PART TWO
Chapter
Six
Two
men stood at the entrance to the hotel concert hall. The
taller of the two wore pince-nez and a red armband marked
"Commandant".
"Is
the Ukrainian delegation meeting here?" Rita inquired.
"Yes,"
the tall man replied coldly. "Your business,
Comrade?"
The
tall man blocked the entrance and examined Rita from head to
foot.
"Have
you a delegate's mandate?"
Rita
produced her card with the gilt-embossed words "Member of
the Central Committee" and the man unbent at once.
"Pass
in, Comrade," he said cordially. "You'll find some
vacant seats over to the left."
Rita
walked down the aisle, saw a vacant seat and sat down.
The
meeting was evidently drawing to a close, for the chairman was
summing up. His voice struck Rita as familiar.
"The
council of the All-Russia Congress has now been elected. The
Congress opens in two hours' time. In the meantime permit me
to go over the list of delegates once more."
It
was Akim! Rita listened with rapt attention as he hurriedly
read out the list. As his name was called, each delegate
raised his hand showing his red or white pass.
Suddenly
Rita caught a familiar name: Pankratov.
She
glanced round as a hand shot up but through the intervening
rows she could not glimpse the stevedore's face. The names ran
on, and again Rita heard one she knew — Okunev, and
immediately after that another, Zharky.
Scanning
the faces of the delegates she caught sight of Zharky. He was
sitting not far away with Kis face half turned towards her.
Yes, it was Vanya all right. She had almost forgotten that
profile. After all, she had not seen him for several years.
The
roll-call continued. And then Akim read out a name that caused
Rita to start violently:
"Korchagin."
Far
away in one of the front rows a hand rose and fell, and,
strange to say, Rita was seized with a painful longing to see
the face of the man who bore the same name as her lost
comrade. She could not tear her eyes away from the spot where
the hand had risen, but all the heads in the rows before her
seemed all alike. She got up and went down the aisle toward
the front rows. At that moment Akim finished reading. Chairs
were pushed back noisily and the hall was filled with the hum
of voices and young laughter. Akim, trying to make himself
heard above the din, shouted":
"Bolshoi
Theatre ... seven o'clock. Don't be late!"
The
delegates crowded to the single exit. Rita saw that she would
never be able to find any of her old friends in this throng.
She must try to catch Akim before he left; he would help her
find the others. Just then a group of delegates passed her in
the aisle on their way to the exit and she heard someone say:
"Well,
Korchagin old man, we'd better be pushing off too!"
And
a well-remembered voice replied: "Good, let's go."
Rita
turned quickly. Before her stood a tall, dark-complexioned
young man in a khaki tunic with a slender Caucasian belt, and
blue riding breeches.
Rita
stared at him. Then she felt his arms around her and heard his
trembling voice say softly: "Rita", and she knew
that it was Pavel Korchagin. "So you're alive?"
These
words told him all. She had not known that his reported death
was a mistake.
The
hall had emptied out long since, and the din and bustle of
Tverskaya, that mighty artery of the city, poured through the
open window. The clock struck six, but to both of them it
seemed that they had met only a moment ago. But the clock
summoned them to the Bolshoi Theatre. As they walked down the
broad staircase to the exit she surveyed Pavel once more. He
was a head taller than her now and more mature and
self-possessed. But otherwise he was the Pavel she had always
known.
"I
haven't even asked you where you are working," she said.
"I
am Secretary of the Regional Committee of the Komsomol, what
Dubava would call a 'penpusher'," Pavel replied with a
smile.
"Have
you seen him?"
"Yes,
and I have the most unpleasant memories of that meeting."
They
stepped into the street. Automobiles hooted, noisy bustling
througs filled the pavements. They hardly exchanged a word on
the way to the theatre, their minds full of the same thoughts.
They found the theatre besieged by a surging, tempestuous sea
of people which tossed itself against the stone bulk of the
theatre building in an effort to break through the line of Red
Army men guarding the entrances. But the sentries gave
admittance only to delegates, who passed through the cordon,
their credentials proudly displayed.
It
was a Komsomol sea that surrounded the theatre, a sea of young
people who had been unable to obtain tickets to the opening of
the Congress but who were determined to get in at all costs.
Some of the more agile youngsters managed to work their way
into the midst of groups of delegates and by presenting some
slip of red paper sometimes contrived to get as far as the
entrance.
A
few even managed to slip through the doors only to be stopped
by the Central Committee man on duty, or the commandant who
directed the guests and delegates to their appointed places.
