Ilf and Petrov. The Twelve Chairs
страница №12
... a hired car, having first inspected itthoroughly, and drove off, accompanied for some reason by shouts of
"Hooray!"
As soon as the hydraulic press had been unloaded, the scenic effects
were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen by the time they unloaded
the chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse carts and, gaily shouting,
went straight to the station.
"I don't think they're going to play in Stalingrad," said Ippolit
Matveyevich.
Ostap was in a quandary.
"We'll have to travel with them," he decided. "But where's the money?
Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."
At the station it turned out that the theatre was going to Pyatigorsk
via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.
"Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.
"I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly.
"Damn you! Better not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll
do the bilking."
Ippolit Matveyevich was bought a ticket in an upholstered coach and
with it travelled to the station Mineral Waters on the North Caucasus
Railway. Keeping out of sight of the troupe alighting at the station
(decorated with oleander shrubs in green tubs), the former marshal went to
look for Ostap.
Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line
coaches, Ostap was still not to be seen. He finally arrived in the evening
and found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.
"Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?"
"You were in a state, and you had a ticket in your pocket! And I
wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of the last coach of your
train? Who spent three hours waiting like an idiot for a goods train with
empty mineral-water bottles? You're a swine, citizen marshal! Where's the
theatre? "
"In Pyatigorsk."
"Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is
three roubles. It isn't much, of course, but enough for the first purchase
of mineral water and railway tickets."
Creaking like a cart, the train left for Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes
later, passing Zmeika and Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the foot
of Mashuk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A VIEW OF THE MALACHITE PUDDLE
It was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and washed. Even Mashuk,
overgrown with shrubbery and small clumps of trees, was carefully combed and
exuded a smell of toilet water.
White trousers of the most varied types flashed up and down the toy
platform: there were trousers made of twill, moleskin, calamanco, duck and
soft flannel. People were walking about in sandals and Apache shirts. In
their heavy, dirty boots, heavy dusty trousers, heated waistcoats and
scorching jackets, the concessionaires felt very out of place. Among the
great variety of gaily coloured cottons in which the girls of the resort
were parading themselves, the brightest and most elegant was the uniform of
the stationmaster.
To the surprise of all newcomers, the stationmaster was a woman. Auburn
curls peeped from under her red peaked cap with its two lines of silver
braid around the band. She wore a white tunic and a white skirt.
As soon as the travellers had had a good look at the station-master,
had read the freshly pasted notices advertising the tour of the Columbus
Theatre and drunk two five-kopek glasses of mineral water, they went into
the town on the Station-Flower Garden tram route. They were charged ten
kopeks to go into the Flower Garden.
In the Flower Garden there was a great deal of music, a large number of
happy people, and very few flowers. A symphony orchestra in a white
shell-like construction was playing the "Dance of the Gnats"; narzan mineral
water was on sale in the Lermontov gallery, and was also obtainable from
kiosks and vendors walking around.
No one had time for the two grimy jewel-hunters.
"My, Pussy," said Ostap, "we're out of place in all this festivity."
The concessionaires spent their first night at the spa by a narzan
spring.
It was only there, in Pyatigorsk, when the Columbus Theatre had
performed their version of The Marriage to an audience of astounded
town-dwellers for the third time, that the partners realized the real
difficulties involved in their treasure hunt. To find their way into the
theatre as they had planned proved impossible. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,
Chalkin and Zalkind slept in the wings, since their modest earnings
prevented them from living in a hotel.
The days passed, and the friends were slowly reaching the end of their
tether, spending their nights 'at the site of Lermontov's duel and
subsisting by carrying the baggage of peasant tourists.
On the sixth day Ostap managed to strike up an acquaintance with
Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press. By this time,
Mechnikov, who had no money and was forced to get rid of his daily hang-over
by drinking mineral water, was in a terrible state and had been observed by
Ostap to sell some of the theatre props at the market. Final agreement was
reached during the morning libation by a spring. The fitter called Ostap
"Palsie" and seemed about to consent.
"That's possible," he said. "That's always possible, palsie. It's my
pleasure, palsie."
