‘And have you been here very long?’
‘Long time’, his host answered. ‘Today is the last day—yes, last
day!’
‘Why the last?’, the soldier asked. ‘Have you sold your hut, garden,
and field? Who bought them? Did you get a good price?’
‘Zeus be praised for setting me free’, replied the host, his dark-blue
eyes shining. ‘Glad! The last day.’
‘Zeus be praised’, the soldier said without much enthusiasm. ‘But
don’t try to tell me it was Zeus who bought your hut and land.’
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Vsevolod Ivanov
His host, gesticulating excitedly and trying as hard as he could to
make the soldier understand, began to speak more distinctly:
‘Zeus put me here. Zeus will set me free.’
‘Oh, the priest’, said the soldier, lifting his cup to his lips. ‘They want to build a temple here. I don’t blame them—it’s a beautiful spot.’
‘Not priests! Zeus’, the giant persisted. ‘Zeus put me here. Zeus
himself.
‘Zeus?’, the soldier said in a mocking voice. ‘Who are you that Zeus
should go to the trouble of putting you here?’
‘I am Sisyphus, the son of Aeolus.’
A blank expression came over the soldier’s face and his wine spilled
in a thick stream onto his cold knees.
‘By the gods. . .’, he stammered, ‘You are. . . Sisyphus?’
His host responded with an affirmative nod of his shaggy head,
taking a sip of wine, and the soldier continued:
‘Of course I’ve heard of Sisyphus, the son of Aeolus the wind god.
He was once the king of Corinth, but that was a long time ago—long
before Homer even.’
‘I’m him’, answered the host, speaking with such dignified simpli-
city that the soldier downed the contents of his cup in one gulp and
began to feel as if the heavy oak beams supporting the roof of the hut
were swaying before his eyes.
‘By the gods, you’re him.’
‘I’m him—I’m Sisyphus’, his host replied, taking another sip of
wine. ‘Drink!’
But the soldier couldn’t drink, and his host had to enter upon a
long, obviously rather painful explanation.
‘I was a sinner. I committed murder. I robbed. Zeus punished me.
He sentenced me to roll that boulder up the mountain forever. When
it reaches the top a mysterious force throws it down again. You saw it.
And today you saw the last day. I obeyed. Yesterday Zeus came to me.
He said, ‘‘Last day’’. G-glad!’
The giant began to laugh.
A frightening thought occurred to the soldier and he began to
shiver.
‘Tell me, honourable Sisyphus, son of Aeolus. They say you were
punished by being taken down to the land of the dead, to the
underground kingdom of Hades. Is that where I am now?’
Sisyphus replied: ‘In Hades, for untold days, I rolled the stone up
the mountain. I obeyed. I didn’t anger the gods by complaining. Zeus
pardoned me—I didn’t even know he had done it—by transferring me
Sisyphus, the Son of Aeolus
227
from Hades to the world of the sun. That’s why I’m so glad to see you,
traveller.’
‘Since you’re able to express yourself so well, Sisyphus, son of
Aeolus’, the soldier continued, ‘tell me what Hades is like.’
‘Mire. Rain. Dampness. All the time.’
‘By the gods’, the soldier exclaimed, ‘you’ll never be able to thank
the gods enough for the sun and this wine!’
‘Drink’, Sisyphus laughed. ‘G-glad!’
‘Zeus be praised’, the soldier said, lifting his cup, which was filled
with the murky red wine. ‘How long have you been up here on this
mountain!’
‘A long time’, his host answered. ‘Sunrise to sunset, I pushed the
stone. I obeyed.’
‘And at night you worked in your garden, trapped wild animals,
gathered fruit?’
The giant nodded his head, and the soldier continued to enumerate
the many hardships he had endured. In the hot weather it was bad
enough; in the winter, when the rains came, it was even worse, for
the water made everything more difficult. . .
‘Floods’, said the giant. ‘In my way—a river! Up to the chest. Stone
in the water. Slippery. Hands slip off. Wet. I must push against
current. But I obeyed the gods. Now Zeus has pardoned me.’
‘Zeus be praised for his wisdom’, said the soldier. ‘Please be so good
as to pour me some more wine. It’s wonderful wine—I haven’t had
anything so good since I was in Persia.’
‘Were you a prisoner?’
‘Me—a prisoner? Do you think those no-good Persian cowards
could have captured me?’, the soldier asked contemptuously. ‘Don’t
you know that Alexander the Great marched across Persia from one
end to the other?’
‘I didn’t know’, Sisyphus answered. ‘I was pushing the stone. Who
is Alexander?’
‘Ye gods’, Polyander shouted. ‘He doesn’t know who Alexander of
Macedon is. You mean you don’t know about all the battles he won—
how he defeated King Darius and crushed the army of King Porus of
India, how he married the beautiful Princess Roxana and captured
treasures beyond belief?’
‘I don’t know anything’, Sisyphus answered. ‘The stone was so
heavy I couldn’t even turn around.’
