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KO_N S T A N T I N
F E D I NT
CITIES
AND
Ye a r s
T R A N S L A T E D
BY
M I C H A E L
S C A M M E L L
Auyaan
ona^j
Moisoa
Cities and Years
»»»»»»»»»»««««««««««
Konstantin
Fedin
Qties and
Years
TRANSLATED BY MICHAEL SCAMMELL
NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY PRESS
EVANSTON, ILLINOIS
» » » » » » » » » »
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Northwestern University Press
Evanston, Illinois 60208-4210
First published 1962 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc. Copyright © 1962 by Dell
Publishing Co., Inc. Northwestern University Press edition published 1993 by
arrangement with Michael Scammell. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 0-8101-1066-0
L ibrary o f Congress C ataloging-in-P ublication D ata
Fedin, Konstantin, 1892—
[Goroda i gody. English]
Cities and years / Konstantin Fedin ; translated by Michael
Scammell.
p. cm.
Originally published: New York : Dell, 1962.
ISBN 0-8101-1066-0 (paper)
I. Scammell, Michael. II. Title.
PG3476.F4G6513 1993
891.73'42— dc20
93-13788
CIP
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the
American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper
for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
We had everything before us, we had nothing before
Charles Dickens
As fa r as wine was concerned, he drank water.
Victor Hugo
_____________________________
»»»
«««
A Chapter on the Year
Which Concludes This Novel
A Speech
“D ear neighbors, most excellent residents, honorable citizens! I
leaned out of this window with a predeterm ined plan: I am bored,
dear neighbors, I am gnawed by melancholy, honorable citizens,
my heart has dried up and curled into a corkscrew, like lemon peel
on a sun-scorched pavement.
“Honorable residents! It is true that the one thousand nineteenhundred and twenty-second year is already here.
“In front o f me are eighty-five windows, not counting two attic
windows, one basement window, one skillfully drawn on the wall
by a pre-war painter; nor the one in which you can all distinguish
the upper part of my figure.
“I could tell you a story about every one of these windows, but I
know you won’t listen to me. T herefore I beg you to cast your
eyes only on that window there, down below, where this morning
a striped feather bed was coming to pieces as it was desperately
beaten by a red-armed housewife with a ramrod. And then on that
window there, to the right, through which the tinkling o f a domra*
pours from morning to night; and again on that one at the very
*A stringed instrument similar to a banjo or a mandolin.
» » »
1 « « «
top, .beneath the attic, where a phonograph is perpetually grinding
out popular songs; and again to one last window right opposite
me, which is so freshly puttied; tom orrow it will be painted.
“Honorable citizens! T h e Republic is not a bad thing after all.
In a Republic one can beat feather beds and lay them out to air in
the sun, with no fear o f having to make up the family bed in the
evening with only the feather bed cover. In a Republic it is possi­
ble to have an ear for music and to learn to play the domra. It is
quite obvious that the m ethod o f governm ent has had no effect
upon the soundness o f p h o n o g rap h records. A nd finally, the
Republic has learned com paratively easily th at painted window
frames are excellent for w ithstanding wind and bad weather.
“D ear neighbors! Is it worth m entioning that out o f the eightyfive windows in our courtyard mine alone is not decorated with
packets of cheese and sausage, pots o f sour cream and sour milk,
saucepans, milk jugs, b utter dishes, bunches o f spring onions and
succulent red radishes? Even the farthest attic window, no bigger
than a ventilator, outdoes my em pty spiderw ebbed windowsill,
which preserves undisturbed the indelicate traces o f my esteemed
landlady’s cat, Sailor.
“Now the white nights are here and sum m er rests in our court­
yard after sweating it out all day. Eighty-five windows are open
wide. I took advantage o f this to deliver my speech to you— to
you, m ister phonograph lover, and you, neighbor, showing your
feather bed, and to all you owners o f saucepans, b u tte r dishes,
flower pots and radishes— to all o f you who have th ru st your
heads out and are listening to my resilient voice.
“Oh don’t be afraid: my speech won’t drag on. I wanted to ask
you one question, one only— and then I’ll finish.
“M ost excellent residents, honorable citizens! It is certain that
the year twenty-two is already here. It is certain because we are
eating sour cream and sour milk, we are learning to play the domra
»»» 2 «««
and we air our feather beds. It is certain because, however unrevo­
lutionary they are, the Republic does not object to the activities
I have enumerated. And, honorable citizens, does it not seem to
you . . . ”
At this point in the speech a shout cut into the hum of the voice
which reeled around in the stone box of adjoining houses:
“Andrei!”
