“Yura, Yura!” the yard porter Markel is calling him from somewhere close by. They are carrying out the coffin. Markel has to take the wreaths down to the street, and he cannot find Yura, and besides he has gotten stuck in the bedroom, because the door is blocked by the open door of the wardrobe, preventing Markel from coming out.
“Markel! Markel! Yura!” they call for them from downstairs. With one shove, Markel makes short work of the obstruction and runs downstairs with several wreaths.
“Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal”—gently drifts down the lane and lingers there, like a soft ostrich feather passing through the air, and everything sways: the wreaths and the passersby, the plumed heads of the horses, the censer swinging on its chain in the priest’s hand, the white earth underfoot.
“Yura! My God, at last. Wake up, please,” Shura Schlesinger, who has finally found him, shakes him by the shoulder. “What’s the matter with you? They’re carrying out the coffin. Are you coming?”
“Why, of course.”
17
The funeral service was over. The beggars, shifting their feet from the cold, moved closer together in two files. The hearse, the gig with the wreaths, and the Krügers’ carriage swayed and moved slightly. The cabs drew nearer to the church. The weeping Shura Schlesinger came out and, raising her tear-dampened veil, passed an inquisitive glance over the line of cabs. Finding the pallbearers from the funeral home among them, she beckoned for them to come and disappeared into the church with them. More and more people were pouring out of the church.
“So it’s Ann-Ivanna’s turn. Paid her respects, poor little thing, and drew herself a one-way ticket.”
“Yes, she’s done flitting about, poor thing. The butterfly’s gone to her rest.”
“Have you got a cab, or will you take the number eleven?”
“My legs are stiff. Let’s walk a bit and then catch the tram.”
“Did you notice how upset Fufkov is? He stared at the newly departed, tears pouring down, blowing his nose, as if he could devour her. And the husband right there beside him.”
“Ogled her all his life.”
With such conversations, they dragged themselves off to the cemetery at the other end of town. That day there was a let-up after the severe frost. The day was filled with a motionless heaviness, a day of diminished frost and departed life, a day as if created for a burial by nature herself. The dirtied snow seemed to shine through a covering of crape; from behind the fences wet fir trees, dark as tarnished silver, kept watch and looked as if they were dressed in mourning.
This was that same memorable cemetery, the resting place of Marya Nikolaevna. Yura had not found his way to his mother’s grave at all in recent years. “Mama,” he whispered almost with the lips of those years, looking towards it from far off.
They dispersed solemnly and even picturesquely along the cleared paths, whose evasive meandering accorded poorly with the mournful measuredness of their steps. Alexander Alexandrovich led Tonya by the arm. The Krügers followed them. Mourning was very becoming to Tonya.
Shaggy hoarfrost, bearded like mold, covered the chains of the crosses on the cupolas and the pink monastery walls. In the far corner of the monastery courtyard, ropes were stretched from wall to wall with laundered linen hung out to dry—shirts with heavy, waterlogged sleeves, peach-colored tablecloths, crooked, poorly wrung-out sheets. Yura looked at it more intently and realized that it was the place on the monastery grounds, now changed by new buildings, where the blizzard had raged that night.
Yura walked on alone, quickly getting ahead of the rest, stopping now and then to wait for them. In response to the devastation produced by death in this company slowly walking behind him, he wanted, as irresistibly as water whirling in a funnel rushes into the deep, to dream and think, to toil over forms, to bring forth beauty. Now, as never before, it was clear to him that art is always, ceaselessly, occupied with two things. It constantly reflects on death and thereby constantly creates life. Great and true art, that which is called the Revelation of St. John and that which goes on to finish it.
Yura longingly anticipated his disappearance for a day or two from family and university horizons and would put into his memorial lines for Anna Ivanovna all that turned up at that moment, all the chance things that life put in his way: two or three of the dead woman’s best characteristics; the image of Tonya in mourning; several observations in the street on the way back from the cemetery; the washed laundry in the place where one night long ago a blizzard had howled and he had wept as a little boy.
*Great ring! Chinese chain!
