November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  “When I was leaving our little home for the lake four days ago I imagined that I was the only one, and incomparable. Now here I am, home again, second best. How dare you compare us? And will you go on comparing us at every turn?”

  She must have gone out very quietly. She’d been too clever for him, leaving first.

  It had come to that: each of them trying to trick the other.

  Perhaps in fact she had left last night, as soon as he had fallen asleep.

  There was more: “I am going to Petersburg to take a look at your fair siren, and decide whether it is worth my while committing suicide on her account. Don’t try to follow me, and don’t wait at home for me—I don’t want to see you when I get back!”

  Aha! But how would she know where to look? Although, although … He began striding anxiously about the room, flexing all the muscles of his back as he rounded the table … although, yes … “highly educated”—“something to do with history” … he had given away far too much … Maybe she would find her?

  Should he send a telegram to Olda to warn her?

  Warn her? Tell her that he had given away their secret, mentioned her name? That he had given her name away on the very first day? That the world would shortly collapse about her ears?

  A telegram to Vera? Telling her to intercept his crazy wife if she could?

  No, she would not go anywhere near Vera. And anyway, what could Vera do with her in her present state?

  He paced the apartment more and more rapidly. He felt as if he was on fire.

  In her bedroom drawers had been pulled out and emptied. Two frocks lay in a heap on the unmade bed.

  A crumpled sheet of paper lay on the floor.

  It was in the same handwriting, the size of the letters growing with her fury.

  O-o-oh, when he was walking Alina around the pool, tucking the scarf around her neck to protect her from the wind, he had decided too soon that it would all work out.

  Ought he to rush off to Petersburg again himself? What about GHQ? And his regiment? He was impossibly late already! He had made a big enough fool of himself as it was.

  “You thought you had found a meek little idiot, did you? But I have a way out! Just wait, you’ll see how brill …”

  She had crossed it all out and thrown it away.

  Here was another sheet crumpled and tossed toward the window.

  “For whose sake was it that I sacrificed my musical career …”

  It dawned on him that she could hardly have left for Petersburg last night—she would have been too late for the last train. And it was still too early for the first.

  An idea! Susanna Iosifovna had for some reason given him her telephone number, without being asked.

  He put his greatcoat on over his shirt and went out of the apartment—in such a hurry that he almost forgot the key and slammed the door behind him—and rushed down to the telephone on the lower landing.

  She answered. How much softer women’s voices sounded over the telephone.

  “Susanna Iosifovna! Please don’t be surprised, and please forgive my intrusion. Alina Vladimirovna may possibly turn up at your apartment shortly. Or”—a sudden thought—"or maybe she’s with you already?”

  There was some hesitation at the other end.

  Evidently she was there.

  “If so, I beg you, even though I have no right to … you have a good influence on her. If she is thinking of going to Petersburg, please try to dissuade her … It can only cause trouble … For her too …”

  A pause at the other end. Then, cautiously but amicably: “Very well, Georgi Mikhailovich, I’ll try.”

  An intelligent woman! A delightful woman! He was glad that she was at Alina’s side. Couldn’t have wished for anything better.

  That’s it, then! Enough women for now!

  To the front!

  * * *

  SOME TRUTHS ARE BEST KEPT FROM WIVES.

  * * *

  Document No. 4

  PRINCE G. E. LVOV TO M. V. RODZYANKO

  11 November 1916

  The chairmen of provincial zemstvo boards, meeting in Moscow on 7 November to discuss the state of the food supply … Government policy has borne fatal fruit … All the measures adopted by the central authorities seem to be designed to complicate even further the dire situation in which the country finds itself … It is high time to realize that the government now in power is incapable of bringing the war to an end while safeguarding the true interests of Russia. Agonizing and terrible suspicions of treachery and treasonable acts have now given way to a clear realization that the hand of the enemy secretly influences the course of government policy. Indignantly rejecting all thought of an ignominious peace … the chairmen of provincial zemstvo boards have unanimously concluded that the government at present in power, openly suspected as it is of subservience to sinister influences inimical to Russia, cannot govern the country and is leading it along the road to ruin and ignominy …

  [60]

  When the decree calling category 2 militia to the colors as of 7 November appeared in the press, Roman Tomchak, lounging in his rocking chair, felt as if his legs had been cut from under him. He could neither go on rocking nor rise to his feet. This time he would inevitably be among the first called.

