The Naked Year (11 page)

Someone retorted:

“However, father, now Stepan Timofeevich, Ataman Razin has gone from this mountain, so it must be all right to dig. Now there's a levolution, people's rebellion.”

“He's gone, yes, he's gone, my boy,” said the first, “and he's not yet reached our place. Just wait, my boy–just wait!… Everything will be! And the levolution–you're right there–is our rebellion! The time has not come. The people will show their snouts, they've shown them–rebellion! We are silent, we are silent, we know, we are silent! Fire: it's red, blood is red–where there is fire there is blood. We'll be silent, we'll be silent!…”

“Y-yes!…”

One of the diggers got up, went to a hut, noticed Baudek and said dryly:

“And you, Florich, you listening? You shouldn't ought ‘a be lis'nin' to our peasant talk! That's our business.”

They fell silent. Some indifferently changed positions, began to smoke.

“The time now is favorable. Farewell, lads. Don't judge. Farewell, master!” From the earth arose an old man with a white beard, in white pants, barefoot, unhurriedly he walked over to the bank–this was the wizard, stooping Yegorka.

The summer lightning flashed nearer, oftener, clearer. The night grew relentlessly dark, deeply. Again the stars began to grow dim. From the distance, boundlessly the thunder of a new storm began to roll.

Natalya was sitting on a wheelbarrow, leaning her hands on its bottom, head bowed, the campfire illumined her weakly, she sensed, felt with each little corner of her body a great joy, joyful agony, a sweet pain; she understood that the bitter bitterness of wormwood–is a beautiful sweetness, an unusual, boundless joy. Each touch of Baudek's, still rough, fired her like the water of life.

That night it was impossible to sleep.

The storm came with a cloudburst, with thunder and lightning. This storm caught Natalya and Baudek behind the high point, behind the ruins of the tower of the Persian princess, Natalya was drinking absinth–that witch's grief, which the Persian princess left on Uvek.

And when Donat was approaching the farmsteads, having ridden already about fifteen versts from the estate, he heard behind him in the field the song:

Shine, shine, moon, your light is bright,

Warm us up, little red sun!

Donat stopped his horse. And the second storm had already gone, faint lightning flashed distantly. In the steppe there was murkiness and quiet. Soon a horse's gallop was heard. The farmsteads were near at hand, sprawling down the slope–but if even in the day one came within a verst of them–one wouldn't notice–the steppe around is empty, bare. Donat put his fingers into his mouth and whistled, and he was answered by a whistle. A rider rode up on a gray Khirgiz-ambler, also all in white.

“Mark?”

“You, Father?”

“I was at the estate, son,” said Donat. “I heard your whistle. It was yours?”

“Mine, Father.”

“Were you calling the girl Arina?”

“Her, Father.”

“Will you take her for your wife?”

“I will.”

“It's your life. Look. Good horses on the estate. Where have you been?”

“From the steppe, for food–It's too far for the women… What then! our women are healthy and free. Freedom's no sin! I'm a man–I'll teach them!… Good horses on the estate!”

Donat and Mark rode to the ravine and began to descend in single file down into the thicket of guelder rose and young oaks; in the ravine after the rain it was damp and silent, there was the sticky smell of lungwort, the hooves slipped, from the branches fell cold drops. They went down to the bottom, waded across a rivulet and rode up at a gallop. Donat's house suddenly crept out of the murkiness, and a cottage and yard under one roof. In the yard and in the house it was deserted–both the people and the cattle had gone into the steppe for the harvest work. Mark led the horses into the stall, gave them oats. Donat took off his metal-shod boots on the porch, wheezed, washed himself in a clay washbasin.

“Tomorrow at dawn I'll go into the field, to plough, to rest! Give a bit more,” said Donat.

“And I've come to you, Donat,” began a third, coming out of the cottage. “I dropped in to wait, and dozed off in the storm.”

