ALEXANDER Everyone knows that German thought is infinitely superior to French thought.

  TATIANA Well, it is, isn't it, Vissarion?

  MICHAEL Idealism is concerned with questions that lie outside reasoning, it's quite simple. Reason has triumphed over all the ancient problems of natural science, so the clever fools in France thought they could solve the problem of society—of morality, art—in the same way, by reason and experiment, as if God our Maker was a chemist, an astronomer, a clockmaker …

  ALEXANDER (losing patience) God is all those things. That's the point!

  Michael bows to patriarchal authority. Belinsky misses the warning.

  BELINSKY No, the point is, the question ‘how to make a clock’ has the same answer for everybody.

  The contradicting of Alexander disturbs everybody in different ways. Belinsky remains unaware.

  BELINSKY (cont.) We can all be clockmakers, or astronomers. But if we all wanted to be Pushkin … if the question is, how do you make a poem by Pushkin?—or, what exactly makes one poem or painting or piece of music greater than another?—or, what is beauty? or liberty? or virtue?—if the question is, how should we live? … then reason gives no answer or different answers. So something is wrong. The divine spark in man is not reason after all, but something else, some kind of intuition or vision, perhaps like the moment of inspiration experienced by the artist …

  MICHAEL Dahin! Dahin! Lass uns ziehn! (He translates specifically for Belinsky, with malice aforethought.) ‘There, there lies our path,’ Belinsky.

  ALEXANDER (courteously) Ah, you don't read German yourself?

  BELINSKY No.

  ALEXANDER Ah. But you know French.

  BELINSKY Well …

  Alexandra sniggers quietly behind her hand.

  TATIANA (defending him) Vissarion wasn't allowed to finish university.

  VARVARA Why not?

  LIUBOV Mother …

  VARVARA Well, I was only asking.

  TATIANA He wrote a play against serfdom, that's why.

  Pause. Varvara gets up on her dignity and goes into the house.

  MICHAEL (quietly, to Tatiana) Idiot.

  ALEXANDER (courteously, with restraint) My estate is of five hundred souls and I am not ashamed. The landowner is the protector of all who live on his land. Our mutual obligations are the foundation on which Holy Russia rests. In the way of life at Premukhino there is true liberty. I know about the other kind, if I may say so; I was in France when they had their Revolution.

  BELINSKY (embarrassed) Yes … yes … allow me to … My article is not about our liberties … of course. When was there ever such an article published in Russia? I write about literature.

  MICHAEL You said we had no literature.

  BELINSKY That's what I write. We haven't. We have a small number of masterpieces, how could we not, there are so many of us, a great artist will turn up from time to time in much smaller countries than Russia. But as a nation we have no literature because what we have isn't ours, it's like a party where everyone has to come dressed up as somebody else—Byron, Voltaire, Goethe, Schiller, Shakespeare and the rest … I am not an artist. My play was no good. I am not a poet. A poem can't be written by an act of will. When the rest of us are trying our hardest to be present, a real poet goes absent. We can watch him in the moment of creation, there he sits with the pen in his hand, not moving. When it moves, we've missed it. Where did he go in that moment? The meaning of art lies in the answer to that question. To discover it, to understand it, to know the difference between it happening and not happening, this is my whole purpose in life, and it is not a contemptible calling in our country where our liberties cannot be discussed because we have none, and science or politics can't be discussed for the same reason. A critic does double duty here. If something true can be understood about art, something will be understood about liberty, too, and science and politics and history—because everything in the universe is unfolding together with a purpose of which mine is a part. You are right to laugh at me because I don't know German or French. But the truth of idealism would be plain to me if I had heard one sentence of Schelling shouted through my window by a man on a galloping horse. When philosophers start talking like architects, get out while you can, chaos is coming. When they start laying down rules for beauty, blood in the streets is from that moment inevitable. When reason and measurement are made authorities for the perfect society, seek sanctuary among the cannibals … Because the answer is not out there like America waiting for Columbus, the same answer for everybody forever. The universal idea speaks through humanity itself, and differently through each nation in each stage of its history. When the inner life of a nation speaks through the unconscious creative spirit of its artists, for generation after generation—then you have a national literature. That's why we have none. Look at us!—a gigantic child with a tiny head stuffed full of idolatry for everything foreign … and a huge inert body abandoned to its own muck, a continent of vassalage and superstition, an Africa of know-nothing have-nothings without a notion of a better life, or the wit to be discontented drunk or sober, that's your Russia, held together by police informers and fourteen ranks of uniformed flunkeys—how can we have a literature? Folk tales and foreign models, that's our lot, swooning over our imitation Racines and Walter Scotts—our literature is nothing but an elegant pastime for the upper classes, like dancing or cards. How did it happen? How did this disaster befall us? Because we were never trusted to grow up, we're treated like children and we deserve to be treated like children—flogged for impertinence, shut into cupboards for naughtiness, sent to bed without supper and not daring even to dream of the guillotine …

