Doctor Zhivago

Part Thirteen

OPPOSITE THE HOUSE WITH FIGURES

1

Bolshaya Kupecheskaya Street descended the crooked hill to Malaya Spasskaya and Novosvalochny. The houses and churches of the higher parts of the town peered down on it.

At the corner stood the dark gray house with figures. The huge quadrangular stones of its foundation, cut on a slant, were blackened with freshly pasted-up issues of government newspapers, government decrees and resolutions. Stopping for a long time on the sidewalk, small groups of passersby silently read this literature.

It was dry after the recent thaw. Turning cold. The frost was noticeably hardening. It was quite light at a time when, just recently, it would have been getting dark. Winter had recently departed. The emptiness of the vacated space was filled with light, which would not go away and lingered through the evenings. It stirred you, drew you into the distance, frightened and alerted you.

The Whites had recently left the town, surrendering it to the Reds. The shooting, the bloodshed, the military alarms were over. That, too, frightened and alerted you, like the departure of winter and the augmentation of the spring days.

The notice that the passersby in the street read by the light of the lengthened day announced:

“For the information of the populace. Work booklets for those eligible can be obtained for 50 rubles each in the Provisions Section of the Yuriatin City Council, at 5 Oktiabrskaya, formerly General-gubernatorskaya, Street, room 137.

“Nonpossession of a work booklet, or incorrect or, still more so, false entries, will be punished with full wartime severity. Precise instructions for the use of work booklets are published in the B.Y.E.C., No. 86 (1013), of the current year and posted in the Provisions Section of the Yuriatin City Council, room 137.”

Another announcement reported on the sufficiency of food supplies available in the city, though they had supposedly been concealed by the bourgeoisie in order to disorganize distribution and sow chaos in the matter of provisioning. The announcement ended with the words:

“Those caught hoarding and concealing food supplies will be shot on the spot.”

A third announcement offered:

“In the interests of the correct organizing of food distribution, those not belonging to exploiter elements are to unite into consumers’ communes. Details can be obtained in the Provisions Section of the Yuriatin City Council, 5 Oktiabrskaya, formerly General-gubernatorskaya, Street, room 137.”

The military were warned:

“Those who have not surrendered their weapons or who carry them without a proper, newly issued permit, will be prosecuted with the full severity of the law. Permits can be exchanged in the Yuriatin Revolutionary Committee, 6 Oktiabrskaya, room 63.”

2

A wild-looking man with a sack on his back and a stick in his hand, emaciated, long unwashed, which made him look swarthy, came up to the group of readers. His long hair had no gray in it yet, but his dark blond beard was turning gray. It was Doctor Yuri Andreevich Zhivago. His winter coat had probably long since been taken off him on the way, or else he had traded it for food. He was in someone else’s old clothes, with sleeves too short to keep him warm.

In his sack there remained an unfinished crust of bread, given him in the last outlying village he had passed through, and a hunk of lard. About an hour earlier, he had entered the city from the side of the railway, and it had taken him a whole hour of trudging to get from the city gates to this intersection, so weak he was and exhausted from walking the past few days. He stopped often and barely kept himself from falling to the ground and kissing the stones of the city, which he had had no hope of ever seeing again, and the sight of which delighted him as if it were a living being.

For a very long time, half his journey on foot, he had gone along the railroad tracks. It was all left in neglect and inactive, and all covered with snow. His way had led him past whole trains of the White Army, passenger and freight, overtaken by snowdrifts, the general defeat of Kolchak, and the exhaustion of fuel supplies. These trains, stopped in their course, forever standing, and buried under snow, stretched in an almost unbroken ribbon for many dozens of miles. They served as strongholds for armed bands of highway robbers, a refuge for criminal and political fugitives in hiding, the involuntary vagabonds of that time, but most of all as common graves and collective burial sites for those who died of cold and the typhus that raged all along the railway line and mowed down whole villages in the area.

This time justified the old saying: Man is a wolf to man. A wayfarer turned aside at the sight of another wayfarer; a man would kill the man he met, so as not to be killed himself. There were isolated cases of cannibalism. The human laws of civilization ended. Those of beasts were in force. Man dreamed the prehistoric dreams of the caveman.

Solitary shadows, occasionally sneaking along the roadside, fearfully crossing the path far ahead, and whom Yuri Andreevich carefully avoided when he could, often seemed familiar to him, seen somewhere. He fancied they belonged to the partisan camp. In most cases he was mistaken, but once his eye did not deceive him. The adolescent who crawled out of the snowdrift that covered the body of an international sleeping car, and who, having satisfied his need, darted back into the drift, was in fact from the Forest Brotherhood. He was Terenty Galuzin, supposedly shot dead. He had not been killed, had lain in a deep faint, come to, crawled from the place of execution, hidden in the forest, recovered from his wounds, and now, secretly, under another name, was making his way to his family in Krestovozdvizhensk, hiding from people in snowbound trains as he went.

These pictures and spectacles made the impression of something outlandish, transcendent. They seemed like parts of some unknown, other-planetary existences, brought to earth by mistake. And only nature remained true to history and showed itself to the eye as the artists of modern times portrayed it.

There were some quiet winter evenings, light gray, dark pink. Against the pale sunset, black birch tops were outlined, fine as handwriting. Black streams flowed under a gray mist of thin ice, between banks of white heaped snow, moistened from beneath by dark river water. And now such an evening, frosty, transparently gray, tenderhearted as pussy-willow fluff, promised to settle in after an hour or two opposite the house with figures in Yuriatin.

The doctor was going up to the board of the Central Printing Office on the stone wall of the house to look over the official information. But his gaze kept falling on the other side and up towards the several windows on the second floor of the house opposite. These windows giving onto the street had once been painted over with whitewash. In the two rooms inside, the owners’ furniture had been stored. Though frost covered the lower parts of the windowpanes with a thin, crystalline crust, he could see that the glass was now transparent and the whitewash had been removed. What did this change mean? Had the owners returned? Or had Lara gone away, and there were new tenants in the apartment, and everything in it was different now?

The uncertainty agitated the doctor. He was unable to control his agitation. He crossed the street, went into the hall through the front door, and began to go up the main stairs, so familiar and so dear to his heart. How often he had remembered, in the forest camp, the openwork pattern of the cast-iron steps, down to the last curlicue. At some turn of his ascent, as he looked through the openwork under his feet, he could see old buckets, tubs, and broken chairs piled up under the stairway. This repeated itself now, too. Nothing had changed, everything was as before. The doctor was almost grateful to the stairs for this faithfulness to the past.

Once there had been a doorbell. But it had broken and ceased to work already in former times, before the doctor’s forest captivity. He was about to knock on the door, but noticed that it was locked in a new way, with a heavy padlock hanging on rings, crudely screwed into the paneling of the old oaken door, with its fine trimming fallen off in places. Formerly such barbarity had not been allowed. Locks had been mortised into the doorway and had worked well, and if they broke, locksmiths had existed to repair them. This insignificant detail spoke in its own way of a general, greatly advanced deterioration.

The doctor was certain that Lara and Katenka were not at home, and perhaps were not in Yuriatin, and perhaps were not even in this world. He was prepared for the most terrible disappointments. Only for the sake of a clear conscience, he decided to feel in the hole that he and Katenka had been so afraid of, and he tapped his foot on the wall, so that his hand would not come upon a rat in the opening. He had no hope of finding anything in the prearranged place. The hole was stopped up with a brick. Yuri Andreevich removed the brick and stuck his hand inside. Oh, wonder! A key and a note. A rather long note on a big piece of paper. The doctor went over to the window on the landing. A still greater wonder, still more incredible! The note was written to him! He read quickly:

“Lord, what happiness! They say you’re alive and have turned up. They saw you in the neighborhood and came running to tell me. Supposing you’d hurry to Varykino first of all, I’m going there myself with Katenka. In any case the key is in the usual place. Wait for me to come back, don’t go anywhere. Ah, yes, you don’t know, I’m now in the front part of the apartment, in the rooms that give onto the street. But you’ll figure that out yourself. The house is empty, there’s lots of room, I had to sell part of the owners’ furniture. I’m leaving some food, mostly boiled potatoes. Put an iron or something heavy on the lid of the pot, as I’ve done, to protect it from the rats. I’m out of my mind with joy.”

Here ended the front side of the note. The doctor did not notice that there was writing on the other side of the paper. He brought the page unfolded on his palm to his lips and then, without looking, folded it and put it in his pocket along with the key. A terrible, wounding pain was mixed with his mad joy. Since she had gone straight to Varykino, without any hesitation, it meant that his family was not there. Besides the anxiety this detail caused him, he also felt an unbearable pain and sadness for his family. Why did she not say a word about them and where they were, as if they did not exist at all?

But there was no time for thinking. It was beginning to get dark outside. He had to do many things while there was still light. Not the least concern was familiarizing himself with the decrees posted in the street. This was a serious time. Out of ignorance, you could pay with your life for violating some mandatory decree. And not opening the apartment and not taking the sack from his weary shoulder, he went down and outside and approached the wall pasted all over with printed matter.

3

This printed matter consisted of newspaper articles, the records of speeches at meetings, and decrees. Yuri Andreevich glanced cursorily at the titles. “On the Rules of the Requisition and Taxation of the Propertied Classes.” “On Workers’ Control.” “On Factory Committees.” These were the instructions of the new power that had come to the town to abolish the preceding order found there. They were a reminder of the immutability of its foundations, perhaps forgotten by the inhabitants during the temporary rule of the Whites. But Yuri Andreevich’s head began to spin from the endlessness of these monotonous repetitions. What year did these headlines belong to? The time of the first upheaval, or a later period, after some intervening rebellions of the Whites? What were these inscriptions? From last year? The year before last? At one time in his life he had admired the unconditional quality of this language and the directness of this thinking. Could it be that he had to pay for this imprudent admiration by never seeing anything else in his life but these frenzied cries and demands, unchanging in the course of long years, becoming ever more impractical, incomprehensible, and unfeasible? Could it be that for a moment of too-broad sympathy he had enslaved himself forever?

