Read Online Doctor Zhivago by Boris Leonidovich Pasternak - Free Book Online
Authors: Boris Leonidovich Pasternak
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Ernestovna, took care of everything without meddling in his private life; she ran the place unseen and unheard. He repaid her with the knightly delicacy to be expected of so fine a gentleman, and never tolerated visitors, male or female, whose presence would have disturbed her peaceful, spinsterish world. A monastic stillness reigned in their home; the blinds were drawn, and everything was spotlessly clean, as in an operating room.
On Sunday mornings Victor Ippolitovich, accompanied by his bulldog, usually took a leisurely walk down the Petrovka and along Kuznetsky Most, and at one of the street corners they were joined by the actor and gambler Constantine Illarionovich Satanidi.
They walked together along Kuznetsky Most, telling each other dirty stories, snorting with contempt, and laughing shamelessly in deep, loud voices that filled the air with sounds no more significant than the howling of a dog.
12
The weather was on the mend. Plop-plop-plop went the water drops on the metal of the drainpipes and the cornices, roof tapping messages to roof as if it were spring. It was thawing.
Lara walked all the way in a daze and realized what had happened to her only when she reached home.
Everyone was asleep. She fell back into her trance and in this abstracted state sat down at her mother ' s dressing table, still in her pale mauve, almost white, lace-trimmed dress and long veil borrowed for the evening from the workshop, like a costume. She sat before her reflection in the mirror, and saw nothing. Then, folding her arms, she put them on the dressing table and buried her head in them.
If Mother learned about it she would kill her. She would kill her and then she would kill herself.
How had it happened? How could it possibly have happened? It was too late now, she should have thought of it earlier.
Now she was—what was it called?—a fallen woman. She was a woman out of a French novel, and tomorrow she would go to school and sit side by side with those other girls who were like little children compared with her. O God, O God, how did it happen?
Some day, many, many years later, when it would be possible, Lara would tell Olia Demina, and Olia would hug her and burst into tears.
Outside the window the water drops plopped on and on, the thaw muttered its spells. Down the road someone was banging on a neighbor ' s door. Lara did not raise her head. Her shoulders quivered. She was weeping.
13
" Ah, Emma Ernestovna, that ' s unimportant. I ' m sick and tired of it. " He kept opening and shutting drawers, turning things out, throwing cuffs and collars all over the rug and the sofa, without knowing what he was looking for.
He needed her desperately, and there was no way of seeing her that Sunday. He paced up and down the room frantically like a caged animal.
Nothing equalled her spiritual beauty. Her hands were stunning like a sublime idea. Her shadow on the wall of the hotel room was like the outline of her innocence. Her slip was stretched over her breast, as firmly and simply as linen on an embroidery frame.
His fingers drummed on the windowpane in time to the unhurried thud of horses ' hoofs on the asphalt pavement below. " Lara, " he whispered, shutting his eyes, and he had a vision of her head resting on his hands; her eyes were closed, she was asleep, unconscious that he watched her sleeplessly for hours on end. Her hair was scattered and its beauty stung his eyes like smoke and ate into his heart.
His Sunday walk was not being a success. He strolled a few paces with Jack, stopped, thought of Kuznetsky Most, of Satanidi ' s jokes, of the acquaintances he met on the street—no, it was more than he could bear. He turned back. The dog, startled, looked up disapprovingly and waddled after him reluctantly.
" What can it all mean? " thought Komarovsky. " What has come over me? " Could it be his conscience, a feeling of pity, or repentance? Or was he worried about her? No, he knew she was safe at home? Then why couldn ' t
On Sunday mornings Victor Ippolitovich, accompanied by his bulldog, usually took a leisurely walk down the Petrovka and along Kuznetsky Most, and at one of the street corners they were joined by the actor and gambler Constantine Illarionovich Satanidi.
They walked together along Kuznetsky Most, telling each other dirty stories, snorting with contempt, and laughing shamelessly in deep, loud voices that filled the air with sounds no more significant than the howling of a dog.
12
The weather was on the mend. Plop-plop-plop went the water drops on the metal of the drainpipes and the cornices, roof tapping messages to roof as if it were spring. It was thawing.
Lara walked all the way in a daze and realized what had happened to her only when she reached home.
Everyone was asleep. She fell back into her trance and in this abstracted state sat down at her mother ' s dressing table, still in her pale mauve, almost white, lace-trimmed dress and long veil borrowed for the evening from the workshop, like a costume. She sat before her reflection in the mirror, and saw nothing. Then, folding her arms, she put them on the dressing table and buried her head in them.
If Mother learned about it she would kill her. She would kill her and then she would kill herself.
How had it happened? How could it possibly have happened? It was too late now, she should have thought of it earlier.
Now she was—what was it called?—a fallen woman. She was a woman out of a French novel, and tomorrow she would go to school and sit side by side with those other girls who were like little children compared with her. O God, O God, how did it happen?
Some day, many, many years later, when it would be possible, Lara would tell Olia Demina, and Olia would hug her and burst into tears.
Outside the window the water drops plopped on and on, the thaw muttered its spells. Down the road someone was banging on a neighbor ' s door. Lara did not raise her head. Her shoulders quivered. She was weeping.
13
" Ah, Emma Ernestovna, that ' s unimportant. I ' m sick and tired of it. " He kept opening and shutting drawers, turning things out, throwing cuffs and collars all over the rug and the sofa, without knowing what he was looking for.
He needed her desperately, and there was no way of seeing her that Sunday. He paced up and down the room frantically like a caged animal.
Nothing equalled her spiritual beauty. Her hands were stunning like a sublime idea. Her shadow on the wall of the hotel room was like the outline of her innocence. Her slip was stretched over her breast, as firmly and simply as linen on an embroidery frame.
His fingers drummed on the windowpane in time to the unhurried thud of horses ' hoofs on the asphalt pavement below. " Lara, " he whispered, shutting his eyes, and he had a vision of her head resting on his hands; her eyes were closed, she was asleep, unconscious that he watched her sleeplessly for hours on end. Her hair was scattered and its beauty stung his eyes like smoke and ate into his heart.
His Sunday walk was not being a success. He strolled a few paces with Jack, stopped, thought of Kuznetsky Most, of Satanidi ' s jokes, of the acquaintances he met on the street—no, it was more than he could bear. He turned back. The dog, startled, looked up disapprovingly and waddled after him reluctantly.
" What can it all mean? " thought Komarovsky. " What has come over me? " Could it be his conscience, a feeling of pity, or repentance? Or was he worried about her? No, he knew she was safe at home? Then why couldn ' t
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