The Naked Year (4 page)

Who dares to deliver us from the crimes which shame our age, from all those vices which have spread injury throughout our lands, from all disorders, shared and private, which make our society gasp?–from the depths of the earth up to the majesty of the day star, everything points to the recognition of an independent Prime Mover, controlling the chain of creatures and who alone is their beginning. Everything prophesies at the same time to the soul and the mind, and especially to the inner sentiment which never deceives the enquirer. The more we gather our thoughts the more conscious we are of the sign of the infinite power, that mark of greatness, visible everywhere and in all things!

Semyon Matveev lived like a hermit crab and his basement flat was shell-like: Semyon Matveev only had to shake a foot whilst sitting over the stove–and his legging would fly into the corner, he only had to shake his second foot–and his second legging would also take its stand in the corner next to the first; Semyon Matveev had only to make one wrong move when sitting over the stove and the dried out brickwork would begin to crumble, and this never happened, because even in his sleep, Semyon was used to lying like an unusual question mark; –if Semyon Matveev suddenly wanted to have “The Pentagram, or the Mason's Sign, translated from the French” near him–he had only to hang down over the stove and without ever misjudging, lift “The Pentagram” from the table, and know by touch the correct page.

The gray dawn murkiness lifted away from the earth, the day warmed up, bright and hot. The gray mists drifted up into the sky. Sergey Sergeevich went upstairs to his room. Olenka Kuntz was already up, splashing water over herself, splashing as she was about to sing.

“In the garden, where you and I met…

But she remembered about Comrade Laitis and fell silent, embarrassed. Sergey Sergeevich was making some burned-rye coffee in a little pot and, closing the door more securely, took a small lump of sugar and a piece of cheese from some secret hiding place; after spreading a napkin on the table, he drank the coffee. After the coffee, and then a cigarette, Sergey Sergeevich shaved and put on a silk jacket with sweat-rotted arm pits; then went to his work in the savings bank, where on the first of every month he would write in the “Bulletin” that “no transactions took place this month” or “no deposits received.” Before work, Sergey Sergeevich stopped off at a little house where they exchanged cuff links for butter; in the office, in the stifling heat, the flies buzzed and Sergey Sergeevich, covered in sweat, would play “preference” with a clerk–a dunderhead; after work Sergey Sergeevich would drop in at a state cafeteria, take a meal home in a dinner-can and eat at home, laying out the napkin again, after dinner he would sleep and at dusk would go for a stroll along the boulevard.

–Something philosophical about rebirth, and–

THE DEATH OF OLD ARKHIPOV

Another dogmatist, –the same dawn. In a gray dirty murkiness the dawn began. At dawn a shepherd began playing his pipe, sorrowfully and softly, like the Permian northern dawn, and the market gardener Ivan Spiridonovich Arkhipov got up in his house at the foot of the mountain with the shepherd's pipe; in an earthenware wash basin Ivan Spiridonovich then washed himself carefully on the porch, then, after rolling up his jacket sleeves, he milked the cow in the cowshed–and did not go, which was unlike most days, into the garden plots.

Murkily began the dawn. In Ivan Spiridonovich's room in his dark cottage, where you could scrape your head against the ceiling, and which had windows that went down to the ground, there stood a walnut writing desk (which had actually slid down out of the attic in the Volkovich home, as the Volkovich home was dead overhead up the side of the mountain, and the Arkhipovs were descended from the Volkovich serfs), and there was a leather-upholstered settee, on which Ivan Spiridonovich always slept
without undressing. When he had lit two candles on the table, which made the dawn through the windows look blue, Ivan Spiridonovich sat down at the table and, glasses on, with his face thin and drawn, he read from a voluminous medical text-book.–At dawn Ivan's son, Arkhip, also woke up in his clean half of the house, and in a leather jacket came jauntily into the kitchen, drank some milk standing up and ate some rye bread. His father put the book aside, paced about the room erect, as always, and not like an old man, with his hands behind his back.

“Medicine, what do you think–can one trust it?” asked the old man indifferently, staring through the window.

“Medicine is a science. One can. Why?”

“Well, I got this book from Daniil Alexandrovich and I've been flicking through it… What fevers!… I think one can too–”

Ivan Spiridonovich stood a while by the window, staring fixedly up at the hill with the Kremlin and the Volkovich estate, like a park which had slipped down right into the ravine.

