“Motives!” he cried. “That is the very point. There are no motives. The motives are naught. It is the consequences. Where are we going? Why are we going? Look: we are moving. Going somewhere. Doing something. The train rushes through Siberia. The wheels are moving. The engine-drivers are adding fuel to the engines. Why? Why are we here? What are we doing in Siberia? Where are we heading for? Something. Somewhere. But what? Where? Why?”
I think I must have misunderstood Uncle Kostia’s subtle thoughts. Or was it that my commission was continually in my mind? But I asked him:
“Is it that you are doomed by your sense of inutility, Uncle Kostia?”
His eyes flashed. He spoke impatiently: “My inutility! Your inutility! What the devil does it matter whose inutility? Is your Admiral very utile, may I ask? What I was saying was that we all behaved as if we were actually doing things, boarding this Trans-Siberian Express as if in order to do something at the end of the journey, while actually the journey is in excess of anything we are likely to achieve.”
But I thought I would keep him to the point, that is to say, my point. “Then would you rather not travel in this train, Uncle Kostia?”
An anxious look came into his eyes.
“Why? I like travelling in this train. I am comfortable.”
“But the futility of it?”
“Oh!” groaned Uncle Kostia at my stupidity. “Can’t you understand that it is the very fact of this physical futility that inflates me with a sense of spiritual importance?”
I looked at him with a blank expression.
“When I am at home—I mean anywhere at a standstill—I am wretched intolerably. I write and I think—” He stopped.
“What?”
“What am I writing for: what on earth am I thinking for?”
“So you have doubts?”
“Yes, at moments I am seized by misgivings: what is it all for? I ask.”
“I see.”
“Now it is different. We are moving, apparently doing something, going somewhere. One has a sense of accomplishing something. I lie here in my coupé and I think: It is good. At last I am doing something. Living, not recording. Living! Living! I look out of the window, and my heart cries out: Life! Life! and so living, living vividly, I lapse into my accustomed sphere of meditation, and then before I know exactly where I am I begin to meditate: Where are we all going to? Isn’t our journey the kernel of absurdity? And so, by contrast, as it were, I gain a sense of the importance of meditation. … That is how we deceive ourselves, Andrei Andreiech.”
“And you can do it in spite of being conscious of the deception involved?”
“I have been unconscious of it,” he said, “until you forced me into introspection.”
Then, after a pause, I was tickled into inquiring:
“Why don’t you—er—publish some of it, eh, Uncle Kostia?”
Uncle Kostia grabbed his beard into his fist and looked at me with pity rather than with scorn and made a movement as if he was going to spit out of sheer disgust, but evidently thought better of it. “You have a front of brass,” he said. “I cannot penetrate it.”
“Look here, Uncle Kostia,” I cried impatiently, “you must be reasonable and think of poor Nikolai Vasilievich. He can’t go on supporting everybody.”
“He hasn’t said anything, has he?” he asked anxiously.
“No … but. …” I paused to enable him to say the obvious.
“He wouldn’t,” said Uncle Kostia. “He is wonderful. I admire him.”
I returned to my coupé. It was evening now and the lights were lit. Dismal forests stretched over hundreds of versts. I lay back and the ideas let loose by Uncle Kostia set to work in my mind. And I thought: Where are we heading? Why? What is it all for? And then I thought of the war with its hysterical activity; I pictured soldiers boarding trains, to return to the front; the loading of ships with war matériel; the rush in the Ministry of Munitions. I thought of the Germans seething with energy in just the same way; and I contrasted in my mind this hustling activity, this strained efficiency with the pitiable weakness in the intellectual conception of the conflict, and I understood that the man had been essentially right, that our journeys were in excess of our achievements. Our life was an inept play with some disproportionately good acting in it. Then, as I dreamed away, I heard Fanny Ivanovna talking to somebody in the adjoining coupé. I pulled my door open and I could now hear her voice distinctly. I listened. I was vastly tickled. I wondered to whom it was that she was telling her autobiography. Then I heard occasional expressions of assent in Sir Hugo’s trim and careful Russian. I leaned forward, the incarnation of attention.
“He would come to me in the evening and say, ‘Fanny, I don’t know what I would do without you. …’
“He came to me one evening in April and said, ‘Fanny, I must speak to you very seriously. …’
“ ‘It is love, this time, real love. I thought that I had loved, I had loved, you, Fanny, but this is the love that comes once only, to which you yield gloriously, magnificently, or you are crushed and broken and thrust aside. …’ ”
I felt my heart beat violently within me. I waited for Sir Hugo’s detailed cross-examination; but indeed there was little of it. Only once, when Fanny Ivanovna referred to Nikolai Vasilievich’s wife did Sir Hugo stop her with an apology, to inquire “Which wife?”
The train rushed through the autumn night; the windows now were black and revealed nothing. Interlacing with the din, squeal and rattle of the wheels, now and then my ear would catch familiar fragments of the monologue.
“ ‘Nikolai!’ I cried. ‘Du bist verrückt … wahnsinnich! …’
“I cried and he cried with me. …
“ ‘Think of the children, Nikolai! They are your children. …’
“I said to him: ‘I shall wait till you pay me off. I shall not leave otherwise.’ ”
I felt indeed I was on
