“You’re exaggerating. It’s still long before dark. It’s quite early. But let it be your way. Very well. Let’s stay. Only calm yourself. Look how agitated you are. Really, let’s unpack, take our coats off. Here Katenka says she’s hungry. We’ll have a bite to eat. You’re right, leaving today would be too unprepared, too sudden. Only don’t fret and don’t cry, for God’s sake. I’ll start the stove right now. But first, since the horse is harnessed and the sleigh is at the porch, I’ll go and fetch the last firewood from the Zhivagos’ shed, there’s not a stick left here. Don’t cry. I’ll be back soon.”
11
In the snow in front of the shed there were several circles of sleigh tracks from Yuri Andreevich’s former comings and turnings. The snow by the porch was trampled and littered from his carrying wood two days earlier.
The clouds that had covered the sky in the morning had scattered. It became clear. Cold. The Varykino park, which surrounded these parts at various distances, was close to the shed, as if in order to peer into the doctor’s face and remind him of something. The snow lay deep that winter, higher than the doorstep of the shed. It was as if the lintel lowered itself, the shed seemed to be hunched over. A slab of accumulated snow hung from the roof almost down to the doctor’s head, like the cap of a giant mushroom. Directly above the slope of the roof, its sharp end as if stuck into the snow, burning with a gray heat all around its semicircular outline, stood the young, just-born crescent moon.
Though it was daytime and quite light, the doctor had a feeling as if he were standing on a late evening in the dark, dense forest of his life. There was such gloom in his soul, so sad he felt. And the young moon, a foreboding of separation, an image of solitude, burned before him almost on the level of his face.
Yuri Andreevich was falling off his feet with fatigue. Flinging wood through the door of the shed into the sleigh, he seized fewer pieces at a time than he usually did. In such cold, to touch the icy logs with snow clinging to them was painful, even through mittens. His brisk movements did not warm him up. Something had stopped inside him and snapped. He roundly cursed his talentless fate and prayed to God to keep and safeguard the life of this wondrous beauty, sad, submissive, and simple-hearted. And the crescent moon went on standing over the shed, burning without heat and shining without light.
Suddenly the horse, turning in the direction she had been brought from, raised her head and neighed, first softly and timidly, then loudly and confidently.
“What’s she doing?” the doctor wondered. “Why on earth? It can’t be from fear. Horses don’t neigh from fear, what stupidity. She’s not such a fool as to give herself away to the wolves with her voice, if she can scent them. And so cheerfully. It must be in anticipation of home. She wants to go home. Wait, we’ll set off at once.”
In addition to the load of firewood, Yuri Andreevich took some chips from the shed for kindling and a big piece of birch bark that fell whole from a log, rolled up like a boot top. He covered the wood pile with a bast mat, tied it down with rope, and, striding beside the sleigh, drove it all back to the Mikulitsyns’ shed.
The horse neighed again, in response to the clear neigh of a horse somewhere in the distance, in the other direction. “Where is that from?” the doctor wondered, rousing himself. “We thought Varykino was deserted. It means we were mistaken.” It could not have entered his head that they had visitors, that the horse’s neighing was coming from the direction of the Mikulitsyns’ porch, from the garden. He led Savraska in a roundabout way through backyards, towards the outbuildings of the factory’s farmsteads, and from behind the hillocks, which hid the house, could not see the front part.
Without haste (why should he be in a hurry?), he dumped the firewood in the shed, unhitched the horse, left the sleigh in the shed, and led the horse to the cold, empty stable beside it. He put her in the right corner stall, where it was less drafty, and bringing several armloads of the remaining hay from the shed, piled it onto the slanted grating of the manger.
He walked towards the house with a troubled soul. By the porch stood a well-fed black stallion hitched to a very wide peasant sleigh with a comfortable body. An unfamiliar fellow in a fine jacket, as smooth and well-fed as the horse, strolled around the horse, patting him on the sides and examining his fetlocks.
