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BELINSKY   It’s too important for pity. In other countries, the advance of civilised behaviour is everybody’s business. In Russia, there’s no division of labour, literature has to do it all. That was a hard lesson for me, boy. When I started off, I thought art was aimless, pure spirit. I was a young ruffian from the provinces, with the artistic credo of a Parisian dandy. Remember Gautier?—‘Fools! Cretins! A novel is not a pair of boots!’

TURGENEV   ‘A sonnet is not a syringe! A play is not a railway!’

BELINSKY   (chiming in with Turgenev) ‘A play is not a railway!’ Well, we have no railways, so that’s another job for literature, to open up the country. Are you laughing at me, boy? I once heard a government minister say he was against railways because they encouraged people who should stay put to indulge in purposeless travel with who knows what results. That’s what we’re up against.

TURGENEV   I’m not pure spirit, but I’m not society’s keeper either. No, listen, Captain! People complain about me having no attitude in my stories. They’re puzzled. Do I approve or disapprove? Do I want the reader to agree with this man or the other man? Whose fault is it that this peasant is a useless drunkard, his or ours? What about this story I gave you?—is the bailiff worse than the master, or the master worse than the bailiff? Where does the author stand? Why doesn’t he come clean with us? Well, maybe I’m wrong, but how would that make me a better writer? What has it got to do with anything? (raising his voice) Why are you getting at me, anyway? I’m not well, you know—well, I’m not not well like you’re not well—(hastily)—though you’ll get better, don’t worry—sorry—but coming all this way to this dump to keep you company … Can we not talk about art and society with the waters sloshing through my kidneys? …

Belinsky, who has been coughing, is suddenly in distress. Turgenev comes to his aid.

TURGENEV   (cont.) Easy, Captain! Easy …

BELINSKY   (recovering) The waters of Salzbrunn are not the elixir of life, in my opinion. It’s a mystery how these places get their reputation. Anyone can see they’re killing people off like flies.

TURGENEV   Let’s get out! Come with me to Berlin. I’ve got some friends going to London, I promised to see them off—or we can meet in Paris.

BELINSKY   No, I …

TURGENEV   You can’t go home without seeing Paris!

BELINSKY   I suppose not.

TURGENEV   Are you all right now?

BELINSKY   Yes. (He drinks some water.)

TURGENEV   (Pause.) So you didn’t like my story?

BELINSKY   Who said? You’re going to be one of our great writers, one of the few—I’m never wrong.

TURGENEV   (moved) Oh … (lightly) You said Fenimore Cooper was as great as Shakespeare.

BELINSKY   That wasn’t wrong, it was only ridiculous.

There is a transition.

JULY   1847

Paris. La Place de la Concorde.

Turgenev and Belinsky are out walking. Belinsky stares gloomily around.

TURGENEV   Herzen has established himself in the Avenue Marigny. He’s got a chandelier, and a footman to bring things in on a silver tray. The snow on his boots is all gone like les neiges d’antan. (He points.) The obelisk marks the spot where they had the guillotine.

BELINSKY   They say the Place de la Concorde is the most beautiful square in the world, don’t they?

TURGENEV   Yes.

BELINSKY   Good. Well, I’ve seen it now. Let’s walk back to where I saw that red-and-white dressing gown in the window.

TURGENEV   It was expensive.

BELINSKY   I only want to look at it.

TURGENEV   I’m sorry about … you know … going off to London like that.

BELINSKY   It’s all right. (He coughs painfully.)

TURGENEV   Are you getting tired? You wait here, I’ll go to the cab rank.

BELINSKY   I could write amazing things in a dressing gown like that.

Turgenev leaves.

SEPTEMBER   1847

Belinsky recovers. A chandelier descends into view. Belinsky looks at it.

Herzen’s voice makes him turn, as the stagethe room-fills simultaneously from different directions. Turgenev is unwrapping a shopping parcel. Natalie has a bag of toys and books from a shop. MADAME HAAG, who is Herzen’s mother and in her fifties, is in charge of Sasha and Kolya, who is technically aged four. Sasha is ‘speaking’ face-to-face with Kolya, saying ‘Kol-ya, Kol-ya’ with extra enunciation. Kolya has a spinning top. GEORGE HERWEGH, aged thirty, a beautiful young man with a feminine delicacy notwithstanding luxuriant facial hair and beard, lies on a chaise, romantically exhausted, having his brow dabbed with cologne by EMMA, his wife, who is blonde and handsome rather than pretty. NICHOLAS SAZONOV, aged thirty-five, a gentleman down on his luck, is in sympathetic attendance. A Nurse appears and involves herself with Madame and the two children. There is a SERVANT, a footman-valet, making himself useful as a waiter. In their dress, Herzen and Natalie have altered strikingly, transformed into Parisians. Herzen’s previously combed-back hair and ‘Russian’ beard have been stylishly barbered. In the first part of the scene, there are separate conversations going on. They take turns to occupy the vocal foreground, but they are all continuous.

HERZEN   You always look at my chandelier.

TURGENEV   (about the parcel) Can we see it? …

SASHA   Kol-ya … Kol-ya …

HERZEN   … there’s something about that chandelier …

BELINSKY   No … I was just …

HERZEN   … it makes my Russian friends uneasy. It says, ‘Herzen is our first bourgeois worthy of the name! What a loss to the intelligentsia!’

The Servant offers a tray of titbits to Mother with an aristocratic assurance.

SERVANT   Madame … may one tempt you?

MOTHER   No …

SERVANT   Of course. Perhaps later.

The Servant offers his tray here and there, then leaves.

NATALIE   Vissarion, look … look what I found in the toy shop …

SASHA   Can I see?

MOTHER   It’s not for you, you’ve got toys of your own, too many.

Natalie is delayed by Mother.

MOTHER   (cont.) (upset) I can’t get used to your servant’s manner.

NATALIE   Jean-Marie? But he has beautiful manners, Granny.

MOTHER   That’s what I mean—he behaves as if he’s on equal terms, he makes conversation …

Turgenev reveals, from its tissue paper, a flamboyant silk robe with a large red design on white. He puts it on.

TURGENEV   Yes … yes, very nice. You think you know somebody, and then it turns out you don’t.