Doctor Zhivago - Boris Pasternak [245]
Everything repeated itself exactly, so that when, on that morning of the second week, Larissa Fyodorovna again, as so many times before, began preparing for the return trip, one might have thought the week and a half they had lived through in the interim had never been.
Again it was damp in the rooms, which were dark owing to the bleakness of the gray, overcast day. The cold had lessened; at any moment snow might start pouring from the dark sky covered with low clouds. Yuri Andreevich was succumbing to the mental and physical fatigue caused by a continual lack of sleep. His thoughts were confused, his strength was undermined, weakness made him feel chilled, and, shivering and rubbing his hands, he paced the unheated room, not knowing what Larissa Fyodorovna would decide and what, according to her decision, he would have to undertake.
Her intentions were not clear. Right then she would have given half her life for the two of them not to be so chaotically free, but forced to submit to any strict order, established once and for all, for them to go to work, to have duties, to be able to live sensibly and honestly.
She began her day as usual, made the beds, tidied up and swept the rooms, made breakfast for the doctor and Katya. Then she began to pack and asked the doctor to hitch up the horse. She had taken a firm and inflexible decision to leave.
Yuri Andreevich did not try to dissuade her. Their return to town in the heat of the arrests there after their recent disappearance was completely foolhardy. But it was scarcely more reasonable to sit there alone and unarmed in the midst of this dreadful winter desert, full of its own menace.
Besides that, the last armloads of hay, which the doctor had raked up in the nearby sheds, were coming to an end, and there were no more to be expected. Of course, had it been possible to settle here more permanently, the doctor would have made the rounds of the neighborhood and seen to replenishing the stock of fodder and provisions. But for a brief and problematic stay, it was not worthwhile starting such reconnoitering. And, waving his hand at it all, the doctor went to harness up.
He was not skillful at it. Samdevyatov had taught him how. Yuri Andreevich kept forgetting his instructions. With inexperienced hands he nevertheless did all that was needed. Having fastened the bow to the shafts with a studded leather strap, he tied its metal-tipped end in a knot on one of the shafts, winding it around several times, then, placing his leg against the horse’s side, he pulled and tightened the ends of the collar, after which, having finished the rest, he brought the horse to the porch, tethered her, and went to tell Lara that they could make ready.
He found her in extreme disarray. She and Katenka were dressed to leave, everything was packed, but Larissa Fyodorovna was wringing her hands and, holding back tears and asking Yuri Andreevich to sit down for a moment, throwing herself into the armchair, then getting up, and—frequently interrupting herself with the exclamation “Right?”—spoke very quickly, in an incoherent patter, on a high, singsong, and plaintive note:
“It’s not my fault. I myself don’t know how this came about. But we really can’t go now. It will be dark soon. Night will find us on the road. There in your dreadful forest. Right? I’ll do what you tell me, but myself, of my own will, I can’t decide on it. Something’s holding me back. My heart isn’t in it. Do as you know best. Right? Why are you silent, why don’t you say something? We lolled around all morning, spent half