19.08.1916. Terioca.
Today the sea is grumpy and gloomy, it is rare. In the morning I was sitting on the shore, and wondered: if the wave will promise the conceived pebbles - in autumn we will see you. The sea kept me waiting for a long time, and I almost lost hope. Still, I felt sorry for myself in the end, licked the stones and left. And I am glad, glad! Then I will see you in the fall. Yes? Write soon.
Telephone message. 23.08.1916. Kazan. To Konstantin Pavlovich Karnovsky. He asks you to see Turaev needed a telephonogram. They stopped at Pryklonskie, Okachurin's house.
29.08.1916. Steamship "Vladimir Monomakh".
My dear, I think only of you. It is funny to you that the feeling of happiness is mixed with amazement, but it is true, I do not understand what happened to me again. What miracle made me instantly forget that immense, black winter?
This morning, a girl with a hump, ten years old, was put in my cabin. She followed me silently for a long time.
- What are you smiling about, aunt?
- Fortunately, my darling.
- Do you know many fairy tales?
- Not so much. Shall I tell you?
All day long I told her fairy tales, and all about us, about you. Then we wandered somewhere in the snow, then stood by the open window and looked at bunches of glycine. Good night, my dear. I'll finish it tomorrow. Yours and yours. I drew a lot on the road ...
Good morning! Now we are approaching Perm, I see her. Write to me. I kiss you.
10.09.1916. Perm.
Numbers of the fifteenth food Kazan missed in one piece.
19.09.1916. Kazan.
My dear, but you were wrong yesterday, blaming me for Dmitry. First, to blame me for nothing yet, and secondly... Oh, secondly, thirdly, and fourthly, if it occurred to me to blame you, it would take all our divine days in Kazan. I wanted to like Dmitry out of mischief, or maybe a little bored, and, frankly, I do not regret it at all. I didn't expect him to give up his imaginary impassivity so easily! I like the fact that behind his capital behavior and European omniscience one can feel purely Russian carelessness and even recklessness. He also plays the cello beautifully. Sometimes Alexey Pavlovich himself comes to our musical evenings, who I also like, and even more than Dmitry. Unfortunately, you can't flirt with him, because Gayane Davydovna is very jealous. In short, I'm returning your unexpected reproaches, especially since they don't go to "theory of free love" at all.
13.10.1916. Petrograd.
My soul, it is simple for silence. It's been a week and a half since I was in St. Petersburg, and I haven't written to you yet. My poor chaffinch, you must be cold without your jacket. I didn't write because I came to St. Petersburg completely sick. I caught a cold, got tired, and the mood was good. Don't be proud. You know what our meetings mean to me.
Now about the jacket. Prices - from 14 to 25 rubles. The first, of course, are less elegant. The choice is great. So, decide. I look forward to seeing you in St. Petersburg. I kiss your gray innocent eyes.
28.10.1916. Petrograd.
My friend is gentle! So glad to see every line you make. Yesterday I was with Rosalia Lvovna at common acquaintances. I told her that you were coming. Now it's not too long, is it? Life in St. Petersburg flows the same way. The war is almost never felt. Posters, calls for donations, etc., have become commonplace. And when in the tram you hear that here is the weather, and what it feels like in the trenches - awkward to tears. You can't talk about it now. You have to keep silent or hit your head against the wall. In particular, I am bored with the reasoning of snobs. The voice of conscience drowning in this pretentious noise.
And in the air, no doubt, something big is brewing up. The sparks go off, and it only seems that they go out in the dark. There have been riots at Vyborgskaya, there have been clashes between soldiers and the police. At Bestuzhevskikh's, there was a strike as a sign of protest: 50 sailors were brought before a military court in Kronstadt for unwillingness to fight.
My mood is... Well, what can I tell you? I won't remember such negligence to myself. It's left from our last meeting. I live as I live, and only sometimes I listen to this suspicious lightness with anxiety.
I was at the doctor's the other day, and he said I was quite healthy.
Shura passes the state exams. See you soon. I will write more. Now I am in a hurry to the post office.
