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Authors: Boris Leonidovich Pasternak
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he get her out of his head?
He walked back to his house, up the stairs, and past the first landing. The stained-glass ornamental coats of arms at the corners of the window threw colored patches of light at his feet. Halfway up the second flight he stopped.
He must not give in to this exhausting, nagging, anxious mood. He was not a schoolboy, after all. He must realize what would happen if instead of being just a toy this girl—a mere child, the daughter of his dead friend—turned into an obsession. He must come to his senses. He must be true to himself and to his habits. Otherwise everything would go up in smoke.
Komarovsky gripped the oak railing until it hurt his hand, shut his eyes a moment, then turned back resolutely and went down. On the landing, with its patches of light, the dog was waiting for him. It lifted its head like a slobbering old dwarf with hanging jowls and looked up at him adoringly.
The dog hated the girl, tore her stockings, growled at her, bared its teeth. It was jealous of her as if fearing that she would infect its master with something human.
" Ah, I see! You have decided that everything is going to be just as before—Satanidi, mean tricks, dirty jokes? All right then, take this, and this, and this. " He struck the bulldog with his stick and kicked it. Jack squealed, howled, waddled up the stairs shaking his behind, and scratched at the door to complain to Emma Ernestovna. Days and weeks went by.
14
What an inescapable spell it was! If Komarovsky ' s intrusion into Lara ' s life had merely filled her with disgust, she would have rebelled and broken free. But it was not so simple as that.
The girl was flattered that a handsome man whose hair was turning gray, a man old enough to be her father, a man who was applauded at meetings and written up in the newspapers, should spend his time and money on her, should take her out to concerts and plays, and tell her that he worshipped her, and should, as they say, " improve her mind. "
After all, she was still a girl in a brown uniform who enjoyed harmless plots and pranks at school. Komarovsky ' s lovemaking in a carriage behind the coachman ' s back or in an opera box in full view of the audience fascinated her by its daring and aroused the little devil slumbering in her to imitate him.
But this mischievous, girlish infatuation was short-lived. A nagging depression and horror at herself were taking permanent hold of her. And all the time she wanted to sleep—because (she told herself) she did not get enough sleep at night, because she cried so much, because she had constant headaches, because she worked hard at school, and because she was physically exhausted.
15
He was the curse of her life; she hated him. Every day she returned to these thoughts.
She has become his slave for life. How has he subjugated her? How does he force her to submit, why does she surrender, why does she gratify his wishes and delight him with her quivering unconcealed shame? Because of his age, her mother ' s financial dependence on him, his cleverness in frightening her, Lara? No, no, no! That is all nonsense.
It is she who has a hold on him. Doesn ' t she see how much he needs her? She has nothing to be afraid of, her conscience is clear. It is he who should be ashamed, and terrified of her giving him away. But that is just what she will never do. To do this she does not have the necessary ruthlessness—Komarovsky ' s chief asset in dealing with subordinates and weaklings.
This is precisely the difference between them. And it is this that makes the whole of life so terrifying. Does it crush you by thunder and lightning? No, by oblique glances and whispered calumny. It is all treachery and ambiguity. Any single thread is as fragile as a cobweb, but just try to pull yourself out of the net, you only become more entangled.
And the strong are dominated by the weak and the ignoble.
16
What if she were married, she asked herself, what difference would it make? She
He walked back to his house, up the stairs, and past the first landing. The stained-glass ornamental coats of arms at the corners of the window threw colored patches of light at his feet. Halfway up the second flight he stopped.
He must not give in to this exhausting, nagging, anxious mood. He was not a schoolboy, after all. He must realize what would happen if instead of being just a toy this girl—a mere child, the daughter of his dead friend—turned into an obsession. He must come to his senses. He must be true to himself and to his habits. Otherwise everything would go up in smoke.
Komarovsky gripped the oak railing until it hurt his hand, shut his eyes a moment, then turned back resolutely and went down. On the landing, with its patches of light, the dog was waiting for him. It lifted its head like a slobbering old dwarf with hanging jowls and looked up at him adoringly.
The dog hated the girl, tore her stockings, growled at her, bared its teeth. It was jealous of her as if fearing that she would infect its master with something human.
" Ah, I see! You have decided that everything is going to be just as before—Satanidi, mean tricks, dirty jokes? All right then, take this, and this, and this. " He struck the bulldog with his stick and kicked it. Jack squealed, howled, waddled up the stairs shaking his behind, and scratched at the door to complain to Emma Ernestovna. Days and weeks went by.
14
What an inescapable spell it was! If Komarovsky ' s intrusion into Lara ' s life had merely filled her with disgust, she would have rebelled and broken free. But it was not so simple as that.
The girl was flattered that a handsome man whose hair was turning gray, a man old enough to be her father, a man who was applauded at meetings and written up in the newspapers, should spend his time and money on her, should take her out to concerts and plays, and tell her that he worshipped her, and should, as they say, " improve her mind. "
After all, she was still a girl in a brown uniform who enjoyed harmless plots and pranks at school. Komarovsky ' s lovemaking in a carriage behind the coachman ' s back or in an opera box in full view of the audience fascinated her by its daring and aroused the little devil slumbering in her to imitate him.
But this mischievous, girlish infatuation was short-lived. A nagging depression and horror at herself were taking permanent hold of her. And all the time she wanted to sleep—because (she told herself) she did not get enough sleep at night, because she cried so much, because she had constant headaches, because she worked hard at school, and because she was physically exhausted.
15
He was the curse of her life; she hated him. Every day she returned to these thoughts.
She has become his slave for life. How has he subjugated her? How does he force her to submit, why does she surrender, why does she gratify his wishes and delight him with her quivering unconcealed shame? Because of his age, her mother ' s financial dependence on him, his cleverness in frightening her, Lara? No, no, no! That is all nonsense.
It is she who has a hold on him. Doesn ' t she see how much he needs her? She has nothing to be afraid of, her conscience is clear. It is he who should be ashamed, and terrified of her giving him away. But that is just what she will never do. To do this she does not have the necessary ruthlessness—Komarovsky ' s chief asset in dealing with subordinates and weaklings.
This is precisely the difference between them. And it is this that makes the whole of life so terrifying. Does it crush you by thunder and lightning? No, by oblique glances and whispered calumny. It is all treachery and ambiguity. Any single thread is as fragile as a cobweb, but just try to pull yourself out of the net, you only become more entangled.
And the strong are dominated by the weak and the ignoble.
16
What if she were married, she asked herself, what difference would it make? She
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