T h e man in the unbutton ed shirt ceased talking and looked
toward the shout. T hen he started back inside his room, ran to the
window again, leaned out as far as the waist, and asked in a flat­
tened voice:
“W hat num ber apartment?”
“L et’s meet on the street!” fell into the well.
Andrei, as he was— unbuttoned and disheveled— ran out of the
room.
T h e landlady locked th e door beh in d him , looked into the
courtyard and, glancing at the eighty-five windows, jabbered with
twitching lips:
“For a long time I’ve thought he was crazy! Oh, this is terrible!”
A Letter
M y dearest,
Here I am writing to you again, and again I don’t know
what I ought to say.
I ’m most o f all afraid that you will tear up the letter as
soon as you recognize my handwriting.
No. M ost of all I’m afraid that I’m writing to a dead per­
son. T h at you are dead. I’m not expressing myself properly;
that you are already dead and I’m writing to you.
M arie, my little one, one thing has become clear to me.
»»» 3 «««
Y qu remember, many things seemed clear to me before. Now
only one: I’ve got to sit down beside you and tell you every­
thing in its proper order. Somehow I can’t rem em ber every­
thing in its proper order. O ne thing is clear. If you hear me
out then I’ll understand everything and you won’t shout any
more, as you did then, two years ago. How you shouted then,
Marie.
I’m mixing som ething up.
Wait, I’ll walk about the room and think a bit, about the
sim plest way o f telling you what is m ost necessary, M arie.
Yes. It seems to me you will understand me if I te l l.. . . N o,
first here’s what.
T h e w hole m u d d le (I th in k I w o u ld h ave fo u n d th e
strength to w rite a proper letter if it w eren’t for this), the
whole m uddle is because I ’ve decided. . . . M arie, I d o n ’t
know w hat’s the m atter w ith me! I ’m com ing to you. I ’ve
decided. I can’t go on any longer. I don’t care. I’ll stop up my
ears and run away. L et them howl, or die, let them! I m ust
come to you.
K urt is a real m an. I m et him today here in Petersburg,
wholly unexpectedly. H e says he’ll take me, that is, help me.
He knew me by my voice, although it was in strange circum ­
stances. Everything is wrong with me. K u rt said im mediately
that I need a change o f climate. O f course I didn’t say a word
about wanting to see you, I agreed about the climate. I fmd it
rather funny, M arie, w hen they talk about the clim ate, or
nerves. Although I’m very tired. B ut K u rt doesn’t get tired.
T h e point is t h a t . . .
I ’ve read over th e beg in n in g . H e re ’s m y story. I have
remembered how in winter I came across a little dog which
was scratching at a closed door with its front paws. T h e dog’s
master was asleep, probably, or maybe he did n ’t want to open
»»» 4 «««
the door: there was a snowstorm. I went up to the door and
saw the red marks o f the dog’s paws on the trampled snow.
In scratching at the door the little dog had bloodied its paws.
It couldn’t understand that it w asn’t at all needed in this
world.
I understand this. T h at is, about m y s e lf.. .
June 13th, morning
Today K urt came. We agreed finally. I’m coming to you,
Marie!
After his departure I calmed down. H e has nice hands,
shoulders, mouth. In his presence the room takes on some
sense. T he table, bed, windows immediately seemed pleasant
and useful to me. K urt is a well organized person. I ’ve read
over what I wrote yesterday. I’m sending it to you; see what
I’m like now. It’s true about the little dog.
I am , o f course, m ore to blam e than you. B u t I d o n ’t
reproach m yself for w hat probably seems to you to be my
worst offense against you, against us.
I really must establish some kind o f order. Everything is
mixed up inside me. I don’t know exactly where and when I
went wrong irrevocably, or lied, or made a mistake. Between
the most recent events (that is until you came here and then
disappeared— o th er than th at in fact th ere have been no
events) I find no connection. Perhaps there is one. It’s some
kind of tangle, all these years.
About the dog.
All my life I’ve tried to get into the circle. You u nder­
stand, so that everything in the world went on around me.
But I always got washed away, carried off to one side.
» » » 5 « « «
1 bloodied m yself for nothing.