* A waltz please!
* In triple time, in double time.
* Back to front.
Part Four
IMMINENT INEVITABILITIES
1
Lara lay half delirious in the bedroom on Felitsata Semyonovna’s bed. Around her the Sventitskys, Dr. Drokov, the servants were whispering.
The Sventitskys’ empty house was sunk in darkness, and only in the middle of the long suite of rooms, in a small sitting room, was there a dim wall lamp burning, casting its light up and down the length of this single extended hallway.
Through it, not like a guest, but as if he were in his own home, Viktor Ippolitovich paced rapidly with angry and resolute steps. Now he looked into the bedroom to ask what was going on there, now he set off for the opposite end of the house and, going past the Christmas tree with its strings of silver beads, came to the dining room, where the table was laden with untouched food and the green wineglasses tinkled whenever a carriage drove by outside the window or a little mouse darted over the tablecloth among the dishes.
Komarovsky stormed and raged. Contradictory feelings crowded in his breast. What scandal and indecency! He was furious. His position was threatened. The incident might undermine his reputation. He had at all costs to forestall, to cut short any gossip before it was too late, and if the news had already spread, to hush up, to stifle the rumors at their source. Besides that, he again experienced how irresistible this desperate, crazy girl was. You could see at once that she was not like everyone else. There had always been something extraordinary about her. Yet how painfully and, apparently, irreparably he had mutilated her life! How she thrashes about, how she rises up and rebels all the time, striving to remake her fate in her own way and begin to exist over again!
He has to help her from all points of view, perhaps to rent a room for her, but in any case not to touch her; on the contrary, to withdraw completely, to step aside, so as to cast no shadow, otherwise, being what she is, she might just pull something else for all he knows.
And there’s so much trouble ahead! You don’t get patted on the head for such things. The law never naps. It’s still night and less than two hours since the incident took place, but the police had already come twice, and Komarovsky had gone to the kitchen to have a talk with the police officer and settle it all.
And the further it goes, the more complicated it will get. They’ll demand proof that Lara was aiming at him and not at Kornakov. But things won’t end there. Part of the responsibility will be taken off Lara, but she will be liable to prosecution for the rest.
Naturally, he will do everything in his power to prevent that, and if proceedings are started, he will obtain findings from psychiatric experts that Lara was not answerable at the moment of the shooting, and have the case dropped.
After these thoughts Komarovsky began to calm down. The night was over. Streaks of light began to dart from room to room, peeking under the tables and sofas like thieves or pawnshop appraisers.
Having stopped at the bedroom and learned that Lara was no better, Komarovsky left the Sventitskys’ and went to see a lady of his acquaintance, Rufina Onisimovna Voit-Voitkovskaya, a lawyer and the wife of a political émigré. Her eight-room apartment now exceeded her needs and was beyond her means. She rented out two rooms. One of them had recently been vacated, and Komarovsky took it for Lara. A few hours later Lara was transported there with a high
temperature and half-conscious. She had brain fever.
2
Rufina Onisimovna was a progressive woman, the enemy of prejudice, the well-wisher, as she thought and expressed it, of all that was “positive and viable” around her.
On her chest of drawers lay a copy of the Erfurt Program with a dedication by the author. One of the photographs pinned to the wall showed her husband, “my good Voit,” at a popular fairground in Switzerland together with Plekhanov.1 They were both wearing lustrine jackets and panama hats.
Rufina Onisimovna disliked her sick lodger at first glance. She considered Lara an inveterate malingerer. Lara’s fits of delirium seemed a pure sham to Rufina Onisimovna. She was ready to swear that Lara was playing the mad Gretchen in prison.2
Rufina Onisimovna expressed her contempt for Lara by a heightened animation. She slammed doors and sang loudly, rushed like a whirlwind around her part of the apartment, and spent whole days airing out the rooms.
Her apartment was on the top floor of a big house on the Arbat. The windows of this floor, starting with the winter solstice, were filled to overflowing with light blue sky, wide as a river in flood. For half the winter the apartment was full of signs of the coming spring, its harbingers.