Ostap realized at once that the fitter knew his stuff.
The contracting parties looked one another in the eye, embraced,
slapped each other's backs and laughed politely.
"Well," said Ostap, "ten for the whole deal."
"Palsie!" exclaimed the astonished fitter, "don't make me mad. I'm a
man who's suffering from the narzan."
"How much do you want then?"
"Make it fifty. After all, it's government property. I'm a man who's
suffering."
"All right, accept twenty. Agreed? I see from your eyes you agree."
"Agreement is the result of complete non-objection on both sides."
"There are no flies on this one," whispered Ostap to Vorobyaninov.
"Take a lesson."
"When will you bring the chairs?"
"You'll get the chairs when I get the money."
"That's fine," said Ostap without thinking.
"Money in advance," declared the fitter. "The money in the morning, the
chairs in the evening; or, the money in the evening, the chairs the next
morning."
"What about the chairs this morning, the money tomorrow evening," tried
Ostap.
"Palsie, I'm a man who's suffering. Such terms are revolting."
"But the point is, I won't receive my money by telegraph until
tomorrow," said Ostap.
"Then we'll discuss the matter tomorrow," concluded the obstinate
fitter. "And in the meantime, palsie, have a nice time at the spring. I'm
off. Simbievich has me by the throat. I've no strength left. Can you expect
a man to thrive on mineral water?"
And resplendent in the sunlight, Mechnikov went off.
Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich.
"The time we have," he said, "is the money we don't have. Pussy, we
must decide on a career. A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero
kopeks awaits us. We only need twenty roubles for the treasure to be ours.
We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."
Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully.
"OS with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy."
He took the jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov, threw it on the
ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.
"What are you doing?" howled Vorobyaninov. "I've been wearing that
jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."
"Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your hat. Now, sprinkle
your trousers with dust and pour some mineral water over them. Be quick
about it."
In a few moments Ippolit Matveyevich was dirty to the point of
revulsion.
"Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money."
"What am I supposed to do?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully. "You
know French, I hope? "
"Not very well. What I learned at school." "Hm . . . then we'll have to
operate with what you learned at school. Can you say in French, 'Gentleman,
I haven't eaten for six days'?"
"M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . .
je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do you
say 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six. It's: 'Je ne mange pas six
jours' "
"What an accent, Pussy! Anyway, what do you expect from a beggar. Of
course a beggar in European Russia wouldn't speak French as well as
Milerand. Right, pussy, and how much German do you know?"
"Why all this?" exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. "Because," said Ostap
weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're going to stand in
the shade and beg for alms in French, German and Russian, emphasizing the
fact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. The
net profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"
Ippolit Matveyevich was transfigured. His chest swelled up like the
Palace bridge in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire, and his nose seemed to
Ostap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.
"Dear me," said the smooth operator, not in the least alarmed. "Just
look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."
"Never," suddenly said Ippolit Matveyevich, "never has Vorobyaninov
held out his hand."
"Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap.
"So you've never held out your hand?"
"No, I have not."
"Spoken like a true gigolo. You've been living off me for the last
three months. For three months I've been providing you with food and drink
and educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position and
say . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you go right
away to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by nightfall, or else
I'm automatically removing you from the list of shareholders in the
concession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ."
"Yes," mumbled the marshal.
"In that case, repeat the words."
"M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur
ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma."
"Once again. Make it more heart-rending."
Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words.
"All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go.
The rendezvous is at midnight here by the spring. That's not for
romantic reasons, mind you, but simply because people give more in the
evening."
"What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?"
"Don't worry about me. As usual, I shall be where things are most
difficult."
The friends went their ways.
Ostap hurried to a small stationery shop, bought a book of receipts
with his last ten-kopek bit, and sat on a stone block for an hour or so,
numbering the receipts and scribbling something on each one.
"System above all," he muttered to himself. "Every public kopek must be
accounted for."
The smooth operator marched up the mountain road that led round Mashuk
to the site of Lermontov's duel with Martynov, passing sanatoriums and rest
homes.
Constantly overtaken by buses and two-horse carriages, he arrived at
the Drop.
