MIKHAIL BULGAKOV - THE WHITE GUARD

tion since the patient was in any case unconscious and it could do him no harm.

'Silent confession . . .'

They whispered and whispered but could not decide whether it was yet time to send for the priest. They knocked on Elena's door, and in a dull voice she replied:

'Don't come in yet . . . I'll come out later . . .'

And they went away.

From her knees Elena looked up at the fretted halo above the dark face with its clear eyes and she stretched out her arms and said in a whisper:

'Holy Mother of God, intercede for us. You have sent us too much sorrow. In one year you have destroyed this family. Why? You have taken our mother away from us, my husband has gone and will not come back, I know, I see that clearly now. And now you are taking away our eldest. Why? How will Nikolka and I survive, the two of us alone? Look and see what is happening all around . . . Mother of God, intercede for us and have mercy on us . . . Perhaps we are sinful people, but why should we be punished like this?'

She bowed down once more, fervently touching the floor with her forehead, crossed herself and stretching out her arms, prayed again:

'You are our only hope, Immaculate Virgin, you alone. Pray to your Son, pray to the Lord God to perform a miracle ...'

Elena's whispering grew more passionate, she stumbled over the words, but her prayer flowed on like an unbroken stream. More and more often she bowed her forehead to the ground, shaking her head to throw back the lock of hair that escaped from its comb and fell over her eyes. Outside the square window-panes the daylight disappeared, the white falcon disappeared, the tinkling gavotte which the clock played as it struck three went unheard, as unheard as the coming of the One to whom Elena prayed through the intercession of the dark Virgin. He appeared beside the open grave, arisen, merciful and barefoot. Elena's breast seemed to have grown broader, feverish patches had spread over her cheeks, her

eyes were filled with light, brimming with unshed tears. She pressed her forehead and cheek to the floor, then, yearning with all her soul she stretched toward the ikon lamp, oblivious to the hard floor under her knees. The lamp flared up, the dark face within the fretted halo grew more and more alive and the eyes inspired Elena to ceaseless prayer. Outside there was complete silence, darkness was setting in with terrible speed and another momentary vision filled the room - the hard, glassy light of the sky, unfamiliar yellowish-red sandstone rocks, olive trees, the cold and the dark silence of centuries within the sanctuary of the temple.

'Holy Mother, intercede for us', Elena muttered fervently. 'Pray to Him. He is there beside you. What would it cost you? Have mercy on us. Have mercy. Your day, the festival of the birth of your Son is approaching. If Alexei lives he will do good for others, and I will not cease to pray for forgiveness of our sins. Let Sergei not come back - take him away, if that is your will. But don't punish Alexei with death . . . We are all guilty of this bloodshed, but do not punish us. Do not punish us. There He is, your Son . . .'

The lamp began to flicker and one ray from it stretched out like a beam towards Elena. At that moment her wild, imploring eyes discerned that the lips on the image surrounded by its golden coif had parted and that the eyes had a look so unearthly that terror and intoxicated joy wrenched at her heart, she sank to the ground and did not rise again.

#

Alarm and disquiet wafted through the apartment like a dry, parching wind. Someone was tiptoeing through the dining-room. Another person was tapping on the door, whispering: 'Elena . . . Elena . . . Elena .. .' Wiping the cold sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, tossing back her stray lock of hair, she stood up, looking up ahead of her blindly, like a savage. Without looking back to the lamp-lit corner, she walked to the door with a heart of steel. Without waiting for her permission the door burst open of its own accord and Nikolka was standing in the frame made by the

portiere. Nikolka's eyes bored into Elena with terror, and he seemed out of breath.

'Elena . . . don't worry . . . don't be afraid . . . come here ... it seems as though . . .'

*

Waxen, like a candle that has been crushed and kneaded in sweaty hands, his bony hands with their unclipped finger nails thrust above the blanket, lay Doctor Alexei Turbin, his sharp chin pointing upwards. His body was bathed in sticky sweat, and his wet, emaciated chest was poking through the gaps in his shirt. He lowered his head, dug his chin into his chest, unclenched his yellowing teeth and half opened his eyes. In a thin, hoarse and very weak voice he said:

'The crisis, Brodovich. Well . . . am I going to live? . . . A-ha.' Karas was holding the lamp in shaking hands, and it lit up the gray shadows and folds of the crumpled bedclothes.

With a slightly unsteady hand the clean-shaven doctor squeezed up a lump of flesh as he inserted the needle of a small hypodermic syringe into Alexei's arm. The doctor's forehead was beaded with small drops of sweat. He was excited and almost unnerved.

Petlyura. His days in the City numbered forty-seven. Frozen, icy and dusted with snow, January 1919 flew over the heads of the Turbins, and February came, wrapped in a blizzard.

On February 2nd a black figure with a shorn head covered by a black skull cap began to walk about the Turbins' apartment. It was Alexei, risen again. He was greatly changed. On his face two deep furrows had etched themselves, apparently for ever, into the corners of his mouth, there was a wax-like colour to his skin, his eyes were sunk in shadow and were permanently unsmiling and grim.

In the Turbins' drawing-room, just as he had done forty-seven days ago, he leaned against the window-pane and listened, and, as before, when all that could be seen were twinkling lights and snow, like an opera-set, there came the distant boom of gunfire. Frowning hard, Alexei leaned with all his weight on a stick and looked out at the street. He noticed that the days had grown magically longer, and there was more light, despite the fact that there was a blizzard outside, swirling with millions of snowflakes.

Harsh, clear and cheerless, his thoughts flowed on beneath the silk skullcap. His head felt light and empty, like some strange, unfamiliar box sitting on his shoulders, and the thoughts seemed to enter his mind from outside and in a sequence chosen by them. Alexei was glad to be alone by the window and stared out:

'Petlyura . . . Tonight, at the latest, he will be thrown out and there will be no more Petlyura. Did he ever even exist, though? Or did I dream it all? No way of telling. Lariosik is really very nice. He fits into the family very well - in fact we need him. I must thank him for the way he helped to nurse me ... What about Shervinsky? Oh, God knows . . . That's the trouble with women. Elena's bound to get tied up with him, it's inevitable ... What is it about him that makes him so attractive to women? Is it his voice? He has a splendid voice, but after all one can listen to someone's voice without marrying him, can't one? But that's not really important. What is important, though? Ah yes, it was Shervinsky himself who was saying that they had red stars in their caps ... I suppose that means trouble again in the City? Bound to be . . . Well, tonight it must be. Their wagon-trains are already moving through the streets . . . Nevertheless, I'll go, I'll go in daytime . . . And take it to her . . . I'm a murderer. No, I fired in battle, in self-defense. Or I wounded the man. Who does she live with? Where is her husband? And Malyshev. Where is he now? Swallowed up by the ground. And Maxim, the old school janitor . . . and what's become of the Alexander I High School?'