And then, to the infinite satisfaction of all the rest of the
"ticketless" fraternity, they were unceremoniously
ejected.
The
theatre could not hold a fraction of all who wished to be
present.
Rita
and Pavel pushed their way with difficulty to the entrance.
The delegates continued to pour in, some arriving by tram,
others by car. A large knot of them gathered at the entrance
and the Red Army men, Komsomols themselves, were pressed back
against the wall. At that moment a mighty shout arose from the
crowd near the entrance:
"Bauman
District, here goes!"
"Come
on, lads, our side's winning!"
"Hurray!"
Through
the doorway along with Pavel and Rita slipped a sharp-eyed
youngster wearing a Komsomol badge, and eluding the
commandant, made a beeline for the foyer. A moment later he
was swallowed up by the crowd.
"Let's
sit here," Rita said, indicating two seats in a corner at
the back of the stalls.
"There
is one question I must ask you," said Rita when they were
seated. "It concerns bygone days, but I am sure you will
not refuse to answer it. Why did you break off our studies and
our friendship that time?"
And
though Pavel had been expecting this question ever since they
had met, it disconcerted him. Their eyes met and Pavel saw
that she knew.
"I
think you know the answer yourself, Rita. That happened three
years ago, and now I can only condemn Pavel for what he did.
As a matter of fact Korchagin has committed many a blunder,
big and small, in his life. That was one of them."
Rita
smiled.
"An
excellent preamble. Now for the answer!"
"It
is not only I who was to blame," Pavel began in a low
voice. "It was the Gadfly's fault too, that revolutionary
romanticism of his. In those days I was very much influenced
by books with vivid descriptions of staunch, courageous
revolutionaries consecrated to our cause. Those men made a
deep impression on me and I longed to be like them. I allowed
The Gadfly to influence my feeling for you. It seems absurd to
me now, and I regret it more than I can say."
"Then
you have changed your mind about The Gadfly?"
"No,
Rita, not fundamentally. I have only discarded the needless
tragedy of that painful process of testing one's will. I still
stand for what is most important in the Gadfly, for his
courage, his supreme endurance, for the type of man who is
capable of enduring suffering without exhibiting his pain to
all and sundry. I stand for the type of revolutionary whose
personal life is nothing as compared with the life of society
as a whole."
"It
is a pity, Pavel, that you did not tell me this three years
ago," said Rita with a smile that showed her thoughts to
be far away.
"A
pity, you mean, because I have never been more to you than a
comrade, Rita?"
"No,
Pavel, you might have been more."
"But
surely that can be remedied."
"No,
Comrade Gadfly, it is too late for that. You see, I have a
little daughter now," Rita smilingly explained. "I
am very fond of her father. In general, the three of us are
very good friends, and so far our trio is inseparable."
Her
fingers brushed Pavel's hand. The gesture was prompted by
anxiety for him, but she realised at once that it was
unnecessary. Yes, he had matured in these three years, and not
only physically. She could tell by his eyes that he was deeply
hurt by her confession, but all he said was:
"What
I have left is still incomparably more than what I have just
lost." And Rita knew that this was not merely an empty
phrase, it was the simple truth.
It
was time to take their places nearer to the stage. They got up
and went forward to the row occupied by the Ukrainian
delegation. The band struck up. Scarlet streamers flung across
the hall were emblazoned with the words: "The Future Is
Ours!" Thousands filled the stalls, the boxes and the
tiers of the great theatre. These thousands merged here in one
mighty organism throbbing with inexhaustible energy. The
flower of the young guard of the country's great industrial
brotherhood was gathered here. Thousands of pairs of eyes
reflected the glow of those words traced in burning letters
over the heavy curtain: "The Future Is Ours!" And
still the human tide rolled in. Another few moments and the
heavy velvet curtain would move aside, and the Secretary of
the Central Committee of the Russian Young Communist League,
overwhelmed for a moment by the solemnity of the occasion,
would announce with a tremor in his voice:
"I
declare the Sixth Congress of the Russian Young Communist
League open."
Never
before had Pavel Korchagin been so profoundly, so stirringly
conscious of the grandeur and might of the Revolution, and an
indescribable surge of pride and joy swept over him at the
thought that life had brought him, a fighter and builder, to
this triumphant rally of the young guard to Bolshevism.
The
Congress claimed all of his time from early morning until late
at night, so that it was not until one of the final sessions
that Pavel met Rita again. She was with a group of Ukrainians.