  The news extinguished all will to resist. Hunched, head bowed, he cowered in his last refuge, his rocking chair.

  That was how Irina found him, a small, swarthy, crumpled figure, with his bald patch to the fore and a newspaper on his knees. One look, not at him, but at the newspaper, told her everything.

  Throughout the war years Irina had felt deeply ashamed that her husband was not in the army. True, there were other steppe farmers of his age, in their thirties—the younger Mordorenko, Nikanor, or the youngest of that family of Molokans—but they were running large estates themselves (and the Molokan sect were in any case exempt as conscientious objectors). Whereas Roman, at thirty-eight, had not been allowed by his difficult and indefatigable father to take part in the business. He had in fact shown little inclination to do so, but was content to sit out the war down on the farm, with occasional trips to the big cities.

  But last summer, in the darkest days of the Russian retreat, when Irina was dismayed by her country’s losses and fearful for its future, she had come across newspaper reports of the nurse Rimma Ivanova’s heroic death. What particularly affected her was that Rimma too was from Stavropol, and had attended the Olgin School, next door to Irina’s boarding school. She was a few years younger than Irina, but … When all the officers in her company, the 10th, had been killed, Rimma herself led the soldiers in a counterattack, took an enemy trench, was killed, and was posthumously awarded a George medal, fourth class.

  Even before this Irina had liked handling her Winchester, trying out her (unfailing) marksmanship, and imagining how fearless she would be in battle. But now she was ten times as eager: she had always admired the way Russia had fought in the First Fatherland War. She had a detailed knowledge of it from pictures, but had never expected to land in a time just as heroic. But when the menacing storm clouds of the Second Fatherland War had filled the sky, there was no place for Irina around army campfires, nor with the partisans, nor at the side of Vasilissa, the headman’s wife. She would gladly have given up tending her cinerarias, cyclamens, and Japanese chrysanthemums, and arranging and rearranging the seven dozen changes of dress hanging uselessly in her closet, to experience for the first time the exhilaration and heroism of army life. “Romasha!” she would say. “Let’s join up!” “Why, do you want to get me killed?” “Let me go by myself, then.” “To do what?”

  Irina could see it clearly. She would be using her rifle. She had a vivid and unembarrassed vision of herself in simple, soldierly dress, perhaps even wearing breeches, lying on the ground, or up a tree, like her beloved Natty Bumppo. Even if Russia were not in such danger she would not have been sorry to escape from the inactivity which had become so wearisome. (Though if Russia had not been in danger ther
e would have been no means of escape.) But she had not dared to horrify her husband with the role she saw for herself. “I’ll go as a nurse,” she said. “So that you can cheat on me with the officers?”

  He didn’t mean it, of course. He knew how strictly she had been brought up, that she had passed directly from her father’s to her husband’s governance, and had enjoyed so little independence that she had never even bought a railroad ticket, and wouldn’t know where and how. She never left home for town unless accompanied by one of the Cossacks or a maidservant, she would not wear a sleeveless dress, and would leave the table immediately if her husband thought one of the male guests was paying her too much attention. She regarded Anna Karenina as the vilest of women. He would certainly not suspect her, but could not face the double disgrace of letting his wife go while he stayed at home himself.

  She had thought of joining the 1914 Society: the very name of it was a trumpet call, it made her think of 1812. They sent her tickets and pamphlets, and invited her to meetings at Ekaterinoslav, but Roman would never let her go. Then it transpired that the Society intended to combat German encroachment in Russia. A good cause! Irina had long been distressed by German inroads. Even before the war she had impatiently wondered how long Germans would be allowed to rule Russia. But now, for all the Society’s efforts, if you looked at the pictures in the press every fifth general, officer, senator, or member of the State Council had a German name, and since spring a man named Stürmer, undisguised, had taken control of Russia. What a humiliation! Wilhelm, with the Tsaritsa’s help, had conquered after all!

