Doctor Zhivago (29 page)

Imperturbable as an oracle, he prophesied disastrous upheavals in the near future. Yurii Andreievich inwardly agreed that this was not unlikely, but the calm, authoritative tone in which this unpleasant boy was making his forecasts angered him.

"
Just a moment,
"
he said hesitantly.
"
True, all this may happen. But it seems to me that with all that
'
s going on—the chaos, the disintegration, the pressure from the enemy—this is not the moment to start dangerous experiments. The country must be allowed to recover from one upheaval before plunging into another. We must wait till at least relative peace and order are restored.
"

"
That
'
s naïve,
"
said Pogorevshikh.
"
What you call disorder is just as normal a state of things as the order you
'
re so keen about. All this destruction—it
'
s a natural and preliminary stage of a broad creative plan. Society has not yet disintegrated sufficiently. It must fall to pieces completely, then a genuinely revolutionary government will put the pieces together and build on completely new foundations.
"

Yurii Andreievich felt disturbed. He went out into the corridor.

The train, gathering speed, was approaching Moscow. It ran through birch woods dotted with summer houses. Small roofless suburban stations with crowds of vacationers flew by and were left far behind in the cloud of dust raised by the train, and seemed to turn like a carrousel. The engine hooted repeatedly, and the sound filled the surrounding woods and came back in long, hollow echoes from far away.

All at once, for the first time in the last few days, Yurii Andreievich understood quite clearly where he was, what was happening to him, and what awaited him in an hour or so.

Three years of changes, moves, uncertainties, upheavals; the war, the revolution; scenes of destruction, scenes of death, shelling, blown-up bridges, fires, ruins—all this turned suddenly into a huge, empty, meaningless space. The first real event since the long interruption was this trip in the fast-moving train, the fact that he was approaching his home, which was intact, which still existed, and in which every stone was dear to him. This was real life, meaningful experience, the actual goal of all quests, this was what art aimed at—homecoming, return to one
'
s family, to oneself, to true existence.

The woods had been left behind. The train broke out of the leafy tunnels into the open. A sloping field rose from a hollow to a wide mound. It was striped horizontally with dark green potato beds; beyond them, at the top of the mound, were cold frames. Opposite the field, beyond the curving tail of the train, a dark purple cloud covered half the sky. Sunbeams were breaking through it, spreading like wheel spokes and reflected by the glass of the frames in a blinding glare.

Suddenly, warm, heavy rain, sparkling in the sun, fell out of the cloud. The drops fell hurriedly and their drumming matched the clatter of the speeding train, as though the rain were afraid of being left behind and were trying to catch up.

Hardly had the doctor noticed this when the Church of Christ the Savior showed over the rim of the hill, and a minute later the domes, chimneys, roofs, and houses of the city.

"
Moscow,
"
he said, returning to the compartment.
"
Time to get ready.
"

Pogorevshikh jumped up, rummaged in his hunter
'
s bag, and took out a fat duck.
"
Take it,
"
he said.
"
As a souvenir. I have rarely spent a day in such pleasant company.
"

Zhivago
'
s protests were unavailing. In the end he said:
"
All right, I
'
ll take it as a present from you to my wife.
"

"
Splendid, splendid, your wife,
"
Pogorevshikh kept repeating delightedly, as though he had heard the word for the first time, jerking and laughing so much that Prince jumped out and took part in the rejoicing.

The train drew into the station. The compartment was plunged into darkness. The deaf-mute held out the wild duck, wrapped in a torn piece of some printed poster.

In the train it had seemed to Zhivago that only the train was moving but that time stood still and it was not later than noon.

But the sun was already low by the time his cab had finally made its way through the dense crowd in Smolensky Square.

In later years, when the doctor recalled this day, it seemed to him—he did not know whether this was his original impression or whether it had been altered by subsequent experiences—that even then the crowd hung about the market only by habit, that there was no reason for it to be there, for the empty stalls were shut and not even padlocked and there was nothing to buy or sell in the littered square, which was no longer swept.

And it seemed to him that even then he saw, like a silent reproach to the passers-by, thin, decently dressed old men and women shrinking against the walls, wordlessly offering for sale things no one bought and no one needed—artificial flowers, round coffee pots with glass lids and whistles, black net evening dresses, uniforms of abolished offices.

Humbler people traded in more useful things—crusts of stale rationed black bread, damp, dirty chunks of sugar, and ounce packages of coarse tobacco cut in half right through the wrapping.

And all sorts of nondescript odds and ends were sold all over the market, going up in price as they changed hands.

The cab turned into one of the narrow streets opening from the square. Behind them, the setting sun warmed their backs. In front of them a draft horse clattered along, pulling an empty, bouncing cart. It raised pillars of dust, glowing like bronze in the rays of the low sun. At last they passed the cart which had blocked their way. They drove faster. The doctor was struck by the piles of old newspapers and posters, torn down from the walls and fences, littering the sidewalks and streets. The wind pulled them one way and hoofs, wheels, and feet shoved them the other.

