Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.) Read online

  ‘Don’t excite yourself, your excellency, I know you well enough by now, oh yes, I know you well enough,’ answered my stepfather. ‘Thanks to you I came within an inch of being sentenced to death. And I know who it was that persuaded Alexei Nikorovitch, your former musician, to trump up a charge against me!’

  These horrible accusations put the Count into a wild rage. He was barely able to control himself, but it so happened that a government official, visiting the Count on business, was in the room, and he declared that he could not let this pass without taking action. He maintained that Efimov’s offensive remarks amounted to malice, wilful slander and libel and he respectfully asked permission to arrest him on the spot. Expressing tremendous indignation, the Frenchman said that he could not understand such base ingratitude, whereupon my stepfather announced that even if it was on a charge of murder any trial, any punishment, would be better than the existence he had experienced until now, living on the landowner’s estate as a member of the orchestra and unable to leave before because of his extreme poverty. With these words he left the room accompanied by the man who had arrested him. He was locked in a remote room with the threat of being taken to town the following day. At about midnight the prisoner’s door was opened and the landowner entered. He was wearing his nightgown and slippers and holding a lamp in his hands. It seemed that his tormenting worries had prevented him from sleeping and that he had finally been compelled to get up. Efimov, who was not sleeping either, looked up in surprise at his visitor, who put down his lamp and, deeply agitated, seated himself in a chair opposite.

  ‘Egor,’ he addressed him, ‘why have you done me this injustice?’

  Efimov gave no reply. The landowner repeated his question in a voice expressing deep feeling and a sort of strange grief.

  ‘God knows,’ said my stepfather eventually, making a gesture of despair. ‘It must have been the devil’s got inside me. I don’t know myself who drove me to do it… But I really cannot go on living with you, I can’t bear it… The devil himself has got inside me…’

  ‘Egor!’ the landowner began again. ‘Come back to me. I’ll forget everything, I’ll forgive everything. Listen, you’ll be my leading musician, you’ll be paid more than anyone else…’

  ‘No, sir, and please don’t speak of it. It’s no life for me there! I’m telling you the devil has taken hold of me. I’ll set fire to your house or something if I stay. There are times when I’m overcome with such terrible despair that I wish I’d never been born. Just now I can’t be responsible for my actions and you’d be better to leave me alone, sir. It all began when that fiend made a friend of me…’

  ‘Who?’ asked the landowner.

  ‘Why, the one who died like a dog, snuffed it, the Italian.’

  ‘Was it he who taught you to play, Egorushka?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, he taught me more than enough to ruin me. I wish I’d never set eyes on him.’

  ‘Was he really a master of the violin, Egorushka?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t much good himself, but he was a good teacher. I taught myself to play; he just showed me one or two things. But it would have been better to have lost my hand than to have learnt those things. I don’t know what I want now. And you, sir, may ask: “Egorushka, what do you want – I can give you anything”, and I, sir, cannot offer a single word in reply because I do not know what I want. No! I repeat, sir, it would be better for you to leave me alone. I might really go and do something to you which would get me put away for years and that would be the end of it!’

  ‘Egor!’ began the landowner after a short silence, ‘I can’t leave you like this. If you don’t want to work for me then go, you’re a free man, I won’t force you to do anything. But I can’t leave you like this. Play something for me, Egor, play something on your violin. For God’s sake play something. I’m not ordering you to, do you understand, I’m not forcing you to, I’m only begging you, with tears in my eyes. Oh, for God’s sake! Egorushka, play me the piece you played for the Frenchman. Just do this for me… We are both being obstinate. I too have an obstinate streak, Egorushka. I can sympathize with you, but you must try to understand my feelings. I don’t think I can live unless you play me the piece you played for the Frenchman. But you must do it willingly.’

  ‘Well, all right then,’ said Efimov. ‘I swore to myself that I would never perform in front of you, sir, never ever before you. But my heart is melting. I’ll play you something, but it will be the first time and the last time. After this you’ll never hear me again, not even for a thousand roubles.’

