The Naked Year (14 page)

THE FIRST DYING

–However, surely in the Revolution it wasn't the dead that died?! This was in the first days of the Revolution. Here is the story.

First extract. This is
genealogical
–the Ordinins, without the Popkovs.

In through the windows, through the empty autumnal park, the sun looked for a long time. In the empty autumnal silence over the fields the “crows' weddings” cried out. In this house, so it seemed, his whole life had passed, now it was necessary to go away, for ever: the chairman himself, Ivan Koloturov-Kononov, brought the final order, those strangers had already settled in the kitchen.

In the morning he got up with the blue dawn, day came golden, clear. with a fathomless, blue firmament–on days like this then fathers used to go hunting with borzois. Now everything in the fields is bare, dead rusty arrows stick up, probably the wolves are already whimpering. Yesterday evening they nailed a red signboard next to the front door:–

–Chernorechensky Poor Peasants' Committee–

–and there were noises all night in the hall, something was being put into position. The drawing room remains as before, in the library behind the panes there still gleam the gilt backs of the books–oh, books! surely your poison and your sweetness will not be superfluous!

In the morning with the blue dawn arose Prince Andrei Ordinin, the old man's younger brother–and went off into the field, wandered about all day, drank the last autumn wine, listened to the crow's weddings: in his childhood, whenever he saw this autumnal ornithological carnival, he would clap hands and shout frenziedly: “Keep away, I'm off to my wedding! Keep away, I'm off to my wedding!” There was never any such wedding, the days are already being counted, he lived for love, there were many loves, there was pain, and there is pain–and emptiness and desolation. There was the poison of the Moscow Povarskaya, books and women–there was the sadness of autumn Porechye, he always lived here in autumn. These were his thoughts. He was walking through empty fields without roads, the aspens burned crimson in the hollows, behind him under Uvek stood a white house, in the lilac clumps of the thinning park. Immeasurably distant were the distant lands, blue, crystal. The temples have thinned and are going gray–you can't stop it, put it back.

In the field a muzhik turned up, primordial, typical, with a cartload of sacks, in a sheepskin–a silencing wall–took off his cap, brought the nag to a halt, while–the master passed.

“Good day, Your Excellency!” he said, making a clicking noise, he pulled the reins, drove off, then again stopped, shouted:–“Master! Listen, Sir, I've something to say!”

He turned back. The muzhik's face was all covered in hair, and furrowed–an old man.

“What will you do now, master?”

“It's difficult to say!”

“When will you go away? They're taking the grain away–the poor committees. No matches, no textiles–I light a burning torch!… They forbid the sale of grain–d'you hear, sir–I'll take you to the station on the sly! From Moscow arrived–EE!… Thirty-five–thirrty-five!.. What can you do with that? It's all lots of fun though, lots of fun!.. Have a smoke, master.”

He had never smoked shag–he rolled a cigar. All around there was the steppe, I don't think anyone would have seen how the muzhik pitied him, and he needed pity. He shook hands bidding him farewell, turned sharply, went home. In the park in the pond the water was mirror-like, blue–the water in the pond was always cold, transparent, like glass: it still wasn't time for it to freeze completely. The sun had already moved westwards.

He walked through into the study, sat down at the desk, opened the drawers with letters in–all your life, you can't take it with you. He shook the drawers out onto the desk, walked into the drawing room up to the hearth. On the album table stood an earthenware pot of milk, bread. He lit the fire, burned the papers, stood near and drank the milk, ate the bread–he had starved all day. Already the bare evening shadows were entering the room, a lilac mist stood outside the windows. The fire burned pale yellow, the milk was not fresh, the bread had gone stale.

In the silence of the corridor boots clicked. In came Ivan Koloturov, the Chairman, in a great-coat, with a revolver in his belt–Ivan Koloturov-Kononov:–they played together as boys, then he was a sober-minded muzhik, thrifty, hard working. Silently he handed over a paper, went and stood in the middle of the room.

On the paper was typed:

“
To the Estate owner, Ordinin. The Chernoretsky Poor Peasants' Committee orders that the Soviet estate of Porechye and the limits of the district will be vacated with all speed.

Chairman Iv. Koloturov.
”

“Well, then, I'll leave this evening.”

“There won't be any horses for you.”

“I'll go on foot.”

“As you see fit! You can't take anything with you!” –he turned round, stood with his back to him in thought for a minute and went away.

Just then the clock struck three quarters–the clock was the work of Kuvaldin, an eighteenth century craftsman, it used to be in the Kremlin palace in Moscow, then journeyed with the Vadkovsky princes through the Caucasus–how many times had it gone “tick-tock” to take away two centuries?–He sat by the window, looked into the thinned-out park, he sat motionless for about an hour, leaning his elbows on the marble window sill, he was thinking, reminiscing. Koloturov interrupted his reverie–he came in quietly with two lads, they walked through to the study, silently attempted to lift the desk, something cracked.

He stood up, began to hurry. He put on his broad English coat, felt hat, went out through the terrace, walked over the rustling leaves through the estate, past the stable, the distillery, descended into a gully, came up the other side, towards St. Nicholas's, was tired and decided, that he had to walk without hurrying–to walk thirty versts, the first time he had been here on foot. How, in essence, simple everything is–he thought–and–frightening only in its simplicity!

The sun had already gone into the ground, the West burned crimson. The last crows' wedding flew past, and the autumnal steppe silence came. Darkness approached quickly, complete, black. In the firmament the stars flared up. He was walking jauntily, evenly, along the empty steppe roads. For the first time in his life he was walking so lightly, without a thing, he didn't know where or why. Somewhere in the distance on the sectarian farmsteads the dogs barked. Darkness and night
came, autumnal, silent, in a hard frost.