He came upon a fragment from some report. He read:

“Information about famine testifies to the incredible inactivity of the local organizations. The facts of abuse are obvious, the speculation is monstrous, but what has been done by the bureau of the local trade union leaders, what has been done by the heads of municipal and regional factory committees? Unless we conduct massive searches in the warehouses of the Yuriatin freight station and along the Yuriatin–Razvilye and Razvilye–Rybalka lines, unless we take severe measures of terror, down to shooting speculators on the spot, there will be no escape from famine.”

“What enviable blindness!” thought the doctor. “What bread are they talking about, when there has long been none in nature? What propertied classes, what speculators, when they’ve long been abolished by the sense of previous decrees? What peasants, what villages, if they no longer exist? What obliviousness to their own designs and measures, which have long left no stone upon stone in life! What must one be, to rave year after year with delirious feverishness about nonexistent, long-extinct themes, and to know nothing, to see nothing around one!”

The doctor’s head was spinning. He fainted and fell unconscious on the sidewalk. When he came to his senses, people helped him to get up and offered to take him wherever he indicated. He thanked them and declined the help, explaining that he only had to go across the street.

4

He went up the stairs again and started opening the door to Lara’s apartment. It was still quite light on the landing, not a bit darker than when he had first gone up. He noted with grateful joy that the sun was not hurrying him.

The click of the unlocking door caused turmoil inside. The space left empty in the absence of people met him with the clanging and rattling of overturned and falling tin cans. Rats fell smack on the floor and scattered in all directions. The doctor felt ill at ease from a sense of helplessness before these loathsome creatures, which probably bred here by the thousand.

And before making any attempt to settle down for the night, he decided first of all to protect himself from this pestilence, and, finding some easily isolated and tightly closing door, to stop all the rat holes with broken glass and scraps of sheet metal.

From the front hall he turned left, to a part of the apartment unknown to him. Passing through a dark room, he found himself in a bright one, with two windows giving onto the street. Just opposite the windows, on the other side, the house with figures stood darkly. The lower part of its wall was pasted over with newspapers. Their backs to the windows, passersby stood reading the newspapers.

The light in the room and outside was one and the same, the young, unseasoned evening light of early spring. The commonality of the light inside and outside was so great that it was as if there were no separation between the room and the street. Only in one thing was there a slight difference. In Lara’s bedroom, where Yuri Andreevich was standing, it was colder than outside on Kupecheskaya.

When Yuri Andreevich was nearing town during his last march, and was walking through it an hour or two earlier, the immense increase of his weakness had seemed to him the sign of an imminently threatening illness, and it had frightened him.

Now the uniformity of light in the house and in the open delighted him for no reason. The column of cold air, one and the same outside and inside, made him akin to the passersby in the evening street, to the moods of the town, to life in the world. His fears went away. He no longer thought he would fall ill. The evening transparency of the all-pervading spring light seemed to him a pledge of distant and generous hopes. He believed that everything was for the better, that he would achieve everything in life, would find and reconcile everybody, would think everything through and express it. And he waited for the joy of seeing Lara as for the nearest proof.

Mad excitement and unbridled restlessness replaced his previously failing strength. This animation was a surer symptom of beginning illness than the recent weakness. Yuri Andreevich could not stay put. He was again drawn outside, and here is the reason why.

Before settling himself in here, he wanted to have his hair cut and his beard shaved. With that in mind, he looked into the windows of the former barbershops as he went through the city. Some of them were empty or occupied by other businesses. Others, which corresponded to their former purpose, were under lock and key. There was nowhere for him to have a shave and a haircut. Yuri Andreevich had no razor of his own. Scissors, if he could find Lara’s, might help him out of his difficulty. But, rummaging through everything in her dressing table with nervous haste, he did not find any scissors.

He remembered that there had once been a sewing shop on Malaya Spasskaya. He thought that, if the establishment had not ceased to exist and still went on working, and if he managed to get there before they closed, he could ask one of the seamstresses for scissors. And he went out again.

5

His memory had not deceived him. The shop was still in its former place; the work went on. The shop occupied a commercial space on the ground floor, with a window running the whole width of it and an entrance from the street. Through the window one could see inside to the opposite wall. The seamstresses worked in full view of the passersby.

The room was terribly crowded. In addition to the actual workers, some amateur seamstresses, aging ladies from Yuriatin society, had probably gotten places in order to obtain the work booklets spoken of in the decree on the wall of the house with figures.

Their movements could be distinguished at once from the efficiency of the real seamstresses. The shop worked only for the army, making padded trousers, quilted coats and jackets, and such clownish-looking overcoats as Yuri Andreevich had already seen in the partisan camp, tacked together from dog pelts of different colors. The clumsy fingers of the amateur seamstresses had a hard time doing the unaccustomed near-furrier’s work, as they put the edges turned back for hemming under the needles of the sewing machines.

Yuri Andreevich knocked on the window and made a sign with his hand to be let in. He was answered in signs that orders were not taken from private persons. Yuri Andreevich would not give up and, repeating the same gestures, insisted that he should be let in and listened to. By negative gestures he was given to understand that they had urgent business and he should leave off, not bother them, and go on his way. One of the seamstresses showed perplexity on her face and in a sign of vexation held her hand out palm up, asking with her eyes what, in fact, he wanted. With two fingers, index and middle, he showed the cutting movement of scissors. His gesture was not understood. They decided it was some sort of indecency, that he was teasing them and flirting with them. With his ragged look and strange behavior, he made the impression of a sick or crazy man. In the shop they giggled, exchanged laughs, and waved their hands, driving him away from the window. It finally occurred to him to look for the way through the courtyard, and, having found it and the door to the shop, he knocked at the back entrance.

6

The door was opened by an elderly, dark-faced seamstress in a dark dress, stern, perhaps the head of the establishment.

“Look, what a bother! A real punishment. Well, be quick, what do you want? I have no time.”

“I need scissors. Don’t be surprised. I want to ask to use them for a moment. I’ll cut my beard here in front of you and give them back with gratitude.”

Mistrustful astonishment showed in the seamstress’s eyes. It was undisguisedly clear that she doubted the mental faculties of her interlocutor.

“I come from far away. I’ve just arrived in town. I’m overgrown. I’d like to have my hair cut. But there isn’t a single barbershop. I think I could do it myself, but I don’t have any scissors. Lend them to me, please.”

“All right. I’ll give you a haircut. Only watch yourself. If you’ve got something else on your mind, some clever trick, changing your looks as a disguise, something political, don’t blame us. We won’t sacrifice our lives for you, we’ll complain in the proper place. It’s no time for things like that.”

“Good heavens, what fears you have!”

The seamstress let the doctor in, took him to a side room no wider than a closet, and a minute later he was sitting on a chair, as in a barbershop, all wrapped in a sheet that was tight on his neck and tucked in behind his collar.

The seamstress went to fetch her instruments and a little later came back with scissors, a comb, several clippers of different sizes, a strop and a razor.

“I’ve tried everything in my life,” she explained, seeing how amazed the doctor was that all this turned out to be in readiness. “I used to work as a barber. During the war, as a nurse, I learned how to shave and give haircuts. First we’ll chop the beard off with scissors, and then we’ll shave it clean.”

“And when it comes to the hair, cut it short, please.”

“I’ll try. Such an intellectual, and pretending to be a know-nothing! We don’t count in weeks now, but in tens of days. Today is the seventeenth, and on numbers with a seven barbers have the day off. As if you didn’t know.”

“I honestly didn’t. Why should I pretend? I told you. I come from far away. I’m not from here.”

“Sit still. Don’t jump. It’s easy to get cut. So you’re a newcomer? How did you get here?”

“On my own two feet.”

“Along the high road?”

“Partly, and the rest by the railway line. There’s no end of trains under the snow! All sorts, deluxe, special.”

“Well, there’s just a little bit left. I’ll snip it off, and that’s it. On family business?”

“What family business! I was working for the former union of credit associations. A traveling agent. They sent me around on inspection. I got stuck devil knows where in eastern Siberia. No way to get back. There are no trains. I had to go on foot, no help for it. I walked for a month and a half. The things I’ve seen, it would take more than a lifetime to tell.”

“And you oughtn’t to tell. I’m going to teach you a bit of wisdom. Now wait. Here’s a mirror. Take your hand from under the sheet and hold it. Look at yourself. Well, how do you find it?”

“I think you’ve cut too little. It could be shorter.”

“It won’t hold its shape. As I said, you oughtn’t to tell anything. It’s better to keep mum about all that now. Credit associations, deluxe trains under the snow, agents and inspections—it’s better if you even forget the words. You’ll get into a real mess with them! Don’t put your foot in it, it’s not the season. Better lie that you’re a doctor or a teacher. Well, there, I’ve chopped your beard off roughly, now we’ll give you a real shave. We’ll soap you up, zip-zap, and you’ll get ten years younger. I’ll go put some water on to boil.”

“Who is this woman!” the doctor thought while she was away. “There’s a feeling that we may have some points of contact and I should know her. Something I’ve seen or heard. She probably reminds me of someone. But, devil take it, who precisely?”

The seamstress returned.

“Well, now we’ll have a shave. Yes, so it’s better never to say anything unnecessary. That’s the eternal truth. Silence is golden. About those special trains and credit associations. Better to invent something about being a doctor or a teacher. And as for seeing all sorts of sights, keep it to yourself. Who’ll be surprised at it now? Does the razor bother you?”

“It hurts a little.”