T his is how I understood it.
T o begin with, however, a few more words. Recently I had
to get some papers. T hey asked the question: “Your profes­
sion?” I couldn’t answer. Suddenly I thought: W hat profes­
sion was I preparing for before? I got lost, it came out stupid­
lyYou understand, I’m afraid of forgetting my thoughts all
the time, I’m afraid o f getting lost.
I w alked th r o u g h th e c o m m e rc ia l q u a rte r. I looked
through some gates. T hick fortress walls went down into the
ground. T here were rusty locks on the doors o f the ware­
houses. And all over the yard there was goose grass, stinging
nettles, burdock, iron hoops, rubble. Ju st like a vacant lot.
I felt sick at heart. Against m y will. It was so bleak and
depressing. I thought of some universal end. M y hands went
cold.
But I was s till. . . in a word, I d idn’t stop scratching.
A nd now , only th e o th e r day, n ear M oscow , a frien d
pointed out a new radio station to me from the Poklonnaya
m ountain. T h ey b uilt the tow er du rin g the revolution. At
first it collapsed. T hey put it up again. W ith unsuitable tools,
keeping their m ouths shut. T h ey pu t it up. Its waves reach
America.
“You know,” my friend said to me, “now we are going to
build a station w hose waves will g irdle the e n tire globe.
M oscow tra n s m ittin g — M oscow re c eiv in g . A ro u n d th e
w orld.”
I thought this was stupid then. B ut at that point I looked
him in the face. . . .
In short, I gave up scratching.
It’s futile, futile, to hell with it! Goodwill, love, desire—
there’s too little o f this. And then, it’s completely unneces­
sary. In order to eat and drink you need neither goodwill nor
love. These people virtually are doing no more than nature
forces them to do. T hey notice nothing under their feet, they
are constantly going forward and upward. And with as much
tension as if they were not people at all, bu t some kind of
coils, R uhm korff coils. If you tell them about rusty locks,
goose grass and ru b b le th e y d o n ’t u n d e rs ta n d a th in g .
T hey’re in the circle; probably in the center of the circle.
I am pierced by the thought that I’m writing to a dead per­
son. I f it’s so, I ’ll resu rrect you so you can und erstan d I
wasn’t lying.
M y trouble is I’m not made of wire.
You’ve got to understand me, Marie.
Andrei
A Transition Formula
T h e committee consisted of seven men. All were intently watch­
ing K urt, who was speaking; even the secretary repeatedly tore
him self from his notes and gathered a triangle of shallow wrinkles
on his forehead, as if eavesdropping on what had to take place
somewhere beyond the limits of the room. In the chairman’s seat
sat a man whose thick spectacles remained focused on the same
spot while K urt was talking.
K urt stood directly opposite the chairman with his fists pressed
upon the table and he tossed his head briefly at the end of each
sentence. He spoke w ithout pausing, as if reading from a book;
and his speech was bookish. A rash of sweat particles had broken
out over his upper lip.
»»» 7 «««
“I,summarize,” he said.
“T his man was in a state o f moral decline when he confessed
his crime to me. As far as I was able to observe, his power o f rea­
son was also impaired. I knew that all this was the result o f a terri­
ble shock in his private life. T herefore I treated his confession
with extreme caution. B ut I have trained m yself to think objec­
tiv e ly an d act a c c o rd in g to th e d ic ta te s o f m y re a s o n .
Consequently my memory renewed all my meetings with this man
in Semidol, the facts of his personal life connected with the m ar­
grave and finally the circumstances o f the m argrave’s disappear­
ance from the G erm an Soviet o f Soldiers’ D eputies in Moscow.
T he actual course o f events coincided down to the m inutest detail
with what I heard from this man during his last walk. H e con­
fessed to me among other things that he was preparing to seek out
the m argrave, because he was the only m an who m ig h t know
something o f the girl he loved. N o doubt remained: from personal
motives he had saved the life o f our enemy and betrayed the cause
w hich we all serve. As a m an he b ecam e o d io u s to m e, as a
friend— I had been his friend— loathsome. I killed him. T h e fol­
lowing day I made inquiries about the margrave. H e is in fact liv­
ing prosperously in his castle near Bischofsberg and, as befits an
unsuccessful adventurer, is using his powers in the service o f his
native art, speculating in pictures by G erm an masters. T h ere had
been no mistake. T h e police think the m u rd er was com m itted
with criminal intent. U ntil I had inform ed the com m ittee o f this
affair, I did not consider it necessary to refute that version. I shall
subm it m yself to your decision.”
