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AT THE DOORS - - (A. word of introduction, This story forms a connecting link in the chain of stories about the Splendid Face of the Revolution. And it is a story that tells ahout the snow of yesteryear melted under the fence.) *- * * So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things know that it is near, even at the doors. St. Matthew, 24, 33. L Some years ago the merchant’s wife Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina had a pumping station built at the foot of Siberna Mountain. The station was nick-named after its owner, Olga Nicolayevna. No water was being pumped any more, but the whistle still blew regularly at 8 o’clock in the morning, and at 2 and 4 in the after- noon. Whenever the morning whistle blew at the foot of the mountain, Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh, wno lived at the other end of the city, would wake up, and, filled with an inexpressible sadness in his half-drowsy state, would begin to weave dreams about the beauty of human life and the splendor of human spring. Ivan Pet- rovitch had once passed two days on the Volga, and the whistle of Oiga Nicolayevna seemed to him exactly like that of “Caucasds Mercury”. Who indeed, does not know the sweet melancholy of the Volga in spring and the longing its cool, red morn- ings inspire to embrace the whole world? Ivan Petrovitch would get up, drink his classical carrot-tea, and go to work at the Finance Section. The life of Ivan Petrovitch was dull. Olga Nicolayevna stood at the foot of the mountain, and on the mountain itself, beyond the ramparts, near the Kremlin Gates, was the building for- merly known as the Social, now as the Communist Club. At the 2 o’clock whistle, Doctor Andrey Andreyevitch Veralsky dropped in for lunch. In the old days, the bartender would call his boy before the doctor’s ar- rival and say, “Hey kid, make it fresh.” And the boy would use his tongue to refreshen the caviar sand- wiches which he handed the doctor to- gether with a glass of vodka. Now, the doctor was served an empty glass which he would fill from a special vial, always kept in his vest pocket. But as ever before, when lunch was over, the doctor Would shout thru the window and across the street: “Ilya, fetch the carriage,” and drive forth to his patients. Christmas. Owing to the holiday, the whistle of Olga Nicolayevna did not blow at 4. The real Olga Nicolayevna, Mrs. Jmukhina, had died from terror two years previously when her furs and smoked geese were requisitioned. Hand-written posters hung on the walls of the club. And the barten- der knew that the orchestra of the Cavalry Division would play on Christmas night at the ball of the Voyenkom* to celebrate his wife’s birthday, and that on New Year's eve (old style) the Voyenspetz ** of the Division would arrange an 6tt of town picnic. On Christmas Eve everybody went to the Church of St. John the Baptist to meet the new Church warden, the Commander of the Division, comrade Tanatar. Com- rade Tanatar, a handsome Caucasian, dressed in a leather jacket and boots, was selling candles and passing around the plate. ° The entire poputation was busy killing poultry, exchanging shirts for butter, baking pies with beetroot in- stead of sugar. A week before the holidays, all drug stores in the city were cleaned empty. Frost and Storm. In the deadstill brick house of Doc- tor Veralsky, on the Sibirna Mount- ain, only two rooms were fit for habi- tation. All the others were extremely cold and frost-covered. On the first day and night Olga, the doctor's (*) Voyenny Kommissar (Military Commissary). (**) Voyenny Spetzialist (Military Specialist). . . T THE DOORS is a picture—or rather a series of pictures, of Russian life. The auther gets his results by the cumulative effect on the mind of the reader of sketches in rough outline of characters and their surroundings. conventional sense of the word. There is no plot in “At the Doors” in the There is no hero and no heroine, no action of characters grouped around a central figure culminating in a breath-taking climax but there is strength and beauty of touch giving the reader an extreme consciousness of the reality of the life with which the author deals. T THE DOORS is more like a play than a story. It consists of five pictures each complete in itself but at the same time all part of what might be called the color scheme of the writer. The colors are mostly gray and black—there is very little red—yet it is a revo- lutionary novel, a beautiful sample of the new culture that is coming into being in revolutionary Russia. intense blue, and the moon seemed lost in