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C.C. Lincoln. Somewhere on the road, just before dawn,
a jolt waked him. The landscape was beginning to emerge from darkness
—black fields under pale stars. A few hours later Kondratiev saw the
same dark desolation in a woman’s face, in the depths of Tamara Leon-
tiyevna’s eyes. She had come into his office at the Combustibles Trust to
report. He felt in a good humor, he made a healthy man’s ordinary
gesture, he took her arm with a smile, and instantly he felt a vague terror
enter into him. “This matter of the Donets Syndicate is in fine shape,
it will be all settled in twenty-four hours, but what’s the trouble, Tamara
Leontiyevna, are you ill? You shouldn’t have come in this morning if
you didn’t feel well . . .”—“I would have come at any cost,” the girl
murmured, her lips pale, “excuse me, I have, I have to warn you . . .”
She was desperate, finding no words. Then: “Go away, Ivan Nicolaye-
vich, leave at once and never come back. I involuntarily overheard a
telephone conversation between the Director and ... I don’t know who
... I don’t want to know, I have no right to know, I have no right to
tell you either, what am I doing, my God!” Kondratiev took her hands
—they were as cold as ice. “There, there, I know all about it, Tamara
Leontiyevna, calm yourself . . .You think that I am going to be ar-
rested?” She barely nodded. “Go away, quick, quick!”

“No indeed,” he said. “Not under any circumstances.”

He freed himself from her, became again the distant assistant director
in charge of special plans:

“I am much obliged to you, Tamara Leontiyevna, please have the

documents on the Yuzovka Refineries ready by two o’clock. Meanwhile,
get the General Secretary of the Party on the telephone for me. Use my
name, and insist on getting through to the General Secretary’s office. At
once, if you please.”

Could this light be the light of the last day? One chance in a thousand

that he would be granted an audience . . . And once there? The beauti-
ful fish, armed all over with scales each one of which reflects the whole
light of an asphyxiating universe, struggles in the net, struggles in utter
impossibility, suffocating—but I am ready. He smoked furiously, taking
two puffs from a cigarette, then crushing it out on the edge of the desk
and flinging it on the floor. He instantly lighted another, and his jaws
clenched, he forgot himself in his director’s chair, in this absurd office,
antechamber to a place of unforeseeable tortures. Tamara Leontiyevna
came back without knocking. “I didn’t call you,” he said crossly, “leave
me alone . . . Ah, yes, put the call on my line here . . .’’To escape—
perhaps there actually was a slight possibility that he could? “What




now? The Gorlovka Refineries?”—“No, no,” said Tamara Leontiyevna,
“I asked for an audience for you, He expects you at three sharp at the
Central Committee . .

What, what! You did that? But who gave you permission? You' are

mad, it is not true! I tell you, you are mad! “I heard HIS VOICE,”
Tamara went on, “HE came to the telephone HIMSELF, I assure
you . . .” She spoke of him with terrified reverence. Kondratiev turned
to stone—the great fish beginning to die.

“Very well,” he said dryly. “Keep after the reports on the Donets,

Gorlovka, and so on . . . And if you have a headache, take aspirin.”

Ten minutes to three, the great reception room of the General Secre-

tariat. Two presidents of Federated Republics were conversing in low
tones. Other presidents of Republics had disappeared, it was said, after
leaving here . . . Three o’clock. The void. Steps in the void.

“Go in, please ...”

Go into the void.

The Chief was standing in the attenuated whiteness of the huge office.

Tensely collected. He received Kondratiev without a gesture of welcome.
His tawny eyes were impenetrable. He murmured: “Greetings” in an
indifferent voice. Kondratiev felt no fear; his feeling was more one of
surprise at finding himself almost impassive. Good—now we are face to
face, you, the Chief, and I who do not know whether I am a living man
or a dead one—leaving out of account a certain period of minor im-
portance. Well?