Donat three times embraced the man he'd met. All three passed through into the cottage. In the cottage, in the heat was a smell of sage, wormwood and other medicinal herbs. They turned up the lamp, the murkiness ran under the benches, the cottage was large, consisting of several rooms, an attic, well kept, tidied up, clean. In the clean half on the walls hung saddles, reins, small saddles. There were no ikons on the walls. They sat down at the table. Donat fetched some kasha and mutton from the stove.

“I'm just back from my watch, from the steppe. I've traveled far,” said the third. “There's trouble in the steppe. They said the Tatars from Krivoi Uglan roam about the steppe, for the Tsar, they say, enlisting people for the war. I've traveled about, they've come to an arrangement–if they see anyone, they warn them. I've been with our distant brothers. They've burned all the Tsar's documents–the remains into the water. Ploughmen, they say.”

“We won't give any young men for the war,” said Donat. “Then into the steppe! It's a ride of about seventy versts to the south–ravines, in the ravines there are caves. You know?”

“I know.”

“There!… On the estate–in the newspapers they write–the war has ended along our railway. The steppe–it is free. And there's no end to it.

Mark came out onto the porch. The clouds were dispersing. From behind them shone the round greenish moon. Mark stretched hard, sweetly yawned and went off to the hay to sleep.

At dawn Donat and Mark dashed over the steppe, having left at home on the table bread, kvass and kasha for wayfarers (the house was never locked)–loaded with food for the brothers, sisters and wives who worked in the steppe, living there under carts, under the sky and the scorching heat, at summer harvest time, on the earth. In the east shone a crimson peaceful dawn, and bitter was the smell of wormwood.

THROUGH IRINA'S EYES
(This is a short poem of Irina's: through her eyes)

“About the steppes, about its breathlessness, about absurd landowner existence, about landowner-serf drunken outlaws, about borzois, concubines, tears–it's not the steppe which speaks to me, with its scorching heat and desert, not this old estate where we have settled–it is the kitchen, the one in the semibasement, which speaks to me about the confusion, dissipation, absurdity, about steppe life and about the steppe. In the kitchen are stone brick floors, huge cooker and stove, vaulted ceilings and walls smeared with clay, and huge rusty rings are screwed into the walls for something. In the kitchen buzz the flies; also–half-darkness, heat and a smell of leaven. But in the living room, where the ivy has entwined the windows is green darkness, coolness, and in this cool green darkness shine the portraits and gilt silk armchairs. I entered the house through the kitchen.

“How many days, beautiful and joyful do I have ahead of me?

“I know–around there are woods and steppes. I know, Semyon Ivanovich, Andrei (my spouse!), Kirill–all believe, believe honorably and disinterestedly. I know–our sectarians, who walk about all in white and call themselves Christians, not only believe, but also live on their farmsteads by this faith. Semyon Ivanovich, already tired, talks about goodness dryly and evilly, just as dry as are his fingers. I know–people live in order to fight and in order to obtain a piece of bread–in order to fight over a woman.

“In the morning I loaf about behind the estate on the little hill, behind the old ash tree, I tend the geese and pluck blue flowers, those which are for snake bites. At midday I bathe in the pond beneath the hot sun, and I return through the kitchen gardens and pluck poppies–the white ones with violet patches on the bottom and red ones with black stamens. By the apiary Andrei usually meets me; I don't notice him approaching. He says:

‘Share your poppies with me, Comrade Irina–please!'

“I usually answer thus:

‘Surely men don't ask?–men take! They take freely and willfully, like bandits and anarchists! You're an anarchist, Comrade Andrei. In life still there are tsars–those who have strong muscles, like stone, will-power as elastic as iron, a free mind, like the devil, and who are beautiful like Apollo or the devil. One has to be able to strangle a man and thrash a woman. Surely you don't still believe in some sort of humanism and justice?– –to the devil with all that! let those die who cannot fight! Only the strong and free will remain!…'

‘That's what Darwin said,' says Andrei quietly.

‘To the devil! That's what I said!'

“Andrei looks at me admiringly and subdued, but his glance does not stir me–he doesn't know how to look like Mark–he will never understand that I am beautiful and free and that because of freedom I feel cramped. And at these moments I remember the kitchen, with its scorching heat, iron frightening rings, stone floor and vaulted ceilings.