‘By the gods’, the soldier said, ‘I’ll tell you the whole story from
beginning to end, I swear it. Pour me some wine.’
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Vsevolod Ivanov
The host filled his cup again and the soldier began talking.
Night fell. The stars gazed down through the overhanging foliage of
the oaks. All was still—the branches of the trees, the mountains
behind them; from inside the hut it even seemed as if the rippling of
the brook had stopped. Sisyphus sat with his arms clasping his knees,
his dark-blue eyes lit up by the reddish light from the hearth.
The soldier told him about the great cities of the East—cities built of
sun-dried bricks cemented together with the sticky black slime
produced by the fertile Babylonian soil. He told about the desert
oases with their tall palm trees, and how there are as many uses for
the trunks, branches, leaves, sap and fruits of the palms as there are
days in the year. He told how they make boats from inflated leather
bladders and use them on the deep-flowing rivers; he told about the
great man-made dams and canals and the rich gifts the land offered:
horses, spices, women. Ah, what places—Persia, Egypt, India. . .
‘And what happened to them?’, asked the giant.
‘Praise the gods’, the soldier replied. ‘We crossed the Hellespont, we
sacrificed to our ancestor Achilles on the ruins of Ilium, which you’ve
probably already heard of, and we made our way to the river
Granicus, where we defeated the Persians. And then we marched
across their country from end to end, burning their cities, destroying
the dams and canals, chopping down the trees in the oases. We
marched along roads lined by palms groves, and we cut down every
tree and burned them all. We even went as far as the sweltering
tropics, never before visited by a civilized human being.’
Inflamed by his story and by the wine, Polyander spoke with more
and more passion. ‘There, in that torrid, desolate place, we encoun-
tered purple-horned satyrs with cloven hoofs of solid gold, wild,
unruly hair, flat noses, and cheeks swollen from over-indulgence in
wine, women and song. We killed them. We even killed the sirens—
those fiery women who lure men to destruction—we killed them as
they sat in their flowery vale, surrounded on all sides by the bones of
men who perished out of love for them. We killed the centaurs of
India and the pygmies of Ethiopia. With my own sword—you saw it,
Sisyphus—I wiped out a whole phalanx of pygmy cavalry. Every
spring, mounted on sheep and goats, they go out in battle formation
to gather crane eggs . . . Ha-ha-ha!’
‘I’m g-g-glad!’, shouted the giant, lifting his cup and emitting a
pained roar that echoed back from the unseen, miserable mountains
outside.
The soldier went on with his story.
Sisyphus, the Son of Aeolus
229
‘We destroyed and burned everything in the name of Achilles and
his glorious descendant, Alexander of Macedon. Thanks to us, even
Corinth was enriched. Even Cassander, who treated me so shabbily,
was enriched. . .’
Now quite drunk, the soldier was shaking with anger. His thoughts
began to wander. He studied the giant, who still hadn’t moved from
his place next to the hearth.
‘Sisyphus, son of Aeolus! Aren’t you the king of Corinth?’
‘I was the king of Corinth’, Sisyphus answered.
‘And you’ll be the king of Corinth again’, the soldier exclaimed.
‘You’ll be the king of all Greece. You’ll kill that no-good, money-
grubbing, pompous Cassander, and then you’ll wear the crown!’
The soldier really meant that young Alexander, the son of Alex-
ander the Great, would become king, but how could he say that?
Sisyphus’ eyes were sparkling. Clearly he liked the idea, but there was
no way of knowing whether he’d let young Alexander ascend the
throne on his shoulders. Eager to win Sisyphus over to his scheme,
the soldier began shouting:
‘Yes, you’ll wear the purple and sit on the throne. Don’t you . . .
don’t you see, Sisyphus, the gods have sent me to you?’
‘G-g-glad!’
‘You’ll leave here and come with me, won’t you?’
‘G-g-glad!’
‘We’ll plunder, kill, rape—we’ll be rich!’
‘G-g-glad!’, the giant roared. From deep in the ultramarine dark-
ness beyond the oaks the mountains roared back at him.
Sisyphus laughed and laughed and rocked back and forth happily,
the light playing now on his huge, powerful shoulders, now on his
knees, which were as round as haystacks. Still shouting, the soldier
babbled nonsensically: there’s nothing more beautiful than a besieged
city on fire; to tell the truth, though, storming a city is a horrible
experience; Persians and Indians shooting arrows at you from every
corner; the best of the booty going up in flames; your eyes smarting in
the hot, acrid smoke; the prettiest girls flinging themselves into the
fires; no one but old people for prey and killing them is no fun at all—
their tough old bones and tendons dull the edge on your sword; and
more such nonsense that even he didn’t seem to take very seriously.
Staring into the reddish flames on the hearth, he remembered his
promise to dress Sisyphus in royal purple.
‘Those dirty brown goat skins you’re wearing, Sisyphus, give them
to me.’
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Vsevolod Ivanov
‘Why?’, Sisyphus asked.
‘Give them to me and I’ll turn them purple.’
