birthday. Shortly before her death she had to sell her grandmother’s garnet necklace because she was in abject poverty. Thousands of people went to her funeral. At the head was Father Štulc, who spoke in a tearful voice at the writer’s grave in Vyšehrad Cemetery of Prague. Also present was Pospíšil, Němcová’s publisher, who was one of the people responsible for the material poverty she lived in, as he had not paid her the full royalties due from her book sales, knowing that the more extreme Němcová’s poverty, the more likely she would be to accept any payment he saw fit to give her. The poet Hálek declared that the circumstances surrounding Němcová’s death were a shame on the Czech people, who had allowed their great writer to sink into extreme poverty, and added that the nationalists and the thinkers, “an intellectual rabble,” had distanced themselves from her so as not to have to give her any money.
A volcano on Venus and a planet between Mars and Jupiter bear the name of Božena Němcová.
IS LIFE GOING TO WAIT?
ONE
The French live in the moment, whereas we prefer to philosophize about life. That is what I thought when I heard the noise, laughter, and music that were coming from the Bullier, the wooden dance hall. The painters were holding their annual charity ball there and I went out of curiosity. I recognized Derain and Braque among those who were dancing. But the Paris summer, with its pleasures and distractions, meant nothing to me. I left that gay place and decided to drop by Larionov’s place. He had invited me to a party and there, at least, I could have a couple of beers.
I entered a dark apartment, which a few candles barely managed to illuminate. The shadows made one think more of fall than of the brilliant light of summer, but I felt at home. In the dark corners and in the middle of the veil of cigarette smoke, I started to recognize all kinds of people I knew: painters, writers, philosophers—the splendor of our Russian exile culture in all its misery. The guests drank and argued in groups and pairs. They weren’t having a good time; they weren’t happy, which also made me feel like I fit in. There was no beer, but someone offered me a glass of white wine that refreshed my fingers pleasantly. I moved from one group to another. The circle around Larionov talked about Russian passports that now were in fact Soviet ones. In time, when everything had settled down, a few people said they would go back to their country.
“Go back? But why?” Larionov asked with a grimace.
“I want to give my support to our new, young country,” said a bald student from the shadows.
“And how exactly are you going to do that?”
“Through art. I’m a painter.”
“You know what I think? You go and give your support to the land of the revolution, and when you’re behind bars some place in Siberia, I will weep for your misfortune from a cafe terrace in Montparnasse and will toast your health with champagne.”
I moved away. This type of conversation was very much in vogue among the Russians and bored me to death. I sat down in an empty chair, letting myself be swayed gently by the talk around me. Bunin was holding forth that the tsar was at fault for the atrocities that had taken place in Russia after the revolution, for he was too soft and had a weak character. Everybody pretended noisily that they were in agreement with this.
I preferred to dedicate myself to the white wine. I had a look around the shadows and, from the best lit spots, I caught sight of a hand holding a glass or some smiling lips or a worn out shoe . . .
My eyes came to rest on a very young girl who had the air of something Chinese about her, like an oriental princess. Someone must have brought their daughter. She was sitting in a corner as if she wanted to melt into it. Next to her, a dark-haired woman was snoozing on the sofa. She woke up and addressed the girl. I recognized her as Natalia Goncharova and went over to say hello. She introduced me to her young friend, pronouncing her name for me slowly: Nina Nikolayevna Berberova. Then she started to complain, the way she usually did, that she had to work hard, that she often worked fourteen hours a day whereas Larionov,