'They'll be cold.'
And he put on Vasilisa's rubber overshoes.
The wolf turned to Vasilisa and said shiftily in a low voice:
'See here, mister . . . Don't you tell anyone we've been here. If you inform on us, our boys will beat you up. Don't go out of the house till tomorrow, or you'll be in trouble . . .'
'Sorry', whined the man with the shattered nose.
The rosy-cheeked giant said nothing, but only looked shyly at Vasilisa, then delightedly at his gleaming overshoes. As they walked quickly out of Vasilisa's door and along the passage to the front door, for some reason they tiptoed, jostling each other as they went. The door was noisily unlocked, there was a glimpse of dark sky and with cold hands Vasilisa closed the bolts. His head swam, and for a moment he thought he was dreaming. His heart almost stopped, then started beating faster and faster. In the lobby Wanda was sobbing. She collapsed on to a chest, knocking her head against the wall, and big tears poured down her face.
'God, what's happened to us? God, oh God, Vasya ... in broad daylight. What are we to do?'
Shaking like a leaf, Vasilisa stood in front of her, his face contorted.
'Vasya,' screamed Wanda, 'do you know - they weren't soldiers, they weren't from any headquarters! They were just hoodlums!'
'I know, I realised that', Vasilisa mumbled, spreading his hands in despair.
'Lord!' Wanda exclaimed. 'You must go this minute, report them at once and try and catch them! Mother of God! All our things! Everything! If only there was somebody who . . .' She shuddered and slid from the chest to the floor, covering her face with her hands. Her hair was dishevelled, her blouse unbuttoned at the back.
'But where do we report them?' asked Vasilisa.
'To headquarters, for God's sake, to the police! Make a formal complaint. Quickly. What's the matter?'
Vasilisa, who had been shuffling his feet, suddenly rushed for the door. He ran to the Turbins' glass door and hammered on it noisily.
*
Everybody except Shervinsky and Elena crowded into Vasilisa's apartment. Lariosik, looking pale, stayed in the doorway. Legs planted wide, Myshlaevsky inspected the foot-cloths and other rags abandoned by the unknown visitors and said to Vasilisa:
'Well, you won't see your things again, I'm afraid. They weren't soldiers, just burglars. You can thank God you're still alive. To tell you the truth I'm amazed they let you off so lightly.'
'God - the things they did to us!' said Wanda.
'They threatened to kill me.'
'Thank the Lord they didn't carry out their threat. First time I've ever seen anything like it.'
'Neat piece of work', Karas added quietly.
'What do we do now?' asked Vasilisa miserably. 'Go and complain? But where to? For God's sake advise me, Viktor Viktoro-vich.'
Myshlaevsky grunted thoughtfully.
'I advise you not to complain to anyone', he said. 'Firstly, they'll never catch them.' He crooked his middle finger. 'Secondly . . .'
'Don't you remember, Vasya, they said you'd be killed if you made a complaint.'
'That's nonsense', Myshlaevsky frowned. 'No one's going to kill you, but as I say, they'll never be caught, no one will even try and catch them, and secondly . . .' He crooked his second finger, 'you'll have to describe what they stole, and that means admitting that you were hoarding tsarist money . . . No, if you make a complaint to their headquarters or to anywhere else they will almost certainly have you searched again.'
'Yes, very likely', said Nikolka the specialist.
Shattered, soaking with the water thrown over him when he fainted, Vasilisa hung his head. Wanda quietly burst into tears and leaned against the wall. They all felt sorry for them. Lariosik sighed deeply in the doorway and turned up his lacklustre eyes.
'We each have our grief to bear', he murmured.
'What weapons did they have?' asked Nikolka.
'My God, two of them had revolvers. Did the third man have anything, Vasya?'
'Two of them had revolvers', Vasilisa confirmed weakly.
'Did you notice what type they were?' Nikolka pressed him in a business-like voice.
'I don't really know,' Vasilisa replied with a sigh, 'I don't know the various types. One was big and black, the other one was smaller, with a lanyard fixed to a ring on the butt.'
'Yes, that's right,' said Wanda, 'one of them had a lanyard on it.'
Nikolka frowned and cocked his head to one side like a bird as he looked at Vasilisa. He shuffled awkwardly for a moment, then with an uneasy movement he slipped unobtrusively out of the door, followed by Lariosik. Upstairs, Lariosik had not even reached the dining-room when the sound of breaking glass and a howl came from Nikolka's room. Lariosik hastened after him. The light shone brightly in Nikolka's room, a stream of cold air was coming through the open upper pane and there was a gaping hole in the lower casement which Nikolka had made with his knees as he had jumped down from the window-ledge in despair. There was a wild look in his eyes.
'It can't be!' cried Lariosik, clasping his hands together. 'Pure witchcraft!'
Nikolka rushed out of the room, through the library, through the kitchen and past the horrified Anyuta, who shouted: 'Nikol, Nikol, where are you going without a hat? Oh Lord, don't say something else has happened?' Then he was out of the porch and into the yard. Crossing herself, Anyuta shut the door in the porch, then ran back into the kitchen and pressed her face to the window, but Nikolka was already out of sight.
