November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  It was his own Moscow, but strange to him. Something irremediable had happened. Was happening.

  At the Nikolaevski station he found that train service was subject to interruption, so that he had done well to buy his ticket before all else. Some passenger trains had been canceled, to clear the line for freight trains. Passenger traffic between Moscow and Petrograd, he learned, had recently been canceled altogether for a whole week. Even first-class seats were not available for the following day, so he had to book international class.

  The cabby was waiting to take him home, to Ostozhenka Street.

  Vorotyntsev had tried so hard to decide for the best—had he gone wrong again? Now that he was traveling via Moscow, could he possibly spend only one night at home? Alina would be terribly upset, and he would be upset too, and scared. How could he tell her? Should he invent an official assignment? That was it—he wasn’t on leave, it was a duty trip. To Petrograd. An urgent one. Anyway, his travel arrangements were made, his ticket was in his pocket, he knew the time of departure, his worries could take a back seat while he just looked at the city.

  Alina was so near now—and Georgi’s agitation grew. To think of it … in twenty minutes there she would be, his wife, his own devoted, dearly loved, delightful wife … why did she always seem to come last with him? Nothing in his life fitted in tidily.

  Myasnitskaya Street brought them out onto Lubyanka Square, where trams still carrying large advertisements on the sloping sides of their roofs turned around with a metallic screech.

  And there was Nikolskaya Street, always busy, always crowded, and the Slav Bazaar—all just as it had been, no visible sign of the war here.

  Beyond that the quickest and clearest route for a cabby in a hurry lay through the Kremlin.

  A true Muscovite always bares his head under the Spassky Gate. Vorotyntsev unhesitatingly raised his fur hat, with reverent pride.

  Over the Square of the Tsars, over the Emperor’s Square—best of all playgrounds when he was a boy. And the best route for a passenger wishing to indulge in tender memories of his younger days.

  How easily childhood memories come back, to stir our emotions more deeply than any others. Their gentle touch makes us want to live all over again, live longer, live a fuller life, revisit all the places we have known before.

  And yet there had been one period at the front when he had been completely resigned to death, and felt no regret at all.

  Yes, Georgi had played here like other boys, but even in childhood the Kremlin squares had been more to him than convenient empty yards, even in childhood he had been obsessed with Russia’s history, and felt a premonition that his own future life would be bound up with it. He was not indifferent to the fact that St. George, second-in-command of the heavenly host, was the city’s patron saint. And little Georgi never forgot when he was playing ball there that this stone fastness in the middle of wood-built Moscow was not intended to be a playground, that real live Tartars had been repelled from its battlements, and that the Poles had gained entrance to it by treachery. That the Kremlin had lived through things unimaginable—and stood as an eternal stony reproof to all that Peter the Great stood for. And now as he passed over those deserted flagstones, with grass growing between them in places, before the smooth-chiseled stones of the cathedral churches, the upper galleries where royal ladies lived, the little cupolas, the little porch of the Church of the Annunciation, his heart stood still, so powerful was the atmosphere of history incarnate. But for the cabby, and a handful of passersby, on foot or in carriages, he would have stood under the darkening sky, taken off his hat, crossed himself, knelt, no, prostrated himself, becoming one with those stones and reaffirming his loyalty to them. Nothing had loosened the old secret bond between them, indeed the war had brought them still closer.

  But to anyone watching, it would have looked like playacting. Of all the churches they had passed that day these were the first before which Georgi felt too embarrassed to cross himself. That habit, inculcated by his nurse, was a thing of the past—an embarrassingly old-fashioned gesture, so that what an old woman passing by could do in her simplicity was somehow incongruous in a staff officer. “For the faith” were the first words of the army’s motto, the army was supposed to be Christian, to be based on Christianity, and officers were not only not forbidden to believe, they were supposed to take the lead and cross themselves on church parade—but it was always done with the hint of a smile, with a mocking air of educated superiority, and had become something to be ashamed of. And although regimental services were held and praying soldiers chanted on officers’ orders, at every critical moment in the field soldiers crossed themselves spontaneously and officers either not at all or furtively.

