'Lena . . . I've bought tickets for Aid . . .'
The house on St Alexei's Hill, covered with snow like a White general's fur hat, slept on in a long, warm sleep that dozed away behind the blinds, stirred in the shadows.
Outside, there flourished the freezing, all-conquering night, as it glided soundlessly over the earth.
The stars glittered, contracting and broadening again, and especially high in the sky was Mars - red, five-pointed.
Many were the dreams dreamed in the warm rooms of the house.
Alexei slept in his bedroom, and a dream hovered over him like a blurred picture.
The hallway of the school swayed in front of him and the Emperor Alexander I had come down from his picture to burn the list of names of the Mortar Regiment in the stove . . .
Julia Reiss passed in front of him and laughed, other shadows leaped out at him shouting
'Kill him!'
Soundlessly they fired their rifles at him and Alexei tried to run away from them, but his feet stuck to the sidewalk of Malo-Provalnaya Street and Alexei died in his dream.
He awoke with a groan, heard Myshlaevsky snoring from the drawing-room, the quiet whistle of breathing from Karas and Lariosik in the library.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, remembered where he was, then smiled weakly and stretched out for his watch.
It was three o'clock.
'They must have gone by now . . .
Petlyura . . .
Won't see him again.'
And he went to sleep again. #
The night flowed on.
Morning was already not far away and the house slept, buried under its shaggy cap of snow.
The tormented Vasilisa lay asleep between cold sheets, warming them with his skinny body, and he dreamed a stupid, topsy-turvy dream.He dreamed that there had been no revolution, the whole thing was pure nonsense.
In his dream a dubious, insecure kind of happiness hovered over Vasilisa.
It was summer and Vasilisa had just bought a garden.
Instantly, fruit and vegetables sprang out of the ground.
The beds were covered with gay little tendrils and bulbous green cucumbers were peeping through them.
Vasilisa stood there in a pair of canvas trousers looking at the cheerful face of the rising sun, and scratching his stomach . . .
Then Vasilisa dreamed of the stolen globe-shaped clock.
He wanted to feel regret at the loss of the clock, but the sun shone so sweetly that he could summon up no regret.
It was at this happy moment that a crowd of chubby pink piglets invaded the garden and began to root up the beds with their little round snouts.
The earth flew up in fountains.
Vasilisa picked up a stick and started to chase the piglets away, but there turned out to be something frightening about these pigs - they had sharp fangs.
They began to jump and snap at Vasilisa, leaping three feet into the air as they did so because they had springs inside them.
Vasilisa moaned in his sleep. A large black fence-post fell on the pigs, they vanished into the earth and Vasilisa woke up to see his damp, dark bedroom floating in front of him. #
The night flowed on.
The dream passed on over the City, flapping like a vague, white night-bird, flew past the cross held aloft by St Vladimir, crossed the Dnieper, into the thickest black of the night.
It sped along the iron track to Darnitsa station and stopped above it.
There, on track No. 3, stood an armored train.
Its sides were fully armored right down to the wheels with gray steel plates.
The locomotive rose up like a black, multi-faceted mass of metal, red-hot cinders dropping out of its belly on to the rails, so that from the side it looked as if the womb of the locomotive was stuffed with glowing coals.
As it hissed gently and malevolently, something was oozing through a chink in its side armor, while its blunt snout glowered silently toward the forest that lay between it and the Dnieper.
On the last flat-car the bluish-black muzzle of a heavy caliber gun, gagged with a muzzle-cover, pointed straight towards the City eight miles away.
The station was gripped in cold and darkness, pierced only by the light from dim, flickering yellow lamps.
Although it was almost dawn there was constant movement and activity on its platforms.
Three windows shone brightly in the low, single-storey yellow hut that housed the telegraph, and the ceaseless chatter of three morse-keys could be heard through the panes.
Regardless of the burning frost men ran up and down the platform, figures in knee-length sheepskin jerkins, army greatcoats and black reefer jackets.
On the next track alongside the armored train and stretching out far behind it, stood the heated cars of a troop-train, a constant unsleeping bustle as men called out, doors opened and slammed shut again.
Beside the armored train, level with the locomotive and the steel sides of the first armored car, there marched up and down like a pendulum a man in a long greatcoat, torn felt boots and a sharp-pointed hood.
He cradled his rifle in his arms as tenderly as an exhausted mother holding her baby, and beside him, under the meager light of a station lamp, there marched over the snow the silent foreshortened black shadow of the man and his bayonet.
The man was very tired and suffering from the savage, inhuman cold.
In vain he thrust the wooden fingers of his cold, blue hands into his ragged sleeves to seek refuge and warmth.
From the ragged, frozen black mouth of his cowl, fringed with white hoar frost, his eyes stared out from under frost-laden eyelashes.