The Daily Worker Newspaper, April 26, 1924, Page 16

AT THE DOORS (Continued from Page 5.) the dark rooms. She passed to the kitchen where the hilarious orderlies were playing treeleestneek.** In the corridor one could distinguish by the light of the smoking night lamps saddles, sw6rds, rifles, uniforms, shoulder straps all thrown together in great disorder. It smelled of horse sweat. “Get up, Samuel.” The snow storm was raging outside —the storm which told Olga the story of little Grandchild snow-flake. It must, indeed, have been a _ witch’s spell. It was almost impossble to move about that night. The wind swept down from the roofs, made somersaults, whirled in a fury, blew from the devastated fields. The snow was heaving like a sea-wave. Instead of walking one was almost forced to crawl thru the snowy dimness, the shrieking, groaning, howling, whirl- wind, the white obscurity, the white deadly song. And on this night three people were hovering about the house of. Andrey Varalsky on the Sibirna Mountain. Tanatar left his house, and felt at once as if the white witch the snowstorm had sunk her icy hands into his neck. Tanatar drew his head in and his birdlike face with its aquiline nose stuck out prominent: ly. And again it seemed that the man, like some beast, was ready for a leap. Up to his waist in the snow Tanatar ploughed thru it, crossing side- streets, turning corners, until he fin- ally reached the invisible house of the Veralskys. Nothing could be seen two steps ahead. The storm was Sweeping down from the mountains and the steppes, flying at the houses with a strident cry. Some one came right upon him. The tempest almost drowned the words: “Who is there?” “The Commander of the Cavalry Division—is this Doctor Fedoroff?” Tanatar shrunk still further into him- self, and Fedoroff did not know whether the cry that followed was the voice of Tanatar, the howling’ of the tempest, or the work of his own feverish brain, “He is watching Olga Veralskaya. Olga is mine, I won’t give her up. Look out for Tanatar—Doctor! He will kill you.” They separated, but met again, frightened, and having met, noticed a third person. It was a white woman leaning against a fence. And when they had passed her, Tanatar bent over Fedoroff and whispered in his ear: “That is my wife. My wife, Green sickness. She follows me everywhere; she knows everything but is silent, always silent. Bloodless. Doctor Fedoroff, Vassia, what an empty ex- istence! Vassia, there is nothing worth living for. I am no better than a beast, uncultured, ignorant. And my wife, always silent, but knowing everything. She says that we must love man; we must love the worst ex- amples of man—even Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh. We have forgotten man.” They crossed two side-streets, and met Bekesh. Ivan Petrovitch was standing near a curbstone on which he had hurriedly placed a package. Having recognized them as friends, he shouted gaily: “You certainly frightened me. I have ruined myself to buy some bread for Christmas. I am carrying it in the dark so that nobody will take{it away from me.” “In this snow-storm everybody came to the house of lakov Kamynin the writer, The guests drank tea out of soup plates, peeled potatoes with an old sword, sent for vodka, and chemin de fer amid the shrieking of the storm, the clatter of plates, and outbursts of laughter. All thru the night and the following day, the writer Iakov Kamynin and the voy- enospetz Tanatar remained standing at the old round table; they could not play otherwise. Oil lamps were still burning till the morning. The table was cluttered with cards, thou- sand-rouble notes, glasses, plates, po- tatoes, tobacco. Tanatar’s orderly **Trefoil, a game of cards. went twice to ask Tanatar’s wife, all pale and white, for regimental cash. Others, having left the table, lay down on the sofa, to get up aftef an hour’s nap and resume playing. The women left the room at daybreak and came back at noon. The room seemed like the ‘faces of the -players, hag- gard and drawn; the air was dense with smoke and charged with alcohol. The mind, exhausted with extreme concentration, wandered over the round table, the carpet-covered and dust-smelling sofa. The mind of the writer, Iakov Kamynin, was a dense gray like the smoke-filled room; and black, pitch black was the mind of the voyenospetz Tanatar. Doctor| Fedoroff had gone to bed long before and was now speaking in his sleep. Kamynin was probably right when he said to the newcomers: “Have a smoke. Cards, you know, are the only miracle in the world. Must be. That is why they are worth several sleepless nights. A miracle! Who does not dream of it? Queen of Spades, King of Trumps, and Nine —the unique miracle. And beauty. And woman—another miracle.” Kamynin, while playing, was writ- ing at the same time mechanically on his calendar, “The miracle of days.” The women came in the afternoon, after some hours of sleep. They cooked potatoes for the men. Kamy- nin’s wife, however, Irina peeled