David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (26 page)

But she had never liked drinking. One evening, during those final stormy March days, the two of them had been sitting in the kitchen. He’d started rambling, remembering back to when he was a soldier. “They’re not so stupid, these young people, with their revolution … It’s their turn now … They’ve bled us enough, those bloody Barines, the dirty bastards.” She hadn’t replied. What was the use? He had threatened to burn down the house, sell the jewellery and the hidden icons. He had carried on like this, deliriously, for a while, then, suddenly began to shout plaintively: “Alexandre Kirilovitch, why have you abandoned us, Barine?” He’d started to vomit, a torrent of dark blood and alcohol poured from his mouth; he’d suffered until morning, then he’d died.

Tatiana Ivanovna fastened the iron chains on the sitting-room doors and went out on to the terrace through the little hidden door in the hallway. The statues were still in their wooden crates; they had been sealed away in September 1916 and left there, forgotten. She looked at the house; the delicate yellowish colour of the stonework was blackened by the thawing snow; beneath the acanthus leaves, the stucco was flaking off, revealing whitish marks, as if it had been struck by bullets. The windows in the greenhouse had been shattered by the wind. “If Nicolas Alex-androvitch could see all this…”

She took a few steps down the path and stopped still, clutching her hands to her heart. There was a man standing in front of her. She looked at him for a moment without realising who it was, without recognising the pale, exhausted face beneath the soldier’s cap. “Is it you? Is it you, Yourotchka?” she finally asked, her voice shaking.

“Yes,” he said; the look on his face was cold, hesitant and strange. “Will you hide me tonight?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, as she had in the past. They went into the house, into the empty kitchen. She lit a candle, held it up to see Youri’s face.

“How you’ve changed, good Lord! Are you ill?”

“I had typhus,” he said; his voice was slow, hoarse and husky. “And I’ve been as sick as a dog, not far from here, in Temna?a. But I was afraid to get word to you. There’s a death warrant out for me,” he continued with the same steady, cold intonation. “I need something to drink …”

She gave him some water and knelt down to loosen the dirty, blood-soaked rags tied around his bare feet.

“I’ve been walking for a long time,” he said.

She looked up. “Why did you come? The serfs have all gone mad around here,” she said.

“Ah, it’s the same everywhere. When I got out of prison, my parents had already left for Odessa. Where is there to go? People are fleeing everywhere, some to the north, others to the south…”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the same everywhere … ” he repeated, apathetically.

“You were in prison?” she murmured, folding her hands.

“For six months.”

“But why?”

“Lord only knows.”

He fell silent, sat very still, continued with difficulty: “I got out of Moscow … One day, I found my way into a hospital train and the nurses hid me … I still had some money left… I travelled with them for ten days… Then I started walking… But I’d caught typhus fever. I collapsed in a field, near Temna?a. Some people found me, took me in. I stayed with them for a while, but then the Bolsheviks were getting closer, so they were afraid, and I left.”

“Where is Cyrille?”

“He was in prison with me. But he managed to get out and join the family in Odessa; someone gave me a letter from him while I was in prison … By the time I got out, they’d been gone for three weeks. I’ve never had any luck, my dear Nianiouchka,” he said, smiling in his usual way, resigned and ironic. “Even in
prison, Cyrille was in a cell with a beautiful young woman, a French actress, while I was locked up with some old Jew.”

He laughed, then stopped, as even he was surprised by the broken, hollow sound of his voice. He held her hand to his cheek. “I’m so happy to be home, Nianiouchka,” he sighed, and suddenly fell asleep.

He slept for several hours; she didn’t move, she just sat there opposite him, watching him; tears flowed silently down her ageing, pale face. A while later, she woke him up, took him to the nursery, put him to bed. He was slightly delirious. He was talking out loud, sometimes reaching out to touch the calendar on the wall, still decorated with a colour portrait of the Tsar, or to grasp the rungs on the side of Andre’s bed, where the icon was hanging, as if he were a child. He pointed to the page with the date: 18 May 1918, saying over and over again: “I don’t understand, I don’t understand.”