The Chief took two or three steps toward him, without holding out

his hand. The Chief looked him up and down, from head to foot, slowly,
harshly. Kondratiev heard the question, too serious to be spoken:
Enemy? and he answered in the same fashion, without opening his lips:
Enemy, I ? Are you mad ?

The Chief quietly asked:

“So you are a traitor too?”

Quietly, from the depths of an assured calm, Kondratiev answered:

“I am not a traitor either.”

Each syllable of the terrible sentence stood out like a block of ice in

Arctic whiteness. There was no going back on such words. A few more
seconds, and all would be over. For such words in this place, one should
be annihilated on the spot, instantaneously. Kondratiev finished them
firmly:

“And you must know it.”

Would he not summon someone, give orders in a voice so furious that
it would sound stifled? The Chief’s hands, still hanging at his sides,
sketched several little incoherent movements. Were they looking for the
bell? Take this creature out of here, arrest him, do away with him! What
he says is a thousand times worse than treason! A calm and completely
disarmed resolve forced Kondratiev to speak:

“Don’t get angry, it will do no good. All this is very painful to me . . .

Listen ... You can believe me, or you can not believe me, I hardly
care, the truth will still be the truth. And it is that, despite every-
thing . . .”

Despite EVERYTHING?

“. . . I am loyal to you . . . There are many things that escape me.
There are too many that I understand. I am in agony. I think of the
country, of the Revolution, of you, yes, of you—I think of them . . .
Of them above all, I tell you frankly. Their end has left me with an
almost unbearable regret: what men they were! What men! History
takes millenniums to produce men so great! Incorruptible, intelligent,
formed by thirty or forty decisive years, and pure, pure! Let me speak,
you know that I am right. You are like them yourself, that is your essen-
tial worth . . .”

(So Cain and Abel, born of the same womb under the same stars . . .)

The Chief swept away invisible obstacles with both hands. With no
apparent emotion, looking away, and even giving himself an air of
detachment, he said:

“Not another word on this subject, Kondratiev. What had to be had

to be. The Party and the country have followed me ... It is not for you
to judge ... You are an intellectual ...” A malevolent smile ap-
peared in his leaden face. “I, as you know, have never been one . . .”
Kondratiev shrugged his shoulders.

“What has that to do with us? . . . This is hardly the moment to

discuss the failings of the intelligentsia . . . The intelligentsia did a lot
of useful work, though, eh? . . . We shall soon be at war . . . Ac-
counts will be settled, all the dirty old accounts, you know it better than
I do . . . Perhaps we shall all perish, even to the last—and drag you
down with us. Let us put the best face on things: you will be the last of
the last. You will hold out an hour longer than we do, thanks to us, on
our bones. Russia is short of men, men whose brains know what ours
know, what theirs knew . . . Who have studied Marx, known Lenin,
lived through October, gone through all the rest, the best of it and the
worst! How many of us are left? You know the figure, you are one of




them yourself . . . And the earth is going to begin shaking, as when
all volcanoes come to life at once, from continent to continent. We shall
be under the ground at the dark hour—and you will be alone. That’s it.”
Kondratiev went on, in the same melancholy, persuasive tone:

“You will be alone under the avalanche, with the country in its last

agony behind you and a host of enemies around you ... No one will
forgive us for having begun Socialism with so much senseless barbarity
. . . That your shoulders are strong, I know ... As strong as ours:
ours carried you . . . Only—we have the place of the individual in
history . . . not a very big place, especially when a man has isolated
himself at the peak of power ... I hope that your portraits, as big
as buildings, have not given you any illusions on the subject?”

The simplicity of his speech performed a miracle. They walked up

and down together over the white carpet. Which led the other? They
stopped before the Mercator’s projection: oceans, continents, frontiers,
industries, green spaces, our sixth part of the earth, primitive, powerful,
threatened ... A heavy red line, in the ice-floe region, indicated the
great Arctic road . . . The Chief studied the relief of the Ural Moun-
tains: Magnitogorsk, our new pride, blast furnaces as well equipped as
Pittsburgh’s. That’s what counts! The Chief half turned to Kondratiev,
his gestures were clearer, his voice more relaxed. His eyes grew less
impenetrable:

“Always the writer! You ought to go in for psychology . . .”

