‘Share your poppies with me, Comrade Irina–please!’
“I usually answer thus:
‘Surely men don’t ask?–men take! They take freely and willfully, like bandits and anarchists! You’re an anarchist, Comrade Andrei. In life still there are tsars–those who have strong muscles, like stone, will-power as elastic as iron, a free mind, like the devil, and who are beautiful like Apollo or the devil. One has to be able to strangle a man and thrash a woman. Surely you don’t still believe in some sort of humanism and justice?– –to the devil with all that! let those die who cannot fight! Only the strong and free will remain!…’
‘That’s what Darwin said,’ says Andrei quietly.
‘To the devil! That’s what I said!’
“Andrei looks at me admiringly and subdued, but his glance does not stir me–he doesn’t know how to look like Mark–he will never understand that I am beautiful and free and that because of freedom I feel cramped. And at these moments I remember the kitchen, with its scorching heat, iron frightening rings, stone floor and vaulted ceilings.
The bandits knew how to seize the right to life–and they lived, and I bless them! To the devil with anemia! They knew how to drink joy, not thinking about the tears of others, they caroused for months, knowing how to get drunk both on wine and women, and borzois. So be it–they’re bandits.
“From the kitchen garden into the house it’s necessary to pass through the kitchen. In the kitchen, in the heat, buzz the flies, like a tornado, and chickens walk over the table. But in the lounge, where the windows are entwined with ivy and the light is green–it’s just as cool and quiet as on the bottom of the old shady pond.
“I know–it will be evening. In the evening in my room I douse myself with water and weave my plaits. Through the windows comes the moonlight, I have a narrow white bed, and the walls of my room are white–in the moonlight everything seems greenish. My body has its own life, I am lying down, and it begins to appear as if my body is endlessly extending, very very narrow, and my fingers are like snakes. Or on the other hand: my body is becoming flatter, my head is going into my shoulders. And sometimes my body appears huge, it keeps on growing surprisingly, I am a giant, and there’s no possibility of moving my arm, as long as a kilometer. Or I seem to myself to be a small ball, light as down. There are no thoughts–a languishing moves into my body as if my whole body is becoming numb, as if someone is stroking me with a soft little brush, and it seems that all objects are covered with soft chamois: the bed, and the sheet, and the walls–all wrapped in chamois.
“Then I think. I know–modern times, like never before, bring only one thing: the struggle for life, to the death, that’s why there is so much death. To the devil with fairy tales about some sort of humanism! I get no chill when I think about this: let only the strong survive. And woman will always remain on a beautiful pedestal, there will always be chivalry. To the devil with humanism and ethics–I want to experience everything which freedom, intelligence and instinct have given me–instinct because surely modern times are the struggle of instinct?!
“I look into the mirror–a woman is looking at me, with eyes black as sedition, with lips thirsting to drink; and my nostrils seem to me as sensitive as sails. Through the window comes the moonlight: my body is greenish. A tall, shapely, powerful naked woman is looking at me.”
“An old lady gave me some shirts made of homespun cloth, which made them rough on the body, a sarafan, a homespun skirt, a fur lined jacket of blue cloth, a white headscarf, embossed boots with decorative plates and short boots, she threw in a little mirror.
“The lads had gathered in the hut, they had ridden in from the farmsteads. Mark led me out by the hand. The men were seated to the right, the women–to the left. I kissed first all the women, then the men. And I became Mark’s wife.
‘Come here, daughter Irina,’ said the old man Donat, took me by the hand, sat next to him, fondling, and said that all those assembled here were brothers and sisters, my new family, one for all and all for one, not to take arguments out of the hut, if they come to the house, feed them, give them drink, celebrate, give everything, share with everyone–all that is ours. All the men are healthy and broad-shouldered, like Mark, and the women–beautiful, healthy and neat–all in white.
“Mark. I remember that night, when he came with two horses, and we dashed over the steppe from the commune, so that I would stay alone in the dark house, in a woman’s hut, in the darkness, breathe in the sage and think about this being my last life and there being freedom no longer. Mark galloped into the steppe. And in the morning I went off after him. I now know our summer peasant harvest toil. My hands became covered with a bark of calluses, my face sunburned, it darkened in the sun like a peasant woman’s, and in the evening, after the harvest toil, bathing in a nameless steppe river, already cold I together with my sisters, surprisingly healthy, calm and beautiful, I sing like a peasant woman.