A warm breeze from the south blew through the vent windows, locomotives howled rendingly in the train stations, and the ailing Lara, lying in bed, gave herself at leisure to distant memories.
Very often she remembered the first evening of their arrival in Moscow from the Urals, seven or eight years ago, in her unforgettable childhood.
They rode in a hack through semidark lanes across the whole of Moscow, from the train station to the hotel. The street lamps, approaching and withdrawing, cast the shadow of their hunched cabby on the walls of the buildings. The shadow grew, grew, reached unnatural dimensions, covered the pavement and the roofs, then dropped away. And everything began again.
In the darkness overhead the forty-times-forty Moscow churches rang their bells, on the ground horse-drawn streetcars drove around clanging, but the gaudy shop windows and lights also deafened Lara, as if they, too, gave out a sound of their own, like the bells and wheels.
In the hotel room, she was stunned by an unbelievably huge watermelon on the table, Komarovsky’s welcoming gift in their new lodgings. The watermelon seemed to Lara a symbol of Komarovsky’s imperiousness and of his wealth. When Viktor Ippolitovich, with a stroke of the knife, split in two the loudly crunching, dark green, round marvel, with its ice-cold, sugary insides, Lara’s breath was taken away from fear, but she did not dare refuse. She forced herself to swallow the pink, fragrant pieces, which stuck in her throat from agitation.
And this timidity before the costly food and the nighttime capital was then repeated in her timidity before Komarovsky—the main solution to all that came after. But now he was unrecognizable. He demanded nothing, gave no reminders of himself, and did not even appear. And, keeping his distance, constantly offered his help in the noblest way.
Kologrivov’s visit was quite another matter. Lara was very glad to see Lavrenty Mikhailovich. Not because he was so tall and stately, but owing to the liveliness and talent he exuded, the guest took up half the room with himself, his sparkling eyes, and his intelligent smile. The room became crowded.
He sat by Lara’s bed rubbing his hands. When he was summoned to the council of ministers in Petersburg, he talked with the old dignitaries as if they were prankish schoolboys. But here before him lay a recent part of his domestic hearth, something like his own daughter, with whom, as with everyone at home, he exchanged glances and remarks only in passing and fleetingly (this constituted the distinctive charm of the brief, expressive communications, both sides knew that). He could not treat Lara gravely and indifferently, like a grown-up. He did not know how to talk with her so as not to offend her, and so he said, smiling to her, as to a child:
“What’s this you’re up to, my dearest? Who needs these melodramas?” He fell silent and started examining the damp spots on the ceiling and wallpaper. Then, shaking his head reproachfully, he went on: “An exhibition is opening in Düsseldorf, an international one—of painting, sculpture, and gardening. I’m going. Your place is a bit damp. How long do you intend to hang between heaven and earth? There’s not much elbow room here, God knows. This Voitessa, just between us, is perfect trash. I know her. Move. Enough lolling about. You’ve been sick and there’s an end to it. Time to get up. Move to another room, go back to your studies, finish school. There’s an artist I know. He’s going to Turkestan for two years. His studio is divided up by partitions, and, strictly speaking, it’s a whole little apartment. It seems he’s prepared to leave it, together with the furnishings, in good hands. Would you like me to arrange it? And there’s also this. Let me talk business. I’ve long been meaning, it’s my sacred duty … Since Lipa … Here’s a small sum, a bonus for her graduation … No, let me, let me … No, I beg you, don’t be stubborn … No, excuse me, please.”
And, on leaving, he forced her, despite her objections, tears, and even something like a scuffle, to accept from him a bank check for ten thousand.
On recovering, Lara moved to the new hearth so praised by Kologrivov. The place was right next to the Smolensk market. The apartment was on the upper floor of a small, two-story stone building of old construction. The ground floor was used as a warehouse. The inhabitants were draymen. The inner courtyard was paved with cobbles and always covered with spilled oats and scattered hay. Pigeons strutted about, cooing. Their noisy flock would flutter up from the ground no higher than Lara’s window when a pack of rats scurried along the stone gutter in the yard.