  Long before this, Belinsky's speech has become progressively agitated, fervid, louder. Alone among his mesmerised family, Alexander makes to interrupt.

  BELINSKY (cont.) Yes—I've got off my track, hell and damnation … excuse me … it's always happening to me! … I forget what I'm trying to say—I'm sorry, I'm sorry … (Belinsky makes to leave, but turns back.) Every work of art is the breath of a single eternal idea. That's it. Forget the rest. Every work of art is the breath of a single eternal idea breathed by God into the inner life of the artist. That's where he went. (He starts to go and comes back.) We will have our literature. What kind of literature and what kind of life is the same question. Our external life is an insult. But we have produced Pushkin and now Gogol. Excuse me, I don't feel well.

  This time he goes into the house. After a moment, Tatiana jumps up and follows him.

  VARENKA (Pause.) Who's Gogol … ?

  ALEXANDER We missed the sun going down, (to Michael) If Mr Belinsky is a literary critic, so was Robespierre.

  Alexander goes angrily indoors. The baby, a year old, is heard crying. Varenka stands up.

  ALEXANDRA (eagerly) Can I come?

  VARENKA I'm going to write my letter again. Varenka and Alexandra go indoors.

  LIUBOV Yes … will you take me to Moscow with you when Nicholas comes back from the Caucasus?

  MICHAEL (cries out) Oh, Liubov! Where can I turn?

  He starts weeping, and walks away. Liubov follows him into the further garden.

  LIUBOV What is it?—what has happened?

  MICHAEL None of it's any use—the outer world worms itself into my heart like a serpent!

  Belinsky comes out onto the verandah, his letter in his hand.

  BELINSKY O my prophetic soul!—The Telescope has been banned! Closed down! They've arrested Nadezhdin!

  MICHAEL (ironically) Illusion!—It's only illusion—

  BELINSKY (bewildered) No … the police have searched my room. I have to get back to Moscow.

  MICHAEL Yes—we must get out—out!—to Moscow!

  He leaves. Belinsky goes back indoors.

  LIUBOV Moscow … !

  She follows Michael out.

  A gunshot disturbs the crows in the wintry garden … overlapping the next scene.

  A sudden wail of grief sounds out from inside the house.

  JANUARY 1837

  Interior. Alexandra is in an attitude of romantic despair, clutching a letter of several pages. Tatiana hurries into the room, followed by Varenka.

  ALEXANDRA Tata … Liubov's had a letter from Nicholas.

  TATIANA Let me see.

  Alexandra flutters the letter, swooning. Tatiana takes it and starts to read, passing each page to Varenka to read.

  VARENKA Michael's written, too.

  ALEXANDRA (operatically) They took Pushkin back to his house and he lingered between life and death all the next day.

  The three sisters congregate at a chaise longue where Liubov is lying, propped up by pillows. Varenka takes a letter from her pocket and gives it to Liubov.

  VARENKA From Michael. (tenderly) How are you feeling?

  ALEXANDRA Can I see?

  Liubov starts reading Michael's letter, passing pages to Alexandra, while the remainder of the first letter—from Stankevich—passes from Tatiana to Varenka. Alexandra passes pages of Michael's letter to Tatiana, who returns them to Varenka. Varenka returns Stankevich's pages to Liubov. Meanwhile, as the pages pass from hand to hand:

  TATIANA His wife killed him!—as surely as if she fired the shot!