‘Shine, shine, oh moon; your light is bright,
Warm us up–ach! –little red sun.’
“Already the nights are autumnally starry, and a blue wine spills over the steppe during the day. On the farmstead they are getting ready for winter, into the corn bins they pour out the golden wheat, the flocks have come out of the steppe, and the men are unloading the hay.
“Mark speaks little with me, he arrives unexpectedly, at night, kisses me without words, and his hands are of iron. Mark never has time to talk to me–he is my master, but he is also my brother, protector, comrade. The old woman sets me to work every morning and, praising–instructing, she pats my head. I’ve no time to meditate. How sweetly sweat smells–let it be salty! I learned to don a headscarf, as everyone dons a headscarf.”
“At night Mark came:
‘Get up, let’s go,’ he said to me.
“In the yard horses were standing, there was Donat and a third one. We rode out into the steppe. The horse moved along under me. The night was silent and dark, a light rain drizzled! Ahead rode Donat.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked Mark.
‘Just wait. You’ll find out.’
“Soon we rode out to the estate, went around the gully and stopped behind the stable yard. We all hurried, and they told me to get down. The third one gathered the reins. We walked right up to the ditch. Donat turned to the right, we walked up to the house.
‘Where are we going, Mark?’ I asked.
‘Quiet. For horses,’ said Mark. ‘Stand here. If you see any people–whistle, go to the horses. If you hear a noise–go to the horses, gallop into the field. I’ll come.’
“Mark went away. I stayed to stand watch. Surely I could submit to Mark? I have no homeland, apart from these steppe farmsteads, I have nobody, apart from Mark. Somewhere in the house Semyon Ivanovich and Andrei were sleeping. Let them! The house stood heavily and sullenly, in the darkness. The rain drizzled. I was not afraid, but my heart thumped–with love, love and devotion! I’m a slave!
“Mark came up unnoticed, unexpectedly, as always. He seized an arm and led me to the ditch. By the ditch stood our horses, mine and his Kirghiz–amblers, swift and mean, like the wind. Mark helped me to mount, jumped up himself, whistled–and, seizing hold of me, throwing me over his saddle, pressing me against his chest, bending his head over me, whooping, galloped off into the steppe, into the autumnal expanse of the steppe.
“The East was forged like crimson armor, the sun threw out its rapiers when we galloped up to the distant farmsteads, where Donat was already sitting peacefully at the table, that third one, the stooping wizard Yegor, and the witch Arina was laying the table with a calm and cheeky smile, like a witch’s.
“How many days, beautiful and joyful, are ahead of me?”
The archeologist Baudek got a leaflet copied out by Donat, and this leaflet Gleb Ordinin meticulously copied out.
Here is the leaflet:
“The cross is an object of neglect, but not of celebration, in so far as it served, like the block and gibbet, as the instr
ument of the humiliation and death of Christ. It is a dishonorable instrument which killed your friend. In the same way it behooves us to regard also the Jews who constrcuted the cross.
“In the Book of Rods in the name of Jesus the trinity and two natures are explained! An oath is introduced, which not even the ancient heretics possessed! In the triangle they write God in Latin! They eat strangled and wild animals’ flesh. They cut off their hair and wear foreign clothing! They pray with heretics, in the bathhouses they wash with them and enter marriage with the heretics! They have chemists’ shops and hospitals, they feel and even examine women’s genitals with their hands. They have horse-racing! They drink and eat with music, dancing and splashing. The women have their heads uncovered and they don’t cover their upper shameful bodies. The men consider it shameful to wash together with women in a bathhouse and sleep in the same bed. The monastic childhood is in disagreement with the Holy Scriptures: the apostle Paul said that some would renounce the faith, cursing marriage and wedlock.
“It depends on the will of each, when and where to fast! We honor the one Lord God the Lord of Hosts and his Saviour Son! Not only martyrs but also the Virgin Mary are not eligible for homage for this is idolatry, like homage to idols! The life of the blessed Christ’s fools is not at all pleasing to God, in so far as lunacy is not attractive! And as, seeing fire, we do not attribute the properties of water, not to water the properties of fire–so it is not possible to attribute to bread and wine the properties of the body and blood! So in marriage there is no sacrament, but love is–when the men and women gather together, the parents bless and groom and bride, in the manner of Tobias’s marriage.