  From the Borovitsky Gate they bounced out onto the embankment, cut through the crush on the Great Stone Bridge, with the gilded dome of the Church of Christ the Redeemer already visible through the gloom ahead, rounded the corner of its terrace, then took a shortcut through Zachatiev’s back lanes, and came out on the Ostozhenka directly opposite Petrov’s, the famous watchmaker’s shop—and yes, there he was, just where he should be, working behind his plate-glass window, pretending to have no idea why passersby paused to stare at him, startled by his incredible (and no doubt carefully cultivated) resemblance to Lev Tolstoy: it was as though the untamable old man had returned from the grave and was busy mastering yet another trade!

  Vorotyntsev cheered up. If Petrov was in place all Ostozhenka Street must be in place. The same blue-and-white sign over Chichkin’s dairy (but where did they get enough milk?). The same giant pretzel hanging over Chuev’s bakery (were there any pretzels, though? There was no queue). And here’s our tiny Church of the Assumption (Samsonov’s day—he could never forget it), with an image on the wall before which elderly passersby crossed themselves. (But you won’t—even here.) Gee-up! They rolled up to the front entrance quite stylishly.

  Vorotyntsev’s early years had not been spent on Ostozhenka Street, he had moved there only a few months before the war, but still—he was home! His heart beat faster at the thought that he was about to see Alina. He had felt annoyed with himself that morning for traveling via Moscow, but that feeling had subsided and instead he was racked with guilt: he had disturbed her unnecessarily and he had deceived her. Still, his feelings toward her were warmer than during their unhappy time together in Bukovina: his soul had woken up in the course of this journey.

  He was hurrying to her, full of tenderness and affection—and compunction. He would upset her again. He had never been able to make her truly happy, and he could not now: it was not in his nature. He had always known that he was to blame. What sort of life did she have, had she ever had with him, and what was there for her to look forward to? Georgi should really have had the sort of wife who would not have been unhappy even in a campaign tent.

  There was no elevator (they’d installed a telephone, though), but the stairs were not difficult for young legs. It was harder for the eyes to believe that so little had changed! (Perhaps the staircase was darker than it used to be.) A whole war had rolled by, whole divisions had perished, they had descended into the Hungarian plain, and retraced their steps, frozen stiff, and torn their fingernails in the Carpathians, somersaulted backward, surrendered Galicia, taken Bukovina, sidestepped into Transylvania—and after all that, here was the old familiar brightly polished, drooping door handle: “please turn.”

  He was alive! He was back!

  My loving little wife! My gentle little wife! Let me sweep you off your feet and waltz around with you! I can’t believe it—you’re younger than ever! And you look a lot happier than when you came to see me last year. That proud toss of the head on the slender neck. As demure as a little girl. And so pretty! He felt good. His features relaxed. A sense of belonging suffused his whole being. That feeling of ease in familiar surroundings that comes only with the years. Here I am then, at home. That’s good. It isn’t where I meant to be, but once through the door … it smells so good. Y
ou look after it so marvelously, Alina, with your clever hands. He gazed into her dear gray eyes. He hadn’t meant to show her how sorry he was for himself, but he couldn’t help it. He gave a groan. It was only now, as he sank like a dead weight onto the sofa, that he realized how impossibly overburdened he was.

  He started explaining, but it was no use. No good trying to tell anybody all at once. Least of all Alina.

  You’re a wonderful cook. What a tremendous spread! A meal like this, after living on the land.

  Meat was easy enough to get on permitted days. But there was a rumor that it would be rationed. And money was losing its value. Apartments were more expensive all the time. Moscow now had a population of two million, because of the refugees.

  From what I can see, things are worse here than at the front.

  But all the time he was tortured by the thought that he must tell her. That tomorrow, and no later, he must be on his way to Petrograd. He hadn’t the heart to do it, to make those trusting eyes cloud over. But he couldn’t put it off for long. He was doing what was most important to him—and he felt guilty about it.

