Doctor Zhivago (98 page)

In the gloom before dawn, gray as cold ashes,

The drovers and shepherds stamped to keep warm.

Those come on foot bickered with those who came mounted.

Near the hollowed-out log that served as a water trough

The camels bellowed, the gray asses kicked out.

Day was breaking. Dawn swept the last of the stars

Off heaven
'
s vault as if they were ash motes.

And Mary, out of all the countless multitude, allowed

Only the Magi to enter the cleft in the crag.

He slept, all refulgent, in the manger of oakwood,

Like a moonbeam within a deep-hollowed tree.

In lieu of sheepskins His body was warmed

By the lips of an ass and the nostrils of an ox.

The Magi stood in shadow (the byre seemed in twilight);

They spoke in whispers, groping for words.

Suddenly one, in deeper shadow, touched another

To move him aside from the manger, a little to the left.

The other turned: like a guest about to enter,

The Star of the Nativity was gazing upon the Maid.

You were the be-all in my destiny.

Then came the war, the devastation,

And for a long, long time there was

No word from you, not even a sign,

And after many, many years

I find again your voice disturbs me.

All night I read your testament—

And found my consciousness returning.

I
'
m drawn to people, to be one of a crowd,

To share their morning animation.

I
'
m ready to smash everything to smithereens

And make all kneel in schoolboy penance.

And so I dash down all the stairs

As if this were my first sortie

Into these streets and their deep snow

And pavements that long since died out.

Each way I turn I see awakenings, lights, comfort.

Men gulp their tea, they hurry to catch trolleys.

Within the space of a few minutes

You
'
d never recognize the town.

The blizzard weaves its nets in gateways

Out of the thickly falling flakes.

And all, to get to work in time,

Dash madly, hardly taking breakfast.

I feel for all these people

As if I
'
d been within their hides;

I feel I
'
m melting, even as the snow melts,

I feel I glower, even as the morning glowers.

The nameless ones are part of me.

Children also, the trees, and stay-at-homes.

All these are victors over me—

And therein lies my sole victory.

He was on His way from Bethany to Jerusalem,

Languishing under the sadness of premonitions.

The slope
'
s prickly scrubwood had been scorched by the sun;

No smoke rose from a near-by hut.

The air was hot; the reeds did not stir

And the calm of the Dead Sea was unbroken.

And, knowing a bitterness that rivalled the bitterness of the sea,

Accompanied only by a small band of clouds,

He went on along the dusty road

Intent on reaching a certain religious school.

He was on His way to attend a gathering of disciples.

And so deeply was He plunged in His thoughts

That the countryside sent forth an odor of wormwood.

A stillness fell over all things. He stood alone

In the midst of it all. And all the region lay prostrate

As if in a swoon. All things became confused:

The sultriness and the desert,

And lizards, and wellsprings and streams.

A fig tree rose up a short distance ahead—

Utterly fruitless, putting forth only branches and leaves.

And He said unto it:
"
Of what use art thou?

What joy have I from thee, standing there petrified?

I am enhungered and athirst, yet thou art all barren

And coming upon thee is of less joy than stumbling on granite.

Oh, how thou dost offend, how void of any gift!

Remain, then, even as thou art until the end of time.
"

A shudder at the condemnation ran through the tree

Even as a spark of lightning runs down a rod.

The fig tree was instantly consumed to ashes.

If at that point but a moment of free choice had been granted

To the leaves, the branches, to the trunk and roots

The laws of nature might have contrived to intervene.

But a miracle is a miracle—and miracle is God.

When we are in confusion, then in the midst of our straggling

It overtakes us and, on the instant, confounds us.

High-handed spring barges right into

The stateliest Moscow houses.

Moths flutter out when one opens closets

And start crawling over summer headgear.

Furs are put away in trunks.

The ledges of high wooden garrets

Put forth their vernal flowerpots

Of gillyflowers and wallflowers;

Rooms flaunt a free-and-easy air

And attics smell of dust.

Streets are on hail-fellow-well-met terms

With each and every purblind window.

White night and sunset, by the river,

Just can
'
t, somehow, pass each other.

And you can hear inside the hallway

What
'
s going on out in the open,

Or overhear the eavesdrop talking

By chance with April (which month has

Thousands and thousands of true stories

That have to do with mankind
'
s woes).

Dawnglows and evenglows congeal on fences,

Dawdling and shirking at their tasks.

The selfsame blend of fire and eeriness

Prevails outside and in snug dwelling.

Everywhere the air is not its own self.

The selfsame pussywillow twigs interlace,

The selfsame white buds beget their swellings,

Whether on window sill or at crossroads,

Whether in the street or in a workshop.

Why, then, does the distance weep in a mist

And humus have so sharp an odor?

For that
'
s just what my calling
'
s for—

To keep the vistas from being bored,

To keep the land beyond the city

From pining by its lonely self.

That is the reason my friends gather

To be with me in early spring

And why our evenings serve as farewells

And our little feasts as testaments,

So that the secret stream of sorrow

May impart some warmth to the chill of being.

When He was entering Jerusalem

During that last week

He was hailed with thunderous hosannas;

The people ran in His wake, waving palm branches.

Yet the days were becoming ever more ominous, more grim.

There wax no stirring the hearts of men through love:

Their eyebrows knit in disdain.

And now, the epilogue. Finis.

The heavens lay heavy over the houses,

Crushing with all of their leaden weight.

The Pharisees were seeking evidence against Him,

Yet cringed before Him like foxes.

Then the dark forces of the Temple

Gave Him up to be judged by the offscourings.

And, with the same fervor with which they once sang His praises,

Men now reviled Him.

The rabble from the vicinity

Was peering in at the gateway.

They kept jostling as they bided the outcome,

Surging, receding.

The neighborhood crawled with sly whispers

And rumors crept in from all sides.

He recalled the flight into Egypt and His childhood

But recalled them now as if in a dream.

He remembered the majestic cliffside in the wilderness

And that exceeding high mountain

Whereon Satan had tempted Him,

Offering Him all the kingdoms of the world.

And the marriage feast at Cana

And the guests in great admiration over the miracle.

And the sea on which, in a mist,

He had walked to the boat as if over dry land.

And the gathering of the poor in a hovel

And His going down into a cellar by the light of a taper

Which had suddenly gone out in affright

When the man risen from the dead was trying to get to his feet.

I

As soon as night comes my demon springs up out of the ground.

That is the price I pay for my past.

They come, those memories of vice,

And fall to gnawing at my heart.

Those memories of days when I, a slave

To the whims and quirks of males,

Was but a demoniac fool and the street was all my shelter.

A few scant moments still remain

And then a silence as of the grave will fall.

But before they pass I, having reached

The very limit of my life,

Am shattering that life at Thy feet

As if it were an alabaster vessel.

Oh, where would I now be,

My Master and my Saviour,

If eternity were not awaiting me

Of nights, standing by my bed