He found another pot, filled it with water, which he quickly
brought to the boil, and spilled in all his dye powder. Spots of
purple began swirling and whirling in the bubbling water. Polyander
dipped the shaggy goat’s fleece into the mixture, then carefully
stretched it between two sticks near the hearth to make sure it
wouldn’t shrink. Then, admiring his handiwork, he sat back and
began mooning about noisy, bustling Corinth; about great banquets
in honour of King Sisyphus; about Cassander lying dead at his feet,
and he, Polyander, the commander in chief of the royal army,
standing side by side with Sisyphus.
‘Yes, Sisyphus, fame is just around the corner for both of us’, he
shouted. ‘This lousy valley doesn’t mean anything to you. You can’t
even get a good night’s sleep here, you’re so busy tilling the garden,
weeding, watering, fishing and trapping. From now on you’re going
to have a featherbed, with beautiful girls to sing lullabies to you, and
you can sleep late in the morning—till noon if you want.’
‘I’m g-g-glad—to sleep’, roared Sisyphus, his strong, even mouth
gaping open in a yawn. ‘G-g-glad.’
‘You—are the king of Greece, and I’m your chief adviser—’ Having
said this, Polyander lay down on a pallet. From force of habit he slid
his cuirass and backplate under his head and covered his feet with his
oval shield, placing it so that the hooks and clasps were easily
accessible. He put his short Argive sword at his side and, having
completed these arrangements, immediately fell asleep.
The soldier was awakened by the sound of fighting. As always at
such moments, he felt a cold, trembling fear in his ankles, but as
befitted one of Alexander’s soldiers, he overcame it at once and
jumped up, holding his sword at the ready.
It was quite early and the morning was cold and crisp. The battle
noises had come to a stop. Squinting at the narrow band of light, the
soldier stepped over to the door and pushed it open.
Looking across the threshold of the hut, Polyander saw that it was
dawn—a reddish sun, slightly tinted with yellow, was rising over the
scarlet mountains; below in the glen, illuminated by the morning
light, a huge, black basaltic ball was being rolled up the mountain
along its grooved channel.
And Sisyphus was rolling it.
Polyander began to shout, his voice shaking from a combination of
consternation and the effects of a hangover.
Sisyphus, the Son of Aeolus
231
‘By the gods, I don’t believe it. Is that really you, Sisyphus? I
thought Zeus the all-wise had pardoned you? Didn’t you say you
would go to Corinth with me, and beyond, if necessary—we were
going to make our fortunes together.’
Pushing his shoulder against the stone as he spoke, Sisyphus
answered:
‘My legs, my skin, my feet are old. This younger generation of
Greeks is too fast for me. I’d fall behind somewhere in the East and
wither away in the hot desert sands. But here—I’m used to it here. I
have all the beans I can eat—traps to catch wild goats—wine, cheese
every once in a while. I don’t need anything else. I’m used to it. You
go to y
our Corinth, traveller, and I’ll go to my mountain.
Taking slow, heavy steps, he began rolling the stone.
But before he disappeared from the soldier’s view, he growled
something out loud to himself:
‘I’m g-g-glad to move—towards the wind—useless stones, better to
sow now than to reap evil.’
He didn’t usually make such long statements, and as a result his
speech wasn’t very distinct. The soldier didn’t catch what he said, but
even if he had, it’s doubtful whether he would have understood.
As Sisyphus moved farther and farther away, his appearance
seemed to change—he looked small and fragile where before he
had been solid and muscular, and his stone again became an ingot
of burning metal. They quickly drew closer to the top of the
mountain, where an invisible force was waiting to throw the stone
back down. The soldier was in no mood to again hear the sickening
screech and earth-shaking rumble of the stone’s downward career, so
he quickly grabbed up his armour and ran off on a path which
suddenly appeared before him.
As he walked along the path he began to feel heartsick, anguished
by a premonition that everything was turned upside down, that
Corinth wasn’t very friendly nowadays and wouldn’t give him much
of a welcome. Maybe it would be better not to go there at all. But what
then? Was there a home for him anywhere? He was like an arrow shot
into the air but without a kindly wind to keep it on course. Now who
would turn all those rags and old clothes a glorious regal purple?
He looked back.
Sisyphus was high up now, at the top of the mountainous ridge.
The goatskins he was wearing, which Polyander had stupidly tried to
dye for him the day before, were shot through with flecks of purple.
Alas—he had wasted what was left of his precious purple dye.
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Vsevolod Ivanov
Polyander spoke out loud, his voice hot and feverish:
‘By the gods, Sisyphus, Homer was right to call you selfish, evil and
crafty. Son of Aeolus, you took advantage of me. Could this be an
omen? Will I always be a dupe?’
translated by ADELE L. MILCH
RUSSIA
A Modest Genius
VADIM SHEFNER
1
Sergei Kladesev was born on Vasilyevski Island, Leningrad. He was a
strange boy. While other children were making sand pies and building
castles, he was drawing sections of odd-looking machines on the sand.
View from Another Shore : European Science Fiction Page 37
