{"product_id":"the-last-and-the-first-isbn-9781782276975","title":"The Last and the First","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe first English translation of celebrated Russian writer Nina  Berberova’s debut novel: an intense story of family conflict and the  struggle over the future of émigré life\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn a crisp September morning, trouble comes to the Gorbatovs' farm. Having fled the ruins of the Russian Revolution, they have endured crushing labour to set up a small farm in Provence. For young Ilya Stepanovich, this is to be the future of Russian life in France; for some of his Paris-dwelling countrymen, it is a betrayal of roots, culture and the path back to the motherland.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, with the arrival of a letter from the capital and a figure from the family's past, their fragile stability is threatened by a plot to lure Ilya's step-brother Vasya back to Russia. In prose of masterful poise and restraint, Nina Berberova dramatises the passionate internal struggles of a generation of Russian émigrés. Translated into English for the first time by the acclaimed Marian Schwartz, \u003ci\u003eThe Last and the First\u003c\/i\u003e marks a unique contribution to Russian literature.“[Berberova’s] psychological portraits, dialogue, and prose are intensely elegant, even luminous. She seemed to have an otherworldly sense of what to say outright and what to leave implicit in her work.” \u003cb\u003e-- \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[A] unique, harmonious, and brilliant book. Her language is uncommonly strong and pure; her images are magnificent for their solid and precise power... this is literature of the highest quality, the work of a genuine writer.\" \u003cb\u003e-- Vladimir Nabokov \u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Haunting... as graceful and subtle as Chekhov.\"\u003cb\u003e -- Anne Tyler, \u003ci\u003eNew Republic\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like Turgenev and Chekhov, of whom she is the rightful heir, Berberova... is uncannily shrewd about romance, about its bright promise, without making her characters' real satisfaction seem trite.\"\u003cb\u003e -- \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNew York Review of Books\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"...an elegant tale of emigration, patriotism and destitution’... ‘With echoes of Tolstoy and  and Chekhov, the novel is at once soberly realistic and richly symbolic.\" \u003cb\u003e--Bryan Karetnyk, The Financial Times Life \u0026amp; Arts\u003c\/b\u003eNina  Berberova (1901-1993) was a Russian-born writer, academic, editor and  translator. Raised in St Petersburg, she left Russia in 1922 and lived  in Germany, Czechoslovakia and Italy before settling in Paris. There she  published widely in the émigré press and wrote the stories and novels  for which she is now known. Berberova emigrated to the United States in  1950 and eventually took up academic posts at Yale and later Princeton.  In France she was honoured as a chevalier of l'Ordre des Arts et des  Lettres.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarian Schwartz is a prize-winning translator of Russian  fiction,  history, biography, criticism, and fine art. She is the  principal  English translator of the works of Nina Berberova and  translated the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003eThe Last Tsar\u003c\/i\u003e,  by  Edvard Radzinsky, as well as classics by Mikhail Bulgakov, Ivan   Goncharov, Yuri Olesha, and Mikhail Lermontov. She is the recipient of   two National Endowment for the Arts translation fellowships and is a   past president of the American Literary Translators Association.CHAPTER ONE\u003cbr\u003eOn the morning of 20th September 1928,\u003cbr\u003ebetween nine and ten, three events occurred\u003cbr\u003ethat set the stage for this tale. Alexei Ivanovich Shaibin,\u003cbr\u003eone of its many heroes, turned up at the Gorbatovs’;\u003cbr\u003eVasya, the Gorbatov son, off spring of Stepan\u003cbr\u003eVasilievich and Vera Kirillovna and stepbrother of\u003cbr\u003eIlya Stepanovich, received a letter from Paris, from his\u003cbr\u003efriend Adolf Kellerman, with important news about\u003cbr\u003eVasya’s father; and fi nally, a poor wayfarer and his\u003cbr\u003eguide arrived at the Gorbatovs’ farm in a broad valley\u003cbr\u003eof the Vaucluse.