An amused gesture of his forefinger completed the word: twisting and
untwisting an imaginary skein . . . The Chief smiled:

“In our day, old man, Chekhov and Tolstoi would be genuine counter-

revolutionaries ... Yet I like writers, though I don’t have time to
read them . . . Some of them are useful ... I see that they are very
well paid . . . One novel sometimes brings them in more than several
proletarian lives. Is that just or not? It is something we need . . . But
I don’t need your psychologizing, Kondratiev.”

A rather strange pause followed. The Chief filled his pipe. Kondratiev

looked at the map. The dead can no longer fill their pipes or feel proud
of Magnitogorsk, which they built! There was nothing more to add,
everything had been set forth under an impersonal light which permitted
neither maneuvering nor fear. The consequences would be what they
must be: irrevocable.

The Chief said:

“Do you know that you have been denounced? That you are accused
of treason?”




“Naturally! What should all those vermin do but denounce me? That’s
what they live on. They gobble denunciations day and night . . .”

“What they affirm seems not unlikely . . .”

“Of course! They know how to cook these things up. In our day what
is easier? But whatever stinking nonsense they may have sent you . . .”
“I know. I have gone into it. A piece of stupidity, or worse, in Spain
. . . You were wrong to get yourself mixed up in it, there’s no doubt
of that ... I know better than anyone how many vile things and
stupid things have been done there . . . That fool of a prosecutor
wanted to have you arrested . . . Once let them get started and they’d
arrest all Moscow. He is a brute we shall have to get rid of someday. A
sort of maniac.

“Enough of that. I have made my decision. You will leave for eastern

Siberia, you will receive your appointment tomorrow morning. Do not
lose a day . . . Zolotaya Dolina, the Valley of Gold—do you know
what it is? Our Klondike, production increasing from 40 to 50 per cent
every year . . . Splendid technicians, a few cases of sabotage as is to
be expected . . .”

Pleased with himself, the Chief began to laugh. He was not good at

joking, and the fact sometimes made him aggressive. He would have
liked to be jovial. His laugh was always a little forced.

“We need a man there who has character—sinew, enthusiasm, the

Marxist instinct for gold . . .”

“I loathe gold,” said Kondratiev, almost angrily.

Life? Exile in the mountains of Yakutia, in the white brushland,
among secret placers, unknown to the universe? His whole being had
prepared itself for a catastrophe, hardened itself by expecting it, accus-
tomed itself to bitterly wishing for it, as a man seized with vertigo above
a chasm knows that a double within him longs for the relief of falling.
And now? You let me off after what I came here to say to you? Are you
trying to make a fool of me? Am I not going to disappear at the first
corner I come to after I leave here? It is too late to restore our confi-
dence, you have killed too many of us, I no longer believe in you, I don’t
want any of your missions which turn out to be traps! You will never
forget what I have said to you, and if you let me off today, it will be to
order my arrest six months from now, when remorse and suspicion have
gone to your head . . . “No, Yossif, I thank you for granting me life,
I believe in you, I came here to find my salvation, you are great despite
everything, you are sometimes blind when you strike, you are perfidious,
you are eaten by bloody jealousies, but you are still the leader of the




Revolution, we have no one but you, I thank you.” But Kondratiev
restrained both protest and effusion. There was no pause. The Chief
laughed again:

“I told you that you were always the writer. As for me, I have no

feeling about gold one way or the other . . . Excuse me—this is audi-
ence day. Get the dossier on Gold from the secretariat, study it. Your
reports you will send to me directly. I count on you. A good journey,
brother!”

“Right. Keep in good health! Good-by.”

