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The Naked Year

Page 7

by Boris Pilnyak


  And the gray little priest chuckles slyly, slyly laughs and says still laughing, with his eyes screwed up in his beard:

  “You see that crust?–they bring that! There! Hee-hee! Are you my grandson? Tell nobody. Nobody. Everything is told in my history. Open up the sacred relics–straw?… Listen here. The members of the sects went into the fire for the beliefs, but the Orthodox believers were dragged to the state Church by the scruff of their necks:–You could do as you pleased, so long as you believed in the Orthodox faith! But now peasant power has arrived, Orthodoxy is treated just like any other sect, equality of rights! Hee-hee-hee!… The Orthodox sect!… ha, ha, ha, ha… You’re not dragged into this sect by the scruff of your neck!… Orthodoxy has lived for a thousand years, but it will perish, but it will perish–ha, ha, ha!–in about twenty years, no more, just as the priests will die out. The Orthodox Church, Greco-Russian, was already dead as an idea at the time of the Schism. And through the Russia of the Yegorys will roam the water sprites and witches, or Leo Tolstoy, or, if you don’t watch out, Darwin… Along the paths, through the woods, down the lanes. But they say it’s a–religious revival!… You see that crust?… those who lived on the three whales, the Orthodox Russian Christians of the forty-pound candles bring them–but then they’re bringing less and less. Here am I, an Orthodox priest, I go everywhere on foot, on foot… ha! ha!”

  The gray little priest laughs joyfully and slyly, shakes his coffin-pate, screws up his small watery eyes in his beard. The stone walls of the cell are strong and dark. On the low stool sits Gleb, bowed and silent, ikon-figure-like. But in the corner in a dark ikon-case the dark faces of the ikons in front of the lamps are sullenly silent. And Gleb is silent for a long time. The scorching sun scorches, and in the scorching heat the monk sings. But in the cell it is damp, cool–

  “… And oh-oh-oh… you shouldn’t work in the field!..”

  “What is religion, Father?”

  “An idea, a culture,” answers the priest, no longer chuckling.

  “And God?”

  “An idea. A myth!” –and the priest again chuckles slyly. “Father, venerable, you say?–am I losing my faculties?… my faculties… and me in my eighties!… I don’t believe it! They must have broken me! They’ve stuffed the relics with straw!… You–my grandson?”

  “Father!” and Gleb’s voice stammers painfully, and Gleb’s hands are outstretched.

  “You know, if you replace some of the words in your speech with the words–class, bourgeoisie, social inequality–you get Bolshevism!… But I want purity, truth–God, faith, universal justice… why blood?…”

  “But, but, without blood?–everyone is born out of blood, red! And the flag is red! Everything’s all mixed up, confused, you’ll never understand it!… Do you hear the revolution howling–like a witch in a blizzard!

  listen: –Gviuu, gviiuu! Shoya, shooya… Gaau. And the wood demon drums–glav-bum! Glav-buuum!.. And the witches wiggling their rears and boobs. Kvart-khozh! Kvart-khozh! The wood demon shouts–Nach-evak! Navh-evak! Khmu!.. And the wind, and pines, and the snow:–Shoya, shoya… Khmuu… And the wind:–Gviuu… Do you hear?”

  Gleb grows silent, painfully he cracks his knuckles. The father chuckles slyly, fidgets on his high stool–Archbishop Sylvester, in the world Prince Kirill Ordinin, is a demented old man. The scorching sky pours down a scorching heat mist, the scorching sky is flooded with blue and fathomless, the day blooms with the sun and scorching heat–but in the evening there will be a yellow dusk, and the bells in the cathedral ring out:–Dong, Dong, Dong!..

