find any nuns there.
Where are they now, nuns? Black, white, slender Vasnetsovian (3) nuns?
"Larissa Leontievna ,
where are the nuns?"
"He's delirious, poor thing!"
"I certainly am not. Not in the slightest. Nuns!
What's the matter, don't you understand? Give me that book. Over
there, on the third shelf. Melnikov-Pechersky ..."
"You mustn't read, Misha ,
dear!"
"What's that? Why not? I'll be up tomorrow! And
go to see Petrov . You don't understand. They'll leave
me behind! Leave me behind!"
"Oh, alright then. Get up if you must! Here's the book."
"Lovely book. With that old, familiar smell. But the lines are
hopping about all over the place. I remember. They were forging banknotes at
the hermitage, Romanov banknotes. What an awful memory
I've got. It was notes, not nuns.
Sasha basher, tra -la-la!
"Larissa Leontievna ... Larochka ! Do you like forests and mountains? I'll get me to
a monastery. Yes, I will! Some remote hermitage. With
forest all round and birds twittering, and not a living soul... I'm sick of
this idiotic war! I'll go to
Paris
and write a novel first, then get me to a monastery. Only tell Anna to wake me
up at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I was supposed to see him yesterday.
Can't you understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand. Only you must keep
quiet."
*
Fog. Hot reddish fog. Forests,
more forests ... and water trickling slowly from a crevice in a green rock. A taut crystal thread. Must crawl up and have a good
drink. That'll do the trick. It's hard crawling over pine- needles, they're all sticky and prickly. I open my eyes, and there's just a sheet, no
pine-needles.
"For heaven's sake! What's the matter with this sheet. Have they sprinkled sand on it? I'm thirsty!"
"Yes, yes, I won't be a moment."
"Ugh, it's so warm, what horrid water."
"...Forty point five again! How
dreadful!"
"...an ice-bag..."
"Doctor! I insist on being sent to
Paris
rightaway ! I
don't want to stay in
Russia
any longer... If you won't send me, kindly hand me my Brow... Browning! Larochk -a-a! Go and fetch it!"
"Yes, yes, we'll fetch it. Only don't get
excited!"
*
Darkness. A ray of light. Darkness ...
a ray of light. I can't remember for the life of me...
My head! My head! There are no nuns or triumphant
hosts, just demons trumpeting and tearing at my skull with their red-hot hooks. My he -ad!
*
A ray of light... darkness. A ray ... no, it's gone. Nothing awful, just couldn't care less. Head not aching. Darkness and forty-one point one...
2.
WHAT WE GONNA DO?
The novelist Yuri Slyozkin (4) sat in a posh armchair. Everything in the room was
posh, so Yuri looked excruciatingly out of place there. His head shaven by
typhus was just like that boy's head described by Mark Twain (
a pepper-sprinkled egg ). A moth-eaten army jacket
with a hole under the arm. Grey puttees, one longer than the other, on
his legs. A two-kopeck pipe in his mouth. And fear
leap- frogging with anguish in his eyes.
"What's going to become of us?" I asked,
hardly recognising my own voice. After the second bout it was weak, reedy and
cracked.
"What's that?"
I turned round in bed and looked wretchedly out of the
window, where still naked branches were waving slowly. The exquisite sky
touched faintly by the fading sunset gave no reply, of course. Slyozkin was silent too, nodding his shorn head. In the
next room a dress rustled and a woman's voice whispered:
"The Ingushes will raid
the town tonight..."
Slyozkin twitched in his chair and corrected her:
"The Ossetians ,
not the Ingushes . And tomorrow morning, not tonight."
The flasks behind the wall responded nervously.
"The Ossetians ! Oh, my God! That's terrible!"
"What difference does it make?"
"What difference? Ah, you don't know the local
customs. When the Ingushes raid,
they raid. But when the Ossetians raid, they
kill too."
"Will they kill everyone?" Slyozkin asked in a matter-of-fact voice, puffing on his
foul-smelling pipe.