\u003cbr\u003eNo one knew this man’s name. Who was he? What\u003cbr\u003eroad had led him to his present wanderings? He had\u003cbr\u003epassed through here the previous year, in the spring,\u003cbr\u003eand he was already known in the surrounding area; at\u003cbr\u003ethat time he was still sighted and walked alone, an old\u003cbr\u003eAstrakhan cap pulled to his eyes, sending up white\u003cbr\u003edust and bowing to those he met. He had spoken with\u003cbr\u003eIlya and with Vera Kirillovna herself for a long time;\u003cbr\u003ehe’d drunk, had dinner, and spent the night. But\u003cbr\u003eneither Vasya nor his sister Marianna saw the wayfarer\u003cbr\u003ethe next morning. He had left at dawn, blessing the\u003cbr\u003ehouse, the orchard, and the cowshed where the oxen\u003cbr\u003eslept, and the attic where Ilya slept. Later, people said\u003cbr\u003ehe’d gone west, but more likely he’d gone southwest,\u003cbr\u003epast Toulouse, to see the Cossacks who had settled in\u003cbr\u003ethose parts.\u003cbr\u003eNow he was blind, and that same Astrakhan cap\u003cbr\u003ehad slipped over his shaggy eyebrows. A dark blue scar\u003cbr\u003eran across his face, and he had no beard growing on\u003cbr\u003ehis cheeks; you could tell a regimental doctor had once\u003cbr\u003emended his face in haste, slapping together the torn\u003cbr\u003epieces of his no longer young, swarthy skin. He was\u003cbr\u003etall and ominously thin, and his military trousers\u003cbr\u003esported red patches in many places—possibly scraps\u003cbr\u003efrom someone else’s service trousers, but French, trousers\u003cbr\u003ethat had once known the defense of Verdun. The\u003cbr\u003ewayfarer walked with his harsh withered hand resting\u003cbr\u003eon the shoulder of his guide, a black-eyed girl of about\u003cbr\u003etwelve whose name was Anyuta.\u003cbr\u003eThey stopped at the gate and the old man took off\u003cbr\u003ehis cap. The girl looked over the low stone wall. There\u003cbr\u003eshe saw an orchard, a vegetable plot, and a house with\u003cbr\u003eoutbuildings partially hidden by stocky willows. In the\u003cbr\u003esilence and cool of the morning, the house stood low,\u003cbr\u003eburned by the sun over the long summer, with a northfacing\u003cbr\u003eporch and squat asparagus shoots, while farther\u003cbr\u003eaway, past the dark blue shadow of moribund cypresses,\u003cbr\u003eplowed fi elds spread out, ready for winter crops.\u003cbr\u003eThis was a human habitation created not in\u003cbr\u003estruggle with nature but at one with it. The sun was\u003cbr\u003ealready high in the untroubled sky, and birds fl ew\u003cbr\u003eswiftly in its gleam, like short, darting needles sewing\u003cbr\u003ethrough it.\u003cbr\u003eVasya and Marianna went over to the gate, even\u003cbr\u003ethough they were up to their ears in work; they pushed\u003cbr\u003eback their round straw hats, which were as hard as tin,\u003cbr\u003eand their hands were covered in dirt.\u003cbr\u003e“You could have sung something,” Marianna said.\u003cbr\u003e“Where have you come from?” She began examining\u003cbr\u003eAnyuta, her long colorful skirt and the narrow ribbon\u003cbr\u003etied around her head.\u003cbr\u003eThe wayfarer made a low, unhurried bow.\u003cbr\u003e“From the Dordogne, gentle lady,” he said. “We\u003cbr\u003eare on our way south, from the Dordogne to the\u003cbr\u003eSiagne River, to hot climes, to see good people, and in\u003cbr\u003ethe spring back to our own people, for the summer.\u003cbr\u003eAnd there—God will provide. People know us.”\u003cbr\u003eVasya came closer, his face bathed in sweat.\u003cbr\u003e“But what are you going there for?” he asked.\u003cbr\u003eAnyuta gave him a frightened look. Her heart\u003cbr\u003estarted pounding for fear they would have to leave\u003cbr\u003ewithout seeing the person they’d come to see, for the\u003cbr\u003esake of whom they’d made a detour from the highway,\u003cbr\u003epast the river and mill. How can these people ask!\u003cbr\u003eHow dare they! she thought.\u003cbr\u003e“We walk, my dear boy,” the wayfarer replied,\u003cbr\u003e“because we’re too old and blind to work. We go to\u003cbr\u003egood people’s homes to eat and have conversations\u003cbr\u003ewith good people, and we do not complain of our\u003cbr\u003eLord God.”\u003cbr\u003eMarianna shrugged lightly and grinned.\u003cbr\u003e“Why do you speak so oddly? We were told you\u003cbr\u003ewere an educated man, or else a priest.”\u003cbr\u003eAnyuta rushed to the old man in despair.\u003cbr\u003e“Granddad, can we go? Granddad?” she whispered,\u003cbr\u003etugging on his sleeve. “Let’s go, dear Granddad.\u003cbr\u003eWe can come some other time!”\u003cbr\u003eThe beggar put his hand on her shoulder but did\u003cbr\u003enot go where she was pulling him. He took two steps\u003cbr\u003etoward the wall, making a deep rut in the road dust\u003cbr\u003ewith his staff .\u003cbr\u003e“They told you wrong, my good lady,” he replied,\u003cbr\u003eand his micaceous eyes fl ashed. “I am no priest. Nor\u003cbr\u003ewas I a doctor or an engineer. Allow us to sit on your\u003cbr\u003elittle porch. I know in your part of the world porches\u003cbr\u003ealways look into the shade, and if Vera Kirillovna can\u003cbr\u003efi nd a little water for us, Anyuta and I would be very\u003cbr\u003egrateful.”\u003cbr\u003eAnd he bowed abruptly at the waist.