They spent the first few days in Moscow with a friend who was arranging for Pavel to enter a special clinic.
Only now did Pavel realise how much easier it had been to be brave when he had his youth and a strong body. Now that life held him in its iron grip to hold out was a matter of honour.
It was a year and a half since Pavel Korchagin had come to Moscow. Eighteen months of indescribable anguish1.
In the eye clinic Professor Averbach had told Pavel quite frankly2 that there was no hope of recovering his sight. Some time in the future, when the inflammation disappeared it might be possible to operate on the pupils. In the meantime he advised an operation to halt the inflammatory process.
Pavel gave his consent; he told his doctors to do everything they thought necessary.
Three times he felt the touch of Death's bony fingers as he lay for hours at a time on the operating table with lancets probing his throat to remove the parathyroid gland3. But he clung tenaciously4 to life and, after long hours of anguished5 suspense6, Taya would find him deathly pale but alive and as calm and gentle as always.
"Don't worry, little girl, it's not so easy to kill me. I'll go on living and kicking up a fuss if only to upset the calculations of the learned doctors. They are right in everything they say about my health, but they are gravely mistaken when they try to write me off as totally unfit for work. I'll show them yet."
Pavel was determined7 to resume his place in the ranks of the builders of the new life. He knew now what he had to do.
Winter was over, spring had burst through the open windows, and Pavel, having survived another operation, resolved that, weak as he was, he would remain in hospital no longer. To live so many months in the midst of human suffering, to have to listen to the groans8 of the incurably9 sick was far harder for him than to endure his own anguish.
And so when another operation was proposed, he refused.
"No," he said firmly. "I've had enough. I have shed enough blood for science. I have other uses for what is left."
That day Pavel wrote a letter to the Central Committee, explaining that since it was now useless for him to continue his wanderings in search of medical treatment, he wished to remain in Moscow where his wife was now working. It was the first time he had turned to the Party for help.
His request was granted and the Moscow Soviet10 gave him living quarters. Pavel left the hospital with the fervent11 hope that he might never return.
The modest room in a quiet side lane off Kropotkinskaya Street seemed to him the height of luxury. And often, waking at night, Pavel would find it hard to believe that hospital was indeed a thing of the past for him now.
Taya was a full-fledged Party member by now. She was an excellent worker, and in spite of the tragedy of her personal life, she did not lag behind the best shock workers at the factory. Her fellow workers soon showed their respect for this quiet, unassuming young woman by electing her a member of the factory trade-union committee. Pride for his wife, who was proving to be a true Bolshevik, made Pavel's sufferings easier to bear.
Bazhanova came to Moscow on business and paid him a visit. They had a long talk. Pavel grew animated12 as he told her of his plans to return in the near future to the fighting ranks.
Bazhanova noticed the wisp of silver on Pavel's temples and she said softly:
"I see that you have gone through a great deal. Yet you have lost none of your enthusiasm. Andthat is the main thing. I am glad that you have decided13 to begin the work for which you have beenpreparing these past five years. But how do you intend to go about it?"
Pavel smiled confidently.
"Tomorrow my friends are bringing me a sort of cardboard stencil14, which will enable me to write without getting the lines mixed up. I couldn't write without it. I hit upon the idea after much thought. You see, the stiff edges of the cardboard will keep my pencil from straying off the straight line. Of course, it is very hard to write without seeing what you are writing, but it is not impossible. I have tried it and I know. It took me some time to get the knack15 of it, but now I have learned to write more slowly, taking pains with every letter and the result is quite satisfactory."
And so Pavel began to work.
He had conceived the idea of writing a novel about the heroic Kotovsky Division. The title came of itself: Born of the Storm.
His whole life was now geared to the writing of his book. Slowly, line by line, the pages emerged.
He worked oblivious16 to his surroundings, wholly immersed in the world of images, and for the first time he suffered the throes of creation, knew the bitterness the artist feels when vivid, unforgettable scenes so tangibly17 perceptible turn pallid18 and lifeless on paper.
He had to remember everything he wrote, word by word. The slightest interruption caused him to lose the thread of his thoughts and retarded19 his work.
