On the Eve

had married late in life) surmised at last that things were not going quite right, and he placed his Andrei in a school. Andrei began to learn, but he was not removed from his father’s supervision; his father visited him unceasingly, wearying the schoolmaster to death with his instructions and conversation; the teachers, too, were bored by his uninvited visits; he was forever bringing them some, as they said, far-fetched books on education. Even the schoolboys were embarrassed at the sight of the old man’s swarthy, pockmarked face, his lank figure, invariably clothed in a sort of scanty grey dresscoat. The boys did not suspect then that this grim, unsmiling old gentleman, with his crane-like gait and his long nose, was at heart troubling and yearning over each one of them almost as over his own son. He once conceived the idea of talking to them about Washington: “My young nurslings,” he began, but at the first sounds of his strange voice the young nurslings ran away. The good old Göttingen student did not lie on a bed of roses; he was forever weighed down by the march of history, by questions and ideas of every kind. When young Bersenyev entered the university, his father used to drive with him to the lectures, but his health was already beginning to break up. The events of the year 1848 shook him to the foundation (it necessitated the rewriting of his whole book), and he died in the winter of 1853, before his son’s time at the university was over, but he was able beforehand to congratulate him on his degree, and to consecrate him to the service of science. “I pass on the torch to you,” he said to him two hours before his death. “I held it while I could; you, too, must not let the light grow dim before the end.”

Bersenyev talked a long while to Elena of his father. The embarrassment he had felt in her presence disappeared, and his lisp was less marked. The conversation passed on to the university.

“Tell me,” Elena asked him, “were there any remarkable men among your comrades?”

Bersenyev was again reminded of Shubin’s words.

“No, Elena Nikolaevna, to tell you the truth, there was not a single remarkable man among us. And, indeed, where are such to be found! There was, they say, a good time once in the Moscow university! But not now. Now it’s a school, not a university. I was not happy with my comrades,” he added, dropping his voice.

“Not happy,” murmured Elena.

“But I ought,” continued Bersenyev, “to make an exception. I know one student⁠—it’s true he is not in the same faculty⁠—he is certainly a remarkable man.”

“What is his name?” Elena inquired with interest.

“Insarov, Dmitri Nikanorovitch. He is a Bulgarian.”

“Not a Russian?”

“No, he is not a Russian.”

“Why is he living in Moscow, then?”

“He came here to study. And do you know with what aim he is studying? He has a single idea: the liberation of his country. And his story is an exceptional one. His father was a fairly well-to-do merchant; he came from Tirnova. Tirnova is now a small town, but it was the capital of Bulgaria in the old days when Bulgaria was still an independent state. He traded with Sophia, and had relations with Russia; his sister, Insarov’s aunt, is still living in Kiev, married to a senior history teacher in the gymnasium there. In 1835, that is to say eighteen years ago, a terrible crime was committed; Insarov’s mother suddenly disappeared without leaving a trace behind; a week later she was found murdered.”

Elena shuddered. Bersenyev stopped.

“Go on, go on,” she said.

“There were rumours that she had been outraged and murdered by a Turkish aga; her husband, Insarov’s father, found out the truth, tried to avenge her, but only succeeded in wounding the aga with his poniard.⁠ ⁠… He was shot.”

“Shot, and without a trial?”

“Yes. Insarov was just eight years old at the time. He remained in the hands of neighbours. The sister heard of the fate of her brother’s family, and wanted to take the nephew to live with her. They got him to Odessa, and from there to Kiev. At Kiev he lived twelve whole years. That’s how it is he speaks Russian so well.”

“He speaks Russian?”

“Just as we do. When he was twenty (that was at the beginning of the year 1848) he began to want to return to his country. He stayed in Sophia and Tirnova, and travelled through the length and breadth of Bulgaria, spending two years there, and learning his mother tongue over again. The Turkish Government persecuted him, and he was certainly exposed to great dangers during those two years; I once caught sight of a broad scar on his neck, from a wound, no doubt; but he does not like to talk about it. He is reserved, too, in his own way. I have tried to question him about everything, but I could get nothing out of him. He answers by generalities. He’s awfully obstinate. He returned to Russia again in 1850, to Moscow, with the intention of educating himself thoroughly, getting intimate with Russians, and then when he leaves the university⁠—”

“What then?” broke in Elena.

“What God wills. It’s hard to forecast the future.”

For a while Elena did not take her eyes off Bersenyev.

“You have greatly interested me by what you have told me,” she said. “What is he like, this friend of yours; what did you call him, Insarov?”

“What shall I say? To my mind, he’s good-looking. But you will see him for yourself.”

“How so?”

“I will bring him here to see you. He is coming to our little village the day after tomorrow, and is going to live with me in the same lodging.”

“Really? But will he care to come to see us?”

“I should think so. He will be delighted.”

“He isn’t proud, then?”

“Not the least. That’s to say, he is proud if you like, only not in the sense you mean. He will never, for instance, borrow money from