it. Morning came yellow and daughter, sat watching the weather outside. The frost was playing with its cold diamonds; the sky was an wax-like, The sun was yellow like wax, yellow like the face of a corpse. The barometer fell to 32. Llya said the birds were falling frozen to the ground. In the evening some one called up to say that a snow-storm was coming from the Ural. It soon came sweeping along, dancing, howl- ing, groaning, shrieking above the flelds and the city, around the Sibirna Mountain, and in the empty parlor. The only place in the house where one could support the weather was the corner near ‘the stove. Olga Ver- ulskaya saw now the revolution as a snow-storm and the people in it as mere snow-flakes. It seemed to Olga that the snow-storm had killed her. Dressed in a fur coat and top boots, she sat huddled near the stove, tired of thinking, tired of reading. Nevertheless, with re storm rag- ing outside, she sat reading the diary of Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh. Five imagelamps burned before Olga Veralskaya. The couch stood facing the stove and was all clutter- ed with fur-coats. The tiles of the stove shone dimly. And behind the wall the wind was blowing in the empty rooms, July 11, 1913. At the ball of Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina. Having cleaned our faces of the make-up, we went there together with Volynskaya. We found the party in full swing. The old and middle-aged eccupied two rooms; our own com- pany chose one far from _ indiscreet eyes. Samuel Tanatar sat beside me and Volynskaya opposite me. No sooner had I drunk the first glass of vodka than Volynskaya came pro- ferring advice: “Don’t drink too much.” She had promised to spend the evening with me and allow me to acccmpany her home if | did rot get drunk. Before an hour was over everything was topsy-turvy. Some one shouted: “Wine!” Some one burst out singing. A roar went up. Plates began flying. . .. .. My organism re- fused to drink any more. ! began to feel tipsy. In order not to become completely drunk, | said to Volyn- skaya: “Well, who is going to see you home, Tanatar or I? She was just then sitting beside him, and they were preparing to go home together. “I do not really know” she said and added: “But you are already tipsy, Vania.” “Alright,” | answered and went into the next room where I found Doctor Veralsky, the father of my beloved Olga. As soon as he saw me, he made me sit down and silently treated me to a glass of some strong drink. I drank it to spite Volynskaya, and at once became dead drunk. My friend took me into the garden, gave me some soda water to drink, and went away. | sat there for a while, crying over my sorry state and think- ing of Olga Veralskaya, the only wo- man I truly loved. Why, for Heav- en's sake, did | ever drink so much and spoil my whole evening — and spoil everything? I did not remain ed: “Il am not to blame, it is all Samuel’s fault. 1 heard you arrang- ing to go home together. And now | am far too drunk to do what we in- tended.” She pressed close to me and embraced me. | was kissing her hands repeatedly: “Forgive me, forgive me,” and begged her not to leave me, adding: “lt know that this is the last time I see you.” At these words 1 tried to break away from her and Tanatar (the latter had been pres- ent all this time). She sought to hold me back, but | escaped. Tana- tar caught me and made me sit down beside her again. She took me into her arms and said: “Vania, if you only love me, you won’t commit sul- cide,” and clinging passionately to me she pressed her lips to mine and remained motionless. Oh, how much pity there was in this kiss, how much cespair, frenzy, passion, how much unselfish love! Minures passed, each an eternity and each rich in mem- ories (of Olga Veraiskaya). Yes .. .. .. that kiss gave me the illusion of happiness; mere illusion, it is true, but still of happiness. When Volyn- skaya left (she went to dance) | no- ticed Tanatar and drove him from me, shouting: “Rascal, scamp, you shattered my happiness!” 1! even be- gan to cry. “Il won’t have anything to do with you.” Tanatar washed my head and gave me some soda water to drink. 