  Then the Society had turned against German landowners. But, needless to say, nobody had dared to let out a peep against their mighty neighbor, the richest rancher in the whole North Caucasus, Baron von Shtengel. Instead they set about harassing, trying to ruin and drive out other neighbors of theirs, ordinary German settlers, decent people and clever farmers, from whom the Tomchaks had borrowed ideas, among many others about the construction of their cattle barn and their laundry—iron-hooped tubs on casters moved directly under the taps, and wringers were fixed to the rims of the tubs, so that linen never dried outside, but in a cross-draft under cover.

  Irina sided with the settlers and was expelled from the Society. Roman laughed. He himself never played such childish games. The Unions of Zemstvos and Towns were hard at work all over Russia (there were, however, no zemstvos in the Caucasus), but Roman, sitting in his rocking chair with the newspaper, found their activities just as comical. Any activity more serious than these pathetic yappings would, he assumed, be possible only after the war.

  But now, dismayed by the latest mobilization decree, he realized that he had miscalculated: he would not be able to sit out this endless war at home, he would have to seek refuge in the Union. After twenty-seven months the war was as bloodthirsty as ever. Out there you could meet your end in less than a month.

  Irina kissed her husband’s bald patch and tried to reassure him. They might not take him. And if they meant to it would not be just yet, there would be time to think of some way out. The simplest and most obvious thing, of course, would be for him to take a full part in managing the estate. That would suffice. Irina would beg and beseech his father… but … even to save his son’s life the old man would never agree. It was so unfair, because Roman had great managerial talents—if only he was allowed to develop them. Look how shrewd he had been, on various occasions, in predicting what would attract the most buyers that year, what they should sow, and it had happened just as he had said. There was that season—when was it?—when he had rented five thousand desyatins, at Gulkevichi, from Fedos Mordorenko and sown flax, which was hardly ever seen in those parts, and it was just as he had foreseen—a big harvest and a big demand in autumn. Other steppe farmers drove in to see and to marvel. He had repeated this one more year, again successfully, then given up in time, and his imitators couldn’t get a good price. He could do anything if he turned his hand to it!

  This reminder of his coup with the flax gave Roman new strength. He was, after all, a man of parts—why lose heart? (It had always been like that with him: any setback was followed by a spell of black depression.) If circumstances threatened to overwhelm him, he must devise some plan of action.

  It was Irina who had given him the idea: why not make a speech at the meeting? An unprecedented meeting of all the neighboring farmers was to be held, at their house, on Sunday, 12 November. Previously they had gotten together only for name-day celebrations, or card parties, but now they had taken it into their heads to do what the rest of Russia was doing, and hold a meeting. Roman had ridiculed this enterprise, and said that he wouldn’t even go downstairs to say hello. But now he saw his mistake. The more deeply steppe farmers sank into the wartime morass, the more problems there were. He had not wanted to involve himself, his own money was in the bank, but now, with his abilities, his education, and his eloquence, and also his invariable sobriety among those debauched pigs, he had every chance of assuming a leading role. Once he was authorized by the conference to negotiate on its behalf with other such groups of steppe farmers, with Ekaterinodar, Rostov, and so on, it would be the beginning of a period of furious activity, with excursions here, there, and everywhere, he would be in general demand, and he could forget about the draft. You’re right, Irina my love, you’re absolutely right, my precious, let me give you a big kiss …

  From that moment on Roman was a new man. He shaved immediately, cheered up, changed his dressing gown for a frock coat, hurried down to the countinghouse, where he had not been seen for a long time, asked to be shown the books, questioned the steward and the clerk. This was on Saturday, but he did not stick his nose outside the countinghouse on Sunday either, and on Monday he toured the fields with the shaggy-headed bailiff, as far as the boundary with Tretyak’s spread. Tuesday he spent at home, on the upstairs veranda, calculating and writing.

