especially of late. There was a constantly reiterated pain, like a repeated blow, uncomplicated and as it were external, but positively there, a pain, a presence.
They had quarrelled over nothing because Leo wanted to quarrel. Leo had made some malicious remarks about the people of the house, and Eugene had checked him, and Leo had said that Eugene had the mentality of a servant and Eugene had been angry and Leo had gone off slamming the door. Such things often happened now, and each time gave Eugene the primitive shock of realizing that a son could be so disrespectful to a father, and the pain which was the mature knowledge that a son could hate a father. Eugene had lived in a great simplicity with his son, and Leo had been a very loving child. They had been together all the time since Tanya died and Leo was two years old. For years Eugene had carried Leo and led Leo everywhere he went. He had to. There was no one else to attend to the boy. Leo had lived on his shoulder and against his side like a baby animal that clings to its parent’s body. Out of such a close and loving communion how could any hatred come?
Of course it was natural that now that he was grown up the boy should not want to live at home. His grant was not enough to pay for separate lodgings and of course he chafed. It was only for a while, as Eugene told him, it was not much to bear. But there was more than natural irritation in the child, there was some deep ferocious resentment. What had Eugene, who had been his minister and protector, almost his servant, all the days of his life, ever done to merit this? He had corrected him, but never harshly. He had criticized him a little. Eugene was aware that his precocious son was casually promiscuous with women, and this continued to grieve and shock him. There had been at least one pregnancy. Eugene had spoken to Leo once about this, in what he hoped was a prudential rather than a disapproving tone. Was he being hated for this, punished perhaps for this? For some time now Leo would not speak Russian with him, and if he spoke to him in Russian the boy would reply in English. This hurt Eugene more than a direct insult. He could apprehend a work of deliberate destruction going on in that resentful mind. Leo would destroy in himself if he could the precious inbuilt structure of the Russian language, he would destroy the tissue of his Russianness, he would forget if he could that he was a Russian.
Eugene was consoled to see Pattie. She had quite often dropped into his air-raid shelter room to ask him for things, but this was the first time, since he had formally invited her to tea and she had accepted, that she was likely to stay for a good while and talk. He felt at ease with her, as he usually did with people who had no pretensions and no position. Eugene suffered from no sense of inferiority. He was filled and stiffened by his Russian essence, just as he knew that English people were filled by their Englishness. English or Russian, more than any other people in the world they quite calmly and quietly knew themselves to be the best. There was no fuss. It was simply so. So Eugene had lost, in his long battered exile’s life, not a single grain of this confidence. But he was a realist and he sometimes surveyed this monstrous self-satisfaction, which was far too relaxed to be called pride, a trifle sardonically in its context. He had never made himself a place in English society, he had never even got a foot on to a ledge or a finger into a cranny. His friends were exiles and misfits like himself. There were enough people left outside to make a society themselves, perhaps a better one. In Pattie he recognized a fellow-citizen.
He looked at her now. She was sitting a little nervously, with her shoulders hunched, upon the lower bunk. The icon blazed above her head like a star. The room was brightly lit, perhaps too brightly and glaringly lit, and Pattie was shrinking and blinking. Perhaps she was
They had quarrelled over nothing because Leo wanted to quarrel. Leo had made some malicious remarks about the people of the house, and Eugene had checked him, and Leo had said that Eugene had the mentality of a servant and Eugene had been angry and Leo had gone off slamming the door. Such things often happened now, and each time gave Eugene the primitive shock of realizing that a son could be so disrespectful to a father, and the pain which was the mature knowledge that a son could hate a father. Eugene had lived in a great simplicity with his son, and Leo had been a very loving child. They had been together all the time since Tanya died and Leo was two years old. For years Eugene had carried Leo and led Leo everywhere he went. He had to. There was no one else to attend to the boy. Leo had lived on his shoulder and against his side like a baby animal that clings to its parent’s body. Out of such a close and loving communion how could any hatred come?
Of course it was natural that now that he was grown up the boy should not want to live at home. His grant was not enough to pay for separate lodgings and of course he chafed. It was only for a while, as Eugene told him, it was not much to bear. But there was more than natural irritation in the child, there was some deep ferocious resentment. What had Eugene, who had been his minister and protector, almost his servant, all the days of his life, ever done to merit this? He had corrected him, but never harshly. He had criticized him a little. Eugene was aware that his precocious son was casually promiscuous with women, and this continued to grieve and shock him. There had been at least one pregnancy. Eugene had spoken to Leo once about this, in what he hoped was a prudential rather than a disapproving tone. Was he being hated for this, punished perhaps for this? For some time now Leo would not speak Russian with him, and if he spoke to him in Russian the boy would reply in English. This hurt Eugene more than a direct insult. He could apprehend a work of deliberate destruction going on in that resentful mind. Leo would destroy in himself if he could the precious inbuilt structure of the Russian language, he would destroy the tissue of his Russianness, he would forget if he could that he was a Russian.
Eugene was consoled to see Pattie. She had quite often dropped into his air-raid shelter room to ask him for things, but this was the first time, since he had formally invited her to tea and she had accepted, that she was likely to stay for a good while and talk. He felt at ease with her, as he usually did with people who had no pretensions and no position. Eugene suffered from no sense of inferiority. He was filled and stiffened by his Russian essence, just as he knew that English people were filled by their Englishness. English or Russian, more than any other people in the world they quite calmly and quietly knew themselves to be the best. There was no fuss. It was simply so. So Eugene had lost, in his long battered exile’s life, not a single grain of this confidence. But he was a realist and he sometimes surveyed this monstrous self-satisfaction, which was far too relaxed to be called pride, a trifle sardonically in its context. He had never made himself a place in English society, he had never even got a foot on to a ledge or a finger into a cranny. His friends were exiles and misfits like himself. There were enough people left outside to make a society themselves, perhaps a better one. In Pattie he recognized a fellow-citizen.
He looked at her now. She was sitting a little nervously, with her shoulders hunched, upon the lower bunk. The icon blazed above her head like a star. The room was brightly lit, perhaps too brightly and glaringly lit, and Pattie was shrinking and blinking. Perhaps she was
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