Sometimes he had to recite aloud whole pages and even chapters from memory, and there were moments when his mother feared that he was losing his mind. She did not dare approach him while he worked, but as she picked up the sheets that had fallen on the floor she would say timidly:
"I do wish you would do something else, Pavlusha. It can't be good for you to keep writing all the time like this. ..."
He would laugh heartily20 at her fears and assure the old lady that she need not worry, he hadn't "gone crazy yet".
Three chapters of the book were finished. Pavel sent them to Odessa to his old fighting comrades from the Kotovsky Division for their opinion, and before long he received a letter praising his work. But on its way back to him the manuscript was lost in the mails. Six months' work was gone. It was a terrible blow to him. Bitterly he regretted having sent off the only copy he possessed21. Ledenev scolded him roundly when he heard what had happened.
"How could you have been so careless? But never mind, it's no use crying over spilt milk. You must begin over again."
"But I have been robbed of six months' work. Eight hours of strenuous22 labour every day. Curse the parasites23!"
Ledenev did his best to console his friend.
There was nothing for it but to start afresh. Ledenev supplied him with paper and helped him to get the manuscript typed. Six weeks later the first chapter was rewritten. A family by the name of Alexeyev lived in the same apartment as the Korchagins. The eldest24 son, Alexander, was secretary of one of the district committees of the Komsomol. His sister Galya, a lively girl of eighteen, had finished a factory training school. Pavel asked his mother to speak to Galya and find out whether she would agree to help him with his work in the capacity of "secretary". Galya willingly agreed. She came in one day, smiling pleasantly, and was delighted when she learned that Pavel was writing a novel.
"I shall be very glad to help you, Comrade Korchagin," she said. "It will be so much more fun than writing those dull circular letters for father about the maintenance of hygiene25 in communal26 apartments."
From that day Pavel's work progressed with doubled speed. Indeed so much was accomplished27 in one month that Pavel was amazed. Galya's lively participation28 and sympathy were a great help to him. Her pencil rustled29 swiftly over the paper, and whenever some passage particularly appealed to her she would read it over several times, taking sincere delight in Pavel's success. She was almost the only person in the house who believed in his work, the others felt that nothing would come of it and that Pavel was merely trying to fill in the hours of enforced idleness.Ledenev, returning to Moscow after a business trip out of town, read the first few chapters and said:
"Carry on, my friend. I have no doubt that you will win. You have great happiness in store for you, Pavel. I firmly believe that your dream of returning to the ranks will soon materialise. Don't lose hope, my son."
The old man went away deeply satisfied to have found Pavel so full of energy.
Galya came regularly, her pencil raced over the pages reviving scenes from the unforgettable past.
In moments when Pavel lay lost in thought, overwhelmed by a flood of memory, Galya would watch his lashes30 quivering, and see his eyes reflecting the swift passage of thought. It seemed incredible that those eyes could not see, so alive were the clear, unblemished pupils.
When the day's work was over she would read what she had written and he would listen tensely,his brow wrinkled.
"Why are you frowning, Comrade Korchagin? It is good, isn't it?"
"No, Galya, it is bad."
The pages he did not like he rewrote himself. Hampered31 by the narrow strip of the stencil he would sometimes lose his patience and fling it from him. And then, furious with life for having robbed him of his eyesight, he would break his pencils and bite his lips until the blood came. As the work drew to a close, forbidden emotions began more often to burst the bonds of his ever-vigilant will: sadness and all those simple human feelings, warm and tender, to which everyone but himself had the right. But he knew that were he to succumb32 to a single one of them theconsequences would be tragic33.
At last the final chapter was written. For the next few days Galya read the book aloud to Pavel.
Tomorrow the manuscript would be sent to Leningrad, to the Cultural Department of the Regional Party Committee. If the book was approved there, it would be turned over to the publishers — and then. .. .
His heart beat anxiously at the thought. If all was well, the new life would begin, a life won by years of weary, unremitting toil34.