Petrograd. 1916
The city. She was walking next to her like in a dream - rain, a soft knocking of hooves on a wooden bridge, ladies under umbrellas selling Red Cross badges on Sadovaya Street, where she got on the tram again. She was on her way to Gorin's, Lenochka was waiting for her, and she wanted to cry when she imagined this three-hour lesson, which was two-thirds of the time she was trying to convince Lenochka to study. Now there was the smell of wet coats in the tram, a fake conversation about "how our soldiers are now in the trenches", and again Kostya, who promised her to come with the first snow. When Lisa woke up, she approached the window and looked up at the sky. It would never snow, Christmas would not come, he would not come...
She made a mistake. Lenochka knew the lesson, they quickly finished the math and started French. Dmitry came in a fashionable, high-buttoned jacket, haircut by a beaver, in eyeglasses, sat down, listened, and said, carelessly stretching his words:
- Liza, did you say you were interested in Byzantine art? Today Ouspensky gives a lecture. Would you like to come with me?
- What time is it?
- At half past two.
Lisa was interested in Byzantine art, but she agreed to meet a manlike girl in the studio who wanted to show her drawings.
- Maybe. But then I have to stop by the studio first. Besides, we have to study with Lena for another hour.
Both of us had begging faces - Lena, maybe because she was in a hurry to go on a date. Not long ago Dmitry would have played carelessly an eyeglasses and left, and now he was sitting there and listening patiently, as his sister, confused, conjugating up French verbs.
Lisa suddenly had fun. She tortured both of them a bit more, then let Lena go, sat comfortably in the chair and told Dmitry:
- Well?
He wanted to kiss her, she pulled away.
- No, he didn't.
- Why, Liza? Because yesterday...
- Yesterday I was in love with you. You played Griga well. And today, the rain, bad weather, I slipped on the Sea, my knee hurt, and you can't, because today you can't. I need to go to the workshop, then to Rickert or Wolf. Do you want to come with me? And from there to your Dormition lecture. Is it coming?
Rickert didn't have the books that Kostya asked for, and the clerk said that Shevandier could be discharged from Paris and would be sent out in two months. Dmitry persuaded her to agree.
- And why does your friend Duval need it? Isn't he a mathematician?
- Well, what is it? I'm also a former mathematician, but I'm going with you to a lecture on Byzantine art?
They arrived in half an hour, and Lisa, who loved the university, gladly walked along the long corridor, unevenly humming from the conversations, from laughter, from the steps of passing students. At the fifth audience, where Ouspensky was supposed to read, they were already crowding, waiting.
Seventy years old Ouspensky with a round face and a round reddish beard (Dmitry said that he looked like the entire Russian intelligentsia at once) began not with Byzantium. To whom should I give it? Will there be any young people among the new, unfamiliar generation who will accept this legacy from him?
A weak voice became stronger, the old face was ignited, and Lisa imagined Byzantium - glowing white wax ovals around the red tongues of candles, the walls of the temple warm shine of mosaics. Heavy gold clothes sway on priests solemnly and empty. Everywhere enamels - purple, orange, black, green - both on these clothes and in the decoration of icons, from which the eyes of the saints look closely and motionlessly.
- The rhythm of history is extremely slowed down," said Ouspensky. - For centuries a golden background is written, replacing the real, three-dimensional space...
Somewhere far away and close was Dmitry, looking at her with his eyes in love - and for some reason for a moment she felt pity for him.
He did not listen to Ouspensky. And she listened - with her eyes closed.
- Maybe this is too bold a comparison," said Ouspensky. - But Krumbacher wrote that the Byzantine worship service reminds him of a theatrical act that lifted his soul to heaven and severely punished her when she did not want to ascend.
Now her Byzantium was not only a mysterious combination of shimmering, waxing spots that slowly rose into a dark, also shimmering dome. Now her Byzantium sang: yellow as autumn leaves, sang a persistent yellow, restless red sounded like an alto, blue - the low sound of the cello - echoed him thoughtfully and carefully.
To be continued...