Doctor Zhivago

by Boris Pasternak

  At his sides stood two silent stalwarts of his guard, the same age as he, in white sheepskin vests that had had time to turn gray, with curly lambswool showing at the edges. Their handsome, stony faces showed nothing but blind devotion to their superior and a readiness for anything for his sake. They remained indifferent to the meeting, the questions touched upon at it, the course of the debate, did not speak, and did not smile.

  Besides these people, there were another ten or fifteen men in the shed. Some stood, others sat on the floor with their legs stretched out or their knees sticking up, leaning against the wall and its roundly projecting caulked logs.

  For the guests of honor, chairs had been provided. They were occupied by three or four workers, former participants in the first revolution, among them the sullen, changed Tiverzin and his friend, old Antipov, who always yessed him. Counted among the divinities at whose feet the revolution laid all its gifts and sacrifices, they sat like silent, stern idols in whom political arrogance had exterminated everything alive and human.

  There were other figures worthy of attention in the shed. Not knowing a moment’s peace, getting up from the floor and sitting down again, pacing the shed and stopping in the middle of it, was the pillar of Russian anarchism, Vdovichenko the Black Banner, a fat giant with a big head, a big mouth, and a leonine mane, an officer, if not in the last Russo-Turkish War, then at least in the Russo-Japanese War, a dreamer eternally absorbed in his ravings.

  By reason of his boundless good nature and gigantic height, which kept him from noticing events of unequal and smaller size, he treated all that was happening with insufficient attention and, misunderstanding everything, took opposite opinions for his own and agreed with everybody.

  Next to his place on the floor sat his acquaintance, the forest hunter and trapper Svirid. Though Svirid did not live as a peasant, his earthy, soil-tilling essence showed through the opening of his dark broadcloth shirt, which he bunched up at the collar together with his cross and scraped and drove over his body, scratching his chest. He was a half-Buryat muzhik, amiable and illiterate, with hair that lay in flat strands, sparse mustaches, and a still more sparse beard of a few hairs. His face, puckering all the time in a sympathetic smile, looked aged because of its Mongolian features.

  The lecturer, who was traveling around Siberia with military instructions from the Central Committee, wandered in his mind over the vast spaces he was still to cover. He regarded the majority of those present at the meeting with indifference. But, a revolutionary and lover of the people from early on, he looked with adoration at the young general who sat facing him. He not only forgave the boy all his rudeness, which the old man took for the voice of an ingrained, latent revolutionism, but regarded with admiration his casual sallies, as a woman in love may like the insolent unceremoniousness of her lord and master.

  The partisan leader was Mikulitsyn’s son Liberius; the lecturer from the center was the former cooperative laborist Kostoed-Amursky, connected in the past with the Social Revolutionaries.8 Recently he had reconsidered his position, recognized the mistakenness of his platform, offered his repentance in several detailed declarations, and had not only been received into the Communist Party, but soon after joining it had been sent on such a responsible assignment.

  Though by no means a military man, he had been entrusted with this assignment out of respect for his revolutionary record, for his ordeals and terms in prison, and also on the assumption that, as a former cooperator, he must be well acquainted with the mood of the peasant masses in rebellion-gripped western Siberia. And in the given matter, this supposed familiarity was more important than military knowledge.

  The change of political convictions had made Kostoed unrecognizable. It had altered his appearance, movements, manners. No one remembered that he was ever bald and bearded in former times. But maybe it was all false? The party prescribed strict secrecy for him. His underground nicknames were Berendey and Comrade Lidochka.

  When the noise raised by Vdovichenko’s untimely announcement of his agreement with the read-out points of the instructions subsided, Kostoed went on:

  “With the aim of the fullest possible involvement of the growing movement of the peasant masses, it is necessary to establish connections immediately with all partisan detachments located in the area of the provincial committee.”

  Further on, Kostoed spoke of arranging meeting places, passwords, ciphers, and means of communication. Then he again passed on to details.