The fate of the book would decide Pavel's own fate. If the manuscript was rejected that would be the end for him. If, on the other hand, it was found to be bad only in part, if its defects could be remedied by further work, he would launch a new offensive.
His mother took the parcel with the manuscript to the post office. Days of anxious waiting began.
Never in his life had Pavel waited in such anguished suspense for a letter as he did now. He lived from the morning to the evening post. But no news came from Leningrad.
The continued silence of the publishers began to look ominous35. From day to day the presentiment36 of disaster mounted, and Pavel admitted to himself that total rejection37 of his book would finish him. That, he could not endure. There would be no longer any reason to live.
At such moments he remembered the park on the hill overlooking the sea, and he asked himself the same question over and over again:
"Have you done everything you can to break out of the steel bonds and return to the ranks, to make your life useful?"
And he had to answer: "Yes, I believe I have done everything!"
At last, when the agony of waiting had become well-nigh unbearable38, his mother, who had been suffering from the suspense no less than her son, came running into the room with the cry:
"News from Leningrad!"
It was a telegram from the Regional Committee. A terse39 message on a telegraph form: "Novel heartily approved. Turned over to publishers. Congratulations on your victory."
His heart beat fast. His cherished dream was realised! The steel bonds have been burst, and now,armed with a new weapon, he had returned to the fighting ranks and to life.
保尔和达雅到了莫斯科，在一个机关的档案库里住了几天。这个机关的首长又帮助保尔住进了一所专科医院。
现在保尔才明白，当一个人身体健康，充满青春活力的时候，坚强是比较简单和容易做到的事，只有生活像铁环那样把你紧紧箍住的时候，坚强才是光荣的业绩。
从保尔住进档案库那个晚上到现在，已经一年半了。这十八个月里他遭受的痛苦是难以形容的。
在医院里，阿韦尔巴赫教授坦率地告诉保尔，恢复视力是不可能的。如果将来有一天炎症能够消失，可以试着给他做做瞳孔手术。建议他目前先进行外科治疗，消除炎症。
他们征求保尔的意见，保尔表示，只要医生认为是必要的，他都同意。
当保尔躺在手术台上，手术刀割开颈部，切除一侧甲状旁腺的时候，死神的黑翅膀曾经先后三次触到他身上。然而，保尔的生命力十分顽强。达雅在外面提心吊胆地守候，手术过后，她看见丈夫虽然像死人一样惨白，但是仍然很有生气，并且像平常一样，温柔而安详。
“你放心好了，小姑娘。要我进棺材不那么容易。我还要活下去，而且要大干一场，偏要跟那些医学权威的结论捣捣乱。他们对我的病情做的诊断都正确，但是硬说我已经百分之百地丧失了劳动力，那是完全错误的。咱们还是走着瞧吧。”
