On the Eve
An idealistic young woman finds the hero she is waiting for, on the eve of a nation's war for freedom
Page 1
On a hot summer afternoon by the Moskva River, the sculptor Shubin sighed dramatically. "Nature is a cold, indifferent force," he declared to his friend Bersenyev, a quiet scholar. "But love, Shubin?" Bersenyev asked, looking up at the sky. "What about love?" Shubin laughed and kicked at a stone. "Love is a puzzle. And Elena Stakhova is the greatest puzzle of all." They both admired her, but knew they fell short of her ideals. "She is waiting for a true hero, a man of action," Shubin continued, his voice turning serious. "And we, my dear philosopher, are not it." They fell silent, watching the slow river, each lost in his own thoughts about the remarkable young woman who lived in the nearby country house.
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At her family's dacha, Elena sat alone in the garden, feeling a powerful restlessness. Her comfortable life felt like a cage. She opened her small leather diary. "Oh, when will my time begin?" she wrote, the words tumbling out. "What am I waiting for?" Her parents lived for social calls and idle comforts, but Elena longed to do good, to sacrifice herself for something noble. "To be good is not enough; to do good—that is the main thing in life!" she scribbled, underlining the words fiercely. She closed the diary, her heart aching with a purpose she could not yet name. She looked up at the vast, empty sky. "But how?" she whispered to the quiet garden. "How do I begin?"
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A few days later, the drawing-room buzzed with conversation. "Art, my friends, is the only thing that matters!" the sculptor Shubin declared, striking a pose. But Elena's attention was fixed on the new arrival, Dmitry Insarov, a quiet Bulgarian. She crossed the room to speak to him. "You are from Bulgaria?" she asked, her voice low. He met her gaze directly. "Yes. I am." Something in his stillness set him apart. "You must love your country very much," she pressed. He was silent for a moment. "We will see by my actions," Insarov replied, his voice quiet but intense. "If I die for it, then you can say I loved it." Elena felt a shock, as if she had touched something real and powerful for the first time.
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During an outing to the parks at Tsaritsyno, a large, drunken man began harassing a young woman. "Get out of my way, you vermin!" he bellowed. Shubin smirked. "A fine example of the Russian soul," he murmured to Bersenyev. The other men looked away, but Insarov walked forward. The drunkard squared up to him. "What do you want, you crow in peacock's feathers?" he sneered. Insarov said nothing. He simply lifted the man, carried him to the nearby pond, and dropped him in with a huge splash. Returning to the astonished group, he bowed slightly. "I am sorry to have disturbed your walk," he said calmly. Elena stared, her heart pounding. She had just seen the difference between men who talk and a man who acts.
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In the privacy of a ruined chapel, Insarov finally told her of his mission. "You must understand," he said, his voice grim, "this path leads to danger and perhaps death. Why would you wish to know of it?" Elena met his gaze without flinching. "Because I must. Because my own life feels empty. Tell me what I can do." He looked at her, testing her resolve. "To follow me would mean leaving your family, your home, your country. You would be a stranger. Can you accept that?" She took a breath, her heart full. "Yes," she said, her voice a whisper, but absolute in its conviction. "I can accept anything, if it is to serve a great cause. Your cause."
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In Moscow, Elena learned Insarov was gravely ill and went to his poor, rented rooms. She found him shivering with fever. "You should not be here," he whispered, trying to rise. "It is not proper." Elena gently pushed him back onto the pillow. "I am here because I must be." She knelt by the cot as he told her he had to leave for Bulgaria soon. "You cannot go alone like this," she said, her voice shaking but firm. "Then take me with you," she declared, taking his hot hand. "Listen to me, Dmitry. I love you. I am your wife now, before God. I will not leave you." He stared at her, his feverish eyes wide with disbelief and dawning hope.
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Elena returned to her family home one last time. In his study, her father exploded. "You are mad!" Nikolai Stakhov roared, his face purple. "To throw yourself away on some foreign adventurer! I forbid it!" Elena stood pale but calm before him. "It is too late, Papa. We are already married." "Married?" he spat the word. "I do not recognise it! I disown you! You will not have a kopek from me! Get out of my house!" She did not flinch from his rage. "I did not come for money," she said, her voice steady and clear. "I came to say goodbye. My husband is waiting for me." She turned and walked to the door, leaving him speechless in his fury.
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In Venice, they waited for a ship. On their hotel balcony, Elena tried to give him hope. "The sea air is good, isn't it?" she said, tucking a blanket around him. "It will make you strong again." Insarov stared past the glittering Grand Canal. "It is not the right sea," he whispered, his voice weak. "The Black Sea... that is the one that brings strength." He coughed, a dry, racking sound. "Elena," he said, turning to her with desperate intensity. "Promise me. If I do not make it... you will take my papers to Bulgaria." "Hush," she said, her own voice thick with unshed tears. "You will deliver them yourself." But she knew his life was draining away.
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A man burst into their Venetian room, bringing the smell of rain. "Insarov!" he cried. "It is Rendich! The time has come! The ship is ready!" A final, terrible energy flared in Insarov. He struggled to sit up, his eyes blazing. "Rendich!" he gasped, reaching out his hand. "Forward... on..." With a faint sigh, he collapsed back into Elena's arms. She held him, her face buried in his hair, as the life went out of him. "He is dead," she said, her voice flat and empty, to the man still standing, stunned, in the doorway. "You are too late." The moment he had lived for had arrived, but he was gone.
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Years later, Shubin and Bersenyev stood again by the river. "I had a letter from Venice," Shubin said. "She took his body and all his papers and sailed for the war." Bersenyev stared at the grey water. "And then? What became of her?" "No one knows," Shubin replied, shrugging. "She vanished. Perhaps she died of fever, or a stray bullet. Perhaps she still lives, a stern old woman in a Bulgarian village. Who can say?" They fell silent, contemplating the brief, passionate life that had burned so brightly before disappearing. "Her trail is lost," Bersenyev said softly, to the vast, quiet land that held all its secrets.
About this story
- Audience: general readers
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