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The Crushed Flower
Chapter 3
Translated by Herman Bernstein
Night arrived in the form of red, green and yellow lanterns. While
there were no lanterns, there was no night. And now it lay
everywhere. It crawled into the bushes; it covered the entire garden
with darkness, as with water, and it covered the sky. Everything
looked as beautiful as the very best fairy tale with coloured
pictures. At one place the house had disappeared entirely; only the
square window made of red light remained. And the chimney of the
house was visible and there a certain spark glistened, looked down
and seemed to think of its own affairs. What affairs do chimneys
have? Various affairs.
Of the people in the garden only their voices remained. As long as
some one walked near the lanterns he could be seen; but as soon as he
walked away all seemed to melt, melt, melt, and the voice above the
ground laughed, talked, floating fearlessly in the darkness. But the
officers and the students could be seen even in the dark--a white
spot, and above it a small light of a cigarette and a big voice.
And now the most joyous thing commenced for Yura--the fairy tale.
The people and the festival and the lanterns remained on earth, while
he soared away, transformed into air, melting in the night like a
grain of dust. The great mystery of the night became his mystery,
and his little heart yearned for still more mystery; in its solitude
his heart yearned for the fusion of life and death. That was Yura's
second madness that evening--he became invisible. Although he could
enter the kitchen as others did, he climbed with difficulty upon the
roof of the cellar over which the kitchen window was flooded with
light and he looked in; there people were roasting something, busying
themselves, and did not know that he was looking at them--and yet he
saw everything! Then he went away and looked at papa's and mamma's
bedroom; the room was empty; but the beds had already been made for
the night and a little image lamp was burning--he saw that. Then he
looked into his own room; his own bed was also ready, waiting for
him. He passed the room where they were playing cards, also as an
invisible being, holding his breath and stepping so lightly, as
though he were soaring in the air. Only when he reached the garden,
in the dark, he drew a proper breath. Then he resumed his quest. He
came over to people who were talking so near him that he could touch
them with his hand, and yet they did not know that he was there, and
they continued to speak undisturbed. He watched Ninochka for a long
time until he learned all her life--he was almost trapped. Ninochka
even exclaimed:
"Yurochka, is that you?"
He lay down behind a bush and held his breath. Thus Ninochka was
deceived. And she had almost caught him! To make things more
mysterious, he started to crawl instead of walk--now the alleys seemed full of danger. Thus a long time went by--according to his
own calculations at the time, ten years went by, and he was still
hiding and going ever farther away from the people. And thus he went
so far that he was seized with dread--between him and the past, when
he was walking like everybody else, an abyss was formed over which it
seemed to him impossible to cross. Now he would have come out into
the light but he was afraid--it was impossible; all was lost. And
the music was still playing, and everybody had forgotten him, even
mamma. He was alone. There was a breath of cold from the dewy
grass; the gooseberry bush scratched him, the darkness could not be
pierced with his eyes, and there was no end to it. O Lord!
Without any definite plan, in a state of utter despair, Yura now
crawled toward a mysterious, faintly blinking light. Fortunately it
turned out to be the same arbour which was covered with wild grapes
and in which father and mother had sat that day. He did not
recognise it at first! Yes, it was the same arbour. The lights of
the lanterns everywhere had gone out, and only two were still
burning; a yellow little lantern was still burning brightly, and the
other, a yellow one, too, was already beginning to blink. And though
there was no wind, that lantern quivered from its own blinking, and
everything seemed to quiver slightly. Yura was about to get up to go
into the arbour and there begin life anew, with an imperceptible
transition from the old, when suddenly he heard voices in the arbour.
His mother and the wrong Yura Mikhailovich, the officer, were
talking. The right Yura grew petrified in his place; his heart stood
still; and his breathing ceased.
Mamma said:
"Stop. You have lost your mind! Somebody may come in here."
Yura Mikhailovich said:
"And you?"
Mamma said:
"I am twenty-six years old to-day. I am old!"
Yura Mikhailovich said:
"He does not know anything. Is it possible that he does not know
anything? He does not even suspect? Listen, does he shake
everybody's hand so firmly?"
Mamma said:
"What a question! Of course he does! That is--no, not everybody."
Yura Mikhailovich said:
"I feel sorry for him."
Mamma said:
"For him?"
And she laughed strangely. Yurochka understood that they were
talking of him, of Yurochka--but what did it all mean, O Lord? And
why did she laugh?
Yura Mikhailovich said:
"Where are you going? I will not let you go."