“It scrapes, it must scrape, I know. Bear with it, dearie. No way to avoid it. Your hair has grown and turned coarse, the skin’s not used to it. Yes. Sights won’t surprise anybody now. People have been tried and tested. We’ve drunk our cup of grief. Such things went on here under the Whites! Robberies, murders, abductions. Hunting people down. For instance, there was this petty satrap, from Sapunov’s men, and, you see, he took a dislike to a certain lieutenant. He sends soldiers to ambush him near the Zagorodny woods, across from Krapulsky’s house. He’s disarmed and taken under escort to Razvilye. And Razvilye at that time was the same for us as the provincial Cheka is now. Golgotha. Why are you shaking your head? Scrapes, does it? I know, dearie, I know. Nothing to be done. Here I’ve got to shave against the grain, and your hair’s stiff as bristles. Stiff. A tricky place. His wife is in hysterics. The lieutenant’s wife. ‘Kolya! My Kolya!’ And goes straight to the chief. Only ‘straight’ is just a manner of speaking. Who’s going to let her? Connections. A woman on the next street had access to the chief and interceded for everybody. He was an exceptionally humane man, not like the others, compassionate. General Galiullin. And all around there was lynch law, atrocities, dramas of jealousy. Just like in Spanish novels.”

“She’s talking about Lara,” the doctor guessed, but by way of precaution he said nothing and did not enter into more detailed questioning. Yet when she said “Just like in Spanish novels,” she again reminded him terribly of someone. Precisely by this inappropriate phrase, spoken out of place.

“Now, of course, it’s quite a different story. Let’s say there’s still more than enough investigations, denunciations, executions even now. But the idea is totally different. First, they’re new to power. They’ve been ruling less than no time, they still haven’t acquired a taste for it. Second, whatever you may say, they’re for the simple folk, that’s where their strength lies. There were four of us sisters, including me. And all working women. Naturally we lean towards the Bolsheviks. One sister died, she was married to a political. Her husband worked as a manager at one of the local factories. Their son, my nephew, is the leader of our village rebels—a celebrity, you might say.”

“So that’s what it is!” it dawned on Yuri Andreevich. “She’s Liberius’s aunt, Mikulitsyn’s notorious sister-in-law, hairdresser, seamstress, switchwoman, a jack-of-all-trades whom everybody knows. I’ll keep quiet like before, however, so as not to give myself away.”

“My nephew was drawn to the people from childhood. He grew up near his father, among the workers at the Mighty Sviatogor. The Varykino factories, maybe you’ve heard of them? Ah, what are we doing, the two of us! I’m a forgetful fool! Half the chin’s smooth, the other half unshaven. I’m talking away. And what are you doing, not stopping me? The soap on your face has dried up. I’ll go and heat some water. It’s grown cold.”

When Tuntseva came back, Yuri Andreevich asked:

“Varykino—it’s some sort of blessed backwoods, a wild place, where no shocks ever reach?”

“Well, ‘blessed,’ so to speak. That wild place got into maybe a worse pickle than we did. Some bands of men passed through Varykino, no one knows who. They didn’t speak our language. They went from house to house, taking people out and shooting them. And then left without a word. The bodies just stayed there unattended on the snow. It happened in the winter. Why do you keep jumping all the time? I almost cut your throat with the razor.”

“But you said your brother-in-law lived in Varykino. Did he, too, suffer from these horrors?”

“No, why? God is merciful. He and his wife got out of there in time. The new wife, the second one. Where they are, nobody knows, but it’s certain they’re safe. Recently there were new people there. A Moscow family, visitors. They left even earlier. The younger man, a doctor, the head of the family, disappeared without a trace. Well, what does it mean, ‘without a trace’? It’s just a way of speaking, that it was without a trace, so as not to get upset. But in reality we’ve got to assume he’s dead, killed. They searched and searched, but didn’t find him. Meanwhile the other man, the older one, was called home. He’s a professor. Of agronomy. I heard he got a summons from the government. They passed through Yuriatin before the Whites came for the second time. You’re up to it again, dear comrade? If you fidget and jump like that under the razor, it won’t be long before the client’s throat is cut. You ask too much from a barber.”

“So they’re in Moscow!”

7

“In Moscow! In Moscow!” echoed in his soul with every step, as he went up the cast-iron stairs for the third time. The empty apartment met him again with an uproar of leaping, tumbling, scattering rats. It was clear to Yuri Andreevich that he would not get a wink of sleep next to these vermin, however worn out he was. He began his preparations for the night by stopping up the rat holes. Fortunately, there were not so many of them in the bedroom, far less than in the rest of the apartment, where the floors and baseboards were in less good condition. But he had to hurry. Night was falling. True, there waited for him on the kitchen table, perhaps in expectation of his coming, a lamp taken down from the wall and half filled, and, next to it in an open matchbox, several matches, ten in number, as Yuri Andreevich counted. But the one and the other, the kerosene and the matches, he had better use sparingly. In the bedroom he also discovered a night lamp—a bowl with a wick and some traces of lamp oil, which the rats had probably drunk almost to the bottom.

In some places, the edges of the baseboards had come away from the floor. Yuri Andreevich filled the cracks with several layers of broken glass, the sharp ends pointing inwards. The bedroom door fitted well to the doorstep. It could be closed tightly and, when shut, totally separated the room with the stopped-up holes from the rest of the apartment. In a little more than an hour, Yuri Andreevich managed to do it all.

A tile stove cut off one corner of the bedroom, with a tile cornice that did not reach the ceiling. In the kitchen there was a supply of firewood, about ten bundles. Yuri Andreevich decided to rob Lara of a couple of armloads, and going on one knee, he began to pile the wood on his left arm. He brought it to the bedroom, set it down by the stove, familiarized himself with its mechanism, and quickly checked the condition it was in. He wanted to lock the door, but the lock turned out to be in disrepair, and therefore, tucking in some paper to make it tight and keep it from opening, Yuri Andreevich unhurriedly began making a fire in the stove.

While putting wood into the firebox, he saw a mark on the butt end of one of the logs. He recognized it with surprise. It was the trace of an old brand mark, the two initial letters K and D, which indicated what warehouse the logs came from before they were cut up. Long ago, when Krüger was still there, they had branded with these letters the ends of logs from the Kulabyshev plot in Varykino, when the factory sold off its extra unneeded fuel supplies.

The presence of this sort of firewood in Lara’s household proved that she knew Samdevyatov and that he looked after her, just as he had once supplied all the needs of the doctor and his family. This discovery was a knife in the doctor’s heart. He had been burdened by Anfim Efimovich’s help even before. Now the embarrassment of these favors was complicated by other feelings.

It was unlikely that Anfim was Larissa Fyodorovna’s benefactor just for the beauty of it. Yuri Andreevich pictured Anfim Efimovich’s free and easy ways and Lara’s recklessness as a woman. It could not be that there was nothing between them.

In the stove the dry Kulabyshev wood was beginning to burn furiously, with a concerted crackling, and as it caught fire, Yuri Andreevich’s jealous blindness, having started from weak suppositions, arrived at complete certainty.

But his soul was tormented on all sides, and one pain came to replace another. He had no need to drive these suspicions away. His thoughts, without effort, of themselves, jumped from subject to subject. Reflections about his family, rushing upon him with renewed force, overshadowed his jealous fits for a time.

“So you’re in Moscow, my dear ones?” It already seemed to him that Tuntseva had certified their safe arrival for him. “Meaning that you repeated that long, difficult trip without me? How was the journey? What sort of business was Alexander Alexandrovich summoned for? Probably an invitation from the Academy to start teaching there again? What did you find at home? Come now, you don’t mean that home still exists? Oh, Lord, how difficult and painful! Oh, don’t think, don’t think! How confused my thoughts are! What’s wrong with me, Tonya? I seem to be falling ill. What will become of me and of you all, Tonya, Tonechka, Tonya, Shurochka, Alexander Alexandrovich? O Light that never sets, why hast Thou rejected me from Thy presence?¹ Why are you borne away from me all my life? Why are we always apart? But we’ll soon be united, we’ll come together, right? I’ll reach you on foot, if it can’t be otherwise. We’ll see each other. Everything will go well again, right?

“But how can the earth not swallow me up, if I keep forgetting that Tonya was supposed to give birth and probably did give birth? It’s not the first time that I’ve shown this forgetfulness. How did her delivery go? How did she give birth? They stopped in Yuriatin on their way to Moscow. True, Lara doesn’t know them, but still this seamstress and hairdresser, a total stranger, wasn’t ignorant of their fate, yet Lara doesn’t say a word about them in her note. What strange inattention, smacking of indifference! As inexplicable as passing over in silence her relations with Samdevyatov.”

Here Yuri Andreevich looked around at the walls of the bedroom with a different, discerning eye. He knew that, of the things standing or hanging around him, not one belonged to Lara, and that the furnishings of the former owners, unknown and in hiding, in no way testified to Lara’s taste.

But all the same, be that as it may, he suddenly felt ill at ease among the men and women in enlarged photographs gazing from the walls. A spirit of hostility breathed on him from the crude furnishings. He felt himself foreign and superfluous in this bedroom.

And he, fool that he was, had remembered this house so many times, had missed it, and had entered this room, not as a space, but as his yearning for Lara! How ridiculous this way of feeling probably was from outside! Was this how strong, practical people like Samdevyatov, handsome males, lived and behaved and expressed themselves? And why should Lara prefer his spinelessness and the obscure, unreal language of his adoration? Did she have such need of this confusion? Did she herself want to be what she was for him?

And what was she for him, as he had just put it? Oh, to this question he always had the answer ready.