\u003cbr\u003eMarianna opened the gate, and the wayfarer\u003cbr\u003epassed between her and Vasya, Anyuta leading him.\u003cbr\u003eHe walked majestically, without that grim fussiness so\u003cbr\u003eoften characteristic of the blind. They passed slowly\u003cbr\u003ebetween the vegetable beds toward the house; from\u003cbr\u003etime to time the beggar lifted his right hand from\u003cbr\u003eAnyuta’s thin shoulder and made a fl uid cross over the\u003cbr\u003ebeds, and the house, and the bent pear trees’ smeared\u003cbr\u003etrunks. A sack hung motionlessly from his shoulder;\u003cbr\u003ethe sack was military, like his trousers. No one knew\u003cbr\u003ethis man’s name.\u003cbr\u003eMarianna watched him go, grinned again, and\u003cbr\u003eleaned over the shoots poking out of the earth.\u003cbr\u003e“Come on, let’s go, let’s listen,” Vasya said, “or\u003cbr\u003edoes nothing have anything to do with you anymore?”\u003cbr\u003eHe wiped his wet face with his sleeve and looked at\u003cbr\u003eher expectantly.\u003cbr\u003e“No, it doesn’t,” Marianna replied reluctantly.\u003cbr\u003e“There’s nothing for me to hear. But you go on.”\u003cbr\u003eSomething stirred in Vasya’s sleepy face; his gaze\u003cbr\u003eslid down Marianna’s back, her black gathered skirt,\u003cbr\u003eher wooden shoes.\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve just had a letter from Adolf,” he said sullenly.\u003cbr\u003e“Has that nothing to do with you?”\u003cbr\u003eMarianna turned her merry, high-cheekboned face\u003cbr\u003etoward him.\u003cbr\u003e“You mean he’s summoning you?”\u003cbr\u003e“Yes. He writes about Father. Old Kellerman has\u003cbr\u003ecome and wants a meeting with me. Father’s been\u003cbr\u003efound, and he has an important post.”\u003cbr\u003eMarianna clapped her hands and gave her brother\u003cbr\u003ea frightened look.\u003cbr\u003e“Ah, that Gorbatov!” she exclaimed. “He lets us\u003cbr\u003eknow through Kellerman. He wants to lure you there!”\u003cbr\u003eVasya sat down beside her and put an arm around\u003cbr\u003ehis knees.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s time for me to go,” he said fi rmly. “Father is\u003cbr\u003ecalling, demanding that at least one of us return. At\u003cbr\u003efi rst old Kellerman was going to demand Adolf get\u003cbr\u003eIlya, but Adolf told him fl at out that was impossible.\u003cbr\u003eWhereas I . . . I’ve been wanting to go there for a\u003cbr\u003ewhole year, and Adolf has summoned me. He writes\u003cbr\u003ethat my papers can be in order in two days.”\u003cbr\u003e“A whole year!” Marianna said slowly.\u003cbr\u003e“I never tried to pretend otherwise. Mama knows\u003cbr\u003eit, and so does Ilya. I just can’t here. My path takes me\u003cbr\u003ehome, to Father, and this is the goal Kellerman and I\u003cbr\u003eshare.” He dropped his head. “I know that Kellerman\u003cbr\u003eis trying to get in Father’s good graces, but does that\u003cbr\u003ematter, Marianna? I might have gone even without\u003cbr\u003ethis.”\u003cbr\u003e“No, you wouldn’t!”\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t know. It’s impossible for me here. Father’s\u003cbr\u003eworking with Kellerman there and despises our settling\u003cbr\u003ehere. I’m going. I’ll have money, I’ll have the life I\u003cbr\u003ewant. I didn’t choose this one. And you know, it’s\u003cbr\u003eessential to me—I mean, roots are absolutely\u003cbr\u003eessential.”\u003cbr\u003e“Ilya says we should have roots in the air.”\u003cbr\u003e“Ilya’s always going to say something you don’t\u003cbr\u003eknow how to answer. But there, Father’s a big shot. He\u003cbr\u003esent Kellerman to Paris on business and he’s going\u003cbr\u003eback in a month. You have to understand. I’ve been\u003cbr\u003ewaiting a whole year for this, waiting for Gorbatov to\u003cbr\u003eturn up and summon me. Adolf has worn me down!”\u003cbr\u003e“He’s the one who won you over, and he’s the one\u003cbr\u003esending you after your roots. He’s a scoundrel, your\u003cbr\u003eAdolf, and Gorbatov’s a fi ne one! To lure you away, to\u003cbr\u003etempt you . . . Oh, Vasya, dear Vasya, what an automaton\u003cbr\u003eyou are, my God! If I were Ilya I would lock you\u003cbr\u003ein the attic and go to Paris myself and demand that\u003cbr\u003eKellerman back off . If they don’t leave you in peace—\u003cbr\u003esomeone should lodge a complaint. There’s manure to\u003cbr\u003eshovel here and you’re leaving!”The first English translation of celebrated Russian writer Nina Berberova's debut novel: an intense story family conflict the plight of émigrés in France.","brand":"Pushkin Collection","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303428182245,"sku":"NP9781782276975","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781782276975.jpg?v=1767740111","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-last-and-the-first-isbn-9781782276975","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}