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 tearingthe 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 yourpreaching. 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.