Evgenia, Evgeni and Boris Pasternak |
Spring comes, and inexplicably, the parents are happy. The
father brings jewels as presents, some “resembled drops of almond milk, others
splashes of blue water colour … others sparked gaily with the sparkle of the
frozen juice of blood oranges.” The family boards a train in the evening and
Zhenia sleeps. When she wakens in an upper bunk, she cannot take her eyes off
the mountainous panorama that rolls past the window. The man who shares their
compartment explains that a signpost with the word “Asia” on it will soon
appear. Her brother tells Zhenia that the Ural Mountains are the natural border
between Europe and Asia. She is terribly excited that they will cross this
frontier. All heads on the train pop out the windows as the signpost appears
and they leave “dust-laden, wearisome Europe.”
In the new house, everything is different. The milk is
brought by Ulyasha in two pails. In the kitchen there is “less crockery, but
there was the wonderful iced butter on the damp maple-leaves.” Once they are
settled and summer is over, Zhenia is sent to school. “Life ceased to be a
poetical caprice; it fermented around her like a harsh and evil-coloured fable
– in so far as it became prose and was transformed into fact.”
Her parents go to the theatre in the sleigh in a snowstorm,
while Zhenia withdraws to her room with a book of fairy tales. The snow outside
is so bright, she hardly needs light to read by. She goes to bed at midnight,
and wakes to shouts, banging and a woman screaming. It is her mother. Zhenia
and her brother are sent away to friends.
Zhenia is miserable and wants to go home, but she tries to
be a good guest. Alone, she breaks down. She realizes that she is like her
mother, that her mother is in her. She asks the friend whose home she is in,
“Could you have a child?” “Of course, like every other girl,” is the reply.
When she goes home a few weeks later, the doctor tells her what happened. The
family horse trampled a man as her parents came home from the theatre and her
mother gave birth to a little dead boy. Speaking to her tutor later, she finds
the dead man is his friend, a man she has seen. For the first time she is truly
aware of people outside her family. The tutor sees that she has changed
completely. She had been a child, but now she is a woman.
Pasternak chose to tell this story of a young girl awakening
in her perceptions. The story is of one piece with his method, which compresses
so many details, so much of the real that it is difficult to read. As we go, we
perceive things as a confused young girl might, only slowly piecing them
together. She doesn’t understand much of what she is aware of, and the reader
doesn’t either.
I’ve read this story many times. I am hampered, of course,
by my lack of Russian, but also the vivid details crowd each other, every
sentence rich with possible meanings. For me, Pasternak is one of the great
writers, showing us that the small, reasonable world we inhabit is actually
full of wonders. “So that there shall be no dead branches in the soul, so that
its growth shall not be retarded, so that man shall be incapable of mingling his
narrow mind with the creation of his immortal essence, there exists a number of
things to turn his vulgar curiosity away from life, which does not wish to work
in his presence and in every way avoids him … Hence all respectable religions,
all generalizations, all prejudices and the most amusing and brilliant of them
all – psychology.”
Before I was thirty I had set up a canon of “five books”
which were to be my education. The women in each of the books excited me as
much as the intellectual adventures detailed in them. One of the five books was
The Childhood of Luvers by Boris Pasternak. After meditating on these
books for almost fifteen years, I wrote an essay called “Stone Books: An
Education,” 1990. In it, it is easy to see the preoccupations of the five books
reflecting off one another. Since it is too long to post in a blog (nine
pages), I offer it to anyone who requests it (in a .pdf format) from
lightlyheldbooks at gmail dot com.
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