  “Inform the detachments of those points where the White institutions and organizations have supplies of arms, clothing, and food, where they keep large sums of money and the system of their keeping.

  “There is need to work out in full detail the questions of the internal organization of the detachments, of leadership, of military-comradely discipline, of conspiracy, of the connection of the detachments with the outside world, of relations with the local populace, of the military-revolutionary field court, of the tactics of sabotage on enemy territory, such as the destruction of bridges, railway lines, steamboats, barges, stations, workshops and their technical equipment, the telegraph, mines, food supplies.”

  Liberius listened, listened, and finally could not bear it. All this seemed like dilettantish nonsense to him, with no relation to reality. He said:

  “A beautiful lecture. I’ll make note of it. Obviously, it must all be accepted without objection, so as not to lose the support of the Red Army.”

  “Naturally.”

  “But, blast it all, what am I to do with your childish little crib, my most excellent Lidochka, when my forces, consisting of three regiments including artillery and cavalry, have long been on the march and are splendidly beating the enemy?”

  “What charm! What strength!” thought Kostoed.

  Tiverzin interrupted the argument. He did not like Liberius’s disrespectful tone. He said:

  “Excuse me, comrade lecturer. I’m not sure. I may have written down one of the points of the instructions incorrectly. I’ll read it. I want to make certain: ‘It is highly desirable to involve former frontline troops in the committee, men who were at the front during the revolution and took part in the soldiers’ organizations. It is desirable to have one or two noncommissioned officers and a military technician on the committee.’ Have I written that down correctly, Comrade Kostoed?”

  “Yes, correctly. Word for word. Yes.”

  “In that case allow me to make the following observation. This point about military specialists disturbs me. We workers who took part in the revolution of 1905 are not used to trusting army men. Counterrevolution always worms its way in with them.”

  Voices rang out all around:

  “Enough! The resolution! The resolution! It’s time to break up. It’s late.”

  “I agree with the opinion of the majority,” Vdovichenko inserted in a rumbling bass. “To put it poetically, it’s precisely like this. Civil institutions should grow from below, on democratic foundations, the way tree layers are set in the ground and take root. They can’t be hammered in from above like fenceposts. That was the mistake of the Jacobin dictatorship, which is why the Convention was crushed by the Thermidorians.”9

  “It’s clear as day,” Svirid supported the friend of his wanderings, “a little child could understand it. We should have thought earlier, but now it’s too late. Now our business is to fight and smash our way through. Groan and bend. Otherwise what is it, you swing and back away? You cooked it, you eat it. You’ve jumped in the water, don’t shout that you’re drowning.”

  “The resolution! The resolution!” demands came from all sides. There was a little more talk, with less and less observable coherence, with no rhyme or reason, and at dawn the meeting was closed. They went off one by one with all precaution.

  7

  There was a picturesque place on the highway. Situated on steep banks and separated by the swift river Pazhinka, the town of Kuteiny Posad descending from above and the motley-looking village of Maly Ermolai belo
w almost touched each other. In Kuteiny they were seeing off new recruits taken into the service; in Maly Ermolai, under the chairmanship of Colonel Strese, the selection committee went on with its work, after the Easter break, certifying the young men of the village and some adjacent areas liable to be called up. On the occasion of the levy, there were mounted militia and Cossacks in the village.

  It was the third day of the unseasonably late Easter and the unseasonably early spring, quiet and warm. Tables with refreshments for the departing recruits stood outside in Kuteiny, under the open sky, along the edge of the road, so as not to hinder traffic. They were put together not quite in a straight line, and stretched out like a long, irregular gut under white tablecloths that went down to the ground.

  The new conscripts were treated to potluck. The main food was leftovers from the Easter table: two smoked hams, several kulichi, two or three paschas.10 Down the whole length of the table stood bowls of salted mushrooms, cucumbers, and pickled cabbage, plates of homemade, thickly sliced village bread, wide platters of colored eggs piled up high. They were mostly pink and light blue.