Then he smiled as he looked at the window-shade billowing gently, and outside at the grounds, the trees lit up by the moon; and the spot, near the window, where the old wooden floor was slightly hollow. The pale moonlight washed over him, rocking him like a river of milk. How often had he got out of bed and sat right there, while his brother was asleep, listening to the coachman’s accordion, the stifled laughter of the servants… He had inhaled the strong perfume of the lilacs, like tonight… He strained to listen, unconsciously trying to hear the music from the accordion in the silence. But he heard nothing except an occasional soft, low rumbling. He sat up, saw Tatiana Ivanovna sitting next to him in the dark room, tapped her on the shoulder.

“What’s that noise?”

“I don’t know. It started yesterday. Maybe it’s thunder, you sometimes get thunder in May.”

“That?” he said. He laughed suddenly, staring at her with his wide eyes, eyes that looked pale but which burned with a feverish harsh light. “That’s cannon fire, my poor dear! I thought itwould happen… It was too good to be true.”

His words were jumbled, confused, interspersed with laughter. Then he said quite clearly: “If I could just die peacefully in this bed, I’m so tired…”

By morning, his fever had broken; he wanted to get up, go out into the grounds, breathe in the spring air, warm and pure, as in the past. Everything else had changed… The deserted grounds, full of wild grass, looked pitiful and sad. He went into the little pavilion, stretched out on the ground, absent-mindedly feeling the broken shards as he looked at the house through the shattered coloured glass in the window. One night, in prison, when he was expecting to be executed at any moment, he had seen the house in a dream, just as he did today, from the window of the little pavilion; but the house had been open, the terrace full of flowers. In his dream, he had seen every detail, right down to the chimney sweeps walking along the rooftop. He had woken up with a start and had thought: “Tomorrow, I’ll face death, that is certain. It is only just before dying that people have memories like this.”

Death. He wasn’t afraid of it. But to leave this earth in the turmoil of a revolution, forgotten by everyone, abandoned… It was all so absurd… Well, he hadn’t died yet… Who knows? Perhaps he’d manage to escape. This house… He had truly thought he would never see it again, and here it was, and these windows with their coloured glass that the wind always shattered; he’d played with them as a child, picturing in his mind the vineyards of Italy… undoubtedly because of their purplish colour, like red wine and blood. Tatiana Ivanovna used to come in and say: “Your mother’s calling you, my darling …”

Tatiana Ivanovna came in carrying a plate with some potatoes and bread.

“How have you managed to get any food?” he asked.

“At my age, you don’t need much. I’ve always had enough potatoes and in the village, you can sometimes get bread… I’ve never wanted for anything.”

She knelt down beside him, started feeding him, as if he were too weak to lift the food and drink to his lips.

“Youri… Don’t you think you should leave right away?”

He frowned, looking at her without replying.

“You could walk to my nephew’s house,” she said. “He wouldn’t harm you: if you have some money, he could help you find a horse and you could go to Odessa. Is it far?”

“Three or four days by train, ordinarily … Now… God only knows…”

“What can we do? God will help you. You could get to your family and give them this. I’ve never wanted to trust anyone else with it,” she said, lifting the hem of her dress. “I have the big diamonds from your mother’s necklace. Before leaving, she told me to hide them. They couldn’t take anything with them, they left in the middle of the night when the Bolsheviks took Tem-na?a, and they were afraid of being arrested. What kind of life must they have now?”

“Not a good one, I’m sure,” he said, wearily shrugging his shoulders.

“Well, let’s wait and see what happens tomorrow.”

“Look, you’re kidding yourself, it’s the same everywhere. At least here, the serfs know me, I’ve never done them any harm.”

“Who knows what they might secretly be thinking, those dogs?” she grumbled.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” he repeated, closing his eyes. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow. It’s so peaceful here, my God.”

And so the day passed. Towards evening, he headed back to the house. It was a beautiful dusk, clear and peaceful, like the evening before. He took a detour to walk by the ornamental lake; in autumn, the bushes were bare, yet the lake was still covered in a thick layer of dead leaves, frozen beneath the ice. The flowers from the lilac trees fell like light rain; he could scarcely make out the dark water, faintly shimmering through, here and there.

He went back into the house, up to the nursery. Tatiana Ivanovna had set a table beside the open window; he recognised one of the little delicate table-cloths of fine linen reserved especially for the children when they were ill and ate in their bedroom; and the fork as well, the antique silver knife, the old tarnished cup.