There outside is the spring evening. The air is all marked with sounds. The voices of children playing are scattered at various distances, as if to signify that the space is alive throughout. And this expanse is Russia, his incomparable one, renowned far and wide, famous mother, martyr, stubborn, muddle-headed, whimsical, adored, with her eternally majestic and disastrous escapades, which can never be foreseen! Oh, how sweet it is to exist! How sweet to live in the world and to love life! Oh, how one always longs to say thank you to life itself, to existence itself, to say it right in their faces!

And that is what Lara is. It is impossible to talk to them, but she is their representative, their expression, the gift of hearing and speech, given to the voiceless principles of existence.

And untrue, a thousand times untrue, was all that he had said about her in a moment of doubt. How precisely perfect and irreproachable everything is in her!

Tears of admiration and repentance clouded his vision. He opened the door of the stove and stirred inside with a poker. He pushed the burning, pure heat to the very back of the firebox and moved the as yet unburnt logs towards the front, where the draft was stronger. For some time he did not close the door. He enjoyed feeling the play of warmth and light on his face and hands. The shifting glimmer of the flames finally sobered him. Oh, how he missed her now, how he needed at that moment something tangible that came from her!

He took her crumpled note from his pocket. He unfolded it the other side up, not the way he had read it earlier, and only now noticed that there was writing on the other side as well. Having smoothed out the crumpled paper, he read in the dancing light of the burning stove:

“About your family you know. They are in Moscow. Tonya gave birth to a daughter.” This was followed by several crossed-out lines. Then there was: “I crossed it out, because it’s silly in a note. We’ll talk our fill face-to-face. I’m in a hurry, running to get a horse. I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t get one. With Katenka it will be hard …” The end of the phrase was smudged and he could not make it out.

“She ran to get a horse from Anfim, and probably got it, since she’s gone,” Yuri Andreevich reflected calmly. “If her conscience weren’t completely clear on that account, she wouldn’t have mentioned that detail.”

8

When the fire burned out, the doctor closed the flue and had a bite to eat. After eating he was overcome by a fit of invincible drowsiness. He lay down on the sofa without undressing and fell fast asleep. He did not hear the deafening and shameless uproar the rats raised outside the door and walls of the room. He had two oppressive dreams, one after the other.

He was in a room in Moscow, facing a glass door locked with a key, which, to make sure, he also held shut by pulling the door handle towards him. Outside the door, his boy Shurochka, in a child’s coat, sailor’s trousers and hat, pretty and miserable, thrashed and wept, asking to be let in. Behind the child, showering him and the door with spray, was a roaring and rumbling waterfall, either from burst pipes, an everyday phenomenon of that epoch, or perhaps there really was some wild mountain gorge coming right up to the door, with a furiously rushing stream and an age-old accumulation of cold and darkness.

The crash and roar of falling water frightened the boy to death. What he was crying could not be heard; the noise drowned out the boy’s cries. But Yuri Andreevich could see that his lips were forming the word “Papa! Papa!”

Yuri Andreevich’s heart was breaking. He wished with all his being to seize the boy in his arms, press him to his breast, and run off with him without looking back. But, flooding himself with tears, he pulled the handle of the locked door towards him, not letting the boy in, sacrificing him to falsely understood feelings of honor and duty before another woman, who was not the boy’s mother and who at any moment might come into the room from the other side.

Yuri Andreevich woke up in sweat and tears. “I have a fever. I’m falling ill,” he thought at once. “It’s not typhus. It’s some sort of heavy, dangerous fatigue that has taken the form of a sickness, some illness with a crisis, as in all serious infections, and the whole question is what will win out, life or death. But how I want to sleep!” And he fell asleep again.

He dreamed of a dark winter morning on a busy lit-up street in Moscow, by all tokens before the revolution, judging by the early street animation, the ringing of the first trams, the light of the street lamps that streaked with yellow the gray, predawn snow on the pavements.

He dreamed of a long, drawn-out apartment with many windows, all on one side, low over the street, probably on the second floor, with curtains lowered to the floor. In the apartment people in traveling clothes slept in various postures without undressing, and there was disorder, as on a train, leftover food on greasy, spread-out newspapers, gnawed bones of roast chicken, wings and legs, lay about, and on the floor in pairs, taken off for the night, stood the shoes of relatives and acquaintances, passersby and homeless people, come for a short stay. The hostess, Lara, in a hastily tied morning robe, rushed about the apartment from one end to the other, bustling quickly and noiselessly, and he followed on her heels, being a nuisance, trying giftlessly and inappropriately to clarify something, and she no longer had a moment for him, and to all his explanations she merely responded in passing by turning her head to him, by quiet, perplexed glances and innocent bursts of her incomparable, silvery laughter, the only forms of intimacy still left to them. And how distant, cold, and attractive she was, to whom he had given everything, whom he preferred to everything, and in contrast to whom he diminished and depreciated everything!

9

Not he, but something more general than he, sobbed and wept in him with tender and bright words, which shone like phosphorus in the darkness. And together with his weeping soul, he himself wept. He felt sorry for himself.

“I’m falling ill, I am ill,” he reflected in moments of lucidity, between the spells of sleep, feverish raving, and oblivion. “It’s some kind of typhus after all, not described in textbooks, which we didn’t study in medical school. I must prepare something, I must eat, otherwise I’ll die of hunger.”

But at the first attempt to raise himself on one elbow, he became convinced that he had no strength to stir, and either lay in a faint or fell asleep.

“How long have I been lying here, still dressed?” he reflected in one of these flashes. “How many hours? How many days? When I collapsed, spring was beginning. And now there’s frost on the window. So loose and dirty it makes the room dark.”

In the kitchen, rats overturned plates with a clatter, ran up the wall on the other side, let their heavy hulks drop to the floor, their weepy contralto voices squealing disgustingly.

And again he slept, and woke up to discover that the windows in the snowy net of frost were suffused with a rosy, burning glow, which shone in them like red wine poured in crystal glasses. And he did not know and asked himself what glow this was, of dawn or sunset?

Once he imagined human voices somewhere quite near, and he lost heart, deciding that this was the beginning of madness. With tears of pity for himself, he murmured against heaven in a voiceless whisper for having turned away from him and abandoned him. “O Light that never sets, why has Thou rejected me from Thy presence, and why has the alien darkness surrounded me, cursed as I am?”

And suddenly he realized that he was not dreaming and this was the fullest truth, that he was undressed and washed, and was lying in a clean shirt, not on the sofa, but on a freshly made bed, and that, mingling her hair with his and his tears with hers, Lara was weeping with him, and sitting by his bed, and leaning towards him. And he fainted from happiness.

10

In his recent delirium he had reproached heaven for its indifference, but now heaven in all its vastness had descended to his bed, and two big woman’s arms, white to the shoulders, reached out to him. His vision went dark with joy and, as one falls into oblivion, he dropped into bottomless bliss.

All his life he had been doing something, had been eternally busy, had worked about the house, had treated people, thought, studied, produced. How good it was to stop doing, striving, thinking, and to give himself for a time to this working of nature, to become a thing himself, a design, a work of her merciful, exquisite, beauty-lavishing hands!

Yuri Andreevich was recovering quickly. Lara nourished him, nursed him by her care, by her swan-white loveliness, by the moist-breathed, throaty whispering of her questions and answers.

Their hushed conversations, even the most trifling ones, were as filled with meaning as Plato’s dialogues.

Still more than by the communion of souls, they were united by the abyss that separated them from the rest of the world. They both had an equal aversion to all that was fatally typical in modern man, his studied rapturousness, his shrill elation, and that deadly winglessness which is assiduously spread by countless workers in the sciences and the arts, so that genius will go on being an extreme rarity.

Their love was great. But everyone loves without noticing the unprecedentedness of the feeling.

For them, however—and in this they were exceptional—those instants when the breath of passion flew like a breath of eternity into their doomed human existence, were moments of revelation and of learning ever new things about themselves and life.

11

“You absolutely must return to your family. I won’t keep you for a single extra day. But you see what’s going on. As soon as we merged with Soviet Russia, we were swallowed up by its devastation. Siberia and the East are plugging its holes. You don’t know anything. During your illness there have been such changes in town! The stores from our warehouses are being transported to the center, to Moscow. For her it’s a drop in the ocean, these supplies disappear into her as into a bottomless barrel, while we’re left without provisions. The mails don’t work, passenger transportation has ceased, express trains loaded with grain are all that run. There’s murmuring in town again, as there was before the Gajda uprising,² and again the Cheka rages in response to the signs of discontent.

“So where are you going to go like that, skin and bones, your soul barely keeping in your body? And on foot again? You won’t make it! Recover, get your strength back, then it’s another matter.

“I won’t venture to give advice, but in your place, before setting out for your family, I’d find a job for a while, in your specialty of course, they value that, I’d go to our board of health, for example. It’s still in the old medical center.

“Otherwise, judge for yourself. The son of a Siberian millionaire who blew his brains out, your wife the daughter of a local industrialist and landowner. Was with the partisans and ran away. Whatever you say, that’s quitting the military-revolutionary ranks, it’s desertion. In no case should you stay out of things, with no legal status. My situation isn’t very firm either. And I’m also going to work, I’m joining the provincial education department. The ground’s burning under my feet, too.”

“How do you mean? What about Strelnikov?”

“It’s burning because of Strelnikov. I told you before how many enemies he had. The Red Army is victorious. Now the nonparty military, who were close to the top and know too much, are going to get it in the neck. And lucky if it’s in the neck and not in the back, so as to leave no traces. Among them, Pasha is in the first rank. He’s in great danger. He was in the Far East. I heard he escaped and is in hiding. They say he’s being sought. But enough about him. I don’t like to cry, and if I add even one more word about him, I can feel I’ll start howling.”

“You loved him, even now you still love him very much?”