K urt ended as if he had snapped shut a book he had just fin­
ished reading.
T h e chairman turned to each m em ber in turn.
“No questions? . . . Comrade W ahn, be so kind as to leave the
room .”
K urt went out. In the adjoining room he wiped his face with a
handkerchief, lit a cigar and settled down comfortably in an arm­
chair, preparing to wait. Blue ribbons of smoke, intertw ined, start­
ed swaying in the m iddle of the room. Among them appeared
someone’s m outh, from below a doubled fist slowly opened out
sideways into five fingers and to them was joined an arm, bent at
the elbow, which stretched out towards K urt.
“Nonsense!” he growled and blew violently on the smoke. T he
blue ribbons funneled down into a draught o f air and disappeared.
“Comrade W ahn!”
T he seven sat as before around the table. T he chairman aimed
his spectacles at the secretary. T h e latter raised a sheet of paper
and proclaimed:
“ . . . having heard Comrade K urt W ahn’s communication, has
unanimously decided: that the said comrade’s course of action be
considered correct, that the m atter be not recorded in the m in­
utes, that the shorthand record be destroyed, and that it return to
the normal business of the day.”
T he secretary folded the paper in two and tore it up.
“Sit down, Comrade,” said the chairman.
K urt pulled up a chair. H e was calm and relaxed, as if he had
never doubted he would receive such an invitation.
»»» 9 «««
»»»
«««
Chapter the First
on Nineteen Nineteen
Petersburg
A man must spend a large part o f his life away from the sky, away
from direct broad-chested winds, he m ust grow up in a closed
order of iron pillars, spend his childhood on the cast iron o f stair­
ways and the asphalt o f roadways in order to be at home in the
city, like the woodman in his wood.
H is leg knows w hen it stands on iron rails, when on ro tten
woodblocks, when on slippery ringing cement. And his ear recog­
nizes w here ro o fto p ra in w a te r is fa llin g and w h at has b een
pounced on by a sudden tearing gust o f wind.
A man who knows the day as the woodman his wood has no
need o f light. H e rem embers every corner, knows any street and
all the houses, old and new: the ones dismantled for fuel, the ones
boarded up, the ones abandoned and unfinished.
Especially the unfinished ones. T h e fences o f such houses have
disappeared long ago. B ut somewhere inside the paralyzed brick
skeleton, the rem ains o f props stick out, a beam lies about half
covered in rubble, or a pole with a wooden cross nailed to it has
not yet been torn out.
It does not h u rt to recall these props, beams and crosses in the
» » » 10 « « «
third year of the new calendar.*
At the end o f October, in the third year of the new calendar,
darkness hung over Petersburg. W ith a whistle and roar the dark­
ness was driven from the northw est by a damp lop-shouldered
wind.
Petersburg sloughed its iron husk, and the husk banged clang­
ing along the rooftops and fell, grinding its teeth, into the stony
bottoms of the streets.
Below, it was as dark as the insides of a tunnel.
Houses were deserted, houses collapsed, houses vanished. W et
eyeless tunnel walls stretched out and crisscrossed in the darkness.
And along the wet eyeless walls and stony bottoms of the tunnels
swept the iron husk, screeching and clanging. T he wind flattened
the stony city with its lop-shoulders, stripped the worn-out skin
off in bits, and hurled it into the slimy darkness.
T h e w h ite ap ish paw s o f an a u to m o b ile sn a tc h e d at th e
benumbed cold-oozing tunnel walls, and passed away as quickly as
they had appeared. A nd the a u to ’s siren how led like a dying
jackal.
A man, blown along by the wind, scarcely distinguishable from
th e stone facing o f th e tu n n e ls, slip p ed lig h tly and q uickly
through the pools of water, feeling his way around corners and
projections. F or an instant he melted into a black wall, as if enter­
ing a gate. T hen he groped his way up onto a slippery mound. He
lowered him self into a hole. H e crawled into a corridor as narrow
as a grave. O ver his head a cracked sheet o f co rru g ated iron
banged steadily against a stone.
T he man took a newspaper from his pocket, covered his chest
*With the advent of the Soviet regime there was a change from the Julian
to the Gregorian Calendar.