  He began cautiously, telling her that he was not on leave but on an official mission. Gradually he confessed in full.

  A storm followed. And her reproaches were all the more dismaying because she was in the right. His dash home was bound to seem crazy to her. And it would be hopeless trying to explain the real motive for his journey. She couldn’t be asked to share his burden. Why should she? She reproached him with such bitterness: she loved him, she missed him, she pined for him! And what did she get in return? What sort of time had he given her in Bukovina? Was that his idea of “home leave”? (True enough, they had not got on very well on that occasion, he had felt so uncomfortable that it was a relief when she left.) And in two whole years he had not missed his wife enough to come home to her? (He could have come, of course.) You’ve lost all feeling. You’re quite heartless! You’re emotionally deficient! (Yes, that was true. Must be my age.)

  But he’d be with her again on his way back! He’d be back soon! For her birthday, of course. That finally pacified her.

  He listened to her stories of her new life as a concert artist, and was glad for her. A marvelous opportunity! With your exceptional ability! There’s nothing you can’t do. No, never mind about your admirer, I don’t want to know about it.

  Georgi really did like her playing, loved watching those nimble fingers. And—with no children—what else was there for her, except to develop her talents? He couldn’t remember seeing her so animated. It was good that he had got her to Moscow before the war began. It was all he had been able to do for her. An officer’s career didn’t even give you security in old age. If he’d gone into engineering after leaving school he would have been earning a lot more.

  Perhaps he should have tried long ago to make her the sort of partner to whom a man can reveal his plans without reserve. But was it necessary, indeed was it even possible to do that with a woman? What would be the point? Anyway, it would have cost a lot of effort. After his disgrace at GHQ she hadn’t nagged as other wives might, but privately she had blamed him.

  By now, he was doing his best not to yawn, looking away whenever she started talking about concert tours.

  The peace and comfort of home, with a quiet domestic evening ahead. Peace and quiet, that was what he most wanted. After the din and the damp of shell-shocked trenches, expecting to be blown sky high at any minute, how good it would be to sit between the four safe walls that were home, looking through the drawers of his desk, leafing through old books, or just weighing them in his hand—those volumes of Soloviev, for instance, reminding him of his eternally unpaid debt to ancient Russian history—he had never found time to sort out all those old princes, and doubted whether he ever would.

  But no, Alina had taken it into her head to go visiting. What a ridiculous business! I struggle home for one solitary evening and have to drag myself off to see people. Exhibit myself, meet new faces, force myself to make small talk. Look, Alina, my love, I’m not used to polite society nowadays, or company of any sort. I’ll find it hard to refrain from coarse language. Please let me off!

  She doesn’t know herself that she is the good spirit of the domestic hearth, and so most attractive right here, at home. Still, on this of all days it would be heartless of me to refuse to do my social duty, if she’s so set on it. At least the company of real live people will be better than pacing the foyer of some concert hall, which was what she originally wanted. Besides, I need to gather all the impressions I can.

  Only when they were dressing for the evening did Alina notice his new sword hilt—that of a holder of the George medal. She was overjoyed—and she was hurt: Why didn’t you tell me right away? Why did you never mention it in your letters? What an abnormal person you are!

  It was Saturday, and when they were on their way to Muma’s in a cab bells started ringing for the late service. It was so long since he had heard it that it took him by surprise. First and nearest, the Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer boomed out right behind them. Then almost immediately—from near and far, to the right and to the left, behind and ahead—all Moscow’s matchless, incomparable, and inimitable bells. The bells filled the dark Moscow air with a clamorous glow, and his breast with the warmth of childhood remembered: he remembered so vividly his nurse taking him to church, always to the late service, with no prompting from his parents, and lifting him up to light a candle, let it drip and set it with his own hand.