“But I’m married to him, he’s my husband, Yurochka. He has a lofty, shining character. I’m deeply guilty before him. I didn’t do anything bad to him, it would be wrong to say so. But he’s of enormous importance, a man of great, great uprightness, and I’m trash, I’m nothing beside him. That’s my guilt. But enough of that, please. I’ll come back to it myself some other time, I promise. How wonderful your Tonya is! A Botticelli. I was there at her delivery. She and I became terribly close. But of that, too, some other time, I beg you. Yes, so, let’s the two of us find work. We’ll both go to work. Each month we’ll get billions in salary. Until the last coup, we were using Siberian money. It was abolished quite recently, and for a long time, all through your illness, we lived without currency. Yes. Just imagine. It’s hard to believe, but we somehow managed. Now a whole trainload of paper money has been delivered to the former treasury, about forty cars, they say, not less. It’s printed on big sheets in two colors, blue and red, like postage stamps, and divided into little squares. The blue ones are worth five million a square, the red ones ten million. They fade quickly, the printing is bad, the colors run.”

“I’ve seen that money. It was introduced just before we left Moscow.”

12

“What were you doing so long in Varykino? There’s nobody there, it’s empty. What kept you there?”

“Katenka and I were cleaning your house. I was afraid you’d stop there first thing. I didn’t want you to find your home in such a state.”

“What state? Messy, disorderly?”

“Disorder. Filth. I cleaned it.”

“How evasively monosyllabic. You’re not telling everything, you’re hiding something. But as you will, I won’t try to find out. Tell me about Tonya. How did they christen the girl?”

“Masha. In memory of your mother.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Let me do it sometime later. I told you, I can barely keep back my tears.”

“This Samdevyatov, the one who gave you the horse, is an interesting figure. What do you think?”

“Most interesting.”

“I know Anfim Efimovich very well. He was a friend of our house here, he helped us in these new places.”

“I know. He told me.”

“You’re friends, probably? He tries to be useful to you, too?”

“He simply showers me with kindnesses. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“I can easily imagine. You’re probably in close, friendly relations, on simple terms? He’s probably making up to you for all he’s worth?”

“I’ll say. Relentlessly.”

“And you? Sorry. I’m overstepping the limits of the permissible. What right do I have to question you? Forgive me. It’s indelicate.”

“Oh, please. You’re probably interested in something else—what sort of relations we have? You want to know whether anything more personal has crept into our good acquaintance? Of course not. I’m obliged to Anfim Efimovich for a countless number of things, I’m roundly in debt to him, but even if he showered me with gold, if he gave his life for me, it wouldn’t bring me a step closer to him. I have an inborn hostility to people of that alien cast. In practical matters, these enterprising, self-assured, peremptory people are irreplaceable. In matters of the heart, such strutting, mustachioed male self-satisfaction is disgusting. I understand intimacy and life quite differently. But that’s not all. In the moral respect, Anfim reminds me of another, far more repulsive man, who is to blame for my being this way, thanks to whom I am what I am.”

“I don’t understand. Just how are you? What are you getting at? Explain. You’re the best of all people in the world.”

“Ah, Yurochka, how can you? I’m being serious with you, and you pay me compliments like in a drawing room. You ask how I am? I’m broken, I have a crack in me for all my life. I was made a woman prematurely, criminally early, and initiated into life from its worst side, in the false, boulevard interpretation of a self-confident aging parasite from former times, who profited from everything and allowed himself everything.”

“I can guess. I supposed there was something. But wait. It’s easy to imagine your unchildish pain of that time, the fear of frightened inexperience, the first offense of an immature girl. But that’s a thing of the past. I mean to say—to grieve over it now is not your concern, it’s that of the people who love you, like myself. It’s I who should tear my hair and feel desperate at being late, at not being with you then already, so as to prevent what happened, if it is truly a grief for you. Astonishing. It seems I can be deeply, mortally, passionately jealous only of what is beneath me or distant from me. Rivalry with a superior man calls up totally different feelings in me. If a man close to me in spirit and whom I love should fall in love with the same woman as I, I would have a feeling of sad brotherhood with him, not of dispute and competition. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to share the object of my adoration with him for a second. But I would withdraw with a feeling of suffering quite different from jealousy, not as smoldering and bloody. The same would happen if I should run into an artist who won me over with his superior ability in works similar to mine. I would probably renounce my search and not duplicate his attempts, which had defeated me.

“But I’ve gotten sidetracked. I don’t think I’d love you so deeply if you had nothing to complain of and nothing to regret. I don’t like the righteous ones, who never fell, never stumbled. Their virtue is dead and of little value. The beauty of life has not been revealed to them.”

“And I’m thinking precisely of that beauty. It seems to me that what’s needed in order to see it is intact imagination, primary perception. And that is just what was taken from me. Perhaps I would have formed my own view of life, if I hadn’t seen it, from the very first steps, with someone else’s vulgarizing stamp on it. But that’s not all. Because of the interference in my just-beginning life of an immoral, self-gratifying mediocrity, my subsequent marriage to a big and remarkable man did not work out, though he loved me deeply and I responded in the same way.”

“Wait. Tell me about your husband later. I told you, jealousy is usually aroused in me by an inferior, not an equal. I’m not jealous of your husband. But that one?”

“What ‘that one’?”

“That profligate, the one who ruined you. Who is he?”

“A well-known Moscow lawyer. He was my father’s associate, and after papa’s death he supported mama materially, when we were living in poverty. A bachelor with a fortune. I’m probably making him far too interesting and unsuitably significant by besmirching him like this. A very ordinary phenomenon. If you like, I’ll tell you his last name.”

“Never mind. I know it. I saw him once.”

“Really?”

“One time in a hotel room, when your mother poisoned herself. Late in the evening. We were still children, schoolboys.”

“Ah, I remember that time. You came and stood in the dark, in the front hall of the room. I might never have recalled that scene myself, but you helped me once to bring it back from oblivion. You reminded me of it, I think, in Meliuzeevo.”

“Komarovsky was there.”

“Was he? Quite possible. It was easy to find me with him. We were often together.”

“Why are you blushing?”

“From the sound of ‘Komarovsky’ on your lips. From the unwontedness and the unexpectedness.”

“A comrade of mine was with me, a schoolmate. Here’s what he told me right then in the hotel room. He recognized Komarovsky as a man he had seen one time by chance, in unforeseen circumstances. Once, while on a journey, this schoolboy, Mikhail Gordon, was eyewitness to the suicide of my father—a millionaire industrialist. Misha was riding on the same train with him. My father threw himself from the moving train with the intention of ending his life, and he was killed. He was in the company of Komarovsky, his lawyer. Komarovsky had encouraged my father’s drinking, gotten his affairs embroiled, driven him to bankruptcy, pushed him onto the path of ruin. He’s to blame for his suicide and for my being left an orphan.”

“It can’t be! What a portentous detail! Is it really true? So he was your evil genius, too? How that brings us together! Simply some sort of predestination!”

“It’s of him that I’m insanely, irremediably jealous over you.”

“What? Why, I not only don’t love him. I despise him.”

“Do you know your whole self so well? Human nature, especially woman’s, is so obscure and contradictory! In some corner of your aversion, you may be in greater subjection to him than to any other man, whom you love by your own goodwill, without constraint.”

“How horrible, what you’re saying. And, as usual, you say it so pointedly that this unnaturalness seems like the truth to me. But then how terrible it is!”

“Calm yourself. Don’t listen to me. I wanted to say that with you I’m jealous of what is obscure, unconscious, of something in which explanations are unthinkable, of something that cannot be puzzled out. I’m jealous of your toilet things, of the drops of sweat on your skin, of infectious diseases borne on the air, which may affect you and poison your blood. And, as of such an infection, I’m jealous of Komarovsky, who will one day take you from me, just as one day we will be separated by my death or yours. I know that this must seem like a heaping up of obscurities to you. I can’t say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.”

13

“Tell me more about your husband. ‘One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book,’ as Shakespeare says.”

“Where is it from?”

“Romeo and Juliet.”³

“I told you a lot about him in Meliuzeevo, when I was searching for him. And then here in Yuriatin, when you and I first met and I learned from your own words that he had wanted to arrest you on his train. I think I told you, but maybe I didn’t and it only seems so to me, that I saw him once from a distance when he was getting into a car. But you can imagine how protected he was! I found him almost unchanged. The same handsome, honest, resolute face, the most honest of any I’ve ever seen in the world. Not a trace of showing off, a manly character, a complete absence of posturing. He was always that way, and has remained that way. And yet I noticed one change, and it alarmed me.

“It was as if something abstract had entered into that look and discolored it. A living human face had turned into the embodiment, the principle, the portrayal of an idea. My heart was wrung when I noticed it. I realized it was the consequence of the powers whose hands he had given himself into, sublime but deadening and merciless powers, which someday would also not spare him. It seemed to me that he was marked, and that this was the finger of doom. But maybe I’m confused. Maybe your expressions sank into me, when you described your meeting to me. Besides the feelings we have in common, I also borrow a lot from you!”

“No, tell me about your life before the revolution.”

“Early in childhood I began to dream of purity. He was its realization. We were almost from the same courtyard. He and I and Galiullin. I was his childhood passion. He swooned, he went cold when he saw me. It’s probably not good for me to say it and know it. But it would be still worse if I pretended not to know. I was his childhood passion, that enslaving infatuation which one conceals, which a child’s pride doesn’t allow him to reveal, and which is written without words on his face and is obvious to everybody. We were friends. He and I are people as different as you and I are similar. Right then I chose him with my heart. I decided to join my life with this wonderful boy’s as soon as we had both made our way, and mentally I became engaged to him right then.

“And think what abilities he has! Extraordinary! The son of a simple switchman or railroad watchman, through nothing but his own giftedness and persistent work he achieved—I was about to say the level, but I should say the summit of contemporary university knowledge in two fields, mathematics and the humanities. That’s no joke!”

