Shipwreck (4 page)

TURGENEV
   It's not all philistines, either. The only thing that'll save Russia is Western culture transmitted by … people like us.

KETSCHER
   No, it's the Spirit of History, the ceaseless March of Progress …

HERZEN
   (
venting his anger
) Oh, a curse on your capital letters! We're asking people to spill their blood—at least spare them your conceit that they're acting out the biography of an abstract noun!

KETSCHER
   Oh, it's my conceit? (
to the others
) There was nothing wrong with that coffee, either.

HERZEN
   (
to Granovsky, conciliatory
) I'm not starry-eyed about France. To sit in a café with Louis Blanc, Leroux, Ledru-Rollin … to buy
La Réforme
with the ink still wet, and walk in the Place de la Concorde … the thought excites me like a child, I admit that, but Aksakov is right—I don't know the next step. Where are we off to? Who's got the map? We study the ideal societies … power to the experts, to the workers, to the philosophers … property rights, property sanctions, the evil of competition, the evil of monopoly … central planning, free housing, free love … limited to eight hundred families or unconstrained by national frontiers … and all of them uniquely harmonious, just and efficient. But Proudhon is the only one who understands what the question is: why should anyone obey anyone else?

GRANOVSKY
   Because that's what society means. You might as well ask, why should an orchestra play together? And yet it can play together without being socialist.

TURGENEV
   That's true!—my mother keeps an orchestra at Spasskoye. What I find even harder to grasp, however, is that she also owns the nightingales.

HERZEN
   Bringing in Russia always seems to confuse things. I'm not saying socialism is history's secret plan, it just looks like the rational step.

GRANOVSKY
   To whom?

HERZEN
   To me. Not just me. The future is being scrawled on the factory walls of Paris.

GRANOVSKY
   Why? Why necessarily? We have no factory districts. Why should we wait to be inundated from within by our very own industrialised Goths? Everything you hold dear in civilisation will be smashed on the altar of equality … the equality of the barracks.

HERZEN
   You judge the common people after they've been brutalised. But people are good, by nature. I have faith in them.

GRANOVSKY
   Without faith in something higher, human nature is animal nature.

HERZEN
   Without superstition, you mean.

GRANOVSKY
   Superstition? Did you say superstition?

Herzen forgets to keep his temper, and Granovsky starts to respond in kind until they are rowing.

HERZEN
   Superstition! The pious and pitiful belief that there's something outside or up there, or God knows where, without which men can't find their nobility.

GRANOVSKY
   Without ‘up there,' as you call it, scores have to be settled down here—that's the whole truth about materialism.

HERZEN
   How can you—how dare you—throw away your dignity as a human being? You can choose well or badly without deference to a ghost!—you're a free man, Granovsky, there's no other kind.

Natalie arrives hurriedly and frightened. Her distress is at first misinterpreted. She runs to Alexander and hugs him, unable to speak. There are some mushrooms in her basket.

NATALIE
   Alexander …

HERZEN
   (
apologetically to Natalie
) It's only a little argument …

GRANOVSKY
   (
to Natalie
) It grieves me deeply to have to absent myself from a household in which I have always received a kind welcome. (
Granovsky starts to leave.
)

NATALIE
   There's a policeman come to the house—I saw him from the field.

HERZEN
   A policeman?

A Servant comes from the house, overtaken by a uniformed

POLICEMAN.

HERZEN
   (
cont.
) Oh God, not again … Natalie, Natalie …

POLICEMAN
   Is one of you Herzen?

HERZEN
   I am.

POLICEMAN
   You're to read this. From Count Orlov.

The Policeman gives Herzen a letter. Herzen tears it open.

NATALIE
   (
to the Policeman
) I want to go with him.

POLICEMAN
   I wasn't told …

Herzen hugs Natalie.

HERZEN
   It's all right. (
announces
) After twelve years of police surveillance in and out of exile, Count Orlov has graciously let it be known, I can now apply to travel abroad … !

The others gather round him in relief and congratulation. The Policeman hesitates. Natalie snatches the letter.

KETSCHER
   You'll see Sazonov again.

GRANOVSKY
   He's changed.

TURGENEV
   And Bakunin …

GRANOVSKY
   He hasn't, I'm afraid.

NATALIE
   ‘… to travel abroad to seek medical assistance in respect of your son Nikolai Alexandrovich …'

HERZEN
   (
lifting her up
) Paris, Natalie!

Her basket of mushrooms falls and spills.

NATALIE
   (
weeping with joy
) … Kolya! … (
Natalie runs off.
)

HERZEN
   Where's Nick?

POLICEMAN
   Good news, then.

Herzen takes the hint and tips him. The Policeman leaves.

NATALIE
   (
returning
) Where's Kolya?

HERZEN
   Kolya? I don't know. Why?

NATALIE
   
Where is he?

Natalie runs out, calling the name.

HERZEN
   (
following hurriedly
) He can't hear you …

Turgenev rushes out after them, Granovsky and Ketscher following anxiously.

After a pause, during which Natalie can be heard distantly, silence falls.

Distant thunder.

Sasha enters from another direction and turns to look back. He comes forward and sees the spilled mushrooms. He rights the basket. Ogarev enters at peace, carrying Sasha's fishing cane and jar, glancing behind him.

OGAREV
   (
calls
) Come on, Kolya!

SASHA
   He can't hear you.

OGAREV
   Come along!

SASHA
   He can't hear you.

Ogarev goes back towards Kolya.

Distant thunder.

OGAREV
   There, you see? He heard that.

He goes out.

Sasha starts putting the mushrooms into the basket.

J
ULY
   1847

Salzbrunn, a small spa town in Germany.

[
VISSARION BELINSKY
and Turgenev took rooms on the ground floor of a small wooden house in the main street. A shack in the courtyard served them as a summer pavilion.] Belinsky and Turgenev are reading separate manuscripts, a short story and a long letter respectively, while drinking water from large beakers. Belinsky is thirty-six and less than a year from death. His face is pale and smooth. He has a stout walking stick to hand. Turgenev finishes first.
He puts the letter on the table. He waits for Belinksy to finish reading, and drinks from his beaker, making a face. Belinsky finishes reading and gives the manuscript to Turgenev. Turgenev waits for the verdict. Belinsky nods thoughtfully, drinks from his beaker.

BELINSKY
   Hm. You don't tell the reader what
you
think.

TURGENEV
   What
I
think? What has that got to do with the reader?

Belinsky laughs, coughs, slams his stick, recovers.

BELINSKY
   And what do you think about my letter to Gogol?

TURGENEV
   Oh … well, I don't see the necessity for it.

BELINSKY
   Be careful, boy, or I'll stand you in the corner.

TURGENEV
   You said what you had to say about his book in the
Contemporary.
Is this the future of criticism?—first the bad notice, then the abusive letter to the author?

BELINSKY
   The censor cut at least a third of my review. But that's not the point. Gogol evidently thinks I rubbished his book, because he took a swipe at me. I'm not having that. He has to be made to understand that I took personal offence
from cover to cover!
I loved that man. I
found
him. Now he's gone mad—and this apostle of Tsar Nicholas, this champion of serfdom, corporal punishment, censorship, ignorance and obscurantist piety, thinks I gave him a bad notice out of pique. His book is a crime against humanity and civilisation.

TURGENEV
   No—it's a book … a bad, stupid book but with all the sincerity of religious mania—why drive him madder? You should pity him.

Belinsky thumps angrily with his stick.

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.