At the crack of dawn Arkhip went off to the Executive Committee, and the old man lay down on the settee in his room–as never–he didn't start preparing soup. And only when his son had left did Ivan Spiridonovich move over to the window and for a long time he followed his son with his eyes, and in his eyes, sunken and sullen, at that moment was sadness and tenderness. But at nine o'clock (half past six by the sun) Ivan Spiridonovich, having changed his old coat for a new one, having taken off his leggings and having wrapped a white scarf around his neck, and having pushed his oilskin peaked cap down over his ears, set off to the hospital to see Doctor Nevleninov. The road led uphill through a grove, here there was a strong smell of cherry resin and dampness. Ivan Spiridonovich bent a cherry tree branch towards himself, drops of dew fell off. Ivan then pulled off a twig, sniffed at the leaves, smoothed them out between his fingers and said aloud, thoughtfully and somberly,

“All the same, life is a beautiful thing.”

And so, with the twig, he walked up to the hospital, surrounded by gay Christmas trees. In the hospital he sat in Doctor Nevleninov's study, at the writing desk, as if at home, motionless, his elbows resting on the white blotting paper. Daniil Alexandrovich came in with Natalya Yevgrafovna and Natalya Yevgrafovna, dressed all in white, stood silently to one side, by the window.

“You know me, Daniil Alexandrovich, so don't beat about the bush,”–Ivan Spiridonovich began speaking first, without saying ‘hello.'

“You've done all the tests, then? Cancer?”

“Cancer,” answered Natalya Yevgrafovna.

“And there's no mistake?”

“No, we checked very carefully.”

“That's it, then, cancer!”

“Yes.”

Ivan Spiridonovich crossed his gnarled fingers, grinned sullenly, was silent.

“So… I've had a read of your book, Daniil Alexandrovich. It says there that cancer of the stomach is an incurable disease. So it must be death, then.”

“You could have an operation,” answered Natalya Yevgrafovna quietly.

“I could have an operation, quite true. But you know yourself it's only a stop-gap measure,” said Ivan Spiridonovich, who was addressing Daniil Alexandrovich the whole time.

“You'll perform the operation on me, and in two months time another will be needed. At my age it's difficult for me to stand pain. Yes, and a year's enough!” Ivan Spiridonovich for a moment was silent. “You know yourself, Daniil Alexandrovich… Yes…” and fell silent.

Here there was an uneasy moment. Ivan Spiridonovich closely followed Daniil Alexandrovich's eyes; and these eyes, gray, large, in an old face, sad and tender, suddenly shied away from the dark eyes of Ivan Spiridonovich; Ivan Spiridonovich lifted his head high, round his neck he wore a white kerchief instead of a tie, and the kerchief was visible.

“Well, goodbye then!”

“And what sort of food are you getting?” Natalya Yevgrafovna asked, hurried to ask.

“Milk. O.K? I drink a glass a day. You must have other patients to see… Goodbye!”

“No, wait, don't rush off, Ivan!”

“Yes, goodbye, Danya! All the best!”

This was said by all three at once. And that was bad.

Daniil Alexandrovich was trying to hold Ivan Spiridonovich back, but he would not stay and hurried away. Only in the hallway, when he had put on his hat, did Ivan Spiridonovich turn round quickly, firmly shake Daniil Alexandrovich's hand and kiss him.

“You know it's death. Let me kiss you again!”

In Ivan Spiridonovich's eyes the tears welled up, Daniil Alexandrovich hugged him closely to himself. Natalya Yevgrafovna walked across the hall. Ivan Spiridonovich turned to the wall and said tonelessly:

“We old folk must make way for the young. Let them live!”

On that day, at that hour intrepid was the word written in the Executive Committee room–by the son Arkhip Arkhipov: –
TO BE SHOT.

At home Ivan Spiridonovich lay down on the settee with his face to the wall–and lay like this motionlessly for his son. And his son came at five, that is at half past three by the sun. And they spent the day together, with domestic matters and problems, till the evening ‘Taps,' which is always played in the
barracks, at nine by the sun. At six Arkhip Ivanovich lugged water up from the Vologa to the garden beds, watered the cucumbers and cabbages. Down by the Vologa he would examine his fishing tackle (he loved to fish), put two young perch in as bait, from the Executive Committee the errand girl brought
Izvestiya
, and Arkhip Ivanovich got wrapped up in the newspapers by the river. The sun was already disappearing into the west, the yellow dusk was creeping up, from the Volkovich garden descended the smell of raspberries, and in the kitchen-gardens the gaily colored garden girls bawled out their song. And in the cathedral the chimes rang out–Dong! Dong! Dong!–like a stone thrown into a creek of water lilies. At half past seven–for an hour–Arkhip Ivanovich went off to town, and when he returned he went to his own clean half and sat down at the table and remained seated, like his father, very erect. The father helped the son, counted on the abacus, added up figures quickly and accurately. It was gradually getting dark, the sky was green then became blue, became crystal.