Noise could be heard in the house. Unwilling to eavesdrop and unable to hear anything, Yuri Andreevich involuntarily slowed his pace and stood as if rooted to the spot. He could not make out the words, but he recognized the voices of Komarovsky, Lara, and Katenka. They were probably in the front room, by the entrance. Komarovsky was arguing with Lara, and, judging by the sound of her replies, she was agitated, weeping, and now sharply objected to him, now agreed with him. By some indefinable sign, Yuri Andreevich imagined that Komarovsky had just then brought the talk around precisely to him, presumably in the sense that he was an untrustworthy man (“a servant of two masters,” Yuri Andreevich fancied), that it was not clear who was dearer to him, his family or Lara, and that Lara could not rely on him, because by entrusting herself to him, she would be “chasing two hares and falling between two stools.” Yuri Andreevich went into the house.
In the front room, indeed, still in a floor-length fur coat, stood Komarovsky. Lara was holding Katenka by the collar of her coat, trying to pull it together and failing to get the hook through the eye. She was cross with the girl, shouting that she should stop fidgeting and struggling, while Katenka complained: “Gently, mama, you’re choking me.” They all stood dressed and ready to leave. When Yuri Andreevich came in, Lara and Viktor Ippolitovich rushed simultaneously to meet him.
“Where did you disappear to? We need you so much!”
“Greetings, Yuri Andreevich! Despite the rudenesses we exchanged last time, I’ve come again, as you see, without invitation.”
“Greetings, Viktor Ippolitovich.”
“Where did you disappear to for so long? Listen to what he says and decide quickly for yourself and me. There’s no time. We must hurry.”
“Why are we standing? Sit down, Viktor Ippolitovich. Where did I disappear to, Larochka? But you know I went to fetch wood, and then I saw to the horse. Viktor Ippolitovich, I beg you to sit down.”
“Aren’t you struck? How is it you don’t show any surprise? We were sorry that this man left and we hadn’t seized upon his offers, and now he’s here before you and you’re not surprised. But still more striking is his fresh news. Tell him, Viktor Ippolitovich.”
“I don’t know what Larissa Fyodorovna has in mind, but for my part I’ll say the following. I purposely spread the rumor that I had left, and stayed for a few more days, to give you and Larissa Fyodorovna time to rethink the questions we had touched upon and on mature reflection perhaps come to a less reckless decision.”
“But we can’t put it off any longer. Now is the most convenient time for leaving. Tomorrow morning—but better let Viktor Ippolitovich tell you himself.”
“One moment, Larochka. Excuse me, Viktor Ippolitovich. Why are we standing here in our coats? Let’s take them off and sit down. This is a serious conversation. We can’t do it harum-scarum. Forgive me, Viktor Ippolitovich. Our disagreement touches upon certain delicate matters. To analyze these subjects is ridiculous and awkward. I never even thought of going with you. Larissa Fyodorovna is another matter. On those rare occasions when our anxieties were separable and we remembered that we were not one being but two, with two different destinies, I thought that Lara should consider your plans more attentively, especially for Katya’s sake. And she constantly did just that, coming back again and again to those possibilities.”
“But only on condition that you come, too.”
“We have the same difficulty imagining our separation, but perhaps we must overcome ourselves and make this sacrifice. Because there can be no talk of my going.”
“But you don’t know anything yet. First listen. Tomorrow morning … Viktor Ippolitovich!”
“Clearly, Larissa Fyodorovna has in mind
the information I brought and have already told her. An official train of the Far Eastern government is standing under steam on the tracks at Yuriatin. It arrived yesterday from Moscow and tomorrow it continues on its way. It’s the train of our Ministry of Transportation. It is half made up of international sleeping cars.
“I must be on that train. Places have been put at my disposal for persons invited to join my working team. We’ll roll along in full comfort. Such an occasion will not present itself again. I know you don’t throw words to the wind and will not change your refusal to come with us. You’re a man of firm decisions, I know. But all the same. Bend yourself for Larissa Fyodorovna’s sake. You heard, she won’t go without you. Come with us, if not to Vladivostok, at least to Yuriatin. And there we’ll see. But in that case we have to hurry. We mustn’t lose a minute. I have a man with me, I’m a poor driver. The five of us, counting him, won’t fit into my sleigh. If I’m not mistaken, you have Samdevyatov’s horse. You said you drove her to fetch firewood. Is she still harnessed up?”