» » »
11 « « «
and shoulder with it, fumbled in the corner o f the corridor for a
bundle, hoisted it up and carefully crawled back.
Via the corridor, the hole, the m ound, through the black wall—
into the slimy darkness o f the tunnels, and farther— via the slimy
darkness, blown by the wind, sliding through the pools o f water.
A man who knows the city as the woodman his wood has no
need o f light.
T h e man found a gate, a door, stairs, then another door. T here
he shrugged the bundle from his shoulder, found one key, then
another and a third— French, very long with a joint in the middle,
patented by engineer T u b k is— and opened the locks, one after
another.
In the kitchen he lit the “Economy” lamp (a quarter o f a pint o f
kerosene per week) and took off his coat. H e m easured with his
fingers: the log could be sawed into foul pieces o f twelve inches,
and each piece into one, two, three— eight sticks. T w o tw elveinch sticks equal one pot o f coffee. Sixteen times. T h a t was good.
“W ho the devil knows how long this caper will last. Sixteen
tim e s. . .”
W hen he turned the log over— a notice. Stuck smoothly with
red paste. W ritten in indelible pencil. T h e pencil had run:
Tutoring in French and Ger.for all Classes o f
High School. Moderate prices.
17 P E T R O Z A V O D S K ! S T R E E T , A PT. 3
Also stockings darned and repaired.
We also keep rabbits.
H e shook his head and said aloud:
“W hat have our intellectuals been brought to, eh?”
»»»
12
«««
He took the log away and put it in a cubbyhole.
He opened a cupboard built into the wall. From a jar of millet
he took a small rag. He poured millet from a paper bag into the jar
and covered it with the rag. On the jar he placed a large stone,
round as a bun.
“Mice. T he bastards.”
He lit the iron stove. He boiled the water and put some wheat
in the frying pan to fry. W ith the boiling water he washed some
soup from a saucepan and washed a plate. T hen he cleaned the
sink with bast and bath brick. H e took off his tunic. Rolled up his
shirt sleeves to the elbow. W hen there came a smell o f burning he
stopped washing the sink, grabbed a knife and, scraping the burnt
grains from the frying pan, said about five times:
“Coffee. T he bastards.”
T hen he looked in the cupboard. In jars there was wheat, bar­
ley, ground wheat, ground buckwheat and ground barley, and her­
rings. In bottles— linseed and sunflow er seed oil. In a canvas
bag— C aspian roach. In paper bags— salt, bay leaves, gelatin.
There were three pounds o f gelatin. H e said:
“Gelatin, eh?”
H e took a book o f M a u p a ssa n t’s— M adam e Husson’s M a y
King— and moved the lamp closer. H e put on his tunic, cleaned
his nails with a penknife and sat down in a broad armchair to read,
perching his pince-nez on his round nose.
He came to the lines:
I hope you haven't lunched yet?
No.
What luck! Vm just sitting down and I've got an excellent trout.
H e threw his pince-nez on the book and remarked:
“Gelatin, a coupon a pound, three weeks running, eh?”
Suddenly he pricked up his ears.
Someone was knocking, but quietly, uncertainly. Better to wait.
» » »
13 « « «
He waited. A louder knocking. He jum ped up, closed the cup­
board, locked it, looked at the table. Bread— under the napkin, the
box of saccharin— into his pocket.
“W ho’s there?”
“Does Sergei Lvovich Shchepov live here?”
“And who is asking?”
“Startsov.”
“W hat do you want?”
“ Startsov, from Semidol, Andrei Startsov.”
“From Semidol?”
“ I hav e a le tte r fo r you fro m y o u r so n , fro m A le k se i
Sergeyevich.”
“A-a-ah! Well then, well then. Ju st a m inute.”
He commenced operations. A bolt at the top o f the door, a bolt
at the bottom , engineer T u b k is’s lock, a regular lock, the French
lock, a chain.
“You know you can’t rely on anyone these days— not even your
own son. Thieves everywhere, just thieves, scoundrels and ban­
dits. Very pleased to m eet you. Yes. Now you see— this is how I
live. I wash pots, saw firewood, cook for myself, do my own wash­
ing, sew, trim the lamps, polish my shoes, clean out, pardon, the
latrine. Welcome. H ere, you see— blisters on my hands, blistered
hands. T hey stink o f burning from the coffee, or kerosene from
the lamp, and of castor-oil from the cutlets. I ’m cooking potato
cutlets in castor-oil. T h a t’s how it is. Please take a seat. T h e re ’s
coffee. I’ll just sweep up, I forgot to sweep up. You here for long?