  Such unusual activity could not escape the older Tomchak’s notice. He didn’t make any difficulties, gave not a single bark, didn’t try to stop his son from copying figures from the ledgers, didn’t even ask what it was all for. Roman himself explained that he was not trying to interfere in the business, just writing an address.

  Never, but never, had Zakhar Fyodorovich’s tongue trotted out that word in that sense. Ad-dress? Sounds like the piece you’d give to the tailor to sew on. But he had read in the newspapers that ministers addressed reports to the Tsar. And that learned gentlemen addressed learned gatherings. So, contrary to custom, he refrained from interfering or giving instructions, and sat quietly at an empty desk, leaning on his cane, and quietly observed his son’s work on the address and his interrogation of the staff. But he did not ask what line the address would be taking.

  Roman was quite happy. His father’s presence did not disturb him. Let him see that anything could be entrusted to such a son, that his was a safe pair of hands.

  Right then, when Roman had become so brisk and efficient, and the whole household and the whole yard were busily preparing for the grand reception, old Tomchak, who had always been so loud and boisterous, suddenly became very quiet. He stopped shushing and shouting at people, gave his orders quietly and laconically, drove nowhere, but just walked about slowly with his favorite gnarled stick. His old woman was worried—maybe he was ill? The staff spoke in hushed voices, dreading some novel display of anger. But the old man was simply lost in thought. And he told no one what it was he was thinking about.

  So there he sat, in the office, stealing glances from under his bushy brows at this surprising sight—his son working. If only he had had such a son, able to work like that, ten years ago, and if only that son had gone on working for those ten years, he could have handed it all over to him without anxiety. But it couldn’t be done all at once, not just like that. Irina was sweet-talking him, and Tomchak realized why, he knew about the call-up. But the business, built up from nothing, back there on the Kuma to begin with, then at Maslov Kut, and for the past twenty years in the Ku
ban, with two thousand desyatins, and sales as far away as Kharkov, and even to the French—a business like that was very much bigger than Tomchak himself, and could not be spread out like a bed of straw so that his son would not hurt himself falling. The business had a life of its own, it was no longer merely a family concern, it involved many other people, and produced vast quantities of goods for Russia. It was in effect no longer Tomchak’s personal property, and he was simply not at liberty to place it in unreliable hands—he would as soon hang himself. If he had had a sensible son what was there to stop Zakhar Fyodorovich at the age of fifty-eight from taking it easier, allowing himself a little leisure? He could still have kept half an eye on things, but spent time mostly reading the Lives of the Saints, and maybe he could have gone to the Monastery of the Caves in Kiev to say a few prayers, or even to Palestine. But with this son Tomchak was determined to carry on and not to relax his hold for another twenty years if necessary. He’d given in to his daughter-in-law over Ksenia, but Ksenia would be finishing school that year, and they would get her fixed up with a husband. And before the twenty years was up he would rear himself the sort of grandson he needed. Then he could finally get around to the Lives of the Saints. But this son of his—he might as well go and fight the Germans. It had all been handed to him on a platter, and he’d turned up his pig’s nose at it. (But in his heart of hearts he still hoped that with God’s grace this son of his would mend his ways.)

  Roman worked away feverishly at his address. On the eve of the gathering, when he had all his figures ready, and the whole household was caught up in a frenzy of cleaning and cooking, he did not stir from his aerie, but ordered the old manservant, Ilya, to bring his evening meal up to the veranda—which was what he had always enjoyed most. He cleared the card table of papers for the time being, and the servant ceremoniously flapped a stiffly starched tablecloth over it, and carried in glassware and silverware. Nowhere else, and with no other company, was it so enjoyable to dine as at home and by yourself. With no one to hurry you, no conversation to distract you, you could concentrate on enjoying the food, you had time and occasion to recall similar combinations of flavors, in the restaurant of the Europa Hotel, at Baden-Baden … By yourself you could drink a tot or two, you could even carry your glass into the bedroom, stand before the mirror, and … “Your health, Mr. Deputy!” Russians destroy themselves by drinking when they’re miserable. The time to drink is when you’re happy, and then only a little at a time.