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Glory is the wryly ironic story of Martin Edelweiss, a twenty-two-year-old Russian émigré of no account, who is in love with a girl who refuses to marry him. Convinced that his life is about to be wasted and hoping to impress his love, he embarks on a "perilous, daredevil project"--an illegal attempt to re-enter the Soviet Union, from which he and his mother had fled in 1919. He succeeds--but at a terrible cost.
him. “Righto,” said Chernosvitov and hurried out of the room. This business conversation left Martin somewhat perplexed. Neither husband nor wife had pretended: they had really quite forgotten that he was present, absorbed as they were by their problems. Alla, however, immediately resumed her previous mood, joked about the inefficiency of Greek door locks that opened all by themselves, and shrugged off Martin’s alarmed question, “Oh, don’t worry, he didn’t notice anything.” That night Martin
English-language history of Russia, and he hoped to squeeze it all into one plump volume. An obvious motto (“A thing of beauty is a joy forever”), ultrathin paper, a soft Morocco binding. The task was a difficult one: to find a harmony between erudition and tight picturesque prose, to give a perfect image of one orbicular millennium. 16 Archibald Moon amazed and captivated Martin. His slow Russian speech, from which it had taken him years of patience to weed out the last vestige of English
now as then, that now, too, she touched his neck when he came home after tennis, and that she brought Sonia’s letter with the same tenderness as she had once brought, in its long cardboard box, an air rifle ordered from England. The rifle had turned out to be not quite as he had expected, not matching exactly its foredream, just as now the letters from Sonia were not the kind he would have liked. She wrote, as it were, in abrupt jerks, without a single mystery-breathing phrase, and he had to be
ride, and besides I have to buy a few things.” Martin sighed. “All right, I shan’t go if you do not want me to,” said Mrs. Edelweiss with exceptional gaiety. “I stay behind when I’m not invited. But you are to wear your warm overcoat, on this I insist.” Mother and son always spoke Russian between themselves, and this constantly irritated Uncle Henry, who knew only one word, nichevo, in which for some reason he perceived a symbol of Slav fatalism. That day he felt depressed, besides being
neither could one call him sober. His thirst had passed, but everything in him had been twisted out of shape and shaken loose by the hurricane; his thoughts wandered about looking for their old dwellings and finding only ruins. He showed no surprise at the appearance of Martin, whom he had not seen since spring, and at once started to upbraid a certain critic as if Martin were responsible for that critic’s review. “They’re baiting me,” Bubnov kept repeating fiercely, and his face with the deep