Mamma said:
"You offend me. Let me go! No, you have no right to kiss me. Let
me go!"
They became silent. Now Yurochka looked through the leaves and saw
that the officer embraced and kissed mamma. Then they spoke of
something, but he understood nothing; he heard nothing; he suddenly
forgot the meaning of words. And he even forgot the words which he
knew and used before. He remembered but one word, "Mamma," and he
whispered it uninterruptedly with his dry lips, but that word sounded
so terrible, more terrible than anything. And in order not to
exclaim it against his will, Yura covered his mouth with both hands,
one upon the other, and thus remained until the officer and mamma
went out of the arbour.
When Yura came into the room where the people were playing cards,
the serious, bald-headed man was scolding papa for something,
brandishing the chalk, talking, shouting, saying that father did not
act as he should have acted, that what he had done was impossible,
that only bad people did such things, that the old man would never
again play with father, and so on. And father was smiling, waving
his hands, attempting to say something, but the old man would not let
him, and he commenced to shout more loudly. And the old man was a
little fellow, while father was big, handsome and tall, and his smile
was sad, like that of Gulliver pining for his native land of tall and
handsome people.
Of course, he must conceal from him--of course, he must conceal from
him that which happened in the arbour, and he must love him, and he
felt that he loved him so much. And with a wild cry Yura rushed over
to the bald-headed old man and began to beat him with his fists with
all his strength.
"Don't you dare insult him! Don't you dare insult him!"
O Lord, what has happened! Some one laughed; some one shouted.
father caught Yura in his arms, pressed him closely, causing him
pain, and cried:
"Where is mother? Call mother."
Then Yura was seized with a whirlwind of frantic tears, of desperate
sobs and mortal anguish. But through his frantic tears he looked at
his father to see whether he had guessed it, and when mother came in
he started to shout louder in order to divert any suspicion. But he
did not go to her arms; he clung more closely to father, so that
father had to carry him into his room. But it seemed that he himself
did not want to part with Yura. As soon as he carried him out of the
room where the guests were he began to kiss him, and he repeated:
"Oh, my dearest! Oh, my dearest!"
And he said to mamma, who walked behind him:
"Just think of the boy!"
Mamma said:
"That is all due to your whist. You were scolding each other so,
that the child was frightened."
Father began to laugh, and answered:
"Yes, he does scold harshly. But Yura, oh, what a dear boy!"
In his room Yura demanded that father himself undress him. "Now,
you are getting cranky," said father. "I don't know how to do it;
let mamma undress you."
"But you stay here."
Mamma had deft fingers and she undressed him quickly, and while she
was removing his clothes Yura held father by the hand. He ordered
the nurse out of the room; but as father was beginning to grow angry,
and he might guess what had happened in the arbour, decided to let
him go. But while kissing him he said cunningly:
"He will not scold you any more, will he?"
Papa smiled. Then he laughed, kissed Yura once more and said:
"No, no. And if he does I will throw him across the fence."
"Please, do," said Yura. "You can do it. You are so strong."
"Yes, I am pretty strong. But you had better sleep! Mamma will
stay here with you a while."
Mamma said:
"I will send the nurse in. I must attend to the supper."
Father shouted:
"There is plenty of time for that! You can stay a while with the
child."
But mamma insisted:
"We have guests! We can't leave them that way."
But father looked at her steadfastly, and shrugged his shoulders.
Mamma decided to stay.
"Very well, then, I'll stay here. But see that Maria does not mix
up the wines."
Usually it was thus: when mamma sat near Yura as he was falling
asleep she held his hand until the last moment - that is what she
usually did. But now she sat as though she were all alone, as though
Yura, her son, who was falling asleep, was not there at all -she
folded her hands in her lap and looked into the distance. To attract
her attention Yura stirred, but mamma said briefly:
"Sleep."
And she continued to look. But when Yura's eyes had grown heavy and
he was falling asleep with all his sorrow and his tears, mamma
suddenly went down on her knees before the little bed and kissed Yura
firmly many, many times. But her kisses were wet--hot and wet.
"Why are your kisses wet? Are you crying?" muttered Yura.
"Yes, I am crying."
"You must not cry."
"Very well, I won't," answered mother submissively.
And again she kissed him firmly, firmly, frequently, frequently.
Yura lifted both hands with a heavy movement, clasped his mother
around the neck and pressed his burning cheek firmly to her wet and
cold cheek. She was his mother, after all; there was nothing to be
done. But how painful; how bitterly painful!