The audience had lasted fourteen minutes ... A secretary handed
him a leather brief case on which, in letters of gold, stood the magical
words: East Siberian Gold Trust. He passed blue uniforms without see-
ing them. The daylight seemed pellucid. He walked for a while, mingling
with the people in the street and thinking of nothing. A physical happi-
ness grew in him, but his mind did not share it. He also felt a sadness
which was like a sense of uselessness. He sat down on a bench in a square,
before disinherited trees and lawns of a green which meant nothing. An
old woman was watching her grandchildren making mud pies. Farther
away rolled long yellow streetcars; their clatter rebounded from the
front of a recently constructed office building of glass, steel, and rein-
forced concrete. Eight floors of offices: a hundred and forty compart-
ments, each containing the same portrait of the Chief, the same adding
machines, the same glasses of tea on directors’ and accountants’ desks,
the same worried lives ... A beggarwoman passed, leading several
small children. “For the love of Christ . . .” she said, holding out a
pretty brown hand. Kondratiev put a handful of small change into it.
On each of the little coins, he remembered, you could read the words:
Proletarians of all countries, unite! He passed his hand over his fore-
head. Could the nightmare be over? Yes, over, for a time at least—my
small, personal nightmare. But all the rest goes on, nothing is clarified,
no dawn rises on the tombs, we have no real hope for tomorrow, we must
still travel through darkness, ice, fire . . . Stefan Stern is doubtless
dead. For his sake, I must hope so. Kiril Rublev has disappeared; with
him the line of our theoreticians of the great days is extinguished . . .
In our schools of higher education we have nothing left but teachers as
contemptible as they are insipid, armed with an inquisitorial dialectic
that is three-fourths dead. As usual, names and faces crowded into his
memory. What a peaceful motion—the motion of those militiamen by
the Ebro, covering their comrades in that mass grave with heavy shovel-
fuls of earth! The same men, in the grave and beside the grave—buried




and buriers the same. They were covering themselves with earth, yet
they had not lost heart to live and fight. The thing is to keep on, com-
rades, obviously. To wash gold-bearing sand. Kondratiev opened the
Gold Trust brief case. Only the maps interested him, because of their
peculiar magic—an algebra of the earth. With the map of the Vitim
district open on his knees, Kondratiev looked at the hatchings which
signified elevations, patches of green which indicated forests, the blue of
watercourses ... No villages, stern solitudes, brush on rock, cold
streams which absorbed the colors of sky and stone, shining mosses
clothing rock, the low, tenacious vegetation of the taiga, indifferent skies.
Among the gaunt splendors of that world, man feels himself delivered
over to a glacial freedom which has no human meaning. The nights
glitter, they have an inhuman significance, sometimes their brightness
sends the weary sleeper to sleep forever. Bodaibo is doubtless only an
administrative settlement surrounded by clearings, in the heart of the
forested wilderness, under a metallic brightness like a perpetual light-
ning bolt. “I’ll take Tamara Leontiyevna with me,” Kondratiev thought,
“she’ll come. I’ll say to her: You are as straight as the young birches in
those mountains, you are young, I need you, we shall fight for gold, do
you understand?” Kondratiev’s eyes turned from the map to pursue
a joy beyond visible things. And he discovered a pair of worn-out shoes,
laced with string, a dusty trouser cuff. The man had on only one sock,
which hung around his ankle like a dirty rag. His feet expressed vio-
lence and resignation, a desperate determination—to do what? To walk
through the city as through a jungle, seeking the pittance of food, the
knowledge, the ideas, by which to live the next day, blind to the stars
which the electric signs drive back into their immensities. Kondratiev
slowly turned to look at his neighbor on the bench, a young man whose
hands clutched an open notebook full of equations. He had stopped read-
ing, his gray eyes were exploring the square with intense and idle atten-
tion. On the hunt, always prey to the same desolate bitterness? “In this
distress and apathy, no one whose hand I can take,” says the poet, but the
wandering Maxim the Bitter, Gorki, amends: “no one whose jaw I can
break . . .” An obstinate forehead under the visor of the cap, which he
wears tipped back, guttersnipe fashion. Irregular features, tormented
from within by an anemic violence; chalky complexion. Clear eyes—not
an alcoholic. Movements still lithe and flexible. Were he ever to sleep on
the naked soil of the Siberias, no glitter of stars would kill him, because
his desperate determination would never go to sleep. Kondratiev forgot
him for the moment.