And then in the barracks they began to play ‘Taps,' and the girls in the kitchen-gardens sang something very sad. At dusk the cows were rounded up, and Ivan Spiridonovich went to meet and milk them. And when he returned, Arkhip Ivanovich had already finished counting, had folded the papers and was standing in the middle of the room. In the room it was dark, and the moonlight fell onto the transom of the window frames and onto the floor. The son was, like the father, short of stature, hairy, with a spade-beard and was standing, like his father, hands behind his back–heavy hands. Ivan Spiridonovich stood for a moment by the door and went out, and returned with a candle, placed the candle on the floor, sat down himself near the table, elbows placed on the table.

“Arkhip, I have to have a talk to you. Listen,” said the old man strictly. “It was once stated by a certain learned philosopher that if it took a man two months to die, and during that time he had to suffer from an illness, then better than that, he should look after himself… You have already said you agree with this, because death is no longer so terrible,” said Ivan Spiridonovich, quietly and slowly, carefully choosing his words; his head was lowered.

Arkhip Ivanovich moved away.

“Talk sense, father,” said the son quietly. “What are you getting at? Do you hear?”–and then when the son said this “do you hear,” his voice trembled.

“I was at Daniil Alexandrovich's hospital today. And he told me that I have an incurable disease, cancer of the stomach, two months from now I'll be dead, and meanwhile I'm to suffer and be tortured with terrible tortures. Understand?”

Arkhip Ivanovich paced out a strange circle around the room: started to walk quickly towards his father, but, after taking two steps, turned sharply to the door, but again turned back and went and stood calmly by the writing table, by the window, with his back to his father.

“You said, Arkhip, as I understand it, that the earlier the better. This is what you said, is that what you think?”

Arkhip Ivanovich did not reply at once and answered quietly:

“Yes. That's what I think,” he said quietly.

“That is that rather than die–one should look after oneself?”

“Yes,” he said tonelessly.

“And I also think that. You know, once you're dead–there'll be nothing, that's the end. There'll be nothing.”

“Only, father,”–and the word ‘father' stammered painfully. “You know you're my father–I've lived all my life with you, I'm alive because of you–you understand, that makes me sick!”

Ivan Spiridonovich fidgeted about on the chair, as if he were looking for something, then he got up and stood for a moment–and walked over to his son, placed his hands on his son's shoulders from behind, pressed his head against the leather jacket, against his back.

“I know. I understand. You're–my son! I wondered for a long time–should I speak to you, or not?… It's difficult. Very difficult–be patient! It's difficult for me too. I need to live a little longer, to watch you, my son–and how you get on, for you are my son, my blood!… But to rot alive, starve, cry out in pain–I don't want that, I don't wish to! Look at me.”

Arkhip Ivanovich turned around, the two pairs of dark eyes met:–one set sad, ill and with shining, wide pupils, on a parchment face–the others young, stubborn and free. They were silent for a long time and for a long time they were motionless.

“Wait, father, I'll be right back.”

Arkhip Ivanovich went outside, sat down on the little porch near the washbasin stand, looked into the sky, at the stars: already June was moving into July, replacing the platinum June stars with silver, and the stars were like the pillows of Tsar Alexander on his Asian velvet. And Ivan Spiridonovich again sat at the table, crossed his fingers, looked at the candle. Ivan Spiridonovich extinguished it with his breath, lit it again, said:

“There was a light there, then there wasn't, and again there is. It's strange!”

Arkhip Ivanovich came in half and hour later with his vigorous gait, sat down next to his father and said in an even, also usual voice:

“If I were in your shoes, father–do it as best, father, as you can.”

Ivan Spiridonovich stood up, and the son stood up, silently they kissed. Ivan Spiridonovich rummaged about in his back pocket, took out a handkerchief, not yet unfolded, unfolded it, but did not wipe his eyes, for they were too dry, and, already crumpled, he put the handkerchief into his trousers.

“Live your life, son, don't give up whatever you're doing! Get married, have children, son…”

He turned round, took the candle and went away. Arkhip Ivanovich was standing, arms behind his back, just like his father. Then he walked over to the window, opened it and remained standing thus till dawn. In the “Venice” cinema in the Kremlin a brass band was playing and mists were drifting from the river.

Ivan Spiridonovich, in his black half, his room, lay on the settee, his face to the wall, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Dawn came in a gray murkiness, the shepherd began to play his pipe sorrowfully and softly and Ivan Spiridonovich woke up. The candle was burning, through the windows there was a mist, the candle was smoking and there was a smell of burning. Ivan Spiridonovich thought of how in his sleep he was oblivious to all, and these hours from evening to dawn had passed unalarmingly, like one moment. Then he stood up and walked through to the kitchen, there took out from a corner down from a shelf a revolver, on the way looked at himself in the mirror, saw his sullen and serious face, returned to his room, snuffed out the candle, sat on a settee and shot himself in the mouth.