They passed several intersections, and soon the doctor
'
s house appeared at a corner. The cab stopped.

Yurii Andreievich gasped for breath and his heart hammered loudly as he got out, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang again. As there was still no reply, he went on ringing at short, anxious intervals. He was still ringing when he saw that the door had been opened by Antonina Alexandrovna and that she stood holding it wide open. The unexpectedness of it so dumfounded them both that neither of them heard the other cry out. But as the door held wide open by Tonia was in itself a welcome and almost an embrace, they soon recovered and rushed into each other
'
s arms. A moment later they were both talking at once, interrupting each other.

"
First of all, is everybody well?
"

"
Yes, yes, don
'
t worry. Everything is all right. I wrote you a lot of silly nonsense, forgive me. But we
'
ll talk about that later. Why didn
'
t you send a telegram? Markel will take your things up. I suppose you got worried when Egorovna didn
'
t let you in! She is in the country.
"

"
You
'
re thinner. But how young you look, and so pretty! Wait a minute, I
'
ll pay the driver.
"

"
Egorovna has gone to get some flour. The other servants have been discharged. There
'
s only one girl now, Niusha, you don
'
t know her, she
'
s looking after Sashenka, there
'
s no one else. Everybody has been told you
'
re coming, they
'
re all longing to see you—Gordon, Dudorov, everyone.
"

"
How is Sashenka?
"

"
All right, thank God. He
'
s just waked up. If you weren
'
t still dirty from the train we could go to him at once.
"

"
Is Father at home?
"

"
Didn
'
t anyone write to you? He
'
s at the borough council from morning till night, he
'
s the chairman. Yes, can you believe it! Have you settled with the driver? Markel! Markel!
"

They were standing in the middle of the street with wicker hamper and suitcase blocking the way, and the passers-by, as they walked around them, looked them over from head to foot, and stared at the cab as it pulled away from the curb and at the wide-open front door, to see what would happen next.

But Markel was already running up from the gate to welcome the young master, his waistcoat over his cotton shirt and his porter
'
s cap in his hand, shouting as he ran:

"
Heavenly powers, if it isn
'
t Yurochka! It
'
s our little falcon in person! Yurii Andreievich, light of our eyes, so you haven
'
t forgotten us and our prayers, you
'
ve come home! And what do you want?
"
he snapped at the curious.
"
Be off with you. What
'
s there to goggle at?
"

"
How are you, Markel? Let
'
s embrace. Put your cap on, you eccentric. Well, what
'
s new? How
'
s your wife? How are the girls?
"

"
How should they be? They
'
re growing, thanks be to God. As for news, you can see for yourself, while you were busy at the front we were not idle either. Such a mess they made, such bedlam, the devil couldn
'
t sort it out! The streets unswept, roofs unrepaired, houses unpainted, bellies empty as in Lent. Real peace there—no annexations and no reparations, as they say.
"

"
I
'
ll tell on you, Markel. He
'
s always like that, Yurochka. I can
'
t stand that foolishness. He
'
s talking like that only because he thinks you like it, but he
'
s a sly one. All right, all right, Markel, don
'
t argue with me, I know you. You
'
re a deep one, Markel. Time you were sensible. After all, you know what kind of people we are.
"

They went in. Markel carried the doctor
'
s things inside, shut the front door behind him, and went on confidentially:

"
Antonina Alexandrovna is cross, you heard what she said. It
'
s always like that. She says, You
'
re all black inside, Markel, she says, like that stovepipe. Nowadays, she says, every little child, maybe even every spaniel or any other lap dog knows what
'
s what. That, of course, is true, but all the same, Yurochka, believe it or not, those who know have seen the book, the Mason
'
s prophecies, one hundred and forty years it
'
s been lying under a stone, and now, it
'
s my considered opinion, Yurochka, we
'
ve been sold down the river, sold for a song. But can I say a word? See for yourself, Antonina Alexandrovna is making signs to me, she wants me to go.
"

"
Do you wonder? That
'
s enough, Markel, put the things down, and that will be all, thank you. If Yurii Andreievich wants anything, he
'
ll call you.
"

"
At last we
'
ve got rid of him! All right, all right, you can listen to him if you like, but I can tell you, it
'
s all make-believe. You talk to him and you think he
'
s the village idiot, butter wouldn
'
t melt in his mouth, and all the time he
'
s secretly sharpening his knife—only he hasn
'
t quite decided yet whom he
'
ll use it on, the charming fellow.
"

"
Isn
'
t that a bit far-fetched? I expect he
'
s just drunk, that
'
s all.
"