1 felt sick. The boys tried, to put me to bed, but no, by Heck! | would not have anybody except Vol- ynskaya. She helped me to reach the bed (1 could not walk alone) and was on the point of leaving when 1 detained t.er and sang: “Please don’t go away, please stay with me, I feel so happy, so light-hearted.” There she stood before me. I saw her splendid sensual body, her thick golden hair (the chignon), her snow- white teeth framed with red voluptu- ous lips—and felt an electric current shoot thru me. .... .. Yes, happiness was so near, so near (Tanatar got it) + « « Oh happiness! July 12, 1913. Woke up at one in the afternoon and the first man | saw, right in front of me, was Vassia Federoff. He slept in a curious position; his head was on the pillow and hits entire body on the dirty floor, We looked into the mirror and—Good Lord, what a sight! My clothes were all crumpled, spew- ed over in various parts, and cov- ered with feathers from top to bot- tom. Having performed the morn- ing ritual, we went into the garden. We met Tanatar coming from the other end, where he had probably been sleeping. He looked a terrible sight. On the front, his clothes bore everywhere traces of vomiting; on the back they were thickly cover- ed with dirt, as if he had been drag- ged by his feet over tne ground. Af- ter Tanatar, we met the girls coming from the pavilion where they had been sleeping. Soon everybody was present and Heavens, we did laugh! The tunatic Federoff, was the first to speak. Hardly able to stand on his feet, he had sneaked into the pavilion alone for long. Volynskaya came, Sat | just as the girls were turning in after down beside me, put her arms around me and began preaching morality: “One must not drink 80 much.” In the ball... He bade them all good night, then seizing somebody’s dress, jacket, and hat, he put them on and full possession of my wits | answer- took to dancing. A young chap, scar _By BORIS PILNIAK cely known to anyone, had spent the entire evening with the hostess Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina in a carriage outside, where they had supper and wine, spiced abundantly with frequent kissing and smutty talk. Then the girls told their version of the story. They had scarcely undressed when Sammy Tanatar broke in dead drunk announcing his intention of sleeping with them. The girls, of course, all got frightened and hid under the blankets. All their exhortations and prayers for him to leave the pavilion were of no avail. Then, disregarding all rules of decency, the girls jumped out of bed and threw him out of the pavilion by main force. Immediately after Tanatar’s departure came the lunatic Fedoroff, but everybody only laughed at him because he was nice . and behaved more decently than Ta- natar. Happiness. ter. A half forgotten nursery tale is re- vived in some corner of her mind. If you plunge a sharp knife into the fun- nel of whirling snow you will kill the grand-daughter of the snow-storm— the snow-flake. A drop of her cold white blood will fall on the ground and this blood will bring happiness— ~ happiness. If one could only believe this tale, go out into the snow-storm— waylay the snow-flake dancing care- lessly its round dance—and attain Happiness and laugh- happiness— : But what if one believes in noth- ing? : Happiness. Happiness. And Olga Veralskaya knew: she was that snow-flake; she had been killed. The storm was _ blowing, sweeping onward; howling, raging. The fur coats were lying on the couch. The five images were burning, the tile was shining dimly. Doctor Veralsky was heard snoring. The diary had fallen in her lap; tears were falling in her lap. Tears for him. Her head had fallen in her hands. But what if one believes in nothing? What if they had killed her like a snow-flake? No, not they—he had killed her. The story of Olga Veral- skaya’s life was simple: high school, college, the Red Front, where one could neither understand nor con- demn, then he.... A dark mili- tary hut, the smell of horses, a dim lantern on the wall, a horse’s head, black eyebrows, black eyes—red lips —pain, pain, horror, horror, horror, disgust. That was all. The diary had falled in her lap; tears were falling in her lap. The image lamps were burning. Her eyes were lanterns in an autumn rain. Anxiety. Pain. Doctor Andrey Andreyevitch Veral- sky, dressed in fur coat and felt boots, came out of his room yawning, and got near the stove. “Olenka, I’ve brought some mutten. Shall we treat ourselves to some mut- ton roast or use it for soup? Telk Ilya about it.” “Father, what did Olga Nicolayev- na Jmukhina die from?” “She died from a shock. Got frigh- tened when her house was searched. They found her dead under her bed. Why do you ask that?” “What was she like?” “What sort of a person you mean? Well, rather depraved but kindheart- ed. Won't you tell, then, Ilya about the meat?” Doctor Andrey Andreyevitch yawns ed sweetly. (To Be Continued Next Saturday.) (Translated by Louis Lozowich.) * A sort of meat pie. ** Hot drink. *** A cheap tobacco. Gy! se Formerly With Mafidel Bros. UPHOLSTERING done in your ~_ home very reaso! e. 6006 SO. KOMENSKY AVE. Call REPUBLIC 3788 eee ll