Days in the Caucasus by Banine

Author:Banine [Banine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782274889
Publisher: Pushkin Press
Published: 2019-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

PART TWO

1

I saw with my own eyes the end of a world, namely, the ephemeral Republic of Azerbaijan, and with it came the end of my childhood. ‘What, Madame, at the age of thirteen?’ Well yes, and why not? The departure of my stepmother, two of my sisters and my brother for Paris came as a psychological shock, and opened my eyes to the cruelty of the world. Isn’t that the point from which to date my break with childhood? To my mind, the definition of childhood is very simple: belief in stability and the goodness of the world. Take away that belief, and childhood comes to an end.

Am I overcome with emotion at the joy of innocence and childlike naivety? Not at all: I abhor that state of innocence precisely because it is ignorant of the real world in all its magnificence, horror and divinity. To accept the world and love it just as it is—herein lies the glory of mankind. It would be too easy to love a good world.

The departure of my two sisters induced in me a sense of injustice, which I found hard to bear; though bear it I must, as there was nothing else I could do. In theory, my father and I were supposed to join them later—in theory… In fact, I remained on my own, overcome with a sense of yearning, of having been wronged and wrenched apart from loved ones. True, my eldest sister Leyla stayed behind, but she was married, and a mother, and so capricious, so rarely there that she became quite elusive; there was no connection between us. Our governess Fräulein Anna was more highly strung and unwell than ever. Devastated by the decline of her sight, she used the little strength she had left to look after my nephew; and if she should turn to me, my reserved nature and stupid pride stopped me accepting her affection. Even more distant was my relationship with my father, as he was extremely reserved and cold. I was intimidated by his presence, afraid almost, and my only feeling for him was frosty respect.

So, I was alone with my first major sorrow. The departure played a decisive role in my psyche, inclining me towards pessimism for many years. A while later, I saw my first death (I don’t include the anonymous bodies swinging from nooses in the public park). My maternal grandfather lay on his bed, his corpse swollen with dropsy and covered in a sheet, as though he were a secret, shameful object that had to be hidden from public view. No, I didn’t love him and had never loved him. His death caused me no pain, and even seemed a deliverance—a deliverance from the interminable visits we paid to him once a week throughout his long illness: mortal hours that we spent at his sickbed, hours when we did not know what to say, how to kill the minutes; seconds that stretched into eternities at the spectacle of a man dying, unloved.

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