“No, I unhitched her.”
“Then hitch her up again quickly. My driver will help you. Though, you know … Well, devil take the second sleigh. We’ll make it in mine somehow. Only for God’s sake be quick. Take the most necessary things for the road, whatever you’ve got at hand. Let the house stay as it is, unlocked. We must save the child’s life, not go looking for locks and keys.”
“I don’t understand you, Viktor Ippolitovich. You talk as if I had agreed to come. Go with God, if Lara wants it that way. And don’t worry about the house. I’ll stay, and after your departure I’ll tidy things and lock up.”
“What are you saying, Yura? Why this deliberate nonsense, which you don’t believe yourself? ‘If Larissa Fyodorovna has decided.’ He himself knows perfectly well that without his participation in the trip, there is no Larissa Fyodorovna in the works and none of her decisions. Then what are these phrases for: ‘I’ll tidy the house and take care of everything.’ ”
“So you’re implacable. Then I have another request. With Larissa Fyodorovna’s permission, may I have a couple of words with you in private, if possible?”
“Very well. If it’s so necessary, let’s go to the kitchen. You don’t object, Larusha?”
12
“Strelnikov has been seized, given a capital sentence, and the sentence has been carried out.”
“How terrible. Can it be true?”
“So I’ve heard. I’m sure of it.”
“Don’t tell Lara. She’ll go out of her mind.”
“Of course I won’t. That’s why I invited you to another room. After this execution, she and her daughter are in direct, imminent danger. Help me to save them. Do you flatly refuse to accompany us?”
“I told you so. Of course.”
“But she won’t go without you. I simply don’t know what to do. In that case I’ll ask you for help of another sort. Pretend in words, deceitfully, that you’re ready to give in, that you may be persuaded. I can’t picture your parting to myself. Neither here on the spot, nor at the station in Yuriatin, if you really were to go to see us off. We must make it so that she believes you’re also coming. If not now, along with us, then sometime later, when I offer you a new opportunity, which you will promise to make use of. You must be able to give her a false oath on it. But these are not empty words on my part. I assure you on my honor that, at the first expression of your desire, I will undertake to deliver you from here to us and send you further on, wherever you like. Larissa Fyodorovna must be certain that you’re accompanying us. Convince her of it with all your power of persuasion. Let’s say you pretend that you’re running to hitch up the horse and insist that we set out at once, without waiting, while you harness up and overtake us on the road.”
“I’m shaken by the news of Pavel Pavlovich’s execution and can’t come to my senses. I’m having trouble following your words. But I agree with you. After Strelnikov has been dealt with, by our present-day logic, the lives of Larissa Fyodorovna and Katya are also in danger. One of us is certain to be deprived of freedom, and therefore, one way or the other, we’ll be separated. It’s true, then, that it’s better if you separate us and take them somewhere far away, to the ends of the earth. Right now, as I say this to you, things are going your way anyhow. I probably won’t be able to bear it and, surrendering my pride and self-love, will obediently come crawling to you to receive her from your hands, and life, and a way by sea to my family, and my own salvation. But let me sort it all out. The news you’ve reported has stunned me. I’m overwhelmed by suffering, which deprives me of the ability to think and reason. Maybe by obeying you I’m committing a fatal, irrevocable error that will horrify me all my life, but in the fog of pain that robs me of strength the only thing I can do now is mechanically agree with you and obey you blindly and will-lessly. And so, for the sake of her good, I’ll pretend now and tell her that I’m going to hitch up the horse and overtake you, and I’ll stay here alone by myself. Only one small thing. How are you going to go now, with night falling? It’s a forest road, there are wolves around, you must be careful.”
“I know. I have a rifle and a revolver. Don’t worry. And, incidentally, I brought a bit of alcohol along in case of cold. A good amount. Want some?”