A narrow path cut in the cliff led to a conical drop. At the end of the
path was a parapet from which one could see a puddle of stinking malachite
at the bottom of the Drop. This Drop is considered one of the sights of
Pyatigorsk and is visited by a large number of tourists in the course of a
day.
Ostap had seen at once that for a man without prejudice the Drop could
be a source of income.
"What a remarkable thing," mused Ostap, "that the town has never
thought of charging ten kopeks to see the Drop. It seems to be the only
place where the people of Pyatigorsk allow the sightseers in free. I will
remove that blemish on the town's escutcheon and rectify the regrettable
omission."
And Ostap acted as his reason, instinct, and the situation in hand
prompted.
He stationed himself at the entrance to the Drop and, rustling the
receipt book, called out from time to time:
"Buy your tickets here, citizens. Ten kopeks. Children and servicemen
free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!"
It was a sure bet. The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went to the Drop,
and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no great
difficulty. The non-union members, of whom there were many in Pyatigorsk,
were a great help.
They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked
tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:
"You see, Tanyusha, what did I tell you? And you said there was no
charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?"
"You're absolutely right. It would be quite impossible not to charge
for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members."
Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the
Drop in two wagons. Ostap was alarmed and was about to pretend to be an
innocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded round the smooth operator so
timidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice:
"Union members, ten kopeks; but since representatives of the militia
can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks."
The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what purpose the
money was being collected.
"For general repairs to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't
drop too much."
While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of the malachite
puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame,
stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by, mumbled his
three phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."
People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly. However, by
exploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pulling
at their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of the
Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.
The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra
played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between. Brightly
coloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, and
came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying
matsoni on the verandah of the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne
and sulphur gas.
"Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.
"Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice
right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah!
Ah! First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about
in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He had
changed his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with a
playful spotted pattern. He was in unusual spirits and from time to time
jumped as much as five or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov did not
recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.
"Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald?
Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!"
Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused
marshal's hand and ran off. But for some time afterwards his thick thighs
could be glimpsed in various parts of the Flower Garden, and his voice
seemed to float down from the trees.
"Ah! Ah! 'Don't sing to me, my beauty, of sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They
remind me of another life and a distant shore.' 'And in the morning she
smiled again.' First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he
did so. He missed a lot.
In the enchanting darkness of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shukin
strolled through the park, dragging after her the submissive and newly
reconciled Ernest Pavlovich. The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard
battle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud American girl had recently set
sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.
"Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!"
In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen. Her cheeks
were still adorned with sideburns. Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab,
washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her
sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.
After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had
been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan, "By carefully
masticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have a
holiday and enjoy himself. Fate itself had saved the full-bellied little
crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap
would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.
Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to the spring as the musicians were
folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting
couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.
"How much did you collect?" asked Ostap as soon as the marshal's
hunched figure appeared at the spring.
"Seven roubles, twenty-nine kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest,
copper and silver."
"For the first go-terrific! An executive's rate! You amaze me, Pussy.
But what fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know? You didn't give him
change, I hope?"
"It was Iznurenkov."
"What, really? Absalom! Why, that rolling stone. Where has he rolled
to! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn't recognize you!"
"He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma. And laughed."
"There, you see, marshal, it's not really so bad being a beggar,
particularly with a moderate education and a feeble voice. And you were
stubborn about it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were the Lord
Privy Seal. Well, Pussy my lad, I haven't been wasting my time, either.
Fifteen roubles. Altogether that's enough."
The next morning the fitter received his money and brought them two
chairs in the evening. He claimed it was not possible to get the third chair
as the sound effects were playing cards on it.
For greater security the friends climbed practically to the top of
Mashuk.
Beneath, the lights of Pyatigorsk shone strong and steady. Below
Pyatigorsk more feeble lights marked Goryachevodsk village. On the horizon
Kislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines.
Ostap glanced up at the starry sky and took the familiar pliers from
his pocket.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE GREEN CAPE
Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden
house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of which
cast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his white
shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineer
was restlessly awaiting his dinner.
Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a
petulant, chubby little boy:
"Moo-oosie!"
The house was silent.
The tropical flora fawned on the engineer. Cacti stretched out their
spiky mittens towards him. Dracaena shrubs rustled their leaves. Banana
trees and sago palms chased the flies from his face, and the roses with
which the verandah was woven fell at his feet.
But all in vain. Bruns was hungry. He glowered petulantly at the
mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant cape at Batumi, and called out in a
singsong voice:
"Moosie, moosie!"
The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air. There was no
answer. Bruns had visions of a large golden-brown goose with sizzling,
greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out:
"Moosie, where's the goosie?"
"Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on
at me."
The engineer, who was already pouting his lips into the accustomed
shape, promptly answered:
"Moosie, you haven't any pity for your little hubby."
"Get out, you glutton," came the reply from inside.
The engineer did not give in, however. He was just about to continue
his appeals for the goose, which had been going on unsuccessfully for two
hours, when a sudden rustling made him turn round.
From the black-green clumps of bamboo there had emerged a man in torn
blue tunic-shirt-belted with a shabby twisted cord with tassels-and frayed
striped trousers. The stranger's kindly face was covered with ragged
stubble. He was carrying his jacket in his hand.
The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice:
"Where can I find Engineer Bruns?"
"I'm Engineer Bruns," said the goose-charmer in an unexpectedly deep
voice. "What can I do for you?"
The man silently fell to his knees. It was Father Theodore.
"Have you gone crazy? " cried the engineer. "Stand up, please."
"I won't," said Father Theodore, following the engineer with his head
and gazing at him with bright eyes.
"Stand up."
"I won't."
And carefully, so that it would not hurt, the priest began beating his
head against the gravel.
"Moosie, come here!" shouted the frightened engineer. "Look what's
happening! Please get up. I implore you."
"I won't," repeated Father Theodore.
Moosie ran out on to the verandah; she was very good at interpreting
her husband's intonation.
Seeing the lady, Father Theodore promptly crawled over to her and,
bowing to her feet, rattled off:
"On you, Mother, on you, my dear, on you I lay my hopes."
Engineer Bruns thereupon turned red in the face, seized the petitioner
under the arms and, straining hard, tried to lift him to his feet. Father
Theodore was crafty, however, and tucked up his legs. The disgusted Bruns
dragged his extraordinary visitor into a corner and forcibly sat him in a
chair (a Hambs chair, not from Vorobyaninov's house, but one belonging to
General Popov's wife).
"I dare not sit in the presence of high-ranking persons," mumbled
Father Theodore, throwing the baker's jacket, which smelt of kerosene,
across his knees.
And he made another attempt to go down on his knees.
With a pitiful cry the engineer restrained him by the shoulders.
"Moosie," he said, breathing heavily, "talk to this citizen. There's
been some misunderstanding."
Moosie at once assumed a businesslike tone.
"In my house," she said menacingly, "kindly don't go down on anyone's
knees."
"Dear lady," said Father Theodore humbly, "Mother!"
"I'm not your mother. What do you want? "
The priest began burbling something incoherent, but apparently deeply
moving. It was only after lengthy questioning that they were able to gather
that he was asking them to do him a special favour and sell him the suite of
twelve chairs, one of which he was sitting on at that moment.
The engineer let go of Father Theodore with surprise, whereupon the
latter immediately plumped down on his knees again and began creeping after
the engineer like a tortoise.
"But why," cried the engineer, trying to dodge Father Theodore's long
arms, "why should I sell my chairs? It's no use how much you go down on your
knees like that, I just don't understand anything."
"But they're my chairs," groaned the holy father.
"What do you mean, they're yours? How can they be yours? You're crazy.
Moosie, I see it all. This man's a crackpot."
"They're mine," repeated the priest in humiliation.
"Do you think I stole them from you, then?" asked the engineer
furiously. "Did I steal them? Moosie, this is blackmail."
"Oh, Lord," whispered Father Theodore.
"If I stole them from you, then take the matter to court, but don't
cause pandemonium in my house. Did you hear that, Moosie? How impudent can
you get? They don't even let a man have his dinner in peace."