  Thereupon he picked up his violin and began playing his own variations on Russian songs. B. said that these variations were his first and his best pieces for the violin and that he never played them so well or with so much inspiration. The landowner, who always gave a display of emotion on listening to any music, was on this occasion reduced to tears. When the performance was over he got up from his chair, took out three thousand roubles and handed them to my stepfather, saying, ‘Now be on your way, Egor. I am releasing you – leave it to me to settle everything with the Count. But listen a moment: you won’t see me again. There is a wide road lying ahead and it would be painful for us both if we should meet. So, farewell. No, wait a little. I have just one piece of advice to give you before you start your journey: don’t give way to drink but study, study as much as possible and don’t let yourself grow conceited! I’m talking to you like father to son. I repeat: take care of yourself, study and keep away from the bottle. Once you start to drown your sorrows in drink – and mind you, there will be plenty of sorrow – you’re as good as finished. Everything will be lost to the devil and you’ll more than likely die in the ditch like that Italian friend of yours. Farewell now. Stop! One minute, kiss me.’

  They embraced one another and then my stepfather walked out into freedom.

  No sooner had he tasted liberty than he squandered the three thousand roubles in a nearby town where he fell into the company of the most disreputable and sordid gang of hooligans. He eventually found himself penniless, alone and with no means of earning any money. He was compelled to join a miserable band attached to a provincial travelling company as the first, and possibly the only, violinist. Of course none of this conformed to his original intention of reaching Petersburg as quickly as possible and once there studying, finding a good job, and developing his artistic talents to the full. He found life with the band uncongenial. He quarrelled with the manager and left. After this he lost heart completely and resolved to take desperate measures, although it wounded his pride terribly. He wrote a letter to the landowner explaining his predicament and asking him for money. But the letter was written in a rather arrogant manner and he received no answer. Then he wrote again, this time using the most cringing language, hailing the landowner as his true benefactor and as a supreme connoisseur of the arts; again he asked him to send money. Finally he received an answer. The landowner sent him a hundred roubles together with a brief note written by his valet in which he asked him not to trouble him with any more requests. It was my stepfather’s intention that having received the money he would set off for Petersburg at once, but after settling all his debts he found that he did not have enough money for the journey. Once again he was compelled to remain in the provinces and join a provincial band, but once again he could not get along in the company and thus ended up by continually moving on from one place to the next, always cherishing the hope that sooner or later he would reach Petersburg. Six years had passed in this way when he suddenly began to grow afraid that as a result of his chaotic and impoverished existence he was losing his talent. So one morning, abandoning his manager, he left and set off for Petersburg, almost begging his way there. He settled himself in some garret or other somewhere in Petersburg and it was there that he first met B., who had himself recently arrived from Germany and was also trying to establish a career. They soon made friends, and even to this day B. remembers the friendship with deep feeling. They were both young and had similar h
opes and aspirations. However, B. was still in his first youth and had as yet suffered little hardship or sorrow, and above all he was a German through and through and strove to achieve his ambition methodically and with a great deal of perseverance. He was fully aware of the limits to his ability and was almost capable of predicting the degree of success attainable. On the other hand his companion, Efimov, was already thirty and tired and weary; his patience was spent and his health and vigour exhausted by those six years when he was forced to live a vagabond’s existence moving from one provincial theatre company or band to the next, simply in order to obtain his daily bread. He had been sustained by his singular determination to quit this frightful existence and save enough money to reach Petersburg. But this had really been only a vague and rather obscure idea, a sort of irresistible inner calling which over the years had lost most of its original clarity. By the time he reached Petersburg he was acting almost unconsciously, simply following an old and familiar habit of constantly dreaming and brooding over that journey, without having very much of an idea of what he might do once he reached the capital. By now his enthusiasm was rather spasmodic, jaundiced and erratic, as if he were trying to deceive only himself, trying to convince himself that his energy, his vigour, his original inspiration and fire were not really burnt out. These fits of rapture impressed B. who, though he was cold and methodical, was blinded by them and worshipped my stepfather as the great musical genius of years to come. He could see no other future for his friend, but it was not long before his eyes were opened to the truth. He saw clearly that all his impetuosity, impatience and feverish haste amounted to nothing more than an unconscious despair at the memory of his squandered talent and that it was more than likely that this talent had never been anything very special, not even in the beginning, that there had been a great deal of blindness, of vain complacency and premature self-satisfaction, and of dreaming and fantasizing about his genius. ‘But,’ B. used to say, ‘I couldn’t help marvelling at my friend’s strange temperament. I saw before my own eyes a desperate, feverish contest taking place between a violently over-strained will and inner impotence. For seven miserable years he had contented himself with mere dreams of future fame, to the extent that he failed to notice how he was losing sight of what was essential to our art and was forgetting even the most elementary mechanics of the matter. And yet in the meantime the most colossal plans for the future were taking place in his disordered mind. Not only did he wish to become a first-rate genius, to be known as one of top violinists in the world – which, incidentally, he already considered himself – but on top of all of this he dreamed of becoming a composer, although he knew nothing about counterpoint. And what astonished me most,’ added B., ‘was that this man, with his complete impotence and totally inadequate knowledge of musical technique, had nevertheless such a deep and lucid – one might even say instinctive – understanding of art. He had such intense feeling and appreciation for it that it is hardly surprising if he confused himself in his own mind and mistook himself for a genius, a high priest of art rather than a sympathetic, natural critic. Sometimes, in his crude and rather simple language, he would utter such profound truths that I was struck dumb and could not believe that a man who had never read anything or even studied under anyone could have worked these things out for himself. I was deeply indebted to him for my own progress and for his advice. As far as I myself was concerned I felt fairly secure about my future. I also passionately loved my art, but I knew when I embarked upon my career that I was not tremendously gifted and that I could never expect to be more than a humble labourer in the field. But still I pride myself for not behaving like the ungrateful servant. I did not bury what I was given; instead I made the best of everything I had and, if my playing and the precision of my technique is praised, I owe it to ceaseless, unending work, to a clear understanding of the limits to which I could use my talents, to voluntary self-subordination and a constant struggle against complacency, over-confidence and the laziness that is the natural consequence of such things.

