‘Stop crying,’ I said, wiping her cheeks with my fingers. ‘Moscow doesn’t believe in tears.’
She smiled. ‘Martin, I adore you.’
‘We can move your stuff here on Sunday.’
‘You know I can’t afford to pay half the rent you pay, but I can help with a bit and also with the groceries.’
‘Don’t worry about that.’
I finished the cabbage. Tatyana made tea and we moved to the living room to watch a movie. She fell asleep before the end.
Next morning, after Tatyana had left for work, I opened the balcony door and stepped outside with a cup of coffee. It was sunny, the roofs of Moscow gleaming under a clear sky. I took a deep breath, the warmth of the air taking me by surprise. Summer had arrived.
Sipping my coffee, listening to the clamour of the city, I looked forward to the warm days — going out with the brothers, nights on the restaurant terraces, the party boat — but also, I now realised, to Sunday evenings, to having Tatyana back at home. As far as I could see, I was looking forward to every single day that was coming to me. Standing on the balcony, I felt lightness in my heart, a sense of plenitude. And for a few minutes, gazing at the urban horizon, contemplating the arrival of summer in Moscow, I believed in happiness.
PART FIVE. Liza’s Choice
44
IN NEST OF THE GENTRY, Turgenev nails the quintessential Tatyana esque heroine. Liza is young, naive, pure-hearted. She lives with her mother and aunt in a provincial city, enjoying the simple life of the Russian gentry, which involves, Ivan Sergeyevich tells us, a lot of piano-playing, tea-drinking, book-reading, church-going. She’s particularly pious, Liza, raised under the influence of her Russian peasant nanny.
Liza finds herself with two suitors. Panshin is a young officer: handsome, entertaining, respectful, charmant. Even if somehow superficial, Panshin possesses plenty of social and artistic skills, and a promising career ahead of him. By any standards, a good catch. To top this off, Panshin enjoys the full approval of Liza’s mother.
Liza’s other suitor, Lavretsky, is an older landowner: thoughtful, melancholic, married.
Lavretsky, the protagonist of the book, had been living in Paris with his wife, Varvara Pavlovna, and has just returned to Russia on his own after discovering that she had been cheating on him with a Frenchman. In sharp contrast to the very Russian Liza, Ivan Sergeyevich depicts Varvara Pav lovna as a flirtatious socialite, a man-eater, a femme fatale who is shamelessly Europeanised.
Back at home, Lavretsky rediscovers the beauty of the Russian countryside and its people. He starts to work on his neglected properties, making plans to provide for his peasants. As he adapts to his new surroundings, he’s impressed by Liza’s pure heart. He regrets that her goodness and beauty are to be lost to the superficial Panshin, whom he sees as a charlatan, undeserving of Liza. Gradually, Lavretsky, still hurt from his Paris debacle, develops feelings for Liza. Perhaps, he thinks, he could enjoy a second chance to renew his faith in love. The problem is that, as a married man, he’s not in a position to act upon his romantic interest. This is the case until one fine day, flipping through the newspapers he receives from Paris, Lavretsky reads with astonishment that his estranged wife has died. He is now a free man.
Lavretsky tells Liza about the death of his wife and makes his own feelings clear. Meanwhile, Panshin proposes to Liza and she asks for time to think about it.
Now, Liza has a choice.
Russian as she is, Liza finds herself attracted not to the young charming officer, but to the older melancholic widower. Her decision is made on the spur of the moment, when, during a furtive night-time encounter, she lets Lavretsky steal a kiss. This being nineteenth-century Russia, the kiss kind of seals their mutual intentions.
Happy ending? Not so fast. Now comes destiny, always capricious and stubborn, returning in the form of Varvara Pavlovna, who unexpectedly shows up in the provincial town, with her fashionable Parisian clothes and refined manners — the announcement of her death having been a mistake born of a baseless rumour. She asks for her husband’s forgiveness.
Varvara Pavlovna’s return means that Lavretsky is no longer free — death being in those days pretty much the only way out of a marriage. Lavretsky has to give up on Liza, and Liza — whose heart had been set on Lavretsky — is condemned to live without love.
But why had Liza chosen Lavretsky? Even if Varvara Pavlovna had really been dead, anyone could see that Panshin offered a more promising future.
Ivan Sergeyevich doesn’t linger on Liza’s choice and yet this choice stands at the core of the novel. Because, for some reason, Liza chooses the option that will clearly make her less happy.
Happiness on Earth does not depend on us, Liza says, as she retreats into a state of melancholy.
Liza’s choice tells us a great deal about the Mysterious Russian Soul. Liza shows us that toska, a deep spiritual sorrow, is worth pursuing in itself. Beautiful, self-inflicted pain.
Liza’s sheer beauty as a character derives from her suffering, her tragic destiny, her Russianness. Even Dostoyevsky, in the Pushkin Speech, mentions Turgenev’s Liza as the one female character capable of standing up to Pushkin’s Tatyana.
At the end of the story, Liza enters a monastery, embracing a life of sacrifice and privation.
‘Happiness was not for me,’ she says, explaining her decision. ‘Even when I had hopes for happiness, my heart was always heavy.’
45
AS SUMMER HIT MOSCOW, a troop of corpulent babushkas took over the stairs of the metro entrance in Pushkinskaya. They sat every morning on tiny stools, leaning against the wall next to the newspaper stands, selling flowers, jam, honey, salt cucumbers, pickled mushrooms. They kept their flowers, which were tied with rubber bands, inside buckets of water or plastic bottles that had been cut in half. I never bought flowers but I liked the home-made jams, especially strawberry, and so did Tatyana. I would buy one or two jars, and, every night, drinking tea after dinner, Tatyana and I would eat the jam with a shared spoon, straight from the jar.
Tatyana was now spending five nights a week in my flat. I’d emptied three drawers and given her half the hanging space in the wardrobe, but she had more clothes than I’d imagined — most of which she never wore — so she also kept two bulging suitcases in a corner of the living room.
Most nights we stayed at home but sometimes, on Wednesdays or Thursdays usually, we went out to the theatre or to eat sushi. Every Friday morning, Tatyana took an overnight bag with her and, after work, she went to her aunt’s to spend the weekend.
‘Sounds like you got yourself a part-time girlfriend,’ Colin said when I told him about the arrangement.
In the mornings, after Tatyana was gone, I would take a shower, dress, and go for walks around the centre. I would walk for an hour or so and, when I got tired, I would sit in cafés, reading Russian books, taking notes.
One warm day in July, I was in Coffee Beans, on the leather couch by the window, trying to read yet another chunk of War and Peace. I was unable to focus on the task — distracted by a parade of miniskirts and high heels in Tverskaya — when one of the parading dyevs entered the café, bought a cup of coffee, and sat at a small table in front of me. Dark hair, brown eyes. She was wearing a white summer dress with colourful flowers. Out of her handbag she took a book and placed it on her table. She sipped at her coffee — a cappuccino, I noticed, as she licked the foam off her upper lip — opened the book and held it on her lap. Our eyes met a couple of times and she smiled. I smiled back.