  ALEXANDRA It's just like in the story—perhaps they were friends like Onegin and Lensky.

  TATIANA That's stupid—Onegin wasn't the one killed!

  ALEXANDRA Stupid yourself!—he might have been.

  TATIANA But he wasn't—and Pushkin was.

  VARENKA How like Nicholas.

  LIUBOV What's like Nicholas?

  VARENKA Pushkin is killed in a duel, and somehow it's all about the tragedy of a woman marrying unwisely. Nicholas is always putting you off between the lines, like when he went to see Hamlet and it was all Ophelia's fault …

  Tatiana and Alexandra at once abandon their squabble, alarmed.

  ALEXANDRA AND TATIANA Michael says—Yes, Michael—

  VARENKA (bursts out) I don't care what Michael says! (She starts to cry.) Michael calls my husband an animal. That's what he says to me. It's not right. Dyakov's done nothing wrong by normal people's standards. Everything's my fault. I'm going to beg his forgiveness.

  Varenka would leave, but Liubov clasps her, also in tears.

  LIUBOV Oh, Varenka, Varenka … and you sacrificed yourself for me … (against Varenka's protest) Yes—your marriage in exchange for mine, that's why Father gave in.

  TATIANA (tearfully, insisting) Michael says Nicholas's love for Liubov has transformed his inner life.

  ALEXANDRA (likewise) He says Liubov is Nicholas's ideal.

  VARENKA (shouts) Go away! Go off to bed!

  Tatiana and Alexandra are shocked into compliance.

  ALEXANDRA (leaving) What did we do wrong?

  They leave.

  LIUBOV Don't you believe he loves me, Varenka?

  VARENKA I wasn't there. What did you do, in Moscow?

  LIUBOV We played duets on the piano.

  VARENKA Well, that's something.

  LIUBOV He wouldn't have asked me to write to him if…

  VARENKA Then why doesn't he propose to you instead of lecturing you like a German?

  LIUBOV He's going home to ask his father …

  VARENKA And then he's going abroad!

  LIUBOV He has to go, he's ill, he has to go to the spas.

  VARENKA Why can't he marry you and take you with him? You need to go to the spas just as much as he does.

  LIUBOV What do you mean?

  VARENKA You know you do.

  Liubov pulls away from her in distress, struggling.

  LIUBOV I don't, I don't! Don't say that!

  Liubov goes into a coughing fit, breathless.

  VARENKA (embracing her) Liuba … Liuba … I'm sorry … ssh … there, there, my lamb, I'm sorry for all the things I said. You'll be well and Nicholas will come back and marry you … I know he will.

  SPRING 1838

  A bonfire blazes in the garden just out of plain sight. A Serf goes to the fire with an armful of dead wood. A House Serf crosses from the house, bringing provisions, utensils, folding chairs, cushions, etc. Varvara comes from the direction of the picnic, folding up a lace bedcover. Tatiana comes from the house, hurrying and in a festive mood, with a long-handled warming pan.

  VARVARA Is Liubov ready?

  TATIANA She's coming. Her carriage awaits!

  VARVARA What are you doing with that? You'll burn the handle.

  TATIANA No, I won't. It's the very thing. What's Michael doing?

  VARVARA Explaining something to Father.

  TATIANA Oh, no!

  Tatiana goes out to the fire. A Serf Girl, she of the goat-chewed buttons, comes from the house with a rolled-up carpet. Passing her, Varvara casually boxes her ear.

  VARVARA The lace tablecloth—tablecloth!—not the coverlet off my bed!

  Varvara goes into the house. The girl follows Tatiana out. Alexander and Michael come from the further garden, not from the bonfire, with bunches of lilies and white flowers they have picked. Alexander also has a periodical, the Moscow Observer, which has a green cover.

  MICHAEL Agriculture? I'd rather kill myself than study agriculture. But after three years in Berlin I'd be qualified for a professorship. I am prepared for it. I was on the wrong track with Fichte, I admit it—Fichte was trying to get rid of objective reality, but Hegel shows that reality can't be ignored, on the contrary, reality is the interaction of the inner and outer worlds, you see, Father, and harmony is achieved by suffering through the storms of contradiction between the two—as I have suffered: that's why I have never been more in harmony with myself than now, that's why I am worthy of your trust.