  Deep-voiced, booming, hollowly reverberating, meditatively slow—the chimes all fused together, and it was as though the Moscow evening sky was ringing—but no! Only to the inexperienced ear were these golden tones a confused clangor, anyone who knew them and listened carefully could distinguish the voices of the Kremlin, the clamor of Kitaigorod, Khamovniki’s answering call, the distant tidings from the churches around Tver Street and the Sadovaya, and the breathless chimes of Zamoskvorechie, that great outcrop of provincial merchant Russia, which they were just entering. Anyone who knew them really well (not just like Vorotyntsev) could distinguish amid the blurred and confused noise not only distance and direction but even individual bells. The ringing had still not stopped when they entered the house.

  The guests seemed an oddly assorted bunch: two elderly couples of modest social standing, a somewhat effeminate young man who whistled arias, a few unaccompanied ladies, and two unmarried girls.

  Muma (Maria Andreevna) herself had no children and lived alone. She was handsome in the Russian, indeed in a specifically Zamoskvorechie way: somewhat overblown, white-faced, with hair like a raven’s wing, and dressed in mauve. She was no mere amateur, she had studied singing, and sang in a deep contralto. Georgi enjoyed it greatly, and applauded. Applauded too Alina’s dizzy runs and arpeggios. Applauded, finally, the whistler, who put over a few remarkable arias. Life is full of surprises.

  Georgi felt that he was adrift without a compass, and incapable of surprise wherever the current carried him. He had not let himself be surprised by the present company, and was not surprised when after the concert the conversation turned to Rasputin. People here were much more preoccupied with Rasputin. At the front people scratched their heads and swore, here they smacked their lips over all sorts of real or invented tidbits.

  No one could be appointed to any responsible position until he presented himself to Grishka. He was said to have his own fees: 25,000 rubles for ennoblement, 3,000 for a decoration. (Horrifying. Surely it couldn’t be true.) The crowds calling on him at his Gorokhovaya Street apartment could be seen by any passerby, so now he was to have a house of his own in the suburbs. He was better guarded than the Tsar himself.

  “And don’t forget the bribery that goes on in connection with war supplies. Rubinstein’s arrest.”

  “Don’t forget that the Rubinstein case has been deliberately blown up to give it an anti-Semitic flavor.”

  “And why did Polivanov come a cropper? He’d still be War Minister if he had
n’t had the nerve to take four army cars away from Grishka.”

  If that’s what you think it shows how much you know. Maybe the rest of your information is worth just as little. But I can’t be bothered to argue.

  The ceiling was so high, so very much higher than a man needed, higher than in a dugout. Dry and warm—no damp in the air. Chairs so soft you could drown in them. A tender ham, fillets of sturgeon, and brawn on the table. And all they could do was grumble … “brought us to the brink of ruin, no bread anywhere in Russia, supposed to be the granary of Europe, rolls all sold out by eleven o’clock, nothing but corn bread or black bread.”

  “He kisses all the women, even when their husbands are looking.”

  “His theory is if you don’t sin you’ll have nothing to repent. You have to sin here below so that you will be pure up above. He sends a woman to church to take communion, and tells her to come to him that evening …”

  “And if a woman won’t have him he goes with her to pray.”

  The conversation was four-cornered: it went from Rasputin to Stürmer to Protopopov to famine in Russia and back again to Rasputin.

  “They say he’s got peculiar eyes that light up with a red glow. Magnetism.”

  “Talking about magnetism—here’s something that’s supposed to have happened not long ago. A woman telephoned Rasputin, and was seen by him in the morning. He took her into the bedroom and told her to undress. Embraced her. She shook him off. ‘Don’t want to?’ he says. ‘Why did you come, then? All right, come back at ten this evening.’ The lady dines in a restaurant with her husband and a doctor friend. At ten o’clock, she suddenly becomes extremely agitated. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. The doctor had difficulty bringing her out of hypnosis and holding her back.”

  These stories were told indignantly, but you suspected that both the tellers and the listeners were less indignant than they might have been, that what they felt was not just disapproval but also curiosity and indeed a certain prurient enjoyment. Vorotyntsev got the impression that as soon as they heard the latest about Rasputin every one of these ladies bustled around town spreading it. The young ladies too were all ears.