Doctor Zhivago (95 page)

The flames of sunset were smoldering out.

A horseman headed for a remote farmstead in the Urals

Was plodding over a spring-mired trail

In a thick pine forest.

The horse
'
s inwards heaved. In answer

To the swish and clink of its shod hoofs

The swirling whirlpools loosed their echoes

Over the road, in pursuit.

But when the horseman, dropping reins,

Would slow his mount down to a walk,

The spring freshets would roll very close to him

All of their roaring, all their din.

Someone was laughing, someone wept;

Stones ground to dust against the flints,

And loosened and uprooted tree-stumps

Went tumbling into churning pools.

A nightingale raged in frantic song

Like a church bell pealing forth a tocsin;

He sang among branches interlaced and darkling

Against the sunset
'
s conflagration.

Where a willow leant over a hollow

Like a widow burying her mate

The bird was whistling on seven oaks,

As Robber Nightingale did in days of old.

Against what evil, against what forlorn love

Was this predestined fervor meant?

Against whom had the singer fired

This charge of small shot in the woods?

It seemed that he would emerge like a wood demon

From the camp of the escaping convicts

To meet the outposts of the partisans,

Whether on foot or horse.

The earth and sky, the field and forest

Hearkened to catch each unique note,

These measured doles of sheerest madness,

Of pain, of happiness, of anguish.

Life has returned with just as little reason

As on a time it so oddly snapped.

I am on the same ancient thoroughfare

That I was on that summer, on that day and hour.

The same people, and their cares are the same,

And the sunset
'
s red fire has not yet grown cold:

It was just the same when that deathly evening

Quickly nailed it against a white wall.

Women in worn and sleazy cottons

Go tap-tapping along (just as they did then)

And night (just as it did then) will crucify them

Under the tin roofs of their garret rooms.

There, one of them, with her feet dragging,

Slowly emerges upon her threshold

And, climbing out of her semibasement,

Goes eater-corner across the yard.

I am again brushing up on excuses

And (once again) nothing means much to me.

Now my fair neighbor, having skirted the back yard,

Leaves us alone, all alone by ourselves.

Keep back your tears. And do not twist

Your swollen lips. And don
'
t pucker them,

For that would merely break the scab

That was formed by the enfevered spring.

Remove your hand—don
'
t keep it on my breast:

We are merely wires—and the current
'
s on.

Once more—watch out!—we will be thrown together,

And this time not by chance.

The years will pass and you will marry.

You will forget the hardships you endured.

To be a woman is a great adventure;

To drive men mad is a heroic thing.

For my part, all my life long

I have stood like a devoted slave

In reverence and awe before the miracle

Of woman
'
s hands, her back, her shoulders, and her sculptured throat.

And yet, no matter how the night

May chain me within its ring of longing,

The pull of separation is still stronger

And I have a beckoning passion for the clean break.

Conversation in murmured tones.

With an impatient gesture

She upsweeps her hair—the whole sheaf of it—

From the nape of her neck.

As she peers out from under her heavy comb

She is a woman in a helmet.

Her head, braids and all,

Is thrown back.

Outside, the sultry night

Threatens to turn inclement.

Pedestrians, shuffling their feet,

Hasten homeward.

You can hear abrupt thunderings

And their grating echoes,

While the gusts of wind

Are making the curtains sway.

Not a word breaks the silence.

The air is as sticky as it was before

And, as before, lightnings go rummaging,

Rummaging, rummaging all over the sky.

And when the morning comes

Sunshot and sultry

And once more starts drying the puddles

Left on the street by last night
'
s downpour,

The fragrant lindens,

Ages old but still in full blossom,

Have a glum look about them

Because they haven
'
t slept themselves out.

I have died, but you are still among the living.

And the wind, keening and complaining,

Makes the country house and the forest rock—

Not each pine by itself

But all the trees as one,

Together with the illimitable distance;

It makes them rock as the hulls of sailboats

Rock on the mirrorous waters of a boat-basin.

And this the wind does not out of bravado

Or in a senseless rage,

But so that in its desolation

It may find words to fashion a lullaby for you.

We seek shelter from inclement weather

Under a willow entwined with ivy.

A raincape is thrown over our shoulders.

My arms are tightly encircled about you.

Sorry—I erred. The shrubs in these thickets

Are not ivy-grown but covered with hopbines.

Well, we
'
ll do better if we take this raincape

And spread it out wide for a rug beneath us.

The leaves of the currants are coarse and woolly.

The house shakes with laughter, the windowpanes ring.

There
'
s great chopping within it, and pickling, while pepper

And cloves are put in to lend tang to the brine.

The grove, like a cavorting clown, casts this hubbub

As far as that field with its rather steep slope

Where the sun-scorched hazels are blazing with color

As if they
'
d been seared by the heat of a fire.

Here the road dips to a gravelly gully;

Here among the ancient and gnarled river-snags

One can feel sorry for even that rag-picking crone Autumn

Who has swept all of her queer treasure-trove down here.

And also because all Creation is simpler

Than some of our crafty philosophers think.

And because the grove seems to be plunged under water,

And because for all things there
'
s a predestined end.

And because there
'
s no sense for one
'
s eyes to be blinking

When all they behold has been scorched by the sun,

And the fine ashes of Autumn (its white gossamer)

Float in at the windows with each vagrant breeze.

There
'
s a hole in the fence; it leads from the garden

To a path that gets lost where the birches grow thick.

The house hums with laughter and housewifely bustling—

That bustling and laughter also come from afar.

Guests came until dawn

To the bride
'
s house for the celebration,

Cutting right across the yard,

Bringing their own music.

After midnight until seven

Not a murmur came

From behind the felt-lined door

Of the master
'
s bedroom.

But at dawn (the sleepiest time

When one could sleep forever)

The accordion struck up,

Once again, at leaving.

The harmonica played too

Like a hurdy-gurdy;

Clapping hands and clicking beads

Helped the charivari.

And again, again, again

Sped by guests carousing

All the ribald catches burst

Right into the bedroom,

While one wench, as white as snow,

To the calls and whistles

Once more did her peahen dance

Gliding, with hips swinging,

Head tossed high

And right hand waving,

Dancing fast on cobbles—

Just a peahen, peahen!

Suddenly the din and doings

And rings-around-a-rosy—

Vanished as if hell had yawned

Or water had engulfed them.

Noisily the barnyard woke

And sounds of daily chores

Mingled with the noisy talk