Such should he those who prowl the taiga around the Upper Angara,
in Vitim, around Chara, in the Zolotaya Dolina, the Valley of Gold. They
follow wild beasts by invisible signs, they foretell the storm, they fear the
bear, they say “thou” to him, as to an elder brother whom it is wise to
respect. It is they who come to the solitary posts, bringing silvery furs
and bulging leather purses filled with grains of gold—for the war chest
of the Socialist Republic. A minor official, silent because he has lost the
habit of speech, who lives alone with his wife, his dog, his machine pistol
and the birds of the air, in an isba of heavy blackened logs, weighs the
grains of gold, counts rubles, sells vodka, matches, gunpowder, tobacco,
the precious empty bottle, makes notes on the work card issued by the
Gold-Seekers’ Co-operative. He smiles and swallows a glass of vodka,
does some figuring, says to the man from the taiga: “Comrade, it’s not
enough. You are 8 per cent behind your Plan quota . . . Won’t do.
Make it up, or I can’t sell you any more vodka . . .” He says it in a
toneless voice, and adds: “Palmyra, bring us tea . . .” because his wife
is named Palmyra, but he has no idea that it is the magical name of a
vanished city in another world, a world of sand and palms and sun . . .
Those hunters, those prospectors, those gold washers, those engineers,
Yakuts, Buriats, Mongols, Tungus, Oirads, Great Russians from the capi-
tals, Young Communists, Party members initiated into the sorceries of
shamans, those clerks half mad with solitude, their wives, their little
Yakut girls from obscure villages who sell themselves in a dark corner of
the house for a pinch of yellow grains or a package of cigarettes, the
Trust’s inspectors, ambushed on the road by sawed-off shotguns, the
engineers who know the latest statistics from the Transvaal and the new
methods of hydraulic drilling to work deep-lying auriferous strata—all
of them, all of them live a magnificent life under the twofold sign of the
Plan and of glittering nights, in the vanguard of forward-marching man-
kind, in communion with the Milky Way!—The preamble to the Report
on Socialist Emulation and Sabotage in the Zolotaya Dolina Gold Placers
contained these lines: “. . . As our great Comrade Tulayev, traitorously
assassinated by Trotskyist terrorists in the service of world imperialism,
recently said, workers in gold production form an elite contingent at the
spearhead of the Socialist army. They fight Wall Street and the City with
capitalism’s own weapons . . .” Ah, Tulayev, the stupid fool, and this
verbiage of public prosecutors intoxicated with vileness . . . Prosaically
put, but, so far as gold was concerned, true enough . . . The icy winds
of the North carry violet snow-laden clouds down to that country. Behind
them whiteness covers the universe, which has relapsed into a sort of




void. Before them flee such multitudes of birds that they hide the sky. At
sunset faraway flocks of white birds trace gilded snakes in the upper air.
The Plan must be carried out before winter.

Kondratiev rediscovered the string-laced shoes of the poverty-stricken

walker.

“Student?”

“Technology, third year.”

Kondratiev was thinking of too many things at once. Of the winter, of

Tamara Leontiyevna, who would come, of life beginning again, of the
prisoners in the prison where he had expected to end this day, of the
dead, of Moscow, of the Valley of Gold. Without looking at the young
man—and what did that thin, bitter face matter to him, after all?—he
said:

“Do you want to fight with winter, with the wilderness, with solitude,

with the earth, with night? To fight—understand? I am the head of an
enterprise. I offer you work in the Siberian brush.”

Without taking time to reflect, the student answered:

“If you really mean it, I accept. I have nothing to lose.”

“Neither have I,” Kondratiev murmured cheerfully.