13
“What have I done? What have I done? Given her away, renounced her, surrendered her. Run headlong after them, overtake them, bring her back. Lara! Lara!
“They can’t hear. The wind’s against me. And they’re probably talking loudly. She has every reason to be cheerful, calm. She’s let herself be deceived and doesn’t suspect the delusion she’s in.
“These are probably her thoughts. She’s thinking. Everything has turned out in the best possible way, just as she wanted. Her Yurochka, a fantastic and obstinate man, has finally softened, praise God, and is now setting out with her for some safe place, to people wiser than they, under the protection of law and order. Even if, to stand on his mettle and show his character, he turns pigheaded and refuses to get on their train tomorrow, Viktor Ippolitovich will send another one for him in the nearest future.
“And now, of course, he’s already in the stable hitching up Savraska, his confused, disobedient hands trembling with agitation and haste, and will immediately whip her up to full speed behind them, so as to overtake them while they’re still in the fields, before they get into the forest.”
That was probably what she was thinking. And they had not even said good-bye properly. Yuri Andreevich had only waved his hand and turned away, trying to swallow the pain that stuck like a lump in his throat, as if he were choking on a piece of apple.
The doctor, his coat thrown over one shoulder, was standing on the porch. With his free hand, not covered by the coat, he squeezed the neck of a turned porch post just under the ceiling with such force as if he were trying to strangle it. With all his consciousness he was riveted to a distant point in space. There, a short stretch of the road could be seen, going uphill between a few scattered birches. On that open space the light of the low, already setting sun was falling at that moment. There, into that lit-up strip, the racing sleigh should come at any moment out of the shallow depression they had dipped into for a short time.
“Farewell, farewell,” the doctor repeated soundlessly, senselessly, in anticipation of that moment, forcing the nearly breathless sounds from his chest into the frosty evening air. “Farewell, my only beloved, lost forever!”
“Here they come! Here they come!” his white lips whispered with impetuous dryness, when the sleigh shot up from below like an arrow, passing one birch after another, and began to slow down and—oh, joy!—stopped by the last one.
Oh, how his heart pounded, oh, how his heart pounded, his legs gave way under him, and he became all soft as felt from agitation, like the coat that was slipping from his shoulder! “Oh, God, it seems You have decided to return her to me? What’s happened there? What’s going on there on that distant line of sunset? Where is the explanation? Why
are they standing there? No. All is lost. They’ve set off. Racing. She probably asked to stop for a moment for a farewell look at the house. Or maybe she wanted to see whether Yuri Andreevich had already set out and was speeding after them? They’re gone. Gone.
“If they have time, if the sun doesn’t set beforehand” (he wouldn’t be able to see them in the darkness), “they’ll flash by one more time, the last one now, on the other side of the ravine, in the clearing where the wolves stood two nights ago.”
And now this moment came and went. The dark crimson sun still rounded over the blue line of the snowdrifts. The snow greedily absorbed the pineapple sweetness the sun poured into it. And now they appeared, swept by, raced off. “Farewell, Lara, till we meet in the other world, farewell, my beauty, farewell, my fathomless, inexhaustible, eternal joy.” And now they vanished. “I’ll never see you again, never, never in my life, I’ll never see you again.”
Meanwhile, it was getting dark. The crimson-bronze patches of light the sunset scattered over the snow were swiftly fading, going out. The ashen softness of the expanses quickly sank into the lilac twilight, which was turning more and more purple. Their gray mist merged with the fine, lacy handwriting of the birches along the road, tenderly traced against the pale pink of the sky, suddenly grown shallow.
The grief in his soul sharpened Yuri Andreevich’s perceptions. He grasped everything with tenfold distinctness. His surroundings acquired the features of a rare uniqueness, even the air itself. The winter evening breathed an unprecedented concern, like an all-sympathizing witness. It was as if there had never been such a nightfall until now, and evening came for the first time only today, to comfort the orphaned man plunged into solitude. It was as if the woods around stood on the hillocks, back to the horizon, not simply as a girdling panorama, but had just placed themselves there, having emerged from under the ground to show sympathy.
Doctor Zhivago Page 55