“In that case, what upset your domestic harmony, if you loved each other so much?”

“Ah, how hard it is to answer that. I’ll tell you about it right now. But it’s astonishing. Is it for me, a weak woman, to explain to you, who are so intelligent, what is now happening with life in general, with human life in Russia, and why families fall apart, yours and mine among them? Ah, as if it’s a matter of people, of similarities and dissimilarities of character, of loving and not loving. All that’s productive, settled, all that’s connected with habitual life, with the human nest and its order, all of it went to rack and ruin along with the upheaval of the whole of society and its reorganization. All everyday things were overturned and destroyed. What remained was the un-everyday, unapplied force of the naked soul, stripped of the last shred, for which nothing has changed, because in all times it was cold and trembling and drawing towards the one nearest to it, which is just as naked and lonely. You and I are like Adam and Eve, the first human beings, who had nothing to cover themselves with when the world began, and we are now just as unclothed and homeless at its end. And you and I are the last reminder of all those countless great things that have been done in the world in the many thousands of years between them and us, and in memory of those vanished wonders, we breathe and love, and weep, and hold each other, and cling to each other.”

14

After a pause, she went on much more calmly:

“I’ll tell you. If Strelnikov became Pashenka Antipov again. If he stopped his madness and rebellion. If time turned backwards. If somewhere far away, at the edge of the world, the window of our house miraculously lit up, with a lamp and books on Pasha’s desk, I think I would crawl there on my knees. Everything in me would be aroused. I would not resist the call of the past, the call of faithfulness. I would sacrifice everything. Even what’s most dear. You. And my intimacy with you, so easy, so unforced, so self-implied. Oh, forgive me. I’m not saying the right thing. It’s not true.”

She threw herself on his neck and burst into tears. But very soon she came to herself. Wiping her tears, she said:

“But it’s the same voice of duty that drives you to Tonya. Lord, how miserable we are! What will become of us? What are we to do?”

When she had completely recovered, she went on:

“Anyhow, I haven’t answered you yet about why our happiness fell apart. I understood it so clearly afterwards. I’ll tell you. It won’t be a story only about us. It became the fate of many people.”

“Speak, my bright one.”

“We were married just before the war, two years before it began. And we had just started living by our own wits, setting up house, when war was declared. I’m convinced now that it’s to blame for everything, all the subsequent misfortunes that keep overtaking our generation to this day. I remember my childhood well. I caught the time when the notions of the previous, peaceful age were still in force. It was held that one should trust the voice of reason. What was prompted by conscience was considered natural and necessary. The death of a man at the hands of another was a rarity, an extraordinary phenomenon, out of the common run. Murders, it was supposed, happened only in tragedies, in detective novels, and in newspaper chronicles of events, not in ordinary life.

“And suddenly this leap from serene, innocent measuredness into blood and screaming, mass insanity, and the savagery of daily and hourly, lawful and extolled murder.

“Probably this never goes unpaid for. You probably remember better than I do how everything all at once started going to ruin. Train travel, food supplies for the cities, the foundations of family life, the moral principles of consciousness.”

“Go on. I know what you’ll say further. How well you analyze it all! What a joy to listen to you!”

“Then untruth came to the Russian land. The main trouble, the root of the future evil, was loss of faith in the value of one’s own opinion. People imagined that the time when they followed the urgings of their moral sense was gone, that now they had to sing to the general tune and live by foreign notions imposed on everyone. The dominion of the ready-made phrase began to grow—first monarchistic, then revolutionary.

“This social delusion was all-enveloping, contagious. Everything fell under its influence. Our home couldn’t stand against this bane either. Something in it was shaken. Instead of the unconscious liveliness that had always reigned with us, a dose of foolish declamation crept into our conversations, some ostentatious, mandatory philosophizing on mandatory world themes. Could a man as subtle and self-demanding as Pasha, who could so unerringly distinguish essence from appearance, pass by this insidious falseness and not notice it?

“And here he committed a fatal error, which determined everything beforehand. He took the sign of the time, the social evil, for a domestic phenomenon. He attributed the unnatural tone, the official stiffness of our discussions to himself, he ascribed them to his being a dry stick, a mediocrity, a man in a case.⁴ To you it probably seems incredible that such trifles could mean anything in our life together. You can’t imagine how important it was, how many stupid things Pasha did because of that childishness.

“He went to the war, something nobody demanded of him. He did it to free us from himself, from his imaginary burden. That was the beginning of his follies. With some youthful, misdirected vanity, he took offense at something in life that one doesn’t take offense at. He began to pout at the course of events, at history. He began to quarrel with it. And to this day he’s settling accounts with it. Hence his defiant extravagances. He’s headed for certain ruin because of that stupid ambition. Oh, if only I could save him!”

“How incredibly purely and deeply you love him! Go on, go on loving him. I’m not jealous of him, I won’t hinder you.”

15

Summer came and went imperceptibly. The doctor recovered. Temporarily, in expectation of his supposed departure for Moscow, he took three posts. The quickly progressing devaluation of money forced him to juggle several jobs.

The doctor rose at cockcrow, stepped out on Kupecheskaya, and went down it past the Giant picture house to the former printing shop of the Ural Cossack army, now renamed the Red Typesetter. At the corner of City Square, on the door of Administrative Affairs, he came upon a plaque reading “Claims Office.” He crossed the square diagonally and came to Malaya Buyanovka Street. Past the Stanhope factory, through the hospital backyard, he arrived at the dispensary of the Military Hospital—the place of his main job.

Half his way lay under the shady trees hanging over the street, past whimsical, mostly wooden little houses with steeply cocked roofs, lattice fences, wrought-iron gates, and carved platbands on the shutters.

Next to the dispensary, in the former hereditary garden of the merchant’s wife Goregliadova, stood a curious little house in old Russian taste. It was faced with faceted, glazed tiles, the triangular facets coming together to form a peak pointing outwards, as in ancient Moscow boyar mansions.

Three or four times in the ten-day week, Yuri Andreevich left the dispensary and went to the former Ligetti house on Staraya Myasskaya, to meetings of the Yuriatin regional health commission, which was housed there.

In a totally different, remote quarter stood the house donated to the town by Anfim’s father, Efim Samdevyatov, in memory of his late wife, who had died in childbed giving birth to Anfim. In that house the Institute of Gynecology and Obstetrics founded by Samdevyatov used to be located. Now it accommodated the Rosa Luxemburg⁵ accelerated course in medicine and surgery. Yuri Andreevich taught general pathology and several noncompulsory subjects there.

He came back from all these duties at night, worn out and hungry, to find Larissa Fyodorovna in the heat of household chores, at the stove or over a tub. In this prosaic and homely appearance, disheveled, with her sleeves rolled up and her skirts tucked up, she was almost frightening in her regal, breathtaking attractiveness, more so than if he were suddenly to find her about to go to a ball, standing taller, as if she had grown on her high heels, in an open, low-cut dress and wide, rustling skirts.

She cooked or did laundry and then with the remaining soapy water washed the floors in the house. Or, calm and less flushed, she ironed and mended her own, his, and Katenka’s linen. Or, having finished with the cooking, laundry, and tidying up, she gave lessons to Katenka. Or, burying herself in textbooks, she occupied herself with her own political reeducation, before going back to the newly reformed school as a teacher.

The closer this woman and girl were to him, the less he dared to see them as family, the stricter was the prohibition imposed upon his way of thinking by his duty to his family and his pain at being unfaithful to them. In this limitation there was nothing offensive for Lara and Katenka. On the contrary, this nonfamily way of feeling contained a whole world of respect, excluding casualness and excessive familiarity.

But this split was always tormenting and wounding, and Yuri Andreevich got used to it as one gets used to an unhealed, often reopening wound.

16

Two or three months passed like this. One day in October Yuri Andreevich said to Larissa Fyodorovna:

“You know, it seems I’ll have to quit my job. It’s the old, eternally repeated story. It starts out as if nothing could be better. ‘We’re always glad of honest work. And still more of thoughts, especially new ones. How can we not encourage them? Welcome. Work, struggle, seek.’

“But experience shows that what’s meant by thoughts is only their appearance, a verbal garnish for the glorification of the revolution and the powers that be. It’s tiresome and sickening. And I’m no master in that department.

“And in fact they’re probably right. Of course I’m not with them. But it’s hard for me to reconcile with the thought that they’re heroes, shining lights, and I’m a petty soul, who stands for darkness and the enslavement of men. Have you ever heard the name of Nikolai Vedenyapin?”

“Well, of course. Before I met you, and later, from what you’ve often told me. Simochka Tuntseva mentions him often. She’s his follower. But I’m ashamed to say I haven’t read his books. I don’t like works devoted entirely to philosophy. I think philosophy should be used sparingly as a seasoning for art and life. To be occupied with it alone is the same as eating horseradish by itself. But forgive me, I’ve distracted you with my stupid talk.”

“No, on the contrary. I agree with you. That way of thinking is very close to me. Yes, so, about my uncle. Maybe I’ve really been spoiled by his influence. But they themselves shout with one voice: a brilliant diagnostician, a brilliant diagnostician! And it’s true I’m rarely mistaken in determining an illness. But that is precisely their detested intuition, which is alleged to be my sin, an integral knowledge that includes the whole picture.

“I’m obsessed by the question of mimicry, the external adaptation of organisms to the color of their environment. Here, hidden in this adjustment of color, is the astonishing transition from the internal to the external.

“I ventured to touch on it in my lectures. And off it went! ‘Idealism, mysticism! Goethe’s Naturphilosophie, neo-Schellingism!’⁶

“I’ve got to quit. I’ll turn in my resignation from the health commission and the institute, and try to hang on at the hospital until they throw me out. I don’t want to frighten you, but at times I have the feeling that I’ll be arrested one of these days.”