  Prince Boris Ordinin stands by the stove, huddled against it with his broad chest, seeking out the dead stove coldness. In the Prince’s study the bookshelves stand toothless, without books, which have long since been carted away to the council, and tearfully, with eyes eaten away by moths, the white bear by the settee snarls at the shelves. The small round table is covered with a tablecloth, and the home brewed vodka grows murkily murky. Prince Boris does not drink from glasses when he’s on a bender. Boris rings, pressing the bell-push with the bronze poker from the hearth. Marfusha comes in, the Prince is silent for a long time then says sullenly:

  “Pour out a glass and take it to Yegor Yevgrafovich…”

  “Sir!…”

  “Did you hear?! Let him drink to the second of May. You needn’t say it’s from me… B-but let him drink to the second of May! You can pour it all out for him, but don’t let me know… To the second of May!… Go on!”

  Prince Boris slowly pours himself a glass, stares for a long time at the murkiness in the home brewed vodka, then drinks.

  “To the second of May!” he says.

  Then again he stands by the stove and again drinks silently, slowly, taking his time. And the yellow dusk approaches, shuffling through the house. And when the home brew is all finished, Prince Boris goes out of the room, walks slowly, with decisively-sure steps. The house has grown quiet in the dusk, in the corridor burns a no longer bright lamp, dimly glistening in the cloudy mirrors. Mother, Princess Arina Davidovna, is sitting with Yelena Yermilovna, resting from her considerable daily chores.

  “On the second of May… on the second of May, Mother, the nightingales begin to sing, after the May-day labor holiday, and it’s our name-day… The nights then are blue, blue, cool-dewy, rich luxuriant… On the second of May–on a drunken May night and the most virginal!… And then–then darkness! Night!…” says Prince Boris.

  “What nonsense is this?” asks his mother suspiciously.

  “Yelenka, clear off!… I want a word with Mother. About brotherhood, about equality!…”

  “What is it now?! –sister, don’t go!”

  “As you wish, Mother!.. as you wish!… It’s strange, I ought to hate you, Madame Popkova, but I hate my father. Addio.”

  Father’s room resembles a sectarian chapel. The red corner and walls with the ikons, a dark Christ looking sternly out of the ikon-case, lamps and bright, tall wax candles by the ikons burn dimly, and in front of the ikon-case there is a small lectern with holy books on it. And that is all there is in the room, except for, near the rear wall, by the stove-couch, a bench on which the father, Prince Yevgraf, sleeps. There is a smell of cyprus oil here, of benzoin, of wax. There’s a church-like gloom in the room, the drape curtains on the windows are drawn–day and night, so there is no light, only a longing for it.

  The father, huddled up like a cottage loaf, his dried-up arm under his head, is asleep on the bare bench. Prince Boris seizes him by the shoulder, the father-prince smiles faintly in his sleep and, not seeing Boris, says:

  “Was I tossing and turning, tossing and turning in my sleep?… Yes? Christ will forgive!…”

  On seeing his son he asks, confused:

  “Bothering me? Have you come bothering me again, Borya?”

  Prince Boris sits by his side, spreading his large legs wide apart and wearily resting his arms on them.

  “No, daddy. I want to talk.”

  “Talk, then, talk! Ask me! Christ will forgive!”

  “Do you still pray, daddy?”

  “I do, Borya.”

  Father sits with his legs drawn in. Dryly gleam his eyes, and his white hair, beard, whiskers–are disheveled. He speaks quietly and quickly, quickly moving his sunken lips.

  “What then–peace of mind from your prayers?”

  “No, Borya,” answers his father gently and curtly.