"Goodness me!
Where are they now, nuns? Black, white, slender Vasnetsovian (3) nuns?
"Larissa Leontievna ,
where are the nuns?"
"He's delirious, poor thing!"
"I certainly am not. Not in the slightest. Nuns!
What's the matter, don't you understand? Give me that book. Over
there, on the third shelf. Melnikov-Pechersky ..."
"You mustn't read, Misha ,
dear!"
"What's that? Why not? I'll be up tomorrow! And
go to see Petrov . You don't understand. They'll leave
me behind! Leave me behind!"
"Oh, alright then. Get up if you must! Here's the book."
"Lovely book. With that old, familiar smell. But the lines are
hopping about all over the place. I remember. They were forging banknotes at
the hermitage, Romanov banknotes. What an awful memory
I've got. It was notes, not nuns.
Sasha basher, tra -la-la!
"Larissa Leontievna ... Larochka ! Do you like forests and mountains? I'll get me to
a monastery. Yes, I will! Some remote hermitage. With
forest all round and birds twittering, and not a living soul... I'm sick of
this idiotic war! I'll go to
Paris
and write a novel first, then get me to a monastery. Only tell Anna to wake me
up at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I was supposed to see him yesterday.
Can't you understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand. Only you must keep
quiet."
*
Fog. Hot reddish fog. Forests,
more forests ... and water trickling slowly from a crevice in a green rock. A taut crystal thread. Must crawl up and have a good
drink. That'll do the trick. It's hard crawling over pine- needles, they're all sticky and prickly. I open my eyes, and there's just a sheet, no
pine-needles.
"For heaven's sake! What's the matter with this sheet. Have they sprinkled sand on it? I'm thirsty!"
"Yes, yes, I won't be a moment."
"Ugh, it's so warm, what horrid water."
"...Forty point five again! How
dreadful!"
"...an ice-bag..."
"Doctor! I insist on being sent to
Paris
rightaway ! I
don't want to stay in
Russia
any longer... If you won't send me, kindly hand me my Brow... Browning! Larochk -a-a! Go and fetch it!"
"Yes, yes, we'll fetch it. Only don't get
excited!"
*
Darkness. A ray of light. Darkness ...
a ray of light. I can't remember for the life of me...
My head! My head! There are no nuns or triumphant
hosts, just demons trumpeting and tearing at my skull with their red-hot hooks. My he -ad!
*
A ray of light... darkness. A ray ... no, it's gone. Nothing awful, just couldn't care less. Head not aching. Darkness and forty-one point one...
2.
WHAT WE GONNA DO?
The novelist Yuri Slyozkin (4) sat in a posh armchair. Everything in the room was
posh, so Yuri looked excruciatingly out of place there. His head shaven by
typhus was just like that boy's head described by Mark Twain (
a pepper-sprinkled egg ). A moth-eaten army jacket
with a hole under the arm. Grey puttees, one longer than the other, on
his legs. A two-kopeck pipe in his mouth. And fear
leap- frogging with anguish in his eyes.
"What's going to become of us?" I asked,
hardly recognising my own voice. After the second bout it was weak, reedy and
cracked.
"What's that?"
I turned round in bed and looked wretchedly out of the
window, where still naked branches were waving slowly. The exquisite sky
touched faintly by the fading sunset gave no reply, of course. Slyozkin was silent too, nodding his shorn head. In the
next room a dress rustled and a woman's voice whispered:
"The Ingushes will raid
the town tonight..."
Slyozkin twitched in his chair and corrected her:
"The Ossetians ,
not the Ingushes . And tomorrow morning, not tonight."
The flasks behind the wall responded nervously.
"The Ossetians ! Oh, my God! That's terrible!"
"What difference does it make?"
"What difference? Ah, you don't know the local
customs. When the Ingushes raid,
they raid. But when the Ossetians raid, they
kill too."
"Will they kill everyone?" Slyozkin asked in a matter-of-fact voice, puffing on his
foul-smelling pipe.
"Goodness me!
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