The Naked Year (5 page)

CHAPTER TWO

THE ORDININ HOUSE

The town is of stone. And nobody

knows which was named after which;

were the Ordinin princes named after

the town, or was the town named after

the princes?–the Ordinin princes,

however, inter-married with the Popkovs
.

A
CLOCK BY THE MIRROR
–a bronze shepherd and shepherdess (still intact)–here in the hall chimes half past in a refined glassy tone, like the romantic eighteenth century, a cuckoo clock replies to it from the mother's, Arina Davidovna's, bedroom–and the cuckoo cries fifteen, and the cuckoo is like Asia, Zakamye, barbarian lands. And a third clock chimes in the cathedral: Dong! Dong! Dong!…–Then once more silence in the large house. Somewhere creaks a floorboard, dried out after the winter dampness. By the house on the ascent burns a lamp, its light furrows the molded partially collapsed ceiling, is refracted in the chandelier–also still intact. Gleb's cigarette burns with an even red glow by the window, a window with rainbow-shaped panes firmly puttied in, forever. During the two years of Gleb's absence the house really flew into the abyss–it, the large house, built up over a century, standing on a base of six meters, as if on three whales, in one year decayed, decomposed and disintegrated. Furthermore, the mark of Cain was long ago imprinted on it.

Gleb's cigarette burns with an even glow by the window, Gleb is listening attentively to the old house. In this house his youth was spent, which always seemed immeasurably bright and clear–and is now cut off by the gloom of the Revolution. And the pain: no more thoughts about art or about prayer–or about a certain fair girl. In the hall on the wall are ancient frameless portraits. A huge, yellow grand piano snarls, like a bulldog, and in the corner are placed screens and behind the screens is Gleb's narrow bed. In the hall, behind strong frames, there is an unlived-in and damp smell, and the smell is faintly tinged with that of paints and glue–an artistic smell. The mirrors shine dimly, these ones have been neglected and have grown dull. The moon shines outside the windows with a pale pre-morning light. Night–one must be cheerful!

Subtly again chimes the glass clock, the eighteenth century, and the cuckoo clock of Asia replies. And immediately after the clock, simultaneous with the cathedral's ringing, a bell timidly rings down below, by the entrance, and again silence arrives, the nocturnal house sleeps. Then Gleb lights up a candle-end–a red tip glows, and the blue shadows of the night, becoming dimmer, quickly flee away–it lights up Gleb's face, his disheveled hair, his crooked and slender nose, his large forehead, like on the ikons–and his face is ikon-like.

Near the mother's bedroom, through the half-open door snoring is heard–that of the mother, née Popkova, and Yelena Yermilovna's, and from there comes the smell of a stale human body. In the father's room–Gleb sees through a chink–a lot of dim lamps and tall, slender candles burn by the ikon case, and Gleb sees by the ikon case his father bowed in prayer, his scrawny back can be seen through his dressing gown and his gray, completely white hair. His father's face can be seen: in his eyes, in his humped nose, in his semi-open lips, in his beard, tousled and gray–is it ecstasy–or, perhaps, madness?… All his life his father, Prince Ordinin, had lived in debauchery, having, in his youth, secured financial well-being, through lack of will-power, with the Popkovs' capital–but in the first spring of the Revolution, when the rivers had overflowed with their voluminous spring torrents–his life changed sharply; from a drunken prince he became an ascetic, days and nights in prayer.

In the entrance hall is a wide staircase, worn down by thousands of feet, which goes down to a small trough. Here it is cold, there is a smell of winter, dampness and rotten furs. Along the sides, on the right and the left, doors lead into storerooms–heavy iron doors behind seven locks: behind the doors is kept the wealth of the Popkovs, gathered (stolen, surely?) over the centuries and now scattered–in the bazaars, salvage and communal economy departments.–A candle burns weakly. Gleb opens the outer front door and asks through the inner:

“Who's there?”

No immediate answer. It becomes very quiet, and a robin is heard singing in the park.

“Who's that? –is that you, Gleb Yevgrafovich?” a woman's voice asks from behind the door.

“It's me. Who's there?”

“It's us, I, Marfusha and Yegor Yevgrafovich.”

“Yegorushka?”

And Gleb quickly opens the doors, to see his elder brother, Yegor.

...And beyond the door walks the heady June night.

Yegor is drunk. He is silent. His red bulging eyes are vacant, apart from their characteristic blandness and now embarrassment. He is wearing only an undershirt, torn and filthy, and is barefoot. Behind Yegor stands Marfusha–a distant relative of house-serf descent. A rancid smell emanates from Yegor–of methanol and perspiration. His reply to his brother's enthusiastic embraces is unsure and embarrassed.

“Yegorushka, my dear!…” says Gleb, embracing his brother. Yegor is silent.

“Why don't you speak? Aren't you glad?”

“I'm ashamed, brother,” says Gleb with difficulty. “I'm very ashamed, that you and I should meet like this. Brother, you find it repulsive to kiss me, don't! I won't blame you, brother!”

But Gleb without words hugs Yegor's bony chest harder and kisses his lips and forehead.

“I'm glad to see you, Yegor!…”

“Brother! I stole Natalya's coat and drank it away. I stole it!… I didn't want to come at all, but Marfusha found me. I'm ashamed.. Is mother asleep?… And Boris? I hate him, I despise him!… Marfusha found me… I was there with a prostitute…”

Gleb, virgin, interrupts Yegor, embarrassed.

“Yegor, what are you saying? You shouldn't talk like that!” he says, as only virgins can, and, apologizing for his brother, looks guiltily at Marfusha.