  B., in turn, tried to advise his friend, by whom he had been so dominated in the beginning, but he succeeded only in annoying him. The friendship began to cool off. Soon B. noticed that Efimov was increasingly overcome by apathy, grief and boredom, and his bouts of enthusiasm were becoming more and more rare, which was all leading to a state of gloomy and savage depression. And then Efimov started neglecting his violin, sometimes not touching it for weeks on end. He was verging on total moral collapse and rapidly succumbing to every vice. Exactly what the landowner had forewarned happened: he took to drink. B. looked on in horror, advising him to no avail and too afraid to reproach him. Little by little Efimov turned into an utter cynic. He had no qualms about living off B. and even behaved as if he had every right to do so. In the meantime they ran out of money. B. managed to make ends meet by giving private lessons and by performing at private evening parties given by merchants, Germans and petty officials, who paid something, though not very much. Efimov chose to ignore his friend’s needs; he behaved haughtily with him and for long periods he refused to speak to him. One day, in the gentlest terms, Β. pointed out that it might not be such a bad thing if he were to pay a bit of attention to his violin, in order not to forget everything. Efimov really lost his temper at this and declared that he had no intention of touching his violin again, as if supposing that someone would go down on his knees begging him to. On another occasion B. needed someone to accompany him at an evening party and asked Efimov, but the invitation only threw him into a rage. He screamed that he was no street musician and would never, like B., sink so low as to play for vulgar tradesmen who were quite incapable of appreciating his talent. B. did not utter a word in reply but Efimov, after pondering his friend’s words, decided that it had been meant as a hint to point out that he was living off B. and that perhaps he too ought to be earning some money. When B. returned from the evening party Efimov began criticizing him for his meanness and declared that he would not stay with him a minute longer. And he did actually disappear for two days, although he turned up on the third acting as if nothing had happened. They went on living as before.