No, Father Theodore did not want to recover "his" chairs by taking the
matter to court. By no means. He knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolen
them from him. Oh, no. That was the last idea he had in his mind. But the
chairs had nevertheless belonged to him before the revolution, and his wife,
who was on her deathbed in Voronezh, was very attached to them. It was to
comply with her wishes and not on his own initiative that he had taken the
liberty of finding out the whereabouts of the chairs and coming to see
Citizen Bruns. Father Theodore was not asking for charity. Oh, no. He was
sufficiently well off (he owned a small candle factory in Samara) to sweeten
his wife's last few minutes by buying the old chairs. He was ready to
splurge and pay twenty roubles for the whole set of chairs.
"What?" cried the engineer, growing purple. "Twenty roubles? For a
splended drawing-room suite? Moosie, did you hear that? He really is a nut.
Honestly he is."
"I'm not a nut, but merely complying with the wishes of my wife who
sent me."
"Oh, hell!" said the engineer. "Moosie, he's at it again. He's crawling
around again."
"Name your price," moaned Father Theodore, cautiously beating his head
against the trunk of an araucaria.
"Don't spoil the tree, you crazy man. Moosie, I don't think he's a nut.
He's simply distraught at his wife's illness. Shall we sell him the chairs
and get rid of him? Otherwise, he'll crack his skull."
"And what are we going to sit on?" asked Moosie.
"We'll buy some more."
"For twenty roubles?"
"Suppose I don't sell them for twenty. Suppose I don't sell them for
two hundred, but supposing I do sell them for two-fifty?"
In response came the sound of a head against a tree.
"Moosie, I'm fed up with this!"
The engineer went over to Father Theodore, with his mind made up and
began issuing an ultimatum.
"First, move back from the palm at least three paces; second, stand up
at once; third, I'll sell you the chairs for two hundred and fifty and not a
kopek less."
"It's not for personal gain," chanted Father Theodore, "but merely in
compliance with my sick wife's wishes."
"Well, old boy, my wife's also sick. That's right, isn't it, Moosie?
Your lungs aren't in too good a state, are they? But on the strength of that
I'm not asking you to . . . er . . . sell me your jacket for thirty kopeks."
"Have it for nothing," exclaimed Father Theodore.
The engineer waved him aside in irritation and then said coldly:
"Stop your tricks. I'm not going to argue with you any more.
I've assessed the worth of the chairs at two hundred and fifty roubles
and I'm not shifting one cent." "Fifty," offered the priest.
"Moosie," said the engineer, "call Bagration. Let him see this citizen
off the premises." "Not for personal gain. . . ." "Bagration!"
Father Theodore fled in terror, while the engineer went into the
dining-room and sat down to the goose. Bruns's favourite bird had a soothing
effect on him. He began to calm down.
Just as the engineer was about to pop a goose leg into his pink mouth,
having first wrapped a piece of cigarette paper around the bone, the face of
the priest appeared appealingly at the window.
"Not for personal gain," said a soft voice. "Fifty-five roubles." The
engineer let out a roar without turning around. Father Theodore disappeared.
The whole of that day Father Theodore's figure kept appearing at
different points near the house. At one moment it was seen coming out of the
shade of the cryptomeria, at another it rose from a mandarin grove; then it
raced across the back yard and, fluttering, dashed towards the botanical
garden.
The whole day the engineer kept calling for Moosie, complaining about
the crackpot and his own headache. From time to time Father Theodore's voice
could be heard echoing through the dusk.
"A hundred and eight," he called from somewhere in the sky. A moment
later his voice came from the direction of Dumbasoc's house.
"A hundred and forty-one. Not for personal gain, Mr. Brans, but merely
. . ."
At length the engineer could stand it no longer; he came out on to the
verandah and, peering into the darkness, began shouting very clearly:
"Damn you! Two hundred roubles then. Only leave us alone." There was a
rustle of disturbed bamboo, the sound of a soft groan and fading footsteps,
then all was quiet.
Stars floundered in the bay. Fireflies chased after Father Theodore and
circled round his head, casting a greenish medicinal glow on his face.