  The grass around the tables was littered with picked-off eggshells—light blue, pink, and, on the inside, white. Light blue and pink were the boys’ shirts showing from under their suit jackets. Light blue and pink were the young girls’ dresses. Light blue was the sky. Pink were the clouds floating across the sky, as slowly and orderly as if the sky were floating with them.

  Pink was the shirt, tied with a silk sash, on Vlas Pakhomovich Galuzin, when he—briskly stamping the heels of his boots and kicking his feet to left and right—ran down the high porch steps of the Pafnutkins’ house to the tables—the Pafnutkins’ house stood on a little hill above the tables—and began:

  “This glass of the people’s home brew I drink to you, dear lads, in place of champagne. Many years to you, many years to you departing young men!11 Gentlemen recruits! I wish to congratulate you on many other points and respects. Give me your attention. The way of the cross that stretches like a long road before you is to staunchly defend the motherland from violators who have flooded the motherland’s fields with fratricidal blood. The people cherished bloodless discussions of the conquests of the revolution, but the Bolshevik Party being servants of foreign capital, its sacred dream, the Constituent Assembly, is dispersed by the crude force of the bayonet, and blood flows in a defenseless stream. Young departing men! Raise higher the violated honor of Russian arms, as being indebted to our honorable allies, we have covered ourselves in shame, observing, in the wake of the Reds, Germany and Austria again insolently raising their heads. God is with us, dear lads,” Galuzin was still saying, but already shouts of “Hurrah” and demands that Vlas Pakhomovich be carried in triumph drowned out his words. He put his glass to his lips and began taking small sips of the raw, poorly distilled liquid. The drink did not afford him any pleasure. He was used to grape wines of a more delicate bouquet. But the consciousness of the sacrifice offered to society filled him with a sense of satisfaction.

  “Your old man’s an eagle. Such a fierce, flaming talker! Like some Miliukov in the Duma.12 By God,” Goshka Ryabykh, with a half-drunken tongue, amidst the drunken hubbub that had arisen, praised the father of his friend and companion at the table, Terenty Galuzin. “I tell you true—an eagle. Obviously not for nothing. Wants his tongue to solicit you out of going for a soldier.”

  “Come on, Goshka! Shame on you. To think up that ‘solicit out.’ I’ll get a notice the same day as you, for all his soliciting out. We’ll wind up in the same unit. Now they’ve kicked me out of school, the scum. My mother’s crushed. It’ll be a good thing if I don’t wind up with the volumpeers. Get sent to the ranks. And as for formal speeches, papa really is unbeatable, no disputing it. A master. The main thing is, where’d he get it? It’s natural. He has no systematic education.”

  “Did you hear about Sanka Pafnutkin?”

  “Yes. Is it really so nasty?”

  “For life. He’ll waste away in the end. It’s his own fault. He was warned not to go there. The main thing is who you get tangled up with.”

  “What’ll happen to him now?”

  “A tragedy. He wanted to shoot himself. Today he’s being examined by the commission in Ermolai. They’ll probably take him. ‘I’ll go to the partisans,’ he says. ‘I’ll avenge the sores of society.’ ”

  “Listen, Goshka. You say it’s so nasty. But if you don’t go to them, you can get sick with something else.”

  “I know what you’re getting at. You must be doing it. That’s not a sickness, it’s a secret vice.”

  “I’ll punch your face in for such words, Goshka. Don’t you dare offend a comrade, you rotten liar!”

  “Calm down, I was joking. I wanted to tell you something. I went to Pazhinsk for the Easter meal. In Pazhinsk an itinerant lecturer talked about ‘The Emancipation of the Person.’ Very interesting. I liked the thing. I’ll damn well sign up with the anarchists. There’s a force inside us, he says. Sex and character, he says, that’s the awakening of animal electricity. Eh? Quite a wunderkind. But I’m really plastered. And they’re shouting all around, jabber-jabber, it’s deafening. I can’t stand it, Tereshka, be quiet. You son of a bitch, you little mama’s boy, shut up, I said.”