And Marfusha the dishonored virgin understands him; and a look of anguish comes over her pale eyes. She speaks very tiredly and for this reason speaks well:

“Heavens, Gleb Yevgrafovich!… Here's the jacket which was taken from Natalya Yevgrafovna!… How can it be, eh?… I would give away my own and I don't know where to buy it back… You could have a talk with Natalya Yevgrafovna and tell her not to tell Arina Davidovna… Arina Davidovna–will suffer.”

Gleb answers quickly:

“Of course, I'll have a word with her. Of course…”

“Gleb, is mother asleep?”

“She is, yes.”

“I'm scared of her, oh yes!”

Yegor leans on his brother's shoulder. A slight chill shudder shakes his rickety body. The candle burns.

“Gleb, I was there… there's vice there!… You stopped me just now. Do you think I didn't understand? You are a pure man. But I, too, know what purity is,” says Yegor and quietly adds:–“Now I feel like playing…”

By his father's room Yegor stops for a minute, looks around and whispers half smiling, half penitently:

“I couldn't resist it! I couldn't resist the depravity! We used to drink together. I only drank then, but I was pure. Understand?”

But by his mother's room he bristles and glides noiselessly past. In the hall Gleb gives him his own coat. The candle burns, illuminating the image of the Virgin on an easel, the ikon-image face of Gleb and the naked body of Yegor. –Gleb–consciously?–hides the Virgin from Yegor. Yegor leans on the door, lowers his head meekly, remains silent, thinking; then says quietly:

“Thank you, brother! You really are my brother!… Boris–he's no brother! You know, he dishonored Marfusha… Don't tell anyone, mind… We had been drinking together. Then he locked me in and went off to Marfusha's. Downstairs. I heard everything.”

Again he is silent. Again he speaks:

“I feel like playing the piano… But–they're asleep!… Sleep, brother, a saintly sleep! I can't anymore!”

And again, silence. Again Gleb's cigarette smolders. June moves beyond the house, but inside, winter has settled.

Yegor goes quietly down the narrow staircase, its broken rungs and banister creaking, into the semi-basement where the wide and heavy stone walls are saturated and the windows are dimly visible through iron grilles. The narrow corridor with a stone floor is cluttered with empty chests, and on the empty chests there are forty-pound locks, and the keys are under mother's pillow.

“Yegor Yevgrafovich, it's me… I'll see you to the door!…” says Marfusha tiredly and lovingly.

“Go away! I can't forgive you! Go to Boris. Go!”

“Yegor Yevgrafovich…”

“Be quiet!…”

The ceilings in Yegor's room are vaulted and low. And here the windows are bricked up, the damp flows in drops down from the low window, and in the damp on the window sill are scraps of music paper. Yegor is lying on a bed, on his back, his arms folded on his chest, fleshless and asthmatic. His red, bloodshot eyes stare dimly at the door. At the door stands Marfusha.

“Martha!” says Yegor with difficulty.

“No one, except my brother, is guilty. But you don't know. You don't know that there is a law in the world which you can't cross, and it commands us to remain pure. A great catharsis has purged the earth–revolution. You don't know, what beauty…”

“Yegor Yevgrafovich, why were you enjoying yourself
there with that one?..”

“When you forget the law, you want to play the fool. You want to scoff. At yourself!… Go away!”

“Yegor Yevgrafovich…”

“Go away! Be quiet!”

Marfusha stands motionless.

“Go away, I say! You scum! Go away!”

Marfusha slowly walks out, closing the door behind her.

“Marfa… Marfusha… Marfushechka!…” and Yegor convulsively strokes Marfusha's head with his shaking hands and dried out long (aristocratic) fingers.

“I have no law. But I can't forget the truth. I can't act against my convictions. Everything is done for! But what kind of truth has come upon the earth! Mother is wheezing… she's answering for everyone! For everyone!… I love you, I love trampled purity. Remember–I love you. I'll go and be a musician, on the council!”

“Yegorushka!…”

Yegor's breathing is labored and wheezy and he convulsively presses Marfusha's head against his bony chest. The candle end burns faintly.

And again the clock chimes. The night runs its nightly course–enchanted beyond the house but here it is dead. One more nocturnal hour will pass, and it will be morning. Boris, large, aristocratically corpulent and well-groomed, with the halting gait of a man who has spent his nights wandering in insomnia, comes up to Gleb.

“Gleb, you asleep? I've no matches left.”

“Take mine.”

Boris lights up. The match lights up his shaven, well-groomed face, the ring on his little finger flashes. Boris sits down near Gleb, the bed-board creaks under his considerable weight, and he sits, as is his habit, like a product of the Katkov lycée in Moscow, straight and firm, without bending at the waist.

“I just can't give in to Morpheus,” says Boris, glumly.

Gleb doesn't answer, he sits hunched up, with his hands on his knees and his head bent towards them.

They are silent.

“Boris, Yegor has just told me about something vile. You did something vile,” says Gleb.

“With Martha, I suppose? It was nothing!” answers Boris slowly, with a sneer, tiredly.

“That's vile.”

Boris doesn't answer immediately and speaks thoughtfully, without his usually contemptuous sneer.

“Of course it was nothing! The vilest thing is what I did to myself! Understand?–I lost my innocence! We've all lost it.”

Both Boris and Gleb are silent. The moon, following its heavenly route, was casting its rays onto the bed and illuminated Boris with a greenish, ghostly light–the one at which dogs howl nostalgically. Boris smokes tediously.