"Now the goose is flown," muttered the engineer, going inside.
Meanwhile, Father Theodore was speeding along the coast in the last bus in
the direction of Batumi. A slight surf washed right up to the side of him;
the wind blew in his face, and the bus hooted in reply to the whining
jackals.
That evening Father Theodore sent a telegram to his wife in the town of
N.
GOODS FOUND STOP WIRE ME TWO HUNDRED THIRTY STOP SELL ANYTHING STOP
THEO
For two days he loafed about elatedly near Bruns's house, bowing to
Moosie in the distance, and even making the tropical distances resound with
shouts of "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes of my wife who
sent me."
Two days later the money was received together with a desperate
telegram:
SOLD EVERYTHING STOP NOT A CENT LEFT STOP KISSES AND AM WAITING STOP
EVSTIGNEYEV STILL HAVING MEALS STOP KATEY
Father Theodore counted the money, crossed himself frenziedly, hired a
cart, and drove to the Green Cape.
The weather was dull. A wind from the Turkish frontier blew across
thunderclouds. The strip of blue sky became narrower and narrower. The wind
was near gale force. It was forbidden to take boats to sea and to bathe.
Thunder rumbled above Batumi. The gale shook the coast.
Reaching Bruns's house, the priest ordered the Adzhar driver to wait
and went to fetch the furniture.
"I've brought the money," said Father Theodore. "You ought to lower
your price a bit."
"Moosie," groaned the engineer, "I can't stand any more of this."
"No, no, I've brought the money," said Father Theodore hastily, "two
hundred, as you said."
"Moosie, take the money and give him the chairs, and let's get it over
with. I've a headache."
His life ambition was achieved. The candle factory in Samara was
falling into his lap. The jewels were pouring into his pocket like seeds.
Twelve chairs were loaded into the cart one after another. They were
very like Vorobyaninov's chairs, except that the covering was not flowered
chintz, but rep with blue and pink stripes.
Father Theodore was overcome with impatience. Under his shirt behind a
twisted cord he had tucked a hatchet. He sat next to the driver and,
constantly looking round at the chairs, drove to Batumi. The spirited horses
carried the holy father and his treasure down along the highway past the
Finale restaurant, where the wind swept across the bamboo tables and
arbours, past a tunnel that was swallowing up the last few tank cars of an
oil train, past the photographer, deprived that overcast day of his usual
clientele, past a sign reading "Batumi Botanical Garden", and carried him,
not too quickly, along the very line of surf. At the point where the road
touched the rocks, Father Theodore was soaked with salty spray. Rebuffed by
the rocks, the waves turned into waterspouts and, rising up to the sky,
slowly fell back again.
The jolting and the spray from the surf whipped Father Theodore's
troubled spirit into a frenzy. Struggling against the wind, the horses
slowly approached Makhinjauri. From every side the turbid green waters
hissed and swelled. Right up to Batumi the white surf swished like the edge
of a petticoat peeking from under the skirt of a slovenly woman.
"Stop!" Father Theodore suddenly ordered the driver. "Stop,
Mohammedan!"
Trembling and stumbling, he started to unload the chairs on to the
deserted shore. The apathetic Adzhar received his five roubles, whipped up
the horses and rode off. Making sure there was no one about, Father Theodore
carried the chairs down from the rocks on to a dry patch of sand and took
out his hatchet.
For a moment he hesitated, not knowing where to start. Then, like a man
walking in his sleep, he went over to the third chair and struck the back a
ferocious blow with the hatchet. The chair toppled over undamaged.
"Aha!" shouted Father Theodore. "I'll show you!"
And he flung himself on the chair as though it had been a live animal.
In a trice the chair had been hacked to ribbons. Father Theodore could not
hear the sound of the hatchet against the wood, cloth covering, and springs.
All sounds were drowned by the powerful roar of the gale.
"Aha! Aha! Aha!" cried the priest, swinging from the shoulder.
One by one the chairs were put out of action. Father Theodore's fury
increased more and more. So did the fury of the gale. Some of the waves came
up to his feet.