  “Just tell me this, Goshka. I still don’t know all the words about socialism. Saboteur, for instance. What kind of expression is that? What’s it about?”

  “I’m a real professor in these words, but like I told you, Tereshka, leave off, I’m drunk. A saboteur is somebody who’s in the same band as others. Once they say soboater, it means you’re in the same boat with them. Get it, blockhead?”

  “I also thought it was a swearword. But about electric force, you’re right. I decided from an advertisement to order an electric truss from Petersburg. To step up the activity. C.O.D. But then suddenly there’s a new upheaval. Trusses are out.”

  Terenty did not finish. The din of drunken voices was drowned out by the thundering burst of a nearby explosion. The noise at the table momentarily ceased. A minute later it started up again with still more disorderly force. Some jumped up from their seats. The steadier ones stayed on their feet. Others, staggering, wanted to make off somewhere, but gave way and, collapsing under the table, immediately began to snore. Women shrieked. A commotion began.

  Vlas Pakhomovich glanced around, looking for the culprit. At first he thought the bang came from somewhere in Kuteiny, quite near, maybe even very close to the tables. He strained his neck, his face turned purple, he bawled at the top of his lungs:

  “What Judas has wormed his way into our ranks to commit outrages? What mother’s son is playing with grenades here? Whoever he is, even if he’s my own, I’ll strangle the vermin! We won’t suffer such jokes, citizens! I demand that we make a roundup. Let’s surround Kuteiny Posad! Let’s catch the provocator! Don’t let the son of a bitch escape!”

  At first he was listened to. Then attention was distracted by the column of black smoke slowly rising into the sky from the local council building in Maly Ermolai. Everybody ran to the bank to see what was going on there.

  Several undressed recruits came running out of the burning Ermolai council building, one completely barefoot and naked, just pulling on his trousers, along with Colonel Strese and the other military who had been carrying out the selective service examination. Mounted Cossacks and militiamen rushed back and forth in the village, swinging their whips and stretching out their bodies and arms on their horses, themselves stretched out like writhing snakes. They were searching for someone, chasing someone. A great many people were running down the road to Kuteiny. In pursuit of the running people came the rapid and anxious ringing of the alarm from the Ermolai bell tower.

  Events developed further with terrible swiftness. At dusk, continuing his search, Strese and his Cossacks went up from the village to neighboring Kuteiny. Surrounding it with patrols, they began searching each house, each farmstead.

  By that time half of the m
errymakers were done in and, drunk as lords, lay in a deep sleep, resting their heads on the edges of the tables or sprawled on the ground under them. When it became known that the militia had come to the village, it was already dark.

  Several lads, fleeing the militia, rushed to the backyards of the village and, urging each other on with kicks and shoves, got under the siding of the first storehouse they came to, which did not reach the ground. In the darkness it was impossible to tell whose it was, but, judging by the smell of fish and kerosene, it must have been the crawl space of the grocery cooperative.

  The hiders had nothing on their conscience. It was a mistake for them to conceal themselves. Most of them had done it in haste, drunkenly, foolishly. Some had acquaintances who seemed blameworthy to them and might, as they thought, be the ruin of them. Now everything had been given a political coloring. Mischief and hooliganism were counted as signs of the Black Hundred13 in Soviet areas; in White Guard areas ruffians were taken for Bolsheviks.

  As it turned out, the lads who slipped under the cottage had predecessors. The space between the ground and the storehouse floor was full of people. Several men from Kuteiny and Ermolai were hiding there. The former were dead drunk. Some were snoring with moaning undertones, grinding their teeth and whining; others were sick and throwing up. It was pitch-dark under the storehouse, stuffy and stinking. Those who crawled in last filled the opening they had come through from inside with earth and stones, so that the hole would not give them away. Soon the snoring and moaning of the drunk ceased entirely. There was total silence. They all slept quietly. Only in one corner was there quiet whispering between the particularly restless ones, the scared-to-death Terenty Galuzin and the Ermolai fistfighter Koska Nekhvalenykh.