"I
am leaving tomorrow as soon as the Congress closes," she
told him. "I don't know whether we will have another
chance for a talk, and so I have prepared two old notebooks of
my diary for you, and a short note. Read them and send them
back to me by post. They will tell you all that I have not
told you."
He
pressed her hand and gave her a long look as if committing her
features to memory.
They
met as agreed the following day at the main entrance and Rita
handed him a package and a sealed letter. There were people
all around and so their leave-taking was restrained, but in
her slightly misted eyes Pavel read a deep tenderness tinged
with sadness.
The
next day their trains bore them away in different directions.
The Ukrainian delegation occupied several carriages of the
train in which Pavel travelled. He shared a compartment with
some delegates from Kiev. In the evening, when the other
passengers had retired and Okunev on the neighbouring berth
was snoring peacefully, Pavel moved the lamp closer and opened
the letter.
"Pavel,
my darling! I might have told you all this when we were
together, but it is better this way. I wish only one thing:
that what we spoke of before the Congress should leave no scar
on your life. I know you are strong and I believe that you
meant what you said. I do not take a formal attitude to life,
I feel that one may make exceptions — though rarely — in
one's personal relationships, provided they are founded on a
genuine and deep attachment. For you I would have made that
exception, but I rejected my impulse to pay tribute to our
youth. I feel that there would be no true happiness in it for
either of us. Still, you ought not to be so harsh to yourself,
Pavel. Our life is not all struggle, there is room in it for
the happiness that real love brings.
"As
for the rest, the main purport of your life, I have no fears
for you. I press your hand warmly.
"Rita."
Pavel
tore up the letter reflectively; he thrust his hand out of the
window and felt the wind tearing the scraps of paper out of
his hand.
By
morning he had read both notebooks of Rita's diary, wrapped
them up and tied them ready for posting. At Kharkov he left
the train with Okunev and Pankratov and several other
delegates. Okunev was going to Kiev to fetch Talya, who was
staying with Anna. Pankratov, who had been elected member of
the Central Committee of the Ukrainian Komsomol, also had
business in Kiev. Pavel decided to go on with them to Kiev and
pay a visit to Dubava and Anna.
By
the time he emerged from the post-office at the Kiev station
after sending off the parcel to Rita, the others had gone, so
he set off alone. The tram stopped outside the house where
Anna and Dubava lived. Pavel climbed the stairs to the second
floor and knocked at the door on the left, Anna's room. No one
answered. It was too early for her to have gone to work.
"She must be sleeping," he thought. The door of the
neighbouring room opened and a sleepy-eyed Dubava came out on
the landing. His face was ashen and there were dark circles
under his eyes. He exuded a strong smell of onions and Pavel's
sharp nose caught a whiff of alcohol. Through the half-open
door he caught a glimpse of the fleshy leg and shoulders of
some woman on the bed.
Dubava,
noticing the direction of his glance, kicked the door shut.
"You've
come to see Comrade Borhart, I suppose?" he inquired
hoarsely, evading Pavel's eyes. "She doesn't live here
any more. Didn't you know that?"
Korchagin,
his face stern, looked searchingly at Dubava.
"No,
I didn't. Where has she gone?"
Dubava
suddenly lost his temper.
"That's
no concern of mine!" he shouted. He belched and added
with suppressed malice: "Come to console her, eh? You're
just in time to fill the vacancy. Here's your chance. Don't
worry, she won't refuse you. She told me many a time how much
she liked you ... or however those silly women put it. Go on,
strike the iron while it's hot. It will be a true communion of
soul and body."
Pavel
felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. Restraining himself with
difficulty, he said in a low voice:
"What
are you doing to yourself, Mityai! I never thought you'd fall
so low. You weren't a bad fellow once. Why are you letting
yourself go to the dogs?"
Dubava
leaned back against the wall. The cement floor evidently felt
cold to his bare feet, for he shivered.
The
door opened and a woman's face with swollen eyes and puffy
cheeks appeared.
"Come
back in, duckie, what're you standing out there for?"
Before
she could say any more, Dubava slammed the door to and stood
against it.
"A
fine beginning," Pavel observed. "Look at the
company you're keeping. Where will it all end?"
But
Dubava would hear no more.
"Are
you going to tell me who I should sleep with?" he
shouted. "I've had enough of your preaching. Now get back
where you came from! Run along and tell them all that Dubava
has taken to drinking and whoring."
Pavel
went up to him and said in a voice of suppressed emotion:
"Mityai,
get rid of that woman. I want to talk to you, for the last
time...."