From Batumi to Sinop there was a great din. The sea raged and vented
its spite on every little ship. The S.S. Lenin sailed towards Novorossisk
with its two funnels smoking and its stern plunging low in the water. The
gale roared across the Black Sea, hurling thousand-ton breakers on to the
shore of Trebizond, Yalta, Odessa and Konstantsa. Beyond the still in the
Bosporus and the Dardanelles surged the Mediterranean. Beyond the Straits of
Gibraltar, the Atlantic smashed against the shores of Europe. A belt of
angry water encircled the world.
And on the Batumi shore stood Father Theodore, bathed in sweat and
hacking at the final chair. A moment later it was all over. Desperation
seized him. With a dazed look at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs,
he turned back. The water grabbed him by the feet. He lurched forward and
ran soaked to the road. A huge wave broke on the spot where he had been a
moment before and, swirling back, washed away the mutilated furniture.
Father Theodore no longer saw anything. He staggered along the road, hunched
and hugging his fist to his chest.
He went into Batumi, unable to see anything about him. His position was
the most terrible thing of all. Three thousand miles from home and twenty
roubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question.
Father Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he was advised in a
perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contraband
Batumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowd
of porters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
UP IN THE CLOUDS
Three days after the concessionaires' deal with Mechnikov the fitter,
the Columbus Theatre left by railway via Makhacha-Kala and Baku. The whole
of these three days the concessionaires, frustrated by the contents of the
two chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to bring them the third of
the Columbus chairs. But the narzan-tortured fitter converted the whole of
the twenty roubles into the purchase of plain vodka and drank himself into
such a state that he was kept locked up in the props room.
"That's Mineral Waters for you!" said Ostap, when he heard about the
theatre's departure. "A useful fool, that fitter. Catch me having dealings
with theatre people after this!"
Ostap became much more nervy than before. The chances of finding the
treasure had increased infinitely.
"We need money to get to Vladikavkaz," said Ostap. "From there we'll
drive by car to Tiflis along the Georgian Military Highway. Glorious
scenery! Magnificent views! Wonderful mountain air! And at the end of it
all-one hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks. There is some
point in continuing the hearing."
But it was not quite so easy to leave Mineral Waters. Vorobyaninov
proved to have absolutely no talent for bilking the railway, and so when all
attempts to get him aboard a train had failed he had to perform again in the
Flower Garden, this time as an educational district ward. This was not at
all a success. Two roubles for twelve hours' hard and degrading work, though
it was a large enough sum for the fare to Vladikavkaz.
At Beslan, Ostap, who was travelling without a ticket, was thrown off
the train, and the smooth operator impudently ran behind it for a mile or
so, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich.
Soon after, Ostap managed to jump on to a train slowly making its way
to the Caucasian ridge. From his position on the steps Ostap surveyed with
great curiosity the panorama of the mountain range that unfolded before him.
It was between three and four in the morning. The mountain-tops were
lit by dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains.
"Too showy," he said. "Weird kind of beauty. An idiot's imagination. No
use at all."
At Vladikavkaz station the passengers were met by a large open bus
belonging to the Transcaucasian car-hire-and-manufacturing society, and
nice, kind people said:
"Those travelling by the Georgian Military Highway will be taken into
the town free."
"Hold on, Pussy," said Ostap. "We want the bus. Let them take us free."
When the bus had given him a lift to the centre of the town, however,
Ostap was in no hurry to put his name down for a seat in a car. Talking
enthusiastically to Ippolit Matveyevich, he gazed admiringly at the view of
the cloud-enveloped Table Mountain, but finding that it really was like a
table, promptly retired.
They had to spend several days in Vladikavkaz. None of their attempts
to obtain money for the road fare met with any success, nor provided them
with enough money to buy food. An attempt to make the citizens pay ten-kopek
bits failed. The mountain ridge was so high and clear that it was not
possible to charge for looking at it. It was visible from practically every
point, and there were no other beauty spots in Vladikavkaz. There was the
Terek, which flowed past the "Trek", but the town charged for entry to that
without Ostap's assistance. The alms collected in two days by Ippolit
Matveyevich only amounted to thirteen kopeks.
