Charlotte Hobson - The Vanishing Futurist

One, two, three, four, five months since August.

‘Don’t give us modesty now, Gerty,’ snapped Marina. ‘You didn’t spare my sister when she found herself in the same position. When did it happen? Who have you been creeping around with behind our backs?’

‘Our poor Gerty, who could have done this to you?’ Sonya’s face was full of concern. ‘Has some beast mistreated you?’

Furious tears were suddenly running down my cheeks. ‘Oh, Lord, Sonya, surely even you can’t be as utterly self-centred as that? It was Nikita, of course – in the summer, before you came back from the south, before you and he began your silly little fling. Who else could it be?’

‘Enough,’ Pasha stood up. I’d never seen him so angry. ‘Quiet, all of you. Marina, hadn’t you better take Gerty away and look her over, or something? For God’s sake, behave like a doctor and not a bitch. Gerty…’ He looked at me for a moment, then turned away. ‘I don’t know.’

I went out with Marina and after she’d confirmed that I was indeed pregnant, and well past the time when miscarriage usually occurs, I simply lay in the cold dormitory gazing at the ceiling. How, how could this have happened, how could I not have realised… My face burned with shame in the icy room. I had had an inkling – all that nausea and cramp, the tiredness, the strange heaviness in my limbs – but I had suppressed it, I had refused to countenance it. I was so ignorant, I hardly knew how or when it was possible to become pregnant, and somehow what Nikita and I had done together seemed unthinkable now. August was another world from January. I must have thought any trace of our affair would vanish spontaneously, just as Nikita’s affection for me had vanished. Although, of course, my own love for him had, if anything, solidified and taken shape during these months of secrecy. To the happy, uncomplicated affection I had felt during August I had now added layers of self-sacrifice, devotion to him and his cause, pride in his achievements – all shot through with bitter veins of jealousy, humiliation and pain.

Almost my first thought was that this might change what Nikita felt for me. I strained my ears for the sound of his voice downstairs. Did he know yet? Had they told him? Surely he would come up to see me if he knew. Surely he would feel something for me again… But night wore on and no footsteps came up the stairs. Of course it would not alter his Revolutionary ideals, what a fool I was to think otherwise. He had, after all, been honest with me from the beginning – he had never claimed to feel for me other than as a friend. He was an idealist, I told myself, and I would never try to persuade him to abandon his ideals. I could not admire and love him any other way. He did not have to pretend some kind of romantic love. He only had to decide to be a father, to be with me, to love our child… Still no footsteps came up the stairs. I was alone, and I was no longer alone. The unassuming governess, the unselfish wonder, was now – what? A ‘ruined woman’, a mother-to-be. A child was only the basis for bourgeois life with two parents. How would we survive?

Towards morning I cried – a storm of sobs that no one heard. I admitted at last what I had known for months – that Nikita Slavkin had long ago betrayed his ideal of chastity in mind and body, but not on my account.

When I came down to the communal sitting room, shaky and weak after my sleepless night, the others had left me a small portion of millet porridge, blondinka , horribly congealed. I began to reheat it, but just the smell made me retch. How ridiculous you are, I thought; for five months you’ve been eating this for breakfast each morning, and now you suddenly have all the affectations of a pregnant woman… When Slavkin comes in, I thought furiously, I shall say everything to him. I shan’t stop myself. We all tiptoe round him as if he were a child that needed protecting. Well, there’ll be no more of that. You can’t pick someone up like a toy, and then put them back in the cupboard when you are bored with them!

Pounding on the front door; a man’s voice.

If it had been Nikita at the door, would this story have ended differently? In some parallel universe, I suppose that is what happens. Slavkin enters. What do I say to him? As I write this I sit alone in my empty house, nibbling little pieces of bread that I have rolled up into balls to make one slice last all evening. I have not talked to anyone for a day or two; Sophy rang, but I couldn’t bear to speak to her. I rehearse this version of events over and over again, as if to force it into being. Sometimes, in my mind, I am cold and collected, sometimes screaming, throwing things at Slavkin. He attempts to calm me, I push him away. He puts his arm around my sobbing shoulders, I shrug it off. I speak, and he listens, sadly. Afterwards there are no smiles or kisses between us. He nods to signal that he has understood. Then he walks thoughtfully back to his workshop without saying goodbye.

In this universe, however, on that day in January 1919, a largish, hefty man in a leather jacket pushed open the front door. He stepped in and looked around, and it was only then that I saw Pelyagin behind him, mild but businesslike. ‘Ah, Comrade Freely, just the person,’ he said, hurrying up to me. ‘Are you… are you not well? Sit down, sit down. Here.’ He produced a hip flask. ‘Have a nip of cognac, you look faint.’

He was always so unbearably solicitous. Burying my face in the divan, I broke down in tears.

‘Oh,’ said Pelyagin ineffectually. ‘Oh…’ The hefty type was sniffing around the room, inspecting things. Pelyagin signalled to him to leave. Then he sat down beside me and patted me stiffly on the back.

That was all it took. I abandoned myself to my misery and began to speak. I had only ever had kindness and assistance from Pelyagin, after all. I was sobbing, incoherent. ‘These people, they don’t care for equality, they don’t really believe in Communism. I am just a governess to them, to be exploited as they see fit…’

And when Pelyagin asked, ‘Which people?’ I blurted out immediately, ‘Well, Nikita Slavkin, of course, and… and Sonya Kobelev – it’s just an old-fashioned hierarchy, or more than that, feudal! He’s no better than a thief, he does just what he pleases. He has used us all. And now his aim is not even to build Communism in Russia, he says it isn’t possible…’

Was this what I said? I have spent a lifetime trying to remember my exact words. I was full of vicious cathartic joy. I didn’t want to stop – I remember that. At last Pelyagin stood up. The movement brought me back to myself.

‘I’m… I’m sorry. Why did you come? Were you looking for me?’

‘Yes,’ said Pelyagin after a pause. ‘I was looking for you.’

‘Did you want more English lessons?’ I sat up and tried to tidy myself, mortified.

‘No. Comrade, you have done enough for me.’ He bowed slightly. ‘I was passing and I realised I hadn’t thanked you for teaching me. My driver here will drop off a token of my gratitude later today. Now, please forgive me…’

Later that day, when half a sack of wheat flour arrived at our door, I explained that it was payment for some lessons; I was a little vague about which ones. Slavkin returned in the evening and went straight into his workshop; as far as I know, he still knew nothing about my condition. I meant to go in and talk to him, but my anger had now been replaced by a deep unease, almost terror, and although I approached his door several times, I did not have the courage to knock. No one else brought up the subject, for which I was grateful. How could I have known this was my last, my only chance? Despite the cold, I slept in the dormitory again, not downstairs with the others. I lay on my mattress and closed my eyes, dreading insomnia; but for once I was asleep instantly and did not dream.