“There is but a single Book–the book of books–the Bible, and life has to be in accordance with Biblical customs. Honor thy father and thy mother, love thy neighbor, use no foul language, work, think about the Lord God and His Image, which is born within you.
“We honor one rite–the rite of sacred Kissing. And there is but one Government–our spiritual conscience and brotherly customs.”
CHAPTER FOUR
COMMUTATORS–ACCUMULATORS
(An explanation of the subtitle:
In Moscow in the meat market a man stands and reads a shop sign:
“Commutators, accumulators.”
–Com-mu… tators, a… ccumulators…–and says: –You see, even here they are deceiving the ordinary folk!…*)
THE PROVINCES, Y’KNOW.–TOWN TATORS.
THE SCORCHING HOT SKY POURED OUT A SCORCHING HOT HEAT MIST, the sky was covered in blue and fathomless. The day blossomed, July blossomed. The whole dayurches, houses, road surfaces were swimming in the air, shimmering barely noticeably in the melted blue-gold air. The town slept: in a daydream, the town of Ordinin made out of stone. The days bloomed, blossomed, faded, in strict order, re-blossomed into weeks. July blossomed, and the July nights were clothed in velvet. July replaced the platinum June stars with silver, the moon came up full, circular, damp, wrapping the world and town of Ordinin in damp velvets and satins. At night damp gray-haired mists began to crawl. And the days resembled a soldier’s wife in a sarafan, at thirty years, like one of those who lived in the woods behind Ordinin, towards the northern sky’s horizon: it is sweet at nights in the barn to kiss such a soldier’s wife. In the daytime the scorching heat wore one down.
In the evening in the “Venice” cinema a brass band was playing. The moon was rising, the earth was wrapped in velvets, and the people were going to have a look at how Kholodnaya “played.” On that day Sergey Sergeevich wrote “an entry” where he indicated that “during the current month no transactions took place,” and “no deposits received.” The Communists were sitting in the pavilion in their leather jackets and were giving the young ladies tea with fruit drops (the young ladies always were and will be interpolitical). But soon the brass band struck up the Internationale, the Communists stood up and, as it was boring to stand, they went down to the paths in the garden, to the ordinary citizens–and all began to walk in a circle–
–The writing of these chapters–banal–
Sergey Sergeevich met Laitis, Comrade Laitis was walking towards them. Sergey Sergeevich came to a halt and, smiling broadly, took off his straw hat, greeting.–Comrade Laitis did not notice the greeting.–Comrade Laitis met Olenka Kuntz, Olenka Kuntz was coming towards him–Comrade Laitis smiled affectionately, put his hand to his cap, Olenka Kuntz said sternly:
“Hello!” –and turned to her girl friend, having said something and burst out laughing at something. The band groaned with the Internationale, in the doorway burned the little lamps, couples walked after couples. Sergey Sergeevich again met Comrade Laitis, again raised his straw hat. Comrade Laitis answered:
“Hello.”
“Good evening! The weather…”
But they parted.
Comrade Laitis met Olenka Kuntz, Olenka Kuntz looked stern. From Olenka Kuntz’s little herd of girls one had separated herself–she walked up to, handed Comrade Laitis a leaf of note paper. Olenka Kuntz wrote to Comrade Laitis:
“I am very angry with you. Today at midnight in our garden. Comes!
O. Ku (and dashes, an a squiggle).”
The lights went out. Under the awning on the screen flashed a red cock. The band bellowed for the last time, and the piano began to rumble. Comrade Laitis did not go to the seats, Comrade Laitis stood absent-mindedly behind the chairs. Sergey Sergeevich also absent-mindedly stood behind the chairs. Comrade Laitis absent-mindedly looked at Sergey Sergeevich, Sergey Sergeevich raised his hat and held out his hand.
They greeted each other: “H’llo!”
They were silent.
“The provinces, y’know. The only entertainment is the cinema…”
They fell silent.
“The weather, unbearable heat, y’know! You can only get a rest in the evening.”
They fell silent. On the screen people were drinking champagne.
