The Naked Year by Boris Pilnyak

are under mother’s pillow.
    â€œYegor Yevgrafovich, it’s me… I’ll see you to the door!…” says Marfusha tiredly and lovingly.
    â€œGo away! I can’t forgive you! Go to Boris. Go!”
    â€œYegor Yevgrafovich…”
    â€œBe quiet!…”
    The ceilings in Yegor’s room are vaulted and low. And here the windows are bricked up, the damp flows in drops down from the low window, and in the damp on the window sill are scraps of music paper. Yegor is lying on a bed, on his back, his arms folded on his chest, fleshless and asthmatic. His red, bloodshot eyes stare dimly at the door. At the door stands Marfusha.
    â€œMartha!” says Yegor with difficulty.
    â€œNo one, except my brother, is guilty. But you don’t know. You don’t know that there is a law in the world which you can’t cross, and it commands us to remain pure. A great catharsis has purged the earth–revolution. You don’t know, what beauty…”
    â€œYegor Yevgrafovich, why were you enjoying yourself there with that one?..”
    â€œWhen you forget the law, you want to play the fool. You want to scoff. At yourself!… Go away!”
    â€œYegor Yevgrafovich…”
    â€œGo away! Be quiet!”
    Marfusha stands motionless.
    â€œGo away, I say! You scum! Go away!”
    Marfusha slowly walks out, closing the door behind her.
    â€œMarfa… Marfusha… Marfushechka!…” and Yegor convulsively strokes Marfusha’s head with his shaking hands and dried out long (aristocratic) fingers.
    â€œI have no law. But I can’t forget the truth. I can’t act against my convictions. Everything is done for! But what kind of truth has come upon the earth! Mother is wheezing… she’s answering for everyone! For everyone!… I love you, I love trampled purity. Remember–I love you. I’ll go and be a musician, on the council!”
    â€œYegorushka!…”
    Yegor’s breathing is labored and wheezy and he convulsively presses Marfusha’s head against his bony chest. The candle end burns faintly.
    And again the clock chimes. The night runs its nightly course–enchanted beyond the house but here it is dead. One more nocturnal hour will pass, and it will be morning. Boris, large, aristocratically corpulent and well-groomed, with the halting gait of a man who has spent his nights wandering in insomnia, comes up to Gleb.
    â€œGleb, you asleep? I’ve no matches left.”
    â€œTake mine.”
    Boris lights up. The match lights up his shaven, well-groomed face, the ring on his little finger flashes. Boris sits down near Gleb, the bed-board creaks under his considerable weight, and he sits, as is his habit, like a product of the Katkov lycée in Moscow, straight and firm, without bending at the waist.
    â€œI just can’t give in to Morpheus,” says Boris, glumly.
    Gleb doesn’t answer, he sits hunched up, with his hands on his knees and his head bent towards them.
    They are silent.
    â€œBoris, Yegor has just told me about something vile. You did something vile,” says Gleb.
    â€œWith Martha, I suppose? It was nothing!” answers Boris slowly, with a sneer, tiredly.
    â€œThat’s vile.”
    Boris doesn’t answer immediately and speaks thoughtfully, without his usually contemptuous sneer.
    â€œOf course it was nothing! The vilest thing is what I did to myself! Understand?–I lost my innocence! We’ve all lost it.”
    Both Boris and Gleb are silent. The moon, following its heavenly route, was casting its rays onto the bed and illuminated Boris with a greenish, ghostly light–the one at which dogs howl nostalgically. Boris smokes tediously.
    â€œSay something, Boris.”
    â€œOne time in spring I was standing on Eagle Mountain looking at the water meadows on the other side of the Vologa. It was spring, the Vologa had burst its banks, the sky was blue–life was