“Eat, drink, my darling. I’ve taken a bottle ofwine from the cellars for you, and I know you used to like potatoes baked in embers.”

“Not any more,” he said laughing, “but thank you anyway, my treasure.”

Night was falling. He lit a candle, setting it at the end of
the table. Its flame burned tall and bright in the peaceful evening. It was so silent.

“Nianiouchka, why didn’t you go with the family?” he asked.

“Well, someone had to stay and look after the house.”

“You think so?” he said, sounding sadly ironic. “For whom, my God?”

They fell silent. “Wouldn’t you like to go andjoin them?” he asked.

“I’ll go if they call for me. I’ll find my way there; I’ve never been shy or stupid, thank God… But what would happen to the house?”

She stopped suddenly, whispered: “Listen!”

Someone was downstairs, knocking at the door. They both stood up quickly.

“Hide, for the love of God, you have to hide, Youri!”

Youri went over to the window, cautiously looked outside. The moon was high. He recognised the boy who stood in the middle of the drive, stepping back to call out: “Youri Nicol-aevitch! It’s me, Ignat!”

He was a young coachman who had been brought up in the Karine household. He and Youri had played together as children. He was the one who used to sing and play his accordion in the grounds on those summer nights. “
Ifhe
wants to hurt me,” Youri suddenly thought, “then everything be damned, and me with it!” He leaned out the window. “Come up, my friend,” he shouted.

“I can’t. The door is barricaded.”

“Go down and open the door, Niania, he’s alone.”

“What have you done, you poor thing?” she whispered.

He made a weary gesture with his hand. “Whatever happens, happens. And anyway, he saw me … Go on, my darling, go and let him in.”

She stood there motionless, trembling and silent. He walked towards the door. She stopped him, colour suddenly rushing back into her cheeks.

“What are you doing? It’s not for you to go down to let in the coachman. Wait for me here.”

He gently shrugged his shoulders and sat down again. When
she came back, followed by Ignat, he stood up and walked over to them.

“Hello, I’m happy to see you.”

“So am I, Youri Nicolaevitch,” said the boy, smiling. He had a big, full, rosy face.

“Have you had enough to eat?”

“God has helped me, Barine.”

“Do you still play the accordion, like you used to?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’d love to hear you play again… I’ll be staying for a while.”

Ignat did not reply; he kept smiling, showing his wide, shiny teeth.

“Would you like a drink? Bring another glass, Tatiana.”

The old woman grudgingly obeyed. “To your good health, Youri Nicolaevitch.” The young man drank.

They were silent. Tatiana Ivanovna walked over to them: “Fine. Get going now. The young Barine is tired.”

“Even so, you must come with me to the village, Youri Nicolaevitch.”

“Ah! Why?” Youri murmured, involuntarily lowering his voice. “Why, my friend?”

“You have to.”

Suddenly Tatiana Ivanovna looked as if she were about to pounce. An expression so wild, so strange, passed over her pale, impassive face that Youri shuddered.

“Leave him be,” he said almost despairingly to Tatiana. “Calm down. I beg of you. Leave him be, it doesn’t matter…”

She was screaming, wouldn’t listen to him, her thin, tense hands stretched out like claws: “Ah, you devil, you bloody bastard! You think I can’t see what’s in your eyes? And who do you think you are to be giving orders to your master?”

He turned towards her; his face had changed: his eyes were burning. Then he seemed to calm down, and said nonchalantly: “Be quiet, oldwoman. There are some people in the village who want to talk to Youri Nicolaevitch, that’s all.”

“Do you at least know what they want from me?” asked Youri. He suddenly felt exhausted, one sincere, deep desire remained in his heart: to go to bed and sleep for a very long time.

“They want to talk to you about dividing up the wine. We’ve received orders from Moscow.”

“Ah! So that’s it? I can see you enjoyed my wine. But you could have waited until tomorrow, you know.”

He walked towards the door, with Ignat following behind. At the doorway, he stopped. For an instant, Ignat seemed to hesitate; then, suddenly, with the same swift movement he used in the past to grab the whip, he reached into his belt, pulled out a revolver and fired two shots. The first hit Youri between the shoulders; he screamed in amazement, shuddering. The second bullet went right through his neck, killing him instantly.