“God forbid, Yurochka. Fortunately, we’re still far from that. But you’re right. It won’t hurt to be more careful. As far as I’ve noticed, each time this young power installs itself, it goes through several stages. In the beginning it’s the triumph of reason, the critical spirit, the struggle against prejudices.

“Then comes the second period. The dark forces of the ‘hangers-on,’ the sham sympathizers, gain the majority. Suspiciousness springs up, denunciations, intrigues, hatred. And you’re right, we’re at the beginning of the second phase.

“No need to look far for an example. Two former political prisoners from the workers have been transferred from Khodatskoe to the board of the revolutionary tribunal here, a certain Tiverzin and Antipov.

“They both know me perfectly well, and one simply happens to be my father-in-law, my husband’s father. But in fact it’s only quite recently, since their transfer here, that I’ve begun to tremble for my and Katenka’s lives. Anything can be expected of them. Antipov has no great liking for me. They’re quite capable of destroying me and even Pasha one fine day in the name of higher revolutionary justice.”

The sequel to this conversation took place quite soon. By that time a night search had been carried out at 48 Malaya Buyanovka, next to the dispensary at the widow Goregliadova’s. In the house they found a cache of arms and uncovered a counterrevolutionary organization. Many people in town were arrested; the searches and arrests were still going on. In connection with this, it was whispered that some of the suspects had escaped across the river. Considerations were expressed, such as: “What good will it do them? There are rivers and rivers. There are, it must be said, certain rivers. In Blagoveshchensk-on-Amur, for instance, on one bank there’s Soviet power, and on the other—China. You jump into the water, swim across, and adyoo, it’s the last they see of you. That, you might say, is a river. A totally different story.”

“The atmosphere is thickening,” said Lara. “For us the safe time is past. We’ll undoubtedly be arrested, you and I. What will happen to Katenka then? I’m a mother. I must forestall misfortune and think up something. I must have a decision ready on that account. I lose my reason when I think of it.”

“Let’s consider. What will help here? Are we able to prevent this blow? After all, it’s a matter of fate.”

“There’s nowhere and no chance for escape. But we can withdraw somewhere into the shadows, into the background. For instance, go to Varykino. I keep thinking about the house in Varykino. It’s pretty far away, and everything’s abandoned there. But there we wouldn’t be in full view of everyone, as we are here. Winter’s coming. I’ll take on the work of wintering there. We’d gain a year of life before they get us, and that’s something. Samdevyatov would help me keep a connection with town. Maybe he’d agree to hide us. Eh? What do you say? True, there isn’t a soul there now, it’s eerie, deserted. At least it was in March when I went there. And they say there are wolves. Frightening. But people, especially people like Antipov or Tiverzin, are more frightening now than wolves.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. You yourself keep sending me to Moscow, persuading me not to put off going. It’s become easier now. I made inquiries at the station. They’ve evidently waved their hand at the black-marketeers. Evidently not all the stowaways are taken off the trains. They’ve grown tired of shooting people; shootings have become rarer.

“It troubles me that all my letters to Moscow have gone unanswered. I must get there and find out what has happened with my family. You keep saying that yourself. But then how understand your words about Varykino? Would you really go to that frightening wilderness without me?”

“No, without you, of course, it’s unthinkable.”

“And yet you’re sending me to Moscow?”

“Yes, that’s indispensable.”

“Listen. Do you know what? I have an excellent plan. Let’s go to Moscow. You and Katenka together with me.”

“To Moscow? You’re out of your mind. Why on earth? No, I have to stay. I must be in readiness somewhere nearby. Pashenka’s fate is being decided here. I must wait for the outcome, so as to be at hand in case of need.”

“Then let’s give some thought to Katenka.”

“From time to time Simushka stops by to see me, Sima Tuntseva. We were talking about her the other day.”

“Well, of course. I often see her at your place.”

“I’m surprised at you. Where are men’s eyes? If I were you, I’d certainly have fallen in love with her. So enchanting! Such fine looks! Tall. Shapely. Intelligent. Well-read. Kind. Clear-headed.”

“On the day I returned here from captivity, her sister, the seamstress Glafira, shaved me.”

“I know. The sisters live together with the eldest, Avdotya, the librarian. An honest, hardworking family. I want to persuade them, in the worst case, if you and I are picked up, to take Katenka into their charge. I haven’t decided yet.”

“But really only in the most hopeless case. And God grant that such a misfortune is still a long way off.”

“They say Sima’s a bit odd, not all there. In fact, one has to admit that she’s not an entirely normal woman. But that’s owing to her depth and originality. She’s phenomenally well educated, only not like the intelligentsia, but like the people. Your views and hers are strikingly similar. I would trust Katya to her upbringing with an easy heart.”

17

Again he went to the station and came back with nothing for his pains. Everything remained undecided. He and Lara were faced with uncertainty. It was a cold, dark day, as before the first snow. The sky over the intersections, where it spread wider than over the streets drawn out lengthwise, had a wintry look.

When Yuri Andreevich came home, he found Simushka visiting Lara. A talk was going on between the two that bore the character of a lecture read by the guest to the hostess. Yuri Andreevich did not want to disturb them. Besides, he wanted to be alone for a while. The women were talking in the next room. The door was ajar. A floor-length curtain hung from the lintel, through which he could hear every word of their conversation.

“I’ll sew, but don’t pay any attention to that, Simochka. I’m all ears. In my time I took courses in history and philosophy at the university. The structure of your thought is after my own heart. Besides, listening to you is such a relief for me. These last few nights we haven’t had enough sleep, because of various worries. My motherly duty towards Katenka is to assure her safety in case of possible troubles with us. I have to think soberly about her. I’m not particularly strong in that. It makes me sad to realize it. I’m sad from fatigue and lack of sleep. Your conversation calms me down. Besides, it’s going to snow any moment. When it snows, it’s such a pleasure to listen to long, intelligent reasoning. If you glance out the window when it’s snowing, it seems like somebody’s coming towards the house through the courtyard, doesn’t it? Begin, Simochka. I’m listening.”

“Where did we stop last time?”

Yuri Andreevich did not hear Lara’s reply. He began to follow what Sima was saying.

“It’s possible to make use of the words ‘culture’ and ‘epochs.’ But they are so differently understood. In view of the uncertainty of their meaning, we won’t resort to them. Let’s replace them with other expressions.

“I’d say that a human being is made up of two parts. Of God and work. The development of the human spirit breaks down into separate works of enormous duration. They were realized in the course of generations and followed one after the other. Egypt was such a work, Greece was such a work, the biblical prophets’ knowledge of God was such a work. Such a work—the latest in time, not yet supplanted by anything else, performed by the entire inspiration of our time—is Christianity.

“In order to present to you in all its freshness and unexpectedness, not as you yourself know and are used to it, but more simply, more directly, what it brought that was new and unprecedented, I’ll analyze several fragments of liturgical texts with you, very few and brief ones.

“Most hymns are formed by juxtaposing images from the Old and New Testaments. Instances from the old world—the burning bush, the exodus of the Jews from Egypt, the youths in the fiery furnace, Jonah in the belly of the whale, and so on—are compared with instances from the new, for example, the Mother of God’s conception and the Resurrection of Christ.

“In this frequent, almost constant matching, the oldness of the old, the newness of the new, and their difference appear with particular distinctness.

“In a whole multitude of verses, the virgin motherhood of Mary is compared with the crossing of the Red Sea by the Jews. For instance, in the verses of ‘In the Red Sea, a type of the virgin bride was figured’ it is said: ‘After Israel’s passage, the sea remained impassable; after Emmanuel’s birth the undefiled one remained intact.’⁷ In other words, the waters of the sea closed after the crossing of Israel, and the Virgin remained intact after giving birth to the Lord. What sort of incidents are made parallel here? Both events are supernatural, both are equally recognized as miracles. In what did these two different times, the ancient, primitive time and the new, post-Roman time, which was far more advanced, see a miracle?

“In the one case, by the command of the people’s leader, the patriarch Moses, and by the swinging of his magic rod, the sea opens up, lets a whole nation pass across it, a countless multitude, hundreds of thousands, and when the last one has crossed, closes again, and covers and drowns the pursuing Egyptians. A spectacle in the ancient spirit, the elements obedient to the magician’s voice, the great thronging multitudes, like Roman armies on the march, the people and their leader, things visible and invisible, stunning.

“In the other case, a maiden—an ordinary thing, the ancient world wouldn’t have paid attention to it—secretly and quietly gives life to a child, brings life into the world, the miracle of life, the life of all, He who is ‘the Life of all,’ as he was later called. Her childbirth is unlawful not only from the point of view of the scribes, being outside wedlock. It also contradicts the laws of nature. The maiden gives birth not by force of necessity, but by miracle, by inspiration. It is that very inspiration upon which the Gospel, by opposing the exception to the rule and the feast to the everyday, wants to build a life contrary to all constraint.

“What an enormously significant change! How is it that for heaven (because it is in the eyes of heaven that this must be evaluated, before the face of heaven, in the sacred framework of uniqueness in which it is all accomplished)—how is it that for heaven a private human circumstance, negligible from the point of view of antiquity, became equivalent to the migration of an entire people?

“Something shifted in the world. Rome ended, the power of numbers, the necessity, imposed by arms, of living en masse, as a whole population. Leaders and nations became things of the past.