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, I’ll tell you the truth!… Christ will forgive. I have sins on me,–sins… But surely one cannot beg the Lord on one’s own behalf? It’s shameful to beg on one’s own behalf! To intercede for oneself is a sin, a sin, Borya! I pray for you, I pray for Yegorushka, I pray for Glebushka, I pray for Lidia, for everyone, for everyone, I pray for mother, I pray for the Bishop Sylvester… for everyone!…” –father’s eyes burn with insanity–or, perhaps, ecstasy? “But my sins–I’m stuck with them! They’re here, all about, all around! Great sins, fe
arful ones… And it’s impossible to pray for them. Sin! Pride doesn’t permit it! Pride! and fiery Gehenna–it’s frightening!… It’s frightening, Borya! Only by fasting can I save myself… What’s redder than the sun?–I can’t see it, I won’t see… Just once more I’d like to ride in a troika through the frost, have a nice drink, other temptations–I deny myself! I’m facing death. Christ will save me!” –father quickly and convulsively crosses himself. “Christ will save me!”

  “You can’t ride on a troika through the frost now–it’s summer,” says the son tiredly.

  “Christ will save me!”

  Boris listens sullenly.

  “Allow me, Daddy. One little question. Have you s-e-e-n the light? Did you marry into the Pop-kovs?!”

  Father answers quickly:

  “I’ve seen the light, son, I’ve seen the light, Borya! I’ve seen the earth in spring, its boundless beauty, I’ve felt God’s truth-wisdom, and my sin has frightened me, crushed me with its power, and I’ve seen the light, Borya, I’ve seen the light!”

  “So-o,” says Boris heavily, without taking his sullen eyes off his father. “And over the earth, while you are seeking salvation, people are building their own justice, without god, god has been sent to the swinish devils, an old branch!… But that’s not the point!… –You, daddy, do you happen to know what progressive paralysis is?”

  Immediately the father’s face changes, it becomes cowardly and pathetic, and the old man throws his puny body back away from his son against the wall.

  “Again? Bothering me again?” he says with just his lips. “I don’t

  know…”

  The son gets up heavily near his father.

  “Listen! Don’t look away, Father–you hear?! Speak!..”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Speak!”

  Prince Boris with his large hand seizes his father’s shaggy beard.

  “I’ve got syphilis. Yegor’s got syphilis. Konstantin, Yevgraf, Dmitry, Olga, Maria, Praskovya, Liudmila–died as children, supposedly from scrofula. Gleb is degenerate, Katerina is degenerate, Lidia is degenerate–Natalya’s the only human being… Speak, old man!…”

  The father cringes, convulsively seizes hold of Boris’s arm with his dried-up hands and cries–wincing, sobbing, childlike.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know!…” he says, rancorously. “Go away, Bolshevik!”

  “You’re play-acting, holy man!”

  But the dark ikons burn by the dim lamps and the slender bright candles. There is a smell of incense and cypress oil. Soon Prince Boris returns to his room, goes and stands by the stove, presses himself to its dead stove coldness–chest, stomach, knees and stands thus motionless. And–

  DENOUEMENTS

  In Lidia’s room candles burn. The trunks are wide open, on the chairs, on the armchairs are spread out underwear, dresses, books without covers, traveling bags, sheet music. On the table lies a crumpled telegram–Lidia picks it up and reads it again:

  “Health. Love, Brilling.”

  Her lips move painfully, the telegram falls onto the floor.

  “Health. I drink to your health! He drinks to my health! Old woman, old woman!… Gleb!…”

  Bells. Hysteria. There’s no Gleb. Marfusha is running to fetch water.

  “Old woman! old woman! There’s no need! He drinks to my health. Health! Ha-ha!… Go away, go away, all of you! I’m alone, alone…”

  Lidia Yevgrafovna is lying down with a towel on her head. Lidia’s lips are moving painfully, eyes closed. Lidia lies motionless for a long time, then takes a small shining syringe out of her traveling bag, lifts her skirts, pushes her underwear on her knee away and injects morphine. A few minutes later Lidia’s eyes are moist with enjoyment, and still her lips don’t cease twitching convulsively. A yellow dusk.

  Katerina was going to town. Almost running, with lips clenched in fright and pain and fear of bursting into tears, she enters Lidia Yevgrafovna’s room. In her eyes incomprehension and horror. Lidia is lying with half-closed eyes.

