Part 18 (1/2)

'Go on, Karas', said Myshlaevsky.

So Karas went and settled in comfortably. Brains and thin soup with vegetable oil were, as might be expected, no more than a symptom of the loathsome disease of meanness with which Vasilisa had infected his wife. In reality there were considerable treasures concealed in the depths of their apartment, treasures known only to Wanda. There appeared on the dining-room table a jar of pickled mushrooms, veal, cherry jam and a bottle of real, good Shustov's brandy with a bell on the label. Karas called for a gla.s.s for Wanda Mikhailovna and poured some out for her.

'Not a full gla.s.s!' cried Wanda.

With a despairing gesture Vasilisa obeyed Karas and drank a gla.s.sful.

'Don't forget, Vasya - it's not good for you', said Wanda tenderly.

After Karas had explained authoritatively that brandy never harmed anyone and that mixed with milk it was even given to people suffering from anaemia, Vasilisa drank a second gla.s.s. His cheeks turned pink and his forehead broke out in sweat. Karas drank five gla.s.ses and was soon in excellent spirits. 'Feed her up a bit and she wouldn't be at all bad', he thought as he looked at Wanda.

Then Karas praised the layout of the Lisovichs' apartment and discussed the arrangements for signalling to the Turbins: one bell was installed in the kitchen, another in the lobby. At the slightest sign they were to ring upstairs. And if anyone had to go and open the front door it would be Myshlaevsky, who knew what to do in case of trouble.

Karas was loud in praise of the apartment: it was comfortable and well furnished. There was only one thing wrong - it was cold.

That night Vasilisa himself fetched logs and with his own hands lit the stove in the drawing-room. Having undressed, Karas lay down on a couch between two luxurious sheets and felt extremely well and comfortable. Vasilisa, in s.h.i.+rtsleeves and suspenders, came in, sat down in an armchair and said: 'L can't sleep, so do you mind if we sit and talk for a while?'

The stove was burning low. Calm at last, settled in his armchair, Vasilisa sighed and said: 'That's how it goes, Fyodor Nikolaevich. Everything I've earned in a lifetime of hard work has disappeared in one evening into the pockets of those scoundrels ... by violence. Don't think I rejected the revolution - oh no, I fully understand the historical reasons which caused it all.'

A crimson glow played over Vasilisa's face and on the clasps of his suspenders. Feeling pleasantly languorous from the brandy, Karas was beginning to doze, whilst trying to keep his face in a look of polite attention.

'But you must agree that here in Russia, this most backward country, the revolution has already degenerated into savagery and chaos . . . Look what has happened: in less than two years we have been deprived of any protection by the law, of the very minimal protection of our rights as human beings and citizens. The English have an expression . . .'

'M'mm, yes, the English . . . They, of course . . .' Karas mumbled, feeling that a soft wall was beginning to divide him from Vasilisa.

'. . . but here - how can one say ”my home is my castle” when even in your own apartment, behind seven locks, there's no guarantee that a gang like that one which got in here today won't come and take away not only your property but, who knows, your life as well!'

'We'll prevent it with our signalling system', Karas replied rather vaguely in a sleepy voice.

'But Fyodor Nikolaevich! There's more to the problem than just a signalling system! No signalling system is going to stop the ruin and decay which have eaten into people's souls. Our signalling system is a particular case, but let's suppose it goes wrong?'

'Then we'll fix it', answered Karas happily.

'But you can't build a whole way of life on a warning system and a few revolvers. That's not the point. I'm talking in broader terms, generalising from a single instance, if you like. The fact is that the most important thing of all has disappeared -1 mean respect for property. And once that happens, it's the end. We're finished. I'm a convinced democrat by nature and I come from a poor background. My father was just a foreman on the railroad. Everything you can see here and everything those rogues stole from me today - all that was earned by my own efforts. And believe me I never defended the old regime, on the contrary, I can admit to you in secret I belonged to the Const.i.tutional Democrat party, but now that I've seen with my own eyes what this revolution's turning into, then I swear to you I am horribly convinced that there's only one thing that can save us . . .' From some point in the fuzzy coc.o.o.n in which Karas was wrapped came the whispered word: '. . '. '. Autocracy. Yes, sir . . . the most ruthless dictators.h.i.+p imaginable . . . it's our only hope . . . Autocracy . . .' Autocracy. Yes, sir . . . the most ruthless dictators.h.i.+p imaginable . . . it's our only hope . . . Autocracy . . .'

'G.o.d, how he goes on', Karas thought beatifically. 'M'yes . . . autocracy - good idea. Aha . . . h'm m.' he mumbled through the surrounding cotton wool.