He turned sharp left, ran to the corner of the house and stopped in front of the snowdrift blocking the way into the gap between the houses. The snowdrift was completely untouched. 'I don't understand', Nikolka muttered in despair, and bravely plunged into the drift. He felt he was suffocating. For a long time he waded, almost swam in snow, snorting, until he had finally broken through the barrier and cleared the snow away from the space between the two walls. He looked up and saw, far above, where the light fell from the fateful window of his room, that there was the row of black spikes and their broad, sharp-pointed shadows, but no sign of the tin box.
In a last hope that maybe the cord had broken Nikolka fell on his knees and fumbled around among the rubble of broken bricks. No box.
At this point Nikolka suddenly had an idea. 'Aha!' he shouted, and crawled forward to the fence which closed off the gap to the street. Reaching the fence, he prodded it, several planks fell away and he found himself looking through a large hole on to the dark street. It was obvious what had happened. The men had ripped away the planks leading into the gap, had climbed in and - of course! - they had tried to get into Vasilisa's apartment by way of his cellar, but the window was barred.
White and silent Nikolka went back into the kitchen.
'Lord, you're filthy - let me clean you up', cried Anyuta.
'Leave me alone, for God's sake', replied Nikolka and passed on into the apartment wiping his frozen hands on his trousers. 'Larion, you may punch me on the jaw', he said to Lariosik, who blinked, then stared and said:
'Why, Nikolashka? There's no need for despair.' He began
timidly to brush the snow from Nikolka's back with his hands. 'Apart from the fact that if Alyosha recovers - which pray God he does - he will never forgive me,' Nikolka went on, 'it means I've lost the Colt that belonged to Colonel Nai-Turs! I'd rather have been killed myself! It's God's punishment on me for sneering at Vasilisa. I feel bad enough about Vasilisa as it is, but it's far worse for me now because those were the guns they used to rob him. Although anyone could rob him without a gun at all, he's so feeble . . . What a man. God, it's a terrible business. Come on, Larion, get some paper and we'll mend the window.'
#
That night Nikolka, Myshlaevsky and Lariosik crawled into the gap with axe, hammer and nails to mend the fence. Nikolka himself frenziedly drove in the long, thick nails so far that their points stuck out on the far side. Later still they
went out with candles on to the verandah, from where they climbed through the cold storeroom into the attic. There, above the apartment, they clambered everywhere, squeezing between the hot water pipes and trunks full of clothes, until they had cut a listening-hole in the ceiling.
When he heard about the expedition to the attic, Vasilisa showed the liveliest interest and joined them in crawling around among the beams, thoroughly approving of everything that Myshlaevsky was doing.
'What a pity you didn't warn us somehow. You should have sent Wanda Mikhailovna up to us by the back door', said Nikolka, wax dripping from his candle.
'That wouldn't have done much good', Myshlaevsky objected. 'By the time they were in the apartment the game was up. You don't believe they wouldn't have put up a fight, do you? Of course they would - and how. You'd have had a bullet in your belly before there was time to reach us. And that would have been that. No - your best bet was never to have let them in by the front door at all.'
'But they threatened to shoot through the door, Viktor Viktoro-vich', said Vasilisa pathetically.
'They would never have done that', Myshlaevsky replied as he banged away with the hammer. 'Not a chance of it. That would have brought the whole street down on their heads.'
Later still that night Karas found himself luxuriating like Louis XIV in the Lisovichs' apartment. This was preceded by the following conversation:
'Oh no, they won't come back again tonight', said Myshlaevsky.
'No, no, no', Wanda and Vasilisa replied in chorus on the staircase, 'please - we beg you or Fyodor Nikolaevich to come down and spend the rest of the night with us - please! It won't be any trouble to you. Wanda Mikhailovna will make tea for you, and we'll make you up a comfortable bed. Please come tonight - and tomorrow too. We must have another man in the apartment.'
'Otherwise I won't sleep a wink', added Wanda, wrapping herself in an angora shawl.
'And there's a drop or two of brandy in the house to keep the cold out', said Vasilisa in an unexpectedly devil-may-care voice.
'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 glass for Wanda Mikhailovna and poured some out for her.
'Not a full glass!' cried Wanda.
With a despairing gesture Vasilisa obeyed Karas and drank a glassful.
'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 glass. His cheeks turned pink and his forehead broke out in sweat. Karas drank five glasses 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 shirtsleeves 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 Constitutional 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 cocoon in which Karas was wrapped came the whispered word: '. . '. Autocracy. Yes, sir . . . the most ruthless dictatorship imaginable . . . it's our only hope . . . Autocracy . . .'
'God, 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 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 basses 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 Petlyur
a
'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 balustrade between the ancient pillars adorned with smoke-blackened frescoes. Craning, excited, leaning forward, pushing, they surged towards the balustrade 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 bass 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 cassock, 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 passed under the doorway, brown faces and mysterious gold words swaying, fringes scraping along the ground.
The White Guard Page 25