  “What? Why so early?” whispers Lidia, half asleep.

  “I have… I have… the doctor said… an inherited… shameful disease!”

  “Yes? Already?” whispers Lidia indifferently, looking with her indifferent half-closed eyes somewhere on the ceiling.

  The day blossoms with heat and sun, and in the evening–a yellow dusk. Soothingly, as in Kitezh, ring the bells in the cathedral:–Dong! Dong! Dong!… –like a stone, thrown into a creek with water lilies. And then in the barracks they play the silver “Taps.”

  Gleb met Natalya near the Old Cathedral on the other side of the park–she was coming from her rounds in the hospital, Arkhip was seeing her off, and Arkhip immediately went away.

  “Natalya, are you leaving home?” said Gleb.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Natasha, you know the house is dying, you can’t be so cruel! You’re the only strong one. Dying is difficult, Natasha.”

  “The house will die anyway, it’s dead. But I must live and work. Die?” –and Natalya is speaking softly– “You have to accomplish something in order to die. I as a student, as a girl, dreamed a lot. But you saw that man walking with me, his father shot himself, and the son knew that his father would shoot himself. What were they thinking of before death–they–father and son? The son, surely, tried only to think, so as not to suffer.”

  “Do you love Arkhipov?”

  “No.”

  “As… as a girl?”

  “No. I love nobody. I cannot love. I’m not a girl. It’s impossible for me to love. That’s banality and suffering.”

  “Why?”

  “When I was a girl, at college, well yes, I did have a crush on a boy. I met him, fell in love, went with him and became pregnant. When he, that one, left me, I was like a butterfly with scorched wings, and I thought–my songs are sung, it’s all finished. But now I know that nothing is finished. This is life. Life is not in the sentimental trifles of romanticism. I shall get married, I expect. I won’t be unfaithful to my husband–but I won’t surrender my soul to him, only my body, in order to have a child. This will be bleak and cold, but honest. I’ve learned too much to be a female for some romantic male. I want a child. Love would only cloud my mind.”

  “And youth, and poetry?”

  “When a woman is a child–she has youth and poetry. Very good–youth. But when a woman is forty years old–she no longer has youth by reason of natural causes.”

  “And how old are you, Natasha?”

  “I’m twenty eight. I’ve still got some living to do. Anyone who’s alive must go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To the Revolution. These days won’t come again.”

  “You… You, Natalya…”

  “I’m a Bolshevik, Gleb. Now you know, Gleb, as I know, that the most valuable things are–bread and boots, right?–dearer than all theories, because without bread and the factory worker you will die and all your theories will die. But it’s the peasants who give bread. Let the peasants and factory workers themselves dispose of their valuables.

  In the evening around the house of the Ordinins it is empty. Sullen, big, painted in ocher and now greenish, peeling, sunken–the house looks like an evil old man. When Gleb and Natalya stand at the front door, Gleb says:

  “It’s hard to die, Natasha! You’ve taken notice, in our house the mirrors have grown dim and faded and there are lots of them. It scares me to meet my face in them all the time. It’s all destroyed, all the dreams.”

  And when they walk down the stone staircase, past the iron doors with seven locks of the storerooms upstairs in the house a shot rings out:–this is Prince Boris shooting himself. And immediately after the shot, from the hall, through the whole house the victorious “Internationale” resounds–and sacrilegiously, like a vulgar refrain, is woven into it “Juberhardt und Kunigunde.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ABOUT FREEDOMS

  THROUGH ANDREI’S EYES

 
A ND AGAIN–that night:–

  Comrade Laitis asked:

  “Where’s officer-nobleman-student Volkovis’ flat?”

  Andrei Volkovich answered nonchalantly:

  “Go round the house, up the stairs to the first floor!”

  –having said that, he yawned, stood for a moment by the wicket gate, lazily, lazily went into the house, to the front door–

  and–

 

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