“The person, the preaching of freedom came to supplant them. An individual human life became God’s story, filling the space of the universe with its content. As it’s said in one of the hymns of the Annunciation, Adam wanted to become God and made a mistake and did not become Him, but now ‘God becomes man, so as to make Adam God.’ ”⁸

Sima went on:

“I’ll tell you something else on that same theme in a moment. But meanwhile a small digression. In relation to the care for workers, the protection of mothers, the struggle with the power of capital, our revolutionary time is an unprecedented, unforgettable time, with achievements that will abide for a long time, forever. As for the understanding of life, the philosophy of happiness that’s being propagated now, it’s simply hard to believe that it’s spoken seriously, it’s such a ridiculous remnant. These declamations about leaders and people could send us back to Old Testament times of cattle-breeding tribes and patriarchs, if they had the power to reverse the course of time and throw history back thousands of years. Fortunately, that’s impossible.

“A few words about Christ and Mary Magdalene. This isn’t from the Gospel account of her, but from the prayers of Holy Week, I think from Holy Tuesday or Wednesday. But you know that without me, Larissa Fyodorovna. I simply want to remind you of a thing or two, and not at all to lecture you.

“ ‘Passion’ in Slavonic, as you know perfectly well, first of all means ‘suffering,’ the Passion of our Lord, ‘the Lord goeth to His voluntary passion’ (that is, to His voluntary suffering). Besides that, the word is used in the later Russian meaning of vices and lusts. ‘Having enslaved the dignity of my soul to passions, I turned into a beast,’ ‘Having been expelled from paradise, let us strive to enter it by abstention from passions,’ and so on. I’m probably very depraved, but I don’t like the pre-Easter readings in that line, devoted to harnessing sensuality and mortifying the flesh. It always seems to me that these crude, flat prayers, lacking in the poetry proper to other spiritual texts, were composed by greasy, fat-bellied monks. And the point is not that they themselves did not live by their own rules and deceived others. Suppose they even lived according to conscience. The point isn’t them, but the content of these texts. These laments give unnecessary significance to various infirmities of the body and to whether it is well-fed or famished. It’s disgusting. Here a dirty, inessential secondariness is raised to an undue, inappropriate height. Forgive me for putting off the main thing like this. I’ll reward you presently for the delay.

“It has always interested me why the mention of Mary Magdalene is placed just before Easter, on the threshold of Christ’s end and His resurrection. I don’t know the reason, but the reminder of what life is comes so timely at the moment of taking leave of it and on the threshold of its return. Now listen with what genuine passion, with what directness regardless of anything, this mention is made.

“There’s a debate about whether it’s Mary Magdalene, or Mary of Egypt, or some other Mary. Whoever she may be, she asks the Lord: ‘Loose my debt as I have loosed my hair.’ That is: ‘Release me from guilt, just as I have released my hair.’ How materially the thirst for forgiveness, for repentance, is expressed! You can touch it with your hands.

“And there is a similar exclamation in another hymn for the same day, a more detailed one, which we can refer with greater certainty to Mary Magdalene.

“Here, with terrible tangibility, she laments for her past, for the fact that every night her former, inveterate habits flare up in her. ‘For I live in the night of licentiousness, shrouded in the dark and moonless love of sin.’ She asks Christ to accept her tears of repentance and incline His ear to the sighing of her heart, so that she may wipe His most pure feet with her hair, with which the stunned and ashamed Eve covered herself in paradise. ‘Once Eve heard Thy footstep in paradise in the cool of day and in fear ran and hid herself. But now I will tenderly embrace those pure feet and wipe them with the hair of my head.’ And suddenly, right after this about her hair, an exclamation is wrung from her: ‘Who can measure the multitude of my sins, or the depth of Thy judgments?’ What intimacy, what equality of God and life, of God and a person, of God and a woman!”⁹

18

Yuri Andreevich had come back tired from the station. This was his one day off every ten days. Usually on those days he made up in sleep for the whole week. He sat leaning back on the sofa, at times half reclining or stretching out full length on it. Though he listened to Sima through surging waves of drowsiness, her reasoning delighted him. “Of course, it’s all from Uncle Kolya,” he thought, “but how talented and intelligent she is!”

He jumped up from the sofa and went to the window. It gave onto the courtyard, as did the one in the next room, where Lara and Simushka were now whispering indistinctly.

The weather was worsening. It was getting dark in the courtyard. Two magpies flew into the yard and began flying around, looking for a place to light. The wind slightly fluffed and ruffled their feathers. The magpies lighted on the lid of a trash bin, flew over to the fence, came down to the ground, and began walking about the yard.

“Magpies mean snow,” thought the doctor. At the same time he heard Sima tell Lara behind the curtain:

“Magpies mean news,” Sima was saying. “You’re going to have guests. Or receive a letter.”

A little later the doorbell on its wire, which Yuri Andreevich had recently repaired, rang outside. Larissa Fyodorovna came from behind the curtain and with quick steps went to the front hall to open the door. From her conversation, Yuri Andreevich understood that Sima’s sister, Glafira Severinovna, had come.

“Do you want your sister?” asked Larissa Fyodorovna. “Simushka’s here.”

“No, not her. Though why not? We’ll go together, if she’s ready to go home. No, I’ve come for something else. There’s a letter for your friend. He can be thankful I once worked at the post office. It passed through so many hands and landed in mine through an acquaintance. From Moscow. It took five months to come. They couldn’t find the addressee. But I know who he is. I gave him a shave once.”

The letter, long, on several pages, crumpled, soiled, in an unsealed and disintegrating envelope, was from Tonya. The doctor was not fully conscious of how he came to be holding it; he had not noticed Lara handing it to him. When the doctor began to read the letter, he still remembered what town he was in, and in whose house, but as he read, he began to lose that awareness. Sima came out, greeted him, and began saying good-bye. Mechanically, he made the proper response, but paid no attention to her. Her leaving fell out of his consciousness. He was gradually becoming more fully oblivious of where he was and what was around him.

“Yura,” Antonina Alexandrovna wrote to him, “do you know that we have a daughter? She was christened Masha, in memory of your late mother, Marya Nikolaevna.

“Now about something else entirely. Several well-known social figures, professors from the CD Party and socialists of the right, Melgunov, Kiesewetter, Kuskova, some others, as well as Uncle Nikolai Alexandrovich Gromeko, papa, and we as members of his family, are being deported from Russia.¹⁰

“This is a misfortune, especially in your absence, but we must submit and thank God for such a soft form of exile in such a terrible time, for it could be much worse. If you had been found and were here, you would come with us. But where are you now? I am sending this letter to Antipova’s address, she will hand it on to you, if she finds you. I suffer from uncertainty, whether afterwards, when—if it is so fated—you are found, they will extend to you, as a member of our family, the permission to leave that we have all been granted. It is my belief that you are alive and will be found. My loving heart tells me so and I trust its voice. It is possible that, by the time you are discovered, the conditions of life in Russia will have softened, and you will be able to obtain separate permission for a trip abroad, and we will all gather again in one place. But as I write it, I myself do not believe that such happiness can come true.

“The whole trouble is that I love you and you do not love me. I try to find the meaning of this condemnation, to interpret it, to justify it, I rummage, I delve into myself, going through our whole life and everything I know about myself, and I cannot see the beginning and cannot recall what I did and how I brought this misfortune upon myself. You look at me somehow wrongly, with unkind eyes, you see me twistedly, as in a distorting mirror.

“And yet I love you. Ah, how I love you, if only you could imagine! I love every peculiarity in you, all that is advantageous and disadvantageous, all your ordinary aspects, dear in their unusual combination, your face ennobled by inner content, which without that might seem unattractive, your talent and intelligence, which have as if taken the place of a total lack of will. All this is dear to me, and I do not know a man who is better than you.

“But listen, do you know what I shall tell you? Even if you were not so dear to me, even if I did not like you so much, still the deplorable truth of my coldness would not have been revealed to me, still I would think that I loved you. From fear alone of the humiliating, annihilating punishment that non-love is, I would unconsciously beware of realizing that I did not love you. Neither I nor you would ever find it out. My own heart would conceal it from me, because non-love is almost like murder, and I would be unable to deal such a blow to anyone.

“Though nothing has been finally decided yet, we are probably going to Paris. I will get to those far-off lands where you were taken as a boy and where papa and my uncle were brought up. Papa sends his greetings. Shura has grown, he’s not so handsome, but he has become a big, strong boy and always cries bitterly, inconsolably, at the mention of you. I can’t go on. My heart is bursting with tears. So, farewell. Let me make the cross over you for this whole unending separation, the trials, the uncertainty, for the whole of your long, long, obscure path. I do not blame you for anything, I do not have a single reproach; shape your life as you want it to be, so long as it is good for you.

“Before leaving the dreadful and, for us, so fateful Urals, I came to know Larissa Fyodorovna quite closely. I owe her my thanks, she was constantly there when it was hard for me, and helped me during the delivery. I must tell you frankly that she is a good person, but I do not want to play the hypocrite—she is the complete opposite of me. I was born into this world to simplify life and seek the right way through, and she in order to complicate and confuse it.

“Farewell, I must end. They have come to take the letter and it is time to pack. Oh, Yura, Yura, my dear, my darling, my husband, father of my children, what is all this? We will never, ever see each other again. There, I have written these words, do you clearly make out their meaning? Do you understand, do you understand? They are hurrying me, and it is a sure sign that they have come to take me to my execution. Yura! Yura!”

Yuri Andreevich looked up from the letter with an absent, tearless gaze, not directed anywhere, dry from grief, devastated by suffering. He saw nothing around him, he was conscious of nothing.

Outside the window it began to snow. Wind carried the snow obliquely, ever faster and ever denser, as if trying all the while to make up for something, and the way Yuri Andreevich stared ahead of him through the window was as if it were not snow falling but the continued reading of Tonya’s letter, and not dry starlike flakes that raced and flashed, but small spaces of white paper between small black letters, white, white, endless, endless.

Yuri Andreevich involuntarily moaned and clutched his chest. He felt faint, made several hobbling steps towards the couch, and collapsed on it unconscious.