Twelve versts he walked jauntily, oblivious, and then stopped for a minute–to re-tie his bootlaces–and suddenly he felt immeasurable tiredness, his legs began to ache–in one day his wandering had covered about forty versts. Ahead lay the village of Makhmitka–in his youth, as a student, he used to travel here, to see a soldier's wife, on the sly–now he wouldn't go to her–ever, not for anything, the slave! The village lay flattened against the earth, cluttered with huge hay ricks, it smelt of wheat and manure. Dogs met with barking, a whole pack rolled out like dark balls from the outskirts, at one's feet.

He walked through the Mordvinian quarter and on the Russian side rapped at a window, in the first cottage, through the window a burning torch burned–smoldered. There was no immediate reply.

“Who dere?”

“Let me in, good people, for the night.”

“But who's you?”

“A wayfarer.”

“Well, jus' a minute.”

A muzhik came out, in pink trousers, barefoot, with a burning torch, held the light up, looked at him.

“A prince! Your Excellency! Is this what you've come to… …Come on in, then!”

They spread straw on the floor, a huge bundle, a cricket chirred, there was a smell of soot and manure.

“Lie down, Prince. Sleep well!”

The muzhik climbed up onto the stove, sighed, the peasant woman whispered something, the muzhik growled, then said in a loud voice:

“Prince! You sleep, but in the morning go away before daylight, so that you're not seen. You know yourself, they're troubled times, and you're–a master. The masters have to be finished off.”

The cricket chirred. In the corner the piglets snorted. He lay down, without undressing, put his hat under his head, immediately caught a cockroach on his shoulder. In the remote steppe, covered with wheat, thatched, with haystacks, with cottages, eaten through by lice, bugs, fleas, itch-mites, cockroaches, sooty, stinking, where people, calves and pigs live together–lay Prince Ordinin (now already a corpse!) on the straw, tossed and turned because of the fleas and thought how now in the filthy heat, worn out–he was experiencing real happiness. A piglet approached, sniffed him and went away. Through the window looked a low, bright star–endless peace! They were singing songs in the village.

How he fell asleep–he didn't notice. At dawn the peasant woman woke him up, lead him out the back. The dawn was blue, cold, a light gray frost lay on the grass. He set off quickly, waving his walking stick, with his coat collar turned up. The sky was surprisingly deep and blue, at the “Mar loop-station,” together with the suitcases and bags of flour the prince squeezed into the heated freight car, and there, huddled to the wall, coated with white flour–set off…

Second extract.

Ivan Koloturov, the chairman, worked himself to the bone, always got up before dawn and worked, he dug, harrowed, hammered, planed, repaired–worked with his own hands, huge, unbending, rough. Having got up in the morning, he stuffed himself with potatoes and bread and went from the cottage to do something with wood, stone, iron, the earth, the cattle. He was hard-working, honest, thrifty. Still in 1905 (he was riding from the station and he gave a lift to a man in a tradesman's short coat) he was told that before God all are equal, that the land–was theirs, the muzhiks', that the landowners had stolen the land, that the time would come when it would be necessary to get down to business. Ivan Koloturov understood badly what it would be necessary to do, but when the Revolution came, it thundered into the steppe–he got up first, to act. He felt remorse. He wanted to do everything honorably, he knew how to work only with his hands–to dig, plough, repair. He was elected to the district committee–he was used to getting up before dawn and immediately setting to work–now before ten he did not have to do anything, at ten he went to the committee, where with the greatest difficulty he signed papers–but this was not action: papers were sent to him and from him without his will, he did not understand them, he only signed. He wanted to act. In spring he went home to plough. In autumn he was elected chairman of the Poor Peasants' Committee, he settled on the Prince's estate, put on his brother's army greatcoat, belted on a revolver.

In the evening he would go home, a peasant woman would meet him sullenly, cooking pork, waving her elbows. The children were sitting on the stove, the burning torch smoked.

“You won't want to be eating with us after your nobleman's grub! You've turned into a nobleman!”

He remained silent. He was sitting on the window sill, under the ikons, like a guest.

“Look, who are you getting mixed up with? Only enemies have gathered. Only parted enemies.”

“Quiet, fool. You don't understand, and be quiet!”

“You're ashamed of me, hiding from me!”

“Let's go and live together!”

“I won't go!”

“Fool.”

“You's already learned to bitch. Eat your pork. Or have you forgotten how to eat the noblemen's pork?”

True, he'd already eaten his fill, and she had guessed–of pork. He began snorting.

“She's a fool!”

He came to have a word about the housekeeping, to have a chat. He went away with nothing. The peasant woman had touched on a tender spot–all respectable muzhiks began to shun him, only those who had nothing to lose assembled on the committee. He passed through the village, the park, there was a light in the stable yard, he dropped in to have a look–boys had gathered there and were playing cards, they were smoking–he stood–said sullenly:

“You shouldn't be doing that, lads. You'll set fire to the place!”

“So what, then! What a protector of other people's property you are!”

“It's not other people's, but ours!”

He turned round, went away. They shouted after him:

“Uncle Ivan! Have you got the key to the wine cellar?! There are spirits in there, they say! If you won't give it–we'll break in!”

In the house it was dark, silent, the Prince still lived in the drawing room. The large rooms were unfamiliar, frightening. He went into the office (the former dining room), lit a lamp. He was concerned all the time with cleanliness–on the floor lay lumps of mud from boots: he just couldn't understand–why don't the masters' boots leave traces behind them? –He knelt down and gathered the mud off the floor, threw it out of the window, fetched a brush and swept. There was nothing to do. He went into the kitchen, lay on a bench without undressing, couldn't get to sleep for a long time.