Free A Russian Story by Eugenia Kononenko Page A

of independent Ukraine came to mind, and for a moment the level of his reflections, which he was attempting to raise to the heights of a rarefied mountain atmosphere, painfully declined.
    That summer in the night-time quiet of the General’s house it seemed that of all things in the world what he had wanted most of all and still wanted was strong feelings, on the model of those which caused the death of Semele, mother of Dionysius, who wanted Zeus to come to her in the same splendid attire he wore for Hera. But the nymph could not survive what the goddess endured, and she died. He did not want to die, but he wanted to understand the nature of those emotions that take you to the brink of death, to the point of losing one’s reason. But he did not know what he had to do in order to admit such feelings into his soul. He could only analyse his own experience. So he carefully recalled and re-lived those events which in recent years had aroused powerful emotions in him. Concentrating on his past, he admitted that his being had been overflowing with emotions when the opportunity of a new foreign journey began to dawn. He was quite unable to work as his heart pounded at the growing probability of this trip materialising. At the same time, he was conscious of having survived the break-up with Halya, with whom he had also enjoyed happy times, who Lada had beaten so relentlessly; but then Lada had been repaid too, because he could feel the place where Halya had bitten her on the shoulder for a long time afterwards. He recalled how six months later he and Lada had calmly attended the farewell dinner Halya laid on before her departure for the United States, how they took turns to kiss her. What was that about? An ability to behave correctly towards others? Or an inability to have genuine feelings?
    What a powerful surge of emotions he had experienced when he began speaking Ukrainian! And however insignificant the main reasons for it were, it was through the medium of Ukrainian that he experienced his strong emotions. What tempestuous emotions seized him after he comprehended the concept denoted by the Russian word for
transubstantiation
only when he discovered its Ukrainian equivalent! Well, what followed? If he had not even associated with that group of Ukrainian friends several years previously, he would still be sitting in this same house, because he would have been invited by the brother of his mother, who taught Russian language and literature, not the Ukrainian trumpet. His thoughts took leaps and bounds and then they vanished; he needed to write them down, but he didn’t even pick up his pen and he didn’t put a single sheet of paper in the typewriter.
    But he thought: if he were to write, then it would only be philosophical essays, and never pitiful literary prose. Who needed another feeble biography? Only principled narratives that scaled the heights of mystery were worthy to be immortalised. In their community there were several writers who published their works in literary journals. On the pages of the
Suchasnist
journal he read with some interest contributions by his acquaintances, recognising in them certain factual aspects of their shared existence. But he found no real inspiration in any of these texts. He pushed the periodical away and reached for the philosophy books, since only they were capable of creating the chaos which, under favourable circumstances, can give rise to a scheme for a dancing star. What makes living in this world worthwhile, actually? In agitation, he got up from his chair, paced around the big house, then went and stood in the doorway, observing the Milky Way and the shooting stars. These flashes of light were supposed to evoke in him a joyful mood. But that did not happen and he went to bed, shelving his unthought-through ideas.
    After nights like this he would go for a morning walk in the forest, wandering among the gothic pines, sometimes secretly taking a notebook and pen with him; apparently