'Yes, mumble, mumble, mumble . . . habeas corpus, mumble mumble . . . Yes, mumble, mumble . . .' The voice droned on through the wadding, 'mumble, mumble they're making a mistake if they think this state of affairs can last for long, mumble, mumble and they shout hurrah and sing ”Long Live.” No sir! It will not not be long lived, and it would be ridiculous to think . . .' be long lived, and it would be ridiculous to think . . .'

'Long live Fort Ivangorod.' Vasilisa's voice was unexpectedly interrupted by the dead commandant of the fort in which Karas had served during the war.

'And long live Ardagan and Kars!' echoed Karas from the mists.

From far away came the thin sound of Vasilisa's polite laughter.

'Long may he live!' sang joyous voices in Karas' head.

Sixteen.

'Long may he live. Long may he live. Lo-o-ong li-i-ive . . .' sang the nine ba.s.ses of Tolmashevsky's famous choir.

'Long may he li-i-i-ive . . .' rang out the crystalline descant.

'Long may . . . long may . . . long may . . .' the soprano soared up to the very dome of the cathedral.

'Look! Look! It's Petlyura 'Look, Ivan . . .'

'No, you fool, Petlyura's out in the square by now . . .'

Hundreds of heads in the choir-loft crowded one on another, jostling forward, hanging down over the bal.u.s.trade between the ancient pillars adorned with smoke-blackened frescoes. Craning, excited, leaning forward, pus.h.i.+ng, they surged towards the bal.u.s.trade trying to look down into the well of the cathedral, but could see nothing for the hundreds of heads already there, like rows of yellow apples. Down in the abyss swayed a reeking, thousand-headed crowd, over which hovered an almost incandescent wave of sweat, steam, incense smoke, the lamp-black from hundreds of candles, and soot from heavy chain-hung ikon-lamps.

The ponderous gray-blue drape creaked along on its rings and covered the doors of the altar screen, floridly wrought in centuries-old metal as dark and grim as the whole gloomy cathedral of St Sophia. Crackling faintly and swaying, the flaming tongues of candles in the chandeliers drifted upwards in threads of smoke. There was not enough air for them. Around the altar there was incredible confusion. From the doors of side-chapels, down the worn granite steps, poured streams of gold copes and fluttering stoles. Priestly headdresses, like short violet stovepipes, slid out of their cardboard boxes, religious banners were taken down, flapping, from the walls. Somewhere in the thick of the crowd boomed out the awesome ba.s.s of Archdeacon Seryebryakov. A headless, armless cope swayed above the crowd and was swallowed up again; then there rose up one sleeve of a quilted ca.s.sock, followed by the other as its wearer was enrobed in the cope. Check handkerchiefs fluttered and were twisted into plaits.

'Tie up your checks tighter, Father Arkady, the frost outside is wicked. Please let me help you.'

Like the flags of a conquered army the sacred banners were dipped as they pa.s.sed under the doorway, brown faces and mysterious gold words swaying, fringes sc.r.a.ping along the ground.

'Make way, there . . .'

'Where are they going?'

'Manya! Look out! You'll be crushed . . .'

'What are they celebrating? (whisper:) Is it theUkrainian people's republic?'

'G.o.d knows' (whisper).

'That's not a priest, that's a bishop . . .'

'Look out, careful . . .'

'Long may he live . . .!' sang the choir, filling the whole cathedral. The fat, red-faced precentor Tolmashevsky extinguished a greasy wax candle and thrust his tuning-fork into his pocket. The choir, in brown heel-length surplices with gold braid, the swaying choirboys whose cropped fair hair made their little heads look almost bald, the bobbing of Adam's apples and horse-like heads of the ba.s.ses streamed out of the dark, eerie choir-loft. Thicker and thicker, jostling through all the doors, like a swelling avalanche, like water gus.h.i.+ng from drainpipes flowed the murmuring crowd.

From the doors of the sacristy floated a stream of vestments, their wearers' heads wrapped up as if they all had toothache, eyes anxious and uneasy beneath their toylike, mauve stovepipe hats. Father Arkady, dean of the cathedral, a puny little man, wearing a sparkling jewelled mitre above the gray check scarf wrapped around his head, glided along with little mincing steps. There was a desperate look in his eyes and his wispy beard trembled.

'There's going to be a procession round the cathedral. Out of the way, Mitya.'

'Hey, you - not so fast! Come back! Give the priests room to walk.'

'There's plenty of room for them to pa.s.s.'

'For G.o.d's sake - this child is suffocating . . .'

'What is happening?'

'If you don't know what's happening you'd better go home,where there's nothing for you to steal . . .'