  Alexander gives Michael the magazine.

  ALEXANDER You've changed windbags, that's all. It's well and good for Robespierre to be editor of the new Moscow Monthly Windbaggery, I congratulate him, the first middle-class intellectual in Russia and it can't be helped, but a gentleman has a duty to look after his estate.

  Varenka comes out of the house with two bottles of red wine and a small basket of lemons and spices.

  MICHAEL Belinsky is not one of us, I agree. In fact, I have broken off relations with him. He's turned out to be a complete egoist. But my estate is self-fulfilment and the future of philosophy in Russia.

  VARENKA The musicians are ready.

  ALEXANDER We've got the flowers. Michael follows Alexander indoors.

  MICHAEL Two thousand a year from my inheritance, even fifteen hundred, Father … I'm desperate …

  Varenka continues towards the fire and is met by Tatiana, who takes the bottles and basket from her.

  TATIANA A fête champêtre! How does she look?

  VARENKA Beautiful! Like a bride. Alexandra's doing her hair.

  TATIANA Oh, it's going to be lovely. Get Michael away from Father before he …

  VARENKA Yes!—Yes! …

  Tatiana hurries back to the fire. Varenka hurries towards the house—too late. In the house, Alexander is heard raising his voice—'No! Enough!'—and he enters the room with Michael dogging him. They no longer have the flowers. Varenka pauses outside, aware of them.

  ALEXANDER (angrily) Your own life you have wasted at every turn, and sponged off friends and strangers until your name is a byword for bad faith and discounted bills. You have turned your sisters’ faces away from the light of parental love, and poisoned their minds with liberal sophistries dressed up as idealism. With your meddling, you've broken their lives like a spoiled child smashing his breakfast egg to annoy his nurse. Liubov would have been long married to a nobleman who loved her. Instead, she is betrothed by permanent correspondence with an invalid who evidently can't drink Russian water even if it meant he could set eyes on his future wife. Tatiana you defended from her only suitor as though he were a Turk intent on stealing her maidenhead.

  His speech has carried him to the verandah, from where Varenka is conveniently included in his tour d'horizon.

  ALEXANDER (cont.) Yes, and you incited Varenka to leave her husband whom she freely chose, and incited her again when she tried to make it up with him, until she was half out of both her minds, and now she, too, must go and drink the amazing German tapwater with her son. Dyakov is a sainted fool to let her go, but now that I see you have plotted this together—

  Varenka attempts denial. Michael flings himself into a chair and buries his head in his hands. Alexander continues on his way towards the fire.

  ALEXANDER (cont.) —I'll be damned if I pay for any more of your wilfulness. You will not go to Berlin. That is my last word.

  Alexander leaves. Varenka goes inside to Michael.

  VARENKA Why did you have to ask him today?

  MICHAEL Nicholas has written. It's bad news.

  VARENKA (Pause.) Tell me.

  MICHAEL He can't lend me any more money. You'll have to go on your own.

  Alexandra puts her head in the door.

  ALEXANDRA (excitedly) Ready!

  She disappears. Varenka starts to laugh in hysterical relief

  MICHAEL What is to be done?

  VARENKA Well, we mustn't let it show. Everything must be happy.

  Varenka leaves.

  Turgenev enters the garden: an overlap with the next scene.

  MICHAEL Dahin! Dahin! Lass uns ziehn!

  He follows Varenka out.

  AUTUMN 1841

  IVAN TURGENEV is joined in the garden by Tatiana. He is twenty-three and well over six feet tall, with a surprisingly light, high voice.

  TURGENEV Yes, twice, three times counting in his coffin … The first time, I didn't know it was Pushkin. He was leaving a party at Pletnyov's as I arrived, he'd already got his hat and coat on. The second time was at a concert at the Engelhardt Hall. He was leaning against a doorway, glancing around with a sort of scowl. I'm afraid I stared at him and he caught me and walked off looking vexed. I felt misunderstood, but I was flattering myself. He had more important things to vex him, it was just a few days before the duel. Well … I was a boy—nearly five years ago now, I was eighteen—and Pushkin was a demigod to me.