A Russian émigré in Paris has a philanthropic but emotionally distant father, and a reckless mother who goes from one affair to another, sometimes abandoning the family only to return months later. His parents are perpetually cheating on one another, albeit civilly, and then he himself starts having feelings for his aunt. She seems to be a source of stability, but she has a secret of her own that Gazdanov reveals in time, which makes his growing attraction to her even more complicated. Gazdanov is clearly cynical about love and marriage, as what seem to be romances are either contrived or motivated by selfishness, and he emphasizes this with a few other characters, including an aging, vain actress. The novel’s ending is brilliant, at first seeming to be destined, but then Gazdanov gives us a little surprise. His point seems to be that while humanity is certainly far from ideal, there are moments of purity and light, but regardless, our lives are short, and our troubles and triumphs small in the grand scheme of things.
Quotes:
On forgiving:
“What had happened to Lola was the same as what would have happened to any other very elderly person who, in the final stage of life, during the long hours of senility, had recalled an re-evaluated his life, drawing certain conclusions, the only ones possible: that it was necessary, above all else, to forgive people for their involuntary misdemeanors, that one should not hate anyone, that everything was fragile and uncertain, except for this peaceful and pleasant reconciliation, this undemanding love and tenderness for those dearest to us, irrespective, even, of whether they deserve it or not.”
On love, and separation:
“…in order to comprehend this happiness, he had to compare it with what had gone before it, and only then, only in so doing could he see the singularity of it. Liza’s shadow never left him; even when she was not there, everything was imbued with her presence and the expectation of her return; the air was full of her intonations, the water was suffused with her rippling reflection, and in the caress of the sea breeze Seryozha distinctly felt the approach of her lips, now forever half open, to his face.”
On timelessness:
“As far as the eye could see, everything was raindrops and damp fog; the wind howled softly and ominously. Amid this raw tumult, Liza could hear the shingle on the beach, and through the various noises came the rapid, simultaneous murmur of several streams; everything was there – the sobbing, the sodden squelch and smack of mouldering earth, and, cutting through the dank, leaden air, somewhere nearby a cockerel crowed. Liza could not step away from the window. Perhaps for the first time in her life, her perception of time had vanished; long ago, in the terrible abyss of vanished millennia, the very same event had repeated itself time and time again: that same violent whirl of rain, those same sounds, the noise of the vast earth and the shrill call of the cockerel – and if one were to imagine the mythical Titan, who fell sound asleep to the drumming of this rain and awoke, leaving he Stone Age behind and finding himself in the Age of Christ, everything would have been the same: the sheets of water, the damp fog, the piercing call of birds in a dank mist full of droplets.”