保尔坚定地选择了一条道路，决心通过这条道路回到新生活建设者的行列。
冬天过去了，春天推开了紧闭着的窗户。失血过多的保尔挺过了最后一次手术，他觉得医院里再也呆不下去了。十几个月来，看的是周围人们的种种痛苦，听的是垂死病人的呻吟和哀号，这比忍受自身的病痛还要困难得多。
医生建议他再做一次手术，他冷冷地一口拒绝说：“算了，我做够了。我已经把一部分血献给了科学，剩下的留给我做别的用吧。”
当天，保尔给中央委员会写了一封信，请中央委员会帮助他在莫斯科安下家来，因为他的妻子就在这里工作，而且他再流浪下去也没有好处。这是他生平第一次向党请求帮助。
莫斯科市苏维埃收到他的信以后，拨给他一个房间。于是他离开了医院，唯一的希望是永远不再回到这里来。
房子在克鲁泡特金大街一条僻静的胡同里，很简陋，但是在保尔看来，这已经是最高的享受了。夜间醒来的时候，他常常不能相信，他已经离开了医院，而且离得远远的了。
达雅已经转为正式党员。她顽强地工作着，尽管个人生活中有那么大的不幸，她并没有落在其他突击手的后面。群众对这个沉默寡言的女工表示了很大的信任，选举她当了厂委会的委员。保尔为妻子成了布尔什维克而感到自豪，这大大减轻了他的痛苦。
有一次巴扎诺娃到莫斯科出差，前来探望保尔。他们谈了很久。保尔热情洋溢地告诉她，他选择了一条道路，不久的将来就可以重新回到战士的行列。
巴扎诺娃注意到保尔两鬓已经出现了白发，她低声对他说：“我看得出，您是经受了不少痛苦。您仍然没有失去那永不熄灭的热情。还有什么比这更可贵呢？您做了五年准备，现在您决定动笔了，这很好。不过，您怎么写呢？”
保尔笑了笑，安慰她说：“明天他们给我送一块有格的板子来，是用硬纸板刻出来的。没有这东西我没法写。写写就会串行。我琢磨了好长时间，才想出这么个办法——在硬纸板上刻出一条条空格，写的时候，铅笔就不会出格了。看不见所写的东西，写起来当然挺困难，但并不是不可能。这一点，我是深信不疑的。有好长一段时间怎么也写不好，现在我慢慢写，每个字母都仔细写，结果相当不错。”
保尔开始工作了。
他打算写一部中篇小说，描写科托夫斯基的英勇的骑兵师，书名不用考虑就出来了：《暴风雨的儿女》。
从这天起，保尔把全部精力投入了这本书的创作。他缓慢地写了一行又一行，写了一页又一页。他忘记了一切，完全被人物的形象迷住了，他第一次尝到了创作的痛苦，那些鲜明难忘的情景清晰地浮现在眼前，他却找不到恰当的词句表达，写出的东西苍白无力，缺少火一般的激情。
已经写好的东西，他必须逐字逐句地记住，否则，线索一断，工作就会停顿。母亲惴惴不安地注视着儿子的工作。
写作过程中，保尔往往要凭记忆整页整页地，甚至整章整章地背诵，母亲有时觉得他好像疯了。儿子写作的时候，她不敢走近他，只有乘着替他把落在地上的手稿拣起来的机会，才胆怯地说：“你干点别的不好吗，保夫鲁沙？哪有你这样的，写起来就没完没了……”
对母亲的担心，他总是会心地笑一笑，并且告诉老人家，他还没有到完全“发疯”的程度。
小说已经写完了三章。保尔把它寄到敖德萨，给科托夫斯基师的老战友们看，征求他们的意见。他很快就收到了回信，大家都称赞他的小说写得好。但是原稿在寄回来的途中被邮局丢失了。六个月的心血白费了。这对保尔是一个很大的打击。他非常懊悔没有复制一份，而把唯一的一份手稿寄出去了。他把邮件丢失的事告诉了列杰尼奥夫。
“你怎么这么粗心大意呢？别生气了，现在骂也没用了。重新开始吧。”
“哪能不气愤呢，英诺肯季·帕夫洛维奇！六个月心血的结晶一下子给偷去了。我每天都要紧张地劳动八个小时啊！这帮寄生虫，真该死！”
列杰尼奥夫极力安慰他。
一切不得不重新开始。列杰尼奥夫给他弄到一些纸，帮助他把写好的稿子用打字机打出来。一个半月之后，第一章又脱稿了。
跟保尔住一套房间的是一家姓阿列克谢耶夫的。他家的大儿子亚历山大是本市一个区的团委书记。亚历山大有一个十八岁的妹妹，叫加莉亚，已经在工厂的工人学校毕业了。这是个朝气蓬勃的姑娘。保尔让母亲跟她商量，看她是不是愿意帮助他，做他的“秘书”。加莉亚非常高兴地答应了，满脸笑容，热情地走了过来。她听说保尔正在写一部小说，就说：“柯察金同志，我非常愿意帮助您。这跟给我爸爸写枯燥的住宅卫生条例完全不一样。”
从这天起，写作就以加倍的速度向前进行了。一个月的工夫写了那么多，连保尔也感到惊讶。加莉亚深切地同情保尔，积极主动地帮助他工作。她的铅笔在纸上沙沙地响着，遇到特别喜爱的地方，她总要反复念上几遍，并且感到由衷的高兴。在这所房子里，几乎只有她一个人相信保尔的工作是有意义的，其余的人都认为保尔是白费劲，只是因为什么也不能干了，又闲不住，才找点事来打发日子。
因公外出的列杰尼奥夫回到了莫斯科，他读了小说的头几章以后，说：“坚持干下去，朋友！胜利一定属于我们。还有更大的喜悦在等待着你，保尔同志。我坚信，你归队的理想很快就能实现。不要失去信心，孩子。”
这位老同志看到保尔精力十分充沛，满意地走了。
加莉亚经常来，她的铅笔在纸上沙沙地响，一行一行的字句，在不断地增加，追述着难忘的往事。每当保尔凝神深思，沉浸在回忆中的时候，加莉亚就看到他的睫毛在颤动，他的眼神随着思路的转换不断地变化，简直令人难以相信他的双目已经失明：你瞧，那对清澈无瑕的瞳孔是多么有生气啊。