3
There was much grief to do with Pasha. While Lara was seriously ill, they would not let him see her. What must he have felt? Lara had wanted to kill a man who, in Pasha’s understanding, was indifferent to her, and had then ended up under the patronage of that same man, the victim of her unsuccessful murder. And all that after their memorable conversation on a Christmas night, with the burning candle! Had it not been for this man, Lara would have been arrested and tried. He had warded off the punishment that threatened her. Thanks to him, she had remained at school, safe and sound. Pasha was tormented and perplexed.
When she was better, Lara invited Pasha to come to her. She said:
“I’m bad. You don’t know me; someday I’ll tell you. It’s hard for me to speak, you see, I’m choking with tears, but drop me, forget me, I’m not worthy of you.”
Heartrending scenes followed, one more unbearable than the other. Voitkovskaya—because this happened while Lara was still living on the Arbat—Voitkovskaya, seeing the tearful Pasha, rushed from the corridor to her side, threw herself on the sofa, and laughed herself sick, repeating: “Ah, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it! No, I must say, that’s really … Ha, ha, ha! A mighty man! Ha, ha, ha! Eruslan Lazarevich!”3
To rid Pasha of this defiling attachment, to tear it out by the root and put an end to his suffering, Lara announced to Pasha that she flatly refused him, because she did not love him, but she sobbed so much as she uttered this renunciation that it was impossible to believe her. Pasha suspected her of all the deadly sins, did not believe a single word of hers, was ready to curse and hate her, and loved her devilishly, and was jealous of her thoughts, of the mug she drank from, and of the pillow she lay on. So as not to lose their minds, they had to act resolutely and quickly. They decided to get married without delay, even before the end of examinations. The plan was to marry on the first Sunday after Easter. The marriage was postponed again at Lara’s request.
They were married on the Day of the Holy Spirit, the Monday after the feast of Pentecost, when there was no doubt of their successful graduation. It was all organized by Liudmila Kapitonovna Chepurko, the mother of Tusya Chepurko, Lara’s classmate, who graduated with her. Liudmila Kapitonovna was a beautiful woman with a high bosom and a low voice, a good singer, and terribly inventive. On top of the actual superstitions and beliefs known to her, s
he spontaneously invented a multitude of her own.
It was terribly hot in town when Lara was “led under the golden crown,” as Liudmila Kapitonovna murmured to herself in the bass voice of the Gypsy Panina,4 as she dressed Lara before setting off. The gilded cupolas of the churches and the fresh sand of the walks were piercingly yellow. The dusty birch greens cut the day before for Pentecost hung downcast on the church fences, rolled up in little tubes and as if scorched. It was hard to breathe, and everything rippled before one’s eyes from the sunshine. And it was as if thousands of weddings were being celebrated round about, because all the girls had their hair in curls and were dressed in white like brides, and all the young men, on the occasion of the feast, had their hair pomaded and were wearing tight-fitting two-piece suits. And everyone was excited, and everyone was hot.
Lagodina, the mother of another of Lara’s classmates, threw a handful of silver coins under Lara’s feet as she stepped onto the rug, to signify future wealth, and Liudmila Kapitonovna, with the same purpose, advised Lara, when she was standing under the crown, not to cross herself with her bare arm sticking out, but to half cover it with gauze or lace. Then she told Lara to hold the candle high and she would have the upper hand in the house. But, sacrificing her future in favor of Pasha’s, Lara held the candle as low as possible, though all in vain, for no matter how she tried, it always came out that her candle was higher than his.
From the church they went straight to a party in the artist’s studio, which was also the Antipovs’ housewarming. The guests shouted: “Bitter, we can’t drink it!” And in reply from the other end they roared in unison: “Make it sweeter!” And the newlyweds smiled bashfully and kissed. In their honor, Liudmila Kapitonovna sang “The Vineyard” with its double refrain, “God grant you love and concord,” and the song “Be undone, thick braid, fall free, golden hair.”
Doctor Zhivago Page 13