The Naked Year by Boris Pilnyak Read Free Book Online

or not?… It’s difficult. Very difficult–be patient! It’s difficult for me too. I need to live a little longer, to watch you, my son–and how you get on, for you are my son, my blood!… But to rot alive, starve, cry out in pain–I don’t want that, I don’t wish to! Look at me.”
    Arkhip Ivanovich turned around, the two pairs of dark eyes met:–one set sad, ill and with shining, wide pupils, on a parchment face–the others young, stubborn and free. They were silent for a long time and for a long time they were motionless.
    â€œWait, father, I’ll be right back.”
    Arkhip Ivanovich went outside, sat down on the little porch near the washbasin stand, looked into the sky, at the stars: already June was moving into July, replacing the platinum June stars with silver, and the stars were like the pillows of Tsar Alexander on his Asian velvet. And Ivan Spiridonovich again sat at the table, crossed his fingers, looked at the candle. Ivan Spiridonovich extinguished it with his breath, lit it again, said:
    â€œThere was a light there, then there wasn’t, and again there is. It’s strange!”
    Arkhip Ivanovich came in half and hour later with his vigorous gait, sat down next to his father and said in an even, also usual voice:
    â€œIf I were in your shoes, father–do it as best, father, as you can.”
    Ivan Spiridonovich stood up, and the son stood up, silently they kissed. Ivan Spiridonovich rummaged about in his back pocket, took out a handkerchief, not yet unfolded, unfolded it, but did not wipe his eyes, for they were too dry, and, already crumpled, he put the handkerchief into his trousers.
    â€œLive your life, son, don’t give up whatever you’re doing! Get married, have children, son…”
    He turned round, took the candle and went away. Arkhip Ivanovich was standing, arms behind his back, just like his father. Then he walked over to the window, opened it and remained standing thus till dawn. In the “Venice” cinema in the Kremlin a brass band was playing and mists were drifting from the river.
    Ivan Spiridonovich, in his black half, his room, lay on the settee, his face to the wall, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Dawn came in a gray murkiness, the shepherd began to play his pipe sorrowfully and softly and Ivan Spiridonovich woke up. The candle was burning, through the windows there was a mist, the candle was smoking and there was a smell of burning. Ivan Spiridonovich thought of how in his sleep he was oblivious to all, and these hours from evening to dawn had passed unalarmingly, like one moment. Then he stood up and walked through to the kitchen, there took out from a corner down from a shelf a revolver, on the way looked at himself in the mirror, saw his sullen and serious face, returned to his room, snuffed out the candle, sat on a settee and shot himself in the mouth.

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