was particularly tasty and Kishmish regretted having only asked for one slice. Then she filled a jug from the tap and drank some water. Just then the maid came in.
“I’ll be telling your mama,” she exclaimed in horror, “that you’ve been drinking tap water!”
“She’s just eaten a great chunk of bread,” said Cook. “Bread and salt. So what do you expect? She’s a growing girl.”
The family was called in to breakfast. Kishmish couldn’t not go. So she decided to go but not eat anything. She would be very meek.
For breakfast there was fish soup and pies. She sat there, looking blankly at the little pie on her plate.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
In answer she smiled meekly and once more put on her saintly face—the face she had been practising before the mirror.
“Heavens, what’s got into her?” exclaimed her astonished aunt. “Why’s she pulling such a dreadful face?”
“And she’s just eaten a great big chunk of black bread,” said the telltale maid. “Just before breakfast—and she washed it down with water straight from the tap.”
“Whoever said you could go and eat bread in the kitchen?” shouted Mama. “And why were you drinking tap water?”
Kishmish rolled her eyes and flared her nostrils, once and for all perfecting her saintly face.
“What’s got into her?”
“She’s making fun of me!” squealed the aunt—and let out a sob.
“Out you go, you vile little girl!” Mama exclaimed furiously. “Off to the nursery with you—and you can stay there on your own for the rest of the day!”
“And the sooner she’s packed off to boarding school, the better,” said the aunt, still sobbing. “My nerves, my poor nerves. Literally, my every last nerve…”
Poor Kishmish.
And so she remained a sinner.
1940
translated by robert and elizabeth chandler
Notes
1 The Russian Orthodox refer to the first week of Lent as “Clean Week”. The faithful are expected to undergo spiritual cleansing through fasting, prayer, repentance, begging forgiveness of their neighbour and taking the Eucharist. Throughout the six weeks of Lent, vegetable oils are substituted for butter and animal fats.
Love
It was the wonderful days of my ninth spring—days that were long and full to the brim, saturated with life.
Everything in those days was interesting, important and full of meaning. Objects were new. And people were wise; they knew an astonishing amount and were keeping their great dark secrets until some unknown day in the future.
The morning of each long day began joyfully: thousands of small rainbows in the soapy foam of the wash bowl; a new, brightly coloured light dress; a prayer before the icon, behind which the stems of pussy willow were still fresh; tea on a terrace shaded by lemon trees that had been carried out from the orangery in their tubs; my elder sisters, black-browed and with long plaits, only just back from boarding school for the holidays and still unfamiliar to me; the slap of washing bats from the pond beyond the flower garden, where the women doing the laundry were calling out to one another in ringing voices; the languid clucking of hens behind a clump of young, still small-leaved lilac. Not only was everything new and joyful in itself, but it was, moreover, a promise of something still more new and joyful.
And it was during this spring, the ninth of my life, that my first love came, revealed itself and left—in all its fullness, with rapture and pain and disenchantment, with all that is to be expected of any true love.
Four peasant girls, Khodoska, Paraska, Pidorka and Khovra—all wearing coin necklaces, Ukrainian wraparound skirts and linen shirts with embroidered shoulders—were weeding the garden paths. They scraped and hacked at the fresh black earth with their spades, turning over thick, oily sods and tearing away crackly, tenacious rootlets as fine as nerves.
For hours on end, until I was called, I would stand and watch, and breathe in the heavy damp smell of the earth.
Necklaces dangled and clinked, arms red from the year’s first strong sun slid lightly and gaily up and down the spades’ wooden handles.
And then one day, instead of Khovra, who was fair and stocky, with a thin red band around her head, I saw a new girl—tall and lithe, with narrow hips.
“Hey, new girl, what’s your name?” I asked.
A dark head encircled by thick four-stranded plaits and with a narrow white parting down the centre turned towards me, and dark, mischievous eyes looked at me from beneath curved eyebrows that met in the middle, and a merry red mouth smiled at me.
“Ganka!”
And her teeth gleamed—even, white and large.
She said her name and laughed, and the other girls all laughed, and I felt merry too.
This Ganka was astonishing. Why was she laughing? And what was it about her that made me feel so merry? She was not as well dressed as smart Paraska, but her thick striped skirt was wound so deftly round her shapely hips, her red woollen sash gripped her waist so firmly and vibrantly and her bright green ribbon fluttered so arrestingly by the collar of her shirt that it was hard to imagine anything prettier.
I looked at her, and every move, every turn of her supple dark neck sang like a song in my soul. And her eyes flashed again, mischievous, as if tickling me; they laughed, then looked down.
I also felt astonished by Paraska, Khodoska and Pidorka—how could they keep their eyes off her? How did they dare behave as if they were her equals? Were they blind? But then even she herself seemed to think she was no different from the others.
I looked at her fixedly, without thoughts, as if dreaming.
From far away a voice called my name. I knew I was being called to my music lesson, but I didn’t answer.
Then I saw Mama going down a nearby avenue with two smartly dressed ladies I didn’t know. Mama called to me. I had to go and drop a curtsy to them. One of the ladies lifted my chin with a little hand sheathed in a perfumed white glove. She was gentle, all in white, all in lace. Looking at her, I suddenly felt Ganka was coarse and rough.
“No, Ganka’s not nice,” I thought.
I wandered quietly back to the house.
Placid, merry and carefree, I went out the following morning to see where the girls were weeding now.
Those sweet dark eyes met me as gaily and affectionately as if nothing had happened, as if I had never betrayed them for a perfumed lady in lace. And again the singing music of the movements of her slender body took over, began to enchant.
The conversation at breakfast was about yesterday’s guest, Countess Mionchinskaya. My elder brother was sincerely enraptured by her. He was straightforward and kind but, since he was being educated at the lycée, he felt it necessary to lisp and drawl and slightly drag his right foot as he walked.1 And, doubtless afraid that a summer deep in the country might erase these stigmata of the dandy, he greatly surprised us younger ones with his strange mannerisms.