Dubava's
face darkened. He turned on his heel and went back into the
room without another word.
"The
swine!" Pavel muttered and walked slowly down the stairs.
Two
years went by. Time counted off the days and months, but the
swift colourful pageant of life filled its seeming monotony
with novelty, so that no two days were alike. The great nation
of one hundred and sixty million people, the first people in
the world to have taken the destiny of their vast land with
its untold riches into their own hands, were engaged in the
Herculean task of reviving their war-ravaged economy. The
country grew stronger, new vigour flowed into its veins, and
the dismal spectacle of smokeless abandoned factories was no
longer to be seen.
For
Pavel those two years fled by in ceaseless activity. He was
not one to take life calmly, to greet each day with a
leisurely yawn and retire at the stroke of ten. He lived at a
swift tempo, grudging himself and others every wasted moment.
He
allowed a bare minimum of time for sleep. Often the light
burned in his window late into the night, and within, a group
of people would be gathered around the table engrossed in
study. They had made a thorough study of Volume III of Capital
in these two years and the subtle mechanics of capitalist
exploitation were now revealed to them.
Razvalikhin
had turned up in the area where Korchagin now worked. He had
been sent by the Gubernia Committee with the recommendation
that he be appointed Secretary of a district Komsomol
organisation. Pavel happened to be away when Razvalikhin
arrived and in his absence the Bureau had sent the newcomer to
one of the districts. Pavel received the news on his return
without comment.
A
month later Pavel made an unexpected visit to Razvalikhin's
district. There was not much evidence, but what there was
turned out to be sufficiently damning: the new secretary
drank, he had surrounded himself with toadies and was
suppressing the initiative of the conscientious members. Pavel
submitted the evidence to the Bureau, and when the meeting
voted administering Razvalikhin a severe reprimand, Pavel
surprised everyone by getting up and saying:
"I
move that he be expelled and that his expulsion be
final."
The
others were taken aback by the motion. It seemed too severe a
measure under the circumstances. But Pavel insisted.
"The
scoundrel must be expelled. He had every chance to become a
decent human being, but he has remained an outsider in the
Komsomol." And Pavel told the Bureau about the Berezdov
incident.
"I
protest!" Razvalikhin shouted. "Korchagin is simply
trying to settle personal scores. What he says is nothing but
idle gossip. Let him back up his charges with facts and
documents. Suppose I were to come to you with a story that
Korchagin had gone in for smuggling, would you expel him on
the strength of that? He's got to submit written proof."
"Don't
worry, I'll submit all the proofs necessary," Korchagin
replied.
Razvalikhin
left the room. Half an hour later Pavel persuaded the Bureau
to adopt a resolution expelling Razvalikhin from the Komsomol
as an alien element.
Summer
came and with it the vacation season. Pavel's fellow workers
left for their well-earned holiday one after another. Those
whose health demanded it went to the seaside and Pavel helped
them to secure sanatorium accommodations and financial
assistance. They went away pale and worn, but elated at the
prospect of their coming holiday. The burden of their work
fell on Pavel's shoulders and he bore the added load without a
murmur. In due time they returned sunburned and full of life
and energy, and others went off. Throughout the summer the
office was short-handed. But life did not lessen its swift
pace, and Pavel could not afford to miss a single day's work.
The
summer passed. Pavel dreaded the approach of autumn and winter
for they invariably brought him much physical distress.
He
had looked forward with particular eagerness to the coming of
summer that year. For painful though it was for him to admit
it even to himself he felt his strength waning from year to
year. There were only two alternatives: to admit that he could
not endure the intensive effort his work demanded of him and
declare himself an invalid, or remain at his post as long as
he could. He chose the latter course.
One
day at a meeting of the Bureau of the Regional Committee of
the Party Dr. Bartelik, an old Party underground worker now in
charge of public health in the region, came over and sat down
beside him.
"You're
looking rather seedy, Korchagin. How's your health? Have you
been examined by the Medical Commission? You haven't? I
thought as much. But you look as if you were in need of an
overhauling, my friend. Come over on Thursday evening and
we'll have a look at you."
Pavel
did not go. He was too busy. But Bartelik did not forget him
and some time later he came for Pavel and took him to the
commission in which he participated as neuropathologist. The
Medical Commission recommended "an immediate vacation
with prolonged treatment in the Crimea, to be followed by
regular medical treatment. Unless this is done serious
consequences are unavoidable."