  It was only his former friendship and attachment, not to mention his compassion for the ruined man, that prevented B. from carrying out his intention of bringing this ghastly life to an end by parting from Efimov for ever. In the end they did part. B. had a stroke of good fortune: he found an influential patron and succeeded in giving a brilliant concert performance. By this time he was already a first-rate player and his rapidly growing fame earned him a place in the orchestra of the opera house, where he soon achieved the success he deserved. When he parted from Efimov he gave him some money and with tears in his eyes begged him to return to the true path. Even now B. cannot remember him without special feeling; his friendship with Efimov had made a deep impression on his youth. They had embarked on their careers together and they had formed such an ardent attachment for one another that Efimov’s strange ways, his coarse and glaring defects, had only bound B. more closely to him. B. was able to appreciate this. He saw through him and knew well in advance how it would all end up. At the farewell they wept and embraced each other. Through his sobs Efimov confessed that he was an unfortunate man, that he was finished, that he had known it for a long time but had only now come to understand it properly.

  ‘I have no talent!’ he said, turning ash-white. This moved B. dreadfully.

  ‘Listen, Egor Petrovitch. Whatever do you think you’re doing to yourself? You can only destroy yourself with this despair. Where’s your courage? Where’s your patience? Now, in a fit of depression, you’re saying that you have no talent: you’re wrong! You have talent, I can see it from the way you can understand and appreciate music. I can show you how your whole life is a proof of it. You’ve told me about your earlier years and it’s obvious that even then you were haunted by a similar kind of despair. And then your first teacher, the man about whom you’ve told me so much, aroused the first love of music
in you and recognized that you have ability. You felt it just as strongly and oppressively then as you do now. The only difference is that at that time you didn’t understand what was happening to you. You realized that you couldn’t go on living with the landowner and yet you didn’t know quite what it was you did want to do. Your teacher died too soon. He left you with just a vague yearning and, what’s more important, he didn’t teach you how to understand yourself. You sensed that you should be following a different path, a more ambitious one, you felt that you were destined for other things but you had no idea how to achieve them and in your misery you began to hate everything around you. But you didn’t waste those six years; you studied, you thought, you became aware of yourself and your strengths. Now you’re able to understand art and your vocation in art. You need patience and courage, my friend… Achievement far greater than mine awaits you. You’re a hundred times greater an artist than I, if only you had my endurance! Study and stop drinking, as your good landowner said to you. And above all make a new beginning. Begin with the basics. What is it that torments you so? Poverty? Deprivation? But it’s precisely poverty and deprivation that mould the true artist. They are inevitable at the beginning. Just now no one wants you, no one is bothered about knowing you, but that’s the way of the world. Just wait a while and you’ll see how different it is once they’ve discovered you. The envy, the petty meanness and, worst of all, the stupidity will be a greater burden to you than any hardship. Talent needs sympathy and understanding, but wait until you see the sort of people who will flock around you when you’ve achieved just the tiniest bit of fame. All that you’ve gained through labour, sleepless nights, hunger and hardship will be looked on with contempt and disdain. These future friends of yours will give you neither comfort nor encouragement. They won’t point out your good sides. Oh no! They’ll take a malicious delight in spotting every one of your mistakes. They’ll only be interested in your faults and errors. They’ll celebrate over them – as if anyone could be perfect. You see, you’re too conceited. Sometimes you’re proud when there’s no need to be and you may go and offend some important little nobody, and then there’ll be trouble, for you are alone and they are many. They’ll torment you; they’ll prod you like a pincushion. Even I have begun experiencing all this. But now you must cheer up. You aren’t completely destitute and you’ll get by as long as you don’t turn your nose up at humble work. Go and chop wood as I did at those evening parties. You’re too impatient, it’s a kind of sickness of yours. Try to be simpler – you’re too subtle and you think too much; you give your brain a lot of work. You’re bold with words but feeble with your bow. You’re too vain and you lack fortitude. Have courage and find patience to study diligently. If you don’t trust your own strength, then put your trust in luck. You still have fire and feeling. Perhaps you’ll reach your goal, but, if not, trust in luck. Whichever way, you can’t lose, because the stake is too great. It’s a wonderful thing, my friend, to trust in luck!’