The bandits knew how to seize the right to life–and they lived, and I bless them! To the devil with anemia! They knew how to drink joy, not thinking about the tears of others, they caroused for months, knowing how to get drunk both on wine and women, and borzois. So be it–they're bandits.

“From the kitchen garden into the house it's necessary to pass through the kitchen. In the kitchen, in the heat, buzz the flies, like a tornado, and chickens walk over the table. But in the lounge, where the windows are entwined with ivy and the light is green–it's just as cool and quiet as on the bottom of the old shady pond.

“I know–it will be evening. In the evening in my room I douse myself with water and weave my plaits. Through the windows comes the moonlight, I have a narrow white bed, and the walls of my room are white–in the moonlight everything seems greenish. My body has its own life, I am lying down, and it begins to appear as if my body is endlessly extending, very very narrow, and my fingers are like snakes. Or on the other hand: my body is becoming flatter, my head is going into my shoulders. And sometimes my body appears huge, it keeps on growing surprisingly, I am a giant, and there's no possibility of moving my arm, as long as a kilometer. Or I seem to myself to be a small ball, light as down. There are no thoughts–a languishing moves into my body as if my whole body is becoming numb, as if someone is stroking me with a soft little brush, and it seems that all objects are covered with soft chamois: the bed, and the sheet, and the walls–all wrapped in chamois.

“Then I think. I know–modern times, like never before, bring only one thing: the struggle for life, to the death, that's why there is so much death. To the devil with fairy tales about some sort of humanism! I get no chill when I think about this: let only the strong survive. And woman will always remain on a beautiful pedestal, there will always be chivalry. To the devil with humanism and ethics–I want to experience everything which freedom, intelligence and instinct have given me–instinct because surely modern times are the struggle of instinct?!

“I look into the mirror–a woman is looking at me, with eyes black as sedition, with lips thirsting to drink; and my nostrils seem to me as sensitive as sails. Through the window comes the moonlight: my body is greenish. A tall, shapely, powerful naked woman is looking at me.”

“An old lady gave me some shirts made of homespun cloth, which made them rough on the body, a sarafan, a homespun skirt, a fur lined jacket of blue cloth, a white headscarf, embossed boots with decorative plates and short boots, she threw in a little mirror.

“The lads had gathered in the hut, they had ridden in from the farmsteads. Mark led me out by the hand. The men were seated to the right, the women–to the left. I kissed first all the women, then the men. And I became Mark's wife.

‘Come here, daughter Irina,' said the old man Donat, took me by the hand, sat next to him, fondling, and said that all those assembled here were brothers and sisters, my new family, one for all and all for one, not to take arguments out of the hut, if they come to the house, feed them, give them drink, celebrate, give everything, share with everyone–all that is ours. All the men are healthy and broad-shouldered, like Mark, and the women–beautiful, healthy and neat–all in white.

“Mark. I remember that night, when he came with two horses, and we dashed over the steppe from the commune, so that I would stay alone in the dark house, in a woman's hut, in the darkness, breathe in the sage and think about this being my last life and there being freedom no longer. Mark galloped into the steppe. And in the morning I went off after him. I now know our summer peasant harvest toil. My hands became covered with a bark of calluses, my face sunburned, it darkened in the sun like a peasant woman's, and in the evening, after the harvest toil, bathing in a nameless steppe river, already cold I together with my sisters, surprisingly healthy, calm and beautiful, I sing like a peasant woman.

‘Shine, shine, oh moon; your light is bright,

Warm us up–ach! –little red sun.'

“Already the nights are autumnally starry, and a blue wine spills over the steppe during the day. On the farmstead they are getting ready for winter, into the corn bins they pour out the golden wheat, the flocks have come out of the steppe, and the men are unloading the hay.

“Mark speaks little with me, he arrives unexpectedly, at night, kisses me without words, and his hands are of iron. Mark never has time to talk to me–he is my master, but he is also my brother, protector, comrade. The old woman sets me to work every morning and, praising–instructing, she pats my head. I've no time to meditate. How sweetly sweat smells–let it be salty! I learned to don a headscarf, as everyone dons a headscarf.”