From
the long list of ailments in Latin that preceded this
recommendation Pavel understood only one thing — the main
trouble was not in his legs, but in his central nervous
system, which was seriously impaired.
Bartelik
put the commission's decision before the Bureau, and the
motion that Korchagin be released at once from work evoked no
opposition. Korchagin himself, however, suggested that his
vacation be postponed until the return of Sbitnev, Chief of
the Organisational Department. He did not want to leave the
Committee without leadership. The Bureau agreed, although
Bartelik objected to the delay.
And
so in three weeks' time Pavel was to leave for his holiday,
the first in his life. Accommodation had already been reserved
for him in a Yevpatoria sanatorium and a paper to that effect
lay in his desk drawer.
He
worked at even greater pressure in this period; he held a
plenary meeting of the Regional Komsomol and drove himself
relentlessly to tie up all loose ends so as to be able to
leave with his mind at rest.
And
on the very eve of his departure for his first glimpse of the
sea, a revolting, unbelievable thing happened.
Pavel
had gone to the Party propaganda section after work that day
to attend a meeting. There was no one in the room when he
arrived and so he had sat down on the windowsill by the open
window behind the bookcase to wait for the others to assemble.
Before long several people came in. He could not see them from
behind the bookcase but he recognised one voice. It belonged
to Failo, the man in charge of the Regional Economic
Department, a tall, handsome fellow with a dashing military
bearing, who had earned himself a reputation for drinking and
running after women.
Failo
had once been a partisan and never missed an opportunity to
brag laughingly of the way he had sliced off the heads of
Makhno men by the dozen. Pavel could not stand the man. One
day a Komsomol girl had come weeping to Pavel with the story
that Failo had promised to marry her, but after living with
her for a week had left her and now did not even greet her
when they met. When the matter came up before the Control
Commission, Failo wriggled out of it since the girl could give
no proofs. But Pavel had believed her. He now listened while
the others, unaware of his presence, talked freely.
"Well,
Failo, how goes it? What have you been up to lately?"
The
speaker was Gribov, one of Failo's boon companions. For some
reason Gribov was considered a propagandist although he was
ignorant, narrow-minded and stupid. Nevertheless he prided
himself on being called a propaganda worker and made a point
of reminding everyone of the fact on all and every occasion.
"You
can congratulate me, my boy. I made another conquest
yesterday. Korotayeva. You said nothing would come of it.
That's where you were mistaken, my lad. If I go after a woman
you may be sure I'll get her sooner or later," Failo
boasted, adding some obscenities.
Pavel
felt the nervous chill that always seized him when he was
deeply roused. Korotayeva was in charge of the Women's
Department and had come to the Regional Committee at the same
time as he had. Pavel knew her for a pleasant, earnest Party
worker, kind and considerate to the women who came to her for
help and advice, and respected by her fellow workers in the
Committee. Pavel knew that she was not married, and he had no
doubt that it was of her that Failo had spoken.
"Go
on, Failo, you're making it up! It doesn't sound like
her."
"Me,
making it up? What do you take me for? I've broken in harder
cases than that. You only have to know how. Got to have the
right approach. Some of them will give in right away, but that
kind aren't worth the trouble. Others take a whole month to
come to heel. The important thing is to understand their
psychology. The right approach, that's the thing. Why, man,
it's a whole science, but I'm a regular professor in such
matters. Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Failo
was positively slobbering with self-satisfaction. His
listeners egged him on, all agog for more juicy details.
Korchagin
got up. He clenched his fists, feeling his heart pounding
wildly in his chest.
"I
knew there wasn't much hope of catching Korotayeva with the
usual bait, but I didn't want to give up the game, especially
since I'd wagered Gribov a dozen of port wine that I'd do it.
So I tried subversive tactics, so to speak. I dropped into her
office once or twice, but I could see I wasn't making much of
an impression. Besides, there's all sorts of silly talk going
on about me and some of it must have reached her ears....
Well, to cut a long story short, the frontal attack failed, so
I tried flanking tactics. Ho! Ho! Pretty good that, eh! Well,
I told her my sad story, how I'd fought at the front, wandered
about the earth and had plenty of hard knocks, but I'd never
been able to find the right sort of woman and so here I was a
lonely cuss with nobody to love me. ... And plenty more of the
same sort of tripe. I was striking at her weak spots, see? I
must admit I had a lot of trouble with her. At one point I
thought I'd send her to hell and drop the whole silly
business. But by now it was a matter of principle, and so out
of principle I had to stick it out. And finally I broke down
her resistance, and what do you think? She turned out to be a
virgin! Ha! Ha! What a lark!"