On business?”
Startsov took the kitbag from his back. H e stood there, tall,
m uddy gray, in a sopping army overcoat whose sleeves hid his fin­
gers, with sloping shoulders and a collar w ithout points.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I didn’t find anything out today. I’ll
know tom orrow m orning.”
» » »
14 « « «
“A genuine councillor of state! Look, with these hands, every­
thing myself. From eight in the morning till twelve at night. And
what do I get for it? Y esterday they gave out half a pound of
Caspian roach again and a pound of gelatin. And what do I want
with gelatin? It came on the plan. Fine. And if fishing rods came
on the plan? Say, two rods to each citizen? W hat do you want me
to do? Rubbish. . . . A letter from Aleksei, you say? Well, how is
he? H ere’s the coffee. I have some b re a d .. .
“I have bread,” said Startsov.
While reading, Sergei Lvovich twitched his nose and the upper
p art of his pince-nez slowly inclined tow ard the paper. Sergei
Lvovich tilted his head farther and farther back and his face nar­
rowed and grew haughtier.
“H e’s married!” he exclaimed, slapping the letter with his fin­
gers. “H e’s married, married an actress! I can just imagine!”
H e straightened his pince-nez and his eyes sought the line
where he had stopped. T hen he placed the letter in a book, leaned
on the table and looked his guest in the eyes.
“Well, of course. T h a t’s how it is now— just like kids. Once
merchants used to write: We have the honor to inform you that Ivan
Ivanich Sidorov has entered our firm on an equal footing. We beg you
to note his signature. But here there’s not even that: I inform you
that your nam e will be borne by a singer. T h e re ’s not even a
name— D a n a, Marya, Agrafena? God knows who she is!”
“H er name is Klavdia . . . her patronymic . . . I’ve forgotten,”
said Startsov.
“And her surname? Some Kultyapkina or other— stage name
Razdor-Zapolskaya, dramatic ingenue in parts with no words or
movements. . . . However, it’s all the same, isn’t it? I ask you, it’s
all the same, isn’t it? Eh?”
“But why?”
“ B ecau se e v e ry th in g ’s g o n e to th e d e v il’s b elly now .
» » »
15 « « «
Everything! You and I are now porridge in the guts o f some devil
or other. G astric juices are working on us; next we’ll crawl along
the intestines, through the d uodenum , the small intestine, the
large intestine and the rectum . T h a t’s what we are.”
Sergei Lvovich took the little box o f saccharin out o f his pocket,
stuck a small white tablet on his spoon, dropped it into his glass.
For a m om ent he did not move. T h en he held the little box out to
Startsov.
“T hank you, I take it w ithout.”
Sergei Lvovich carefully closed the box and suddenly, swiftly as
a child, broke into tears.
“You say, why is it all the same? Well, what am I to Aleksei? It’s
good enough that he informed me. Otherwise, one fine m orning
he could have sent me four snotty-nosed kids with a note: Dear
Papa, I'm sending your little grandchildren for you to take care o f I
myself am going on a trip. D o you think it was any different when
he became a pilot? H e came once and said: ‘G ood-by, I’m going to
the front, maybe I’ll get my block knocked off, we won’t see each
o th er again.’ ‘H ow can you get your block knocked o ff w hen
y o u ’re a w a rra n t o ffic e r in th e R u ssia n s e rv ic e ? ’ ‘O h ,’ he
answered, ‘they’ve reconsidered. I ’ve been flying a hydroplane for
the last six m o n th s and now I ’m assigned to th e fro n t as an
instructor.’ W hat’s left for a father to do? I blessed him. And what
do you w ant m e to do now? B less him and his K u lty ap k in a,
Razdor-Zapolskaya! T hey don’t give a damn either way, w hether I
bless them or not. B ut even th at’s fortunate, believe me, fortunate.
I have another son, y o u n g er.. .
Sergei Lvovich suddenly stood up, raised his arm and shouted
somewhere into the corner:
“I disown him! Before God and man I disown him! T h ere is no
second son! T here was, but he died, turned to ashes, to dust; he’s
vanished, dead, dead. . . .”