THE THIRD PART OF THE TRIPTYCH
(the brightest)

Over the ravine, over Vologa is a Kremlin, with its red, collapsed, cumbersome walls, which are overgrown with elder, burdocks and nettles. The last houses, set up in the Kremlin under Nicholas I, stone, large, many–windowed, white and yellow–are somber and majestic in their antiquity. The streets of the Kremlin are paved with huge cobblestones. The streets are winding, with cul-de-sacs and side streets, and on the corners–churches. Many heat waves have incinerated the Kremlin, and many years–naked years–have trodden the cobbles of the pavements.

Russia. Revolution. The owls cry out: terrifyingly human-like, joyfully animal-like. Dusk. Autumn. In the Kremlin, in the towers, there are many owls. The dusks in autumn close up the golden earth, as a damper a stove chimney. The wind wails in the Kremlin, in the side streets: Gu-vuu-zii-maa!… And the roof iron of the old houses roars:–gla-vbum! Over the empty cobbles in the gray wind a man is walking in a leather jacket. The wind whips up the yellow leaves. The man passes through Zaradye, where the tradesmen’s stalls are destroyed, goes out beyond the Kremlin rampart, where the wall has been destroyed by the Whites’ artillery, and there–on another hill–stands the hospital among slender green fir trees, like Nesterov’s saints. This man is–Arkhip Ivanovich Arkhipov. The wind is autumnal–it rummages through everything, inflates everything, and the autumn wind brings coughs. But in the hospital in Doctor Natalya Evgrafovna’s apartment–wood-log walls, a smell of tar from the walls, linoleum on the floor, wide, large windows, as new, and over the linoleum moves the dull light of day, of the huge philodendrons, of the table covered in papers, of the white tiles of the stove. Dull is the day, dull is the dusk, but in the room it is bright, as in a room, and for the first time today the Dutch stove is burning.

“Sit down, Arkhipov, here, on the settee.”

“I’m O.K., thanks. I’ll stay here, by the stove.”

Arkhipov’s beard, like Pugachov’s, is black, abundant, disheveled –and dark are his eyes.

“Listen, Arkhipov–you never talk about your father. I want to talk to you about this… You are his son, y’know.”

“Yes. And I do too. It’s difficult to tear out an old root. And with these roots it’s very painful. But it’s bound to pass. Reason tells me he had to die early–consequently, why suffer? One must live and work.”

“But you’re all alone–alone forever!”

“Yes. So what? I have always been alone–I’m with all my friends. I’m really only just freeing myself–from stupidity.”

Natalya Evgrafovna stood up from the table, went and stood by the stove next to Arkhipov.

“Tell me the truth. Aren’t you afraid?”

“How could I not be afraid? –and it’s frightening, sickening. Only suffering–is not necessary. The old man died as was necessary. I just kept thinking of one spot, so then, I don’t suffer.” Arkhipov with both hands took hold of Natalya’s hand. “I’d rather you, Natalya Evgrafovna, told me about yourself. There now.”

“There’s nothing to tell. What then?…”

“Well, then, I’ll do the talking. I’ve been busy all the time with the factory, on the committee, in the Revolution. And when my father died, I got to thinking about myself. It’s necessary to work–so I worked. And that’s not all. I came to make you a proposal–to offer my hand. As a lad I fell in love, well, I sinned with women. But then it passed. I think we’ll have kids. We’ll work together, as one. And we’ll bring the kids up properly. I want to have sensible kids, and you’re more intelligent than me. And I’ll learn something, too. And we’re both young, healthy.” Arkhipov bowed his head. Natalya Evgrafovna did not take her hands away from his hands.

“Yes; O.K.” she answered after a moment. “But I’m no young girl… Children–yes, there’s just one thing. I don’t love you that way, –well, you know…”

Arkhipov raised his head, looked into Natalya’s eyes–they were transparent and calm. Arkhipov lifted Natalya Evgrafovna’s hand awkwardly to his lips and kissed it quietly.

“Well then. If you’re not a girl–you still need a man.”

“This will all be very cold, uncozy, Arkhipov.”

“How’s that? Uncozy?–I don’t understand that word.”

The heavenly damper closed off the earth, the windows merged with the walls, in the stove the coal got coated with ash–the stove had to be closed. In the dining room, where there were also wood-log walls, on the table on a white tablecloth the coffee pot, the tray, the glassholders gleam coldly, like nickel. Arkhipov drinks out of the saucer, with fingers outstretched, under the leather jacket– a waist-coat, and a Russian shirt under the waist–coat. Natalya Evgrafovna wears a red knitted blouse and black skirt, and her hair in a garland–of plaits. The linoleum gleams cold–through the windows the dim moon is clouded over, it’s night–and in the dim coldness of the linoleum are reflected the moon, the walls, the upside-down table, the gloom of an open door and the dark room. And on the table in the dining room there’s a “ministry” lamp.

–Man is necessary, purity, intelligence!

Moonlight in the study, and the moonbeams have lain down on the linoleum. Arkhipov accidentally touched Natalya Evgrafovna’s shoulder, the moonlight fell on Natalya Evgrafovna, her eyes vanished in the darkness–tenderly, femininely-softly Natalya snuggled up against Arkhipov, whispered just audibly:

“Dear one, only one, mine…”

Arkhipov was lost for a reply–from joy.

“You understand–to live, darling!”

The owls cry out: terrifyingly human-like, joyfully animal-like. “But man is not an animal, to love like an animal.” The heavenly damper closed off the earth. Night. The Kremlin. The owls are crying out in the sidestreets: gu-vu-zee-maa!… Stone, large, many-windowed white and yellow houses are sullen at night and majestic in their antiquity. The streets are winding with cul-de-sacs and sidestreets, and the streets are cobbled, and on the corners are churches. Naked years. Darkness. Night. Autumn. The moon crawls slowly, green.

“Dear one, only one, mine!”

Natalya is standing by the window in the study, the linoleum gleams cold, the philodendrons have shot up in the darkness. Moonlight falls onto the window. Today for the first time the stove has been lit–the windows are steamed up. The ghostly moonlight is broken up and reflected–in the tears on the glass and in the tears in the eyes.

“Not to love–and to love. Ah, and there’ll be comfort, and there’ll be kids and–work, work!… Dear one, only one, mine! There will be no lies and pain.”

In the Ordinin’s house, in the hostel, having taken off his shoes and sweetly kneaded his fingers after his boots, on the bed somehow huddled up to the lamps on all fours, Yegor Sobachkin was reading a brochure for a long time, and, having finished, said thoughtfully:

“But still truth and joy will triumph! It cain’t be otherwise.”

Arkhipov came in, silently walked though to his room–in the small dictionary of foreign words which have come into Russian, compiled by Gavkin–the word “Coziness” was not included.

–Dear one, only one, mine!