And
Failo went on with his revolting story.
Pavel,
seething with rage, found himself beside Failo.
"You
swine!" he roared.
"Oh,
I'm a swine, am I, and what about you eavesdropping?"
Pavel
evidently said something else, because Failo who was a bit
tipsy seized him by the front of his tunic.
"Insult
me, eh?" He shouted and struck Pavel with his fist.
Pavel
snatched a heavy oak stool and knocked the other down with one
blow. Fortunately for Failo, Pavel did not happen to have his
revolver on him, or he would have been a dead man.
But
the senseless, incredible thing had happened, and on the day
scheduled for his departure to the Crimea, Pavel stood before
a Party court.
The
whole Party organisation had assembled in the town theatre.
The incident had aroused much feeling, and the hearing
developed into a serious discussion of Party ethics, morals
and personal relationships. The case served as a signal for
the discussion of the general issues involved, and the
incident itself was relegated to the background. Failo behaved
in the most insolent manner, smiling sardonically and
declaring that he would take the case to the People's Court
and that Korchagin would get a hard labour sentence for
assaulting him. He refused categorically to answer any
questions.
"You
want to have a nice little gossip at my expense? Nothing
doing. You can accuse me of anything you like, but the fact
remains that the women here have their knife in me because I
don't pay any attention to them. And this whole case of yours
isn't worth a damn. If this was 1918 I'd settle scores with
that madman Korchagin in my own way. And now you can carry on
without me." And he left the hall.
The
chairman then asked Pavel to tell what had happened. Pavel
began calmly enough, though he restrained himself with
difficulty.
"The
whole thing happened because I was unable to control myself.
But the days when I worked more with my hands than with my
head are long since gone. What happened this time was an
accident. I knocked Failo down before I knew what I was doing.
This is the only instance of 'partisan' action I have been
guilty of in the past few years, and I condemn it, although I
think that the blow was well deserved. Failo's type is a
disgusting phenomenon. I cannot understand, I shall never
believe that a revolutionary, a Communist, can be at the same
time a dirty beast and a scoundrel. The only positive aspect
of the whole business is that it has focussed our attention on
the behaviour of our fellow Communists in private life."
The
overwhelming majority of the membership voted in favour of
expelling Failo from the Party. Gribov was administered a
severe reprimand for giving false evidence and a warning that
the next offence would mean expulsion. The others who had
taken part in the conversation admitted their mistake and got
off with a word of censure.
Bartelik
then told the gathering about the state of Pavel's nerves and
the meeting protested violently when the comrade who had been
appointed by the Party to investigate the case moved that
Korchagin be reprimanded. The investigator withdrew his motion
and Pavel was acquitted.
A
few days later Pavel was on his way to Kharkov. The Regional
Committee of the Party had finally granted his insistent
request to be released from his job and placed at the disposal
of the Central Committee of the Ukrainian Komsomol. He had
been given a good testimonial. Akim was one of the secretaries
of the Central Committee. Pavel went to see him as soon as he
arrived in Kharkov and told him the whole story.
Akim
looked over Pavel's testimonial. It declared him to be
"boundlessly devoted to the Party", but added:
"A levelheaded Party worker, on the whole, he is,
however, on rare occasions apt to lose his self-control. This
is due to the serious condition of his nervous system."
"Spoiled
a good testimonial with that fact, Pavel," said Akim.
"But never mind, boy, such things happen to the strongest
of us. Go south and build up your health and when you come
back we'll talk about work."
And
Akim gave him a hearty handshake.
The
Kommunar Sanatorium of the Central Committee. White buildings
overgrown with vines set amid gardens of rose bushes and
sparkling fountains, and vacationers in white summer clothes
and bathing suits.... A young woman doctor entered his name in
the register and he found himself in a spacious room in the
corner building. Dazzling white bed linen, virginal
cleanliness and peace, blessed undisturbed peace.
After
a refreshing bath and a change of clothes, Pavel hurried down
to the beach.
The
sea lay before him calm, majestic, a blue-black expanse of
polished marble, spreading all the way to the horizon. Far
away in the distance where sea met sky a bluish haze hovered
and a molten sun was reflected in a ruddy glow on its surface.
The massive contours of a mountain range were dimly seen
through the morning mist. Pavel breathed the invigorating
freshness of the sea breeze deep into his lungs and feasted
his eyes on the infinite calm of the blue expanse.
A
wave rolled lazily up to his feet, licking the golden sand of
the beach.
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