Doctor Zhivago - Boris Pasternak [190]
Autumn had already sharply marked the boundary between the coniferous and deciduous worlds in the forest. The first bristled in its depths like a gloomy, almost black wall; the second shone through the open spaces in fiery, wine-colored patches, like an ancient town with a fortress and gold-topped towers, built in the thick of the forest from its own timber.
The earth in the ditch, under the doctor’s feet, and in the ruts of the forest road, chilled and hardened by the morning frost, was thickly strewn and choked with fallen willow leaves, dry, small, as if clipped, rolled into little tubes. Autumn smelled of those bitter brown leaves and of a multitude of other seasonings. Yuri Andreevich greedily breathed in the complex spiciness of ice-cold preserved apples, bitter dryness, sweet dampness, and blue September fumes, reminiscent of the smoky steam of a campfire doused with water or a just-extinguished blaze.
Yuri Andreevich did not notice how Lajos came up to him from behind.
“Greetings, colleague,” he said in German. They got down to business.
“We have three points. The moonshiners, the reorganization of the infirmary and the pharmacy, and third, at my insistence, the treatment of mental illnesses out of hospital, in field conditions. Maybe you don’t see the need for it, but, from my observations, we’re going out of our minds, my dear Lajos, and the modern sorts of madness take on an infectious, contagious form.”
“A very interesting question. I’ll get to it later. Right now the thing is this. There’s ferment in the camp. The fate of the moonshiners arouses sympathy. Many are also worried about the fate of families who flee the villages from the Whites. Some of the partisans refuse to leave the camp in view of the approaching train of carts with their wives, children, and old people.”
“Yes, we’ll have to wait for them.”
“And all that before the election of a joint commander over our units and others not subordinate to us. I think the only real candidate is Comrade Liberius. A group of young men is putting up another, Vdovichenko. He’s supported by a wing alien to us, which has sided with the circle of the moonshiners—children of kulaks and shopkeepers, deserters from Kolchak. They’re especially noisy.”
“What do you think will happen with the orderlies who made and sold moonshine?”
“I think they’ll be sentenced to be shot and then pardoned, the sentence being made conditional.”
“Anyhow, we’re just chattering away. Let’s get down to business. The reorganizing of the infirmary. That’s what I’d like to consider first of all.”
“Very good. But I must say that I find nothing surprising in your suggestion about psychiatric prophylaxis. I’m of the same opinion myself. Mental illnesses of a most typical kind have appeared and spread, bearing definite features of the time, and directly caused by the historical peculiarities of the epoch. We have a soldier here from the tsarist army, very politically conscious, with an inborn class instinct—Pamphil Palykh. He’s gone mad precisely from that, from fear for his family in case he’s killed and they fall into the hands of the Whites and have to answer for him. Very complex psychology. His family, it seems, is following in the refugee train and catching up with us. Insufficient knowledge of the language prevents me from questioning him properly. Find out from Angelyar or Kamennodvorsky. He ought to be examined.”
“I know Palykh very well. How could I not! At one time we kept running into each other at the army council. Dark-haired, cruel, with a low brow. I don’t understand what you find good in him. He’s always for extreme measures, strictness, executions. And I’ve always found him repulsive. All right. I’ll see to him.”
7
It was a clear, sunny day. The weather was still, dry, as it had been the whole previous week.
From within the camp the vague noise of a big human settlement came rolling, like the distant rumble of the sea. One could hear by turns the footsteps of men wandering in the forest, people’s voices, the blows