po- tatoes not for her husband, nor for anyone else but Tanatar. Kamynin himself, hardly able to stand on his thin legs, was also peeling potatoes, while his eyes looked somewhere far beyond. And Irina came and put her|M head not on her husband’s shoulder but on Tanatar’s. “Have you. lost?” she asked in a low voice. “Lost everything.” And Tanatar smiled naively. “Regimental can.” “Much?” “Two hundred.” “Thousands?” “Yes.” “Who got them?” “Can’t recall. Iakov, I think, Any- how, it has been all spent on vodka.” “Come to my room, I shall put you And Tanatar smiled naively and helplessly. to bed.” “All right, put me to bed.” “Is it still snowing outside?” “No, the storm i§ past.” Nobody had ever seen Assyrian women, but everybody was certain they must have looked like Irina. Cup-like breasts, almond-shaped eyes, hair like that of the stony Ariman, stiff horse hair hanging in plaits on her bosom, face and body almost square, almost stone-like and yet mo- bile like those of a circus woman. Irina had, in fact, once been a circus rider in Odessa. The men finished drinking, crowded |=" into the corners like flies on an au-|= tumn day and, keeping their military and fur coats on, went to sleep. for the evening masquerade. In the kitchen, the orderlies of the voyenos-|= petz took a hand now at playing/= cards. the table, where the game had been|= going on. He was writing in his cal-|/= endar and drinking what was still left in the glasses. Trubetzkoy sat beside him. spoke fo each other listlessly. Be- fore 1917, the prince was owner of|= property extending over Tambov, Veronej and Poltava. Kamy- nin himself had owned a whole town in the West of Russia, and his for- mer forests, wood-mills, mines, and factories were scattered thru several governments, tell exactly where. “Let us send for another bottle of |= cognac, Prince,” said Kamynin lazily. “It would be best to take a bath|= now and have some white wine with strawberries,” answered the prince, “Fresh strawberries, Yes. A good idea. But you know, when I am play- ing cards and drinking champaigne, fresh fruit is all right to begin with, but after a while it’s bage I must have.” ; Kamynin went on_writing figures then repeated lazily: " ham and cab- fA EO EEN TITIES St RS BORER OR ON RRR NRE AIA aR tem “ The |= women were preparing the costumes "= Kamynin remained sitting at|= The adjutant, Prince |= They |= several | = streets in Moscow as well as of some|= estates in the Government of Moscow, |= he himself could not : “Let us send for another bottle of cognac, Prince.” “After all, the cognac is not better than home-made brew.” ‘ ~“Let us send for home-made brew then.” “With red pepper and_ filet. have plenty of bread.” “Well, there is no bread left, but that’s nothing, we can have raw meat, Prince,” Kamynin wrote down the last fig- ures, loooked at his calendar a long time, then stood up, his, thin legs wide apart and his hands under his arm pits. Tanatar, pale and with half-closed extinguished eyes, was lying in Irina’s room covered with a plaid and rest- ing his head in Irina’s lap. Kamynin and Fedoroff came into the room to- gether with the twilight. Kamynin made an effort to keep his balance and said: “Have a smoke, Tanatar. Ira, I must write a book. A green forest, a birch forest, is cut down to be made into paper. Everything for a book. For beauty. For beauty. Ira, you are living with Tanatar and I need an- other woman—for my book. Let us discuss the subject. Good and evil, truth and untruth—that is all non- sense, Beauty is the thing. We must solve all questions in a very simple way. I mean to ask Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya to be my wife.” Twilight was descending. The win- dow pane turned frosty blue. The church bells were ringing. Nobody said a single word. We “Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya! IT must set it down very simply before her. For the sake of beauty, for the sake of the book, It is all very sim- ple.” Twilight. Gray, blue _ twilight. Shadows were creeping into the cor- ners, The face of Irina was the face of an Assyrian woman. “Tra, we still have some cod-liver oil, we shall have enough for all three of us.” “Tell us something about yourself, Takov.” “Well; life is nothing: beauty is all. Beauty and iniractow. Let us quit life.” “Do invite bigs Takov, we shall drink. together sometime. Imagine— two tipsy women!” Gray twilight. Tanatar suddenly bounded up like a rubber ball. “Hey, a troika, vodka, Olga An- dreyevna Veralskaya, .., All here!” The orderlies drove.up the Division troika harnessed to a sledge. Tanatar fussed about the room putting on a driver’s suit. Then he took Irina into his arm and began to shout in- comprehensible words: “Anara—tai— ra!” Tanatar took the driver’s seat; Kamynin and Fedoroff sat down in the sledge. “Get up!” Translated By Louis Lozowick (Continued Next Saturday.) How many of your shop-mates read THE DAILY WORKER. Get one of them to subscribe today. 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