And housefuls of antique furniture flew up the iron chimneys in smoke during these years.
Ivan Ilyich had the utmost respect for his own stove, pasting up its cracks with clay, and hanging old tins under its chimney, to catch the soot which would otherwise have fallen on to the floor.
When the kettle had boiled he extracted a screw of paper from his pocket, and put a generous sprinkle of sugar into a glass.
From another pocket he drew a lemon, which had fallen into his hands by a miracle (a war invalid on Nevsky Prospect had given it him in exchange for a pair of mitts), and placed in front of Dasha a glass of sweet tea with a slice of lemon.
"Look Dasha—with lemon! I'll just light the blinker."
This was the name given to an appliance made from a tin can in which a wick was suspended in sunflower oil.
When Ivan Ilyich brought it in, the roam was dimly lighted.
Dasha was now sitting up properly in her chair and drinking tea.
Telegin, delighted, seated himself near her.
"Guess who I met!
Vasili Rublev!
Remember there were Rublevs, father and son, in my workshop?
We used to be great friends.
The father had shrewd eyes, and his heart was always half in the village, half at the plant.
A marvellous type!
And Vasili was a Bolshevik even in those days. Clever chap, but as cross as a bear with a sore head.
In February he was the first to lead our workers into the street.
He climbed into garrets, looking for policemen. They say he killed half a dozen or so with his own hands. And since the October Revolution he has become a great man.
Well, he and I had a talk... are you listening, Dasha?"
"I'm listening," she said.
Setting down her empty glass and propping her chin on her slender fist, she sat gazing at the floating flame of the blinker.
In her grey eyes could be seen indifference to everything in the world.
Her face had lengthened, her delicate skin looked transparent, her nose, once independent to sauciness, looked peaked.
"Ivan," she said (and this must have been to show her gratitude for the tea and lemon), "when I was looking for matches I found a box of cigarettes behind some books.
If you want them...."
"Cigarettes!
Oh, Dasha, and they're my old favourites."
Ivan Ilyich displayed exaggerated delight, although he had himself hidden the cigarettes behind some books to provide against a rainy day.
But he lit one now, casting sideways glances at Dasha's lifeless profile.
"I must take her away somewhere, far away, to the south."
"Well, Vasili Rublev and I had a talk—he's helped me a lot, Dasha. I don't believe those Bolsheviks can just disappear.
They have their roots in people like Rublev—if you know what I mean.
It's true none of them were elected.
And their power hangs by a thread, and that only in Petrograd, Moscow, and a few of the bigger district centres. But the secret of their strength lies in the quality of their power. And this power is closely bound up with men like Vasili Rublev. There aren't many of them for such a country as ours. But they have faith.
He can be torn limb from limb by wild beasts, he can be burned alive, and he'll still go on singing the Internationale as fervently as ever...."
Dasha maintained an unbroken silence.
Ivan Ilyich poked the fire.
Squatting down at the door of the stove, he said:
"D'you know what I'm leading up to?
We must join one side or another.
One can't just sit and wait for things to come round, and it would be disgraceful to stand by the wayside and beg.
I'm a perfectly healthy man.
I'm no saboteur.... Candidly speaking I want something to do...."
Dasha sighed.
A tear trickled slowly from between her lightly-closed lids.
Ivan Ilyich breathed hard.
"Of course first of all we must decide what to do about you, Dasha. You must find the strength to live—shake off your troubles. The way you live now isn't life at all— it's just fading away."
He emphasized the words "fading away" with involuntary irritation.
To this Dasha replied in a childish whimper:
"Is it my fault I didn't die then?