“At night Mark came:

‘Get up, let's go,' he said to me.

“In the yard horses were standing, there was Donat and a third one. We rode out into the steppe. The horse moved along under me. The night was silent and dark, a light rain drizzled! Ahead rode Donat.

‘Where are we going?' I asked Mark.

‘Just wait. You'll find out.'

“Soon we rode out to the estate, went around the gully and stopped behind the stable yard. We all hurried, and they told me to get down. The third one gathered the reins. We walked right up to the ditch. Donat turned to the right, we walked up to the house.

‘Where are we going, Mark?' I asked.

‘Quiet. For horses,' said Mark. ‘Stand here. If you see any people–whistle, go to the horses. If you hear a noise–go to the horses, gallop into the field. I'll come.'

“Mark went away. I stayed to stand watch. Surely I could submit to Mark? I have no homeland, apart from these steppe farmsteads, I have nobody, apart from Mark. Somewhere in the house Semyon Ivanovich and Andrei were sleeping. Let them! The house stood heavily and sullenly, in the darkness. The rain drizzled. I was not afraid, but my heart thumped–with love, love and devotion! I'm a slave!

“Mark came up unnoticed, unexpectedly, as always. He seized an arm and led me to the ditch. By the ditch stood our horses, mine and his Kirghiz–amblers, swift and mean, like the wind. Mark helped me to mount, jumped up himself, whistled–and, seizing hold of me, throwing me over his saddle, pressing me against his chest, bending his head over me, whooping, galloped off into the steppe, into the autumnal expanse of the steppe.

“The East was forged like crimson armor, the sun threw out its rapiers when we galloped up to the distant farmsteads, where Donat was already sitting peacefully at the table, that third one, the stooping wizard Yegor, and the witch Arina was laying the table with a calm and cheeky smile, like a witch's.

“How many days, beautiful and joyful, are ahead of me?”

The archeologist Baudek got a leaflet copied out by Donat, and this leaflet Gleb Ordinin meticulously copied out.

Here is the leaflet:

“The cross is an object of neglect, but not of celebration, in so far as it served, like the block and gibbet, as the instrument of the humiliation and death of Christ. It is a dishonorable instrument which killed your friend. In the same way it behooves us to regard also the Jews who constrcuted the cross.

“In the Book of Rods in the name of Jesus the trinity and two natures are explained! An oath is introduced, which not even the ancient heretics possessed! In the triangle they write God in Latin! They eat strangled and wild animals' flesh. They cut off their hair and wear foreign clothing! They pray with heretics, in the bathhouses they wash with them and enter marriage with the heretics! They have chemists' shops and hospitals, they feel and even examine women's genitals with their hands. They have horse-racing! They drink and eat with music, dancing and splashing. The women have their heads uncovered and they don't cover their upper shameful bodies. The men consider it shameful to wash together with women in a bathhouse and sleep in the same bed. The monastic childhood is in disagreement with the Holy Scriptures: the apostle Paul said that some would renounce the faith, cursing marriage and wedlock.

“It depends on the will of each, when and where to fast! We honor the one Lord God the Lord of Hosts and his Saviour Son! Not only martyrs but also the Virgin Mary are not eligible for homage for this is idolatry, like homage to idols! The life of the blessed Christ's fools is not at all pleasing to God, in so far as lunacy is not attractive! And as, seeing fire, we do not attribute the properties of water, not to water the properties of fire–so it is not possible to attribute to bread and wine the properties of the body and blood! So in marriage there is no sacrament, but love is–when the men and women gather together, the parents bless and groom and bride, in the manner of Tobias's marriage.

“There is but a single Book–the book of books–the Bible, and life has to be in accordance with Biblical customs. Honor thy father and thy mother, love thy neighbor, use no foul language, work, think about the Lord God and His Image, which is born within you.

“We honor one rite–the rite of sacred Kissing. And there is but one Government–our spiritual conscience and brotherly customs.”