Reposing under the slender birches in the glade is a party of girls,
young men and grown-up people. One sits on the stump of a felled tree,
another on the trunk of an old birch struck down in a storm, a third
lies upon an overcoat spread on the grass, a fourth rests his back
against a young birch. There is a single, slight glow of a cigarette,
but this, too, goes out.
In the luminous, haunting mist everything seems white, translucent,
fabulously impressive. And it seems as though the birches in the glade
and the moon in the sky are waiting for something.
Here is Natasha. Here is also Natasha’s friend, a college girl from
Moscow, white-skinned, sharp-featured, looking like a healthy little
wild beast. Then there are Borya and his friend, both in linen jackets,
both lean, with pale faces and dark, flaming eyes.
And there is yet another—a tall, stout figure in a dark blouse. He has
an air of self-confidence and seems to be the most knowing, the most
experienced, the most able of those present.
He is surrounded by the grown-up people and the girls, and he is being
questioned. Cheery, good-natured, impatient voices appeal to him.
“Do sing for us the _International_.”
Borya, a lad with pale, frowning forehead, and blue-black circles under
his eyes, looks into the other’s face and implores more heartily than
the rest.
The tall, broad-chested Mikhail Lvovich looks askance and stubbornly
refuses to sing.
“I can’t,” he says gruffly. “My throat is not in condition.”
Borya and Natasha insist.
Mikhail Lvovich then makes a gesture with his hand and accedes not less
gruffly.
“Very well, I’ll sing.”
Every one is overjoyed.
Mikhail Lvovich poses himself on his knees. Above the mist-white glade,
above the white-faced lads, above the white mist itself, there rises
toward the witching moon, floating tranquilly in the skies, the words
of that proud, passionate hymn:
“Arise, ye branded with a curse!”
Mikhail Lvovich sings. His eyes are fixed on the ground, upon the cold
grass, white in the glamorous light of the full, clear moon. It is hard
to tell whether he does not wish to or cannot look straight into the
eyes of these girls and boys—into these trusting, clean eyes.
And they have gathered round him, how closely they have nestled round
him, these pure-spirited young girls; and the young lads, their knees
in the grass, follow every movement of his lips, and join in quietly.
The bold melody grows, gains in volume. Like an exultant prophecy ring
the eloquent words:
In the International
As brothers all men shall meet.