“And the public…”
“Yesh?”
“And the public, y’know… Distrust, fear, bourgeois habits. I work in finances–there are no transactions at all.”
They fell silent. On the screen Kholodnaya was dying from love and passion. The piano was groaning indignantly, then died in languour.
“The provinces, y’know, nonsense. What ridiculous thoughts will be engendered! If you wish, I’ll tell you an episode. Absurd thoughts…”
“Yesh?”
“Only, y’know… this indirectly concerns you… Ridiculous thoughts!..” The piano began to roar… “Olga Semyonovna Kuntz…”
“Vat? Olka Zemyonovna Kuns?”
“Only–you comfortable here?–Let’s go, let’s go through.”
Sergey Sergeevich stood aside for Comrade Laitis, Sergey Sergeevich was walking unhurriedly, hands at the back, sinking down solidly on each foot. Behind the fence the moon rose, and the piano was silent, in the corners of the garden the already white mist was floating. They stopped.
“Only, do you know?… I find it difficult, how to tell… As an episode of provincial customs… The provinces, you know.”
“Yesh?… Olka Zemyonovna Kuns?…”
“D’you see, Zilotov the cobbler is living with us, not a Party member, but he was a soldiers’ deputy. A madman, one of the Masons.”
“So?”
“He’s got, d’you see, a strange idea… Olga Semyonovna must sort of give herself to you, belong, like a woman.”
“That iss?”
“You must take her and–without fail–at midnight, in the monastery church, on the altar. Absurd thoughts!”
The piano began to groan, it bellowed, gave a lurch. Comrade Laitis, more quickly than necessary, lit up a cigarette.
“But does Olga Zemyonovna know?”
“I don’t know, she must. Zilotov informed me that Olga Semyonovna is a virgin–however the present age, bourgeois habits…” Sergey Sergeevich spread out his arms by way an explanation.
The piano moaned.
&nb
sp; “You say–the monastery church?”
“Yes, y’know, there’s a passageway from your apartment.”
“But does Olga Zemyonovna vant it?”
“Olga Semyonovna! Olga Semyonovna is a young lady!” –Sergey Sergeevich spread out his arms reasoningly. “The provinces, y’know, philistinism.”
“Excuse me, gomrade. Just a minute. Koodbye, gomrade!” Comrade Laitis hurriedly shook Sergey Sergeevich’s hand–Sergey Sergeevich did not even had time to click his heels–Comrade Laitis hurriedly walked up to the exit.
The piano by the screen broke off mid-chord, the lights flashed, the brass band thundered out. The crowd poured out along the aisles, taking a rest from the screen passion. The band thundered “The Warsaw Girl.”
Then again the lights went out, again and again Kholodnaya loved unusually and died unusually… And the moon moved over the town, and mists crawled through the town, weaving and tangling routes and distances. The hour of the curfew arrived. And when it came–the curfew hour the “Venice” had already emptied.
–… And China–The Heavenly Kingdom–did it not look around the gate?–There will be in this story, below, a chapter about the Bolsheviks, a poem about them.
Dong, Dong, Dong!–into the marshy creek fell three quarters of the chimes. Through the town crept the mists, over the town crept the moon, full, circular, damp, like passion–the mists became green, through the mists on high the stars of old silver were scarcely visible, incinerated by the heat.
The chimes struck three quarters, and Comrade Laitis went out of the monastery gates. Comrade Laitis walked along the ravine. At the bottom of the ravine fires burned, bitter songs were heard, close by down below the frogs groaned. The wicket gate in the shadow of the trees was half-open. Laitis stood awhile by the threshold–Comrade Laitis went deep inside. The trees were silent, silently crawled the fog. The path vanished, underfoot it had grown damp, Comrade Laitis distinguished the pond, near the bank a rotten boat, full of water. There was nobody. Comrade Laitis stared attentively around–trees, mist, silence, above in the mist a dim disk. The chimes struck twelve. Comrade Laitis hurriedly went back, to the path, to the house. The garden was somebody else’s. The house, the collapsed out-buildings, gleaming white in the moonlight, were silent. There was a smell of raspberry. And in the distance somewhere, it was like a flash, Olenka Kuntz quietly shouted:
The Naked Year Page 11