一天的工作结束了，加莉亚把记下来的东西念给保尔听，她发现保尔全神贯注地倾听着，时而皱起眉头。
“您干吗皱眉头呢，柯察金同志？不是写得挺好嘛！”
“不，加莉亚，写得不好。”
他认为写得不成功的地方，就亲自动手重写。有时候他实在忍受不了格子板的狭窄框框的束缚，就扔下不写了。他恨透了这夺去他视力的生活，盛怒之下常常把铅笔折断，把嘴唇咬得出血。
忧伤，以及常人的各种热烈的或者温柔的普通感情，几乎人人都可以自由抒发，唯独保尔没有这个权利，它们被永不松懈的意志禁锢着。但是工作越接近尾声，这些感情越经常地冲击他，力图摆脱意志的控制。要是他屈服于这些感情中的任何一种，听任它发作，就会发生悲惨的结局。
达雅常常深夜才从工厂回到家里，跟保尔的母亲小声交谈几句，就上床去睡了。
最后一章写成了。加莉亚花了几天时间把小说给保尔通读了一遍。
明天就要把书稿寄到列宁格勒，请州委文化宣传部审阅。
如果他们同意给这部小说开“出生证”，就会把它送交出版社，那么一来……
想到这里，他的心不安地跳动起来。那么一来……新的生活就要开始，这是多年紧张而顽强的劳动换来的啊。
书的命运决定着保尔的命运。如果书稿被彻底否定，那他的日子就到头了。如果失败是局部的，通过进一步加工还可以挽救，他一定会发起新的进攻。
母亲把沉甸甸的包裹送到了邮局。紧张的等待开始了。保尔一生中还从来没有像现在这样痛苦而焦急地等待过来信。
他从早班信盼到晚班信。列宁格勒一直没有回音。
出版社的沉默逐渐成为一种威胁。失败的预感一天比一天强烈，保尔意识到，一旦小说遭到无条件的拒绝，那也就是他的灭亡。那时，他就没法再活下去了。活下去也没有意义了。
此时此刻，郊区滨海公园的一幕又浮现在眼前，他一次又一次地问自己：“为了冲破铁环，重返战斗行列，使你的生命变得有益于人民，你尽了一切努力了吗？”
每次的回答都是：“是的，看来是尽了一切努力了。”
好多天过去了，正当期待已经变得无法忍受的时候，同儿子一样焦虑的母亲一面往屋里跑，一面激动地喊道：“列宁格勒来信了！！！”
这是州委打来的电报。电报上只有简单几个字：
小说备受赞赏，即将出版，祝贺成功。
他的心欢腾地跳动起来。多年的愿望终于实现了！铁环已经被砸碎，他拿起新的武器，重新回到战斗的行列，开始了新的生活。
（全书完）
收听单词发音 |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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tenaciously
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anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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Soviet
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| adj.苏联的，苏维埃的；n.苏维埃 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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stencil
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| v.用模版印刷；n.模版；复写纸，蜡纸 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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tangibly
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| adv.可触摸的，可触知地，明白地 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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hygiene
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| n.健康法，卫生学 （a.hygienic） | |
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communal
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| adj.公有的，公共的，公社的，公社制的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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