"There's only one thing to do," said Ostap. "We'll go to Tiflis on
foot. We can cover the hundred miles in five days. Don't worry, dad, the
mountain view is delightful and the air is bracing . . . We only need money
for bread and salami sausage. You can add a few Italian phrases to your
vocabulary, or not, as you like; but by evening you've got to collect at
least two roubles. We won't have a chance to eat today, dear chum. Alas!
What bad luck!"
Early in the morning the partners crossed the little bridge across the
Terek river, went around the barracks, and disappeared deep into the green
valley along which ran the Georgian Military Highway.
"We're in luck, Pussy," said Ostap. "It rained last night so we won't
have to swallow the dust. Breathe in the fresh air, marshal. Sing something.
Recite some Caucasian poetry and behave as befits the occasion."
But Ippolit Matveyevich did not sing or recite poetry. The road went
uphill. The nights spent in the open made themselves felt by pains in his
side and heaviness in his legs, and the salami sausage made itself felt by a
constant and griping indigestion. He walked along, holding in his hand a
five-pound loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper, his left foot dragging
slightly.
On the move again! But this time towards Tiflis; this time along the
most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich could not have cared
less. He did not look around him as Ostap did. He certainly did not notice
the Terek, which now could just be heard rumbling at the bottom of the
valley. It was only the ice-capped mountain-tops glistening in the sun which
somehow reminded him of a sort of cross between the sparkle of diamonds and
the best brocade coffins of Bezenchuk the undertaker.
After Balta the road entered and continued as a narrow ledge cut in the
dark overhanging cliff. The road spiralled upwards, and by evening the
concessionaires reached the village of Lars, about three thousand feet above
sea level.
They passed the night in a poor native hotel without charge and were
even given a glass of milk each for delighting the owner and his guests with
card tricks.
The morning was so glorious that Ippolit Matveyevich, braced by the
mountain air, began to stride along more cheerfully than the day before.
Just behind Lars rose the impressive rock wall of the Bokovoi ridge. At this
point the Terek valley closed up into a series of narrow gorges. The scenery
became more and more sombre, while the inscriptions on the cliffs grew more
frequent At the point where the cliffs squeezed the Terek's flow between
them to the extent that the span of the bridge was no more than ten feet,
the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions on the side of the gorge that
Ostap forgot the majestic sight of the Daryal gorge and shouted out, trying
to drown the rumble and rushing of the Terek:
"Great people! Look at that, marshal! Do you see it? Just a little
higher than the cloud and slightly lower than the eagle! An inscription
which says, 'Micky and Mike, July 1914'. An unforgettable sight! Notice the
artistry with which it was done. Each letter is three feet high, and they
used oil paints. Where are you now, Nicky and Mike?"
"Pussy," continued Ostap, "let's record ourselves for prosperity, too.
I have some chalk, by the way. Honestly, I'll go up and write 'Pussy and
Ossy were here'."
And without giving it much thought, Ostap put down the supply of
sausage on the wall separating the road from the seething depths of the
Terek and began clambering up the rocks. At first Ippolit Matveyevich
watched the smooth operator's ascent, but then lost interest and began to
survey the base of Tamara's castle, which stood on a rock like a horse's
tooth.
Just at this time, about a mile away from the concessionaires, Father
Theodore entered the Daryal gorge from the direction of Tiflis. He marched
along like a soldier with his eyes, as hard as diamonds, fixed ahead of him,
supporting himself on a large crook.
With his last remaining money Father Theodore had reached Tiflis and
was now walking home, subsisting on charity. While crossing the Cross gap he
had been bitten by an eagle. Father Theodore hit out at the insolent bird
with his crook and continued on his way.
As he went along, intermingling with the clouds, he muttered:
"Not for personal gain, but at the wishes of my wife who sent me."
The distance between the enemies narrowed. Turning a sharp bend, Father
Theodore came across an old man in a gold pince-nez.
The gorge split asunder before Father Theodore's eyes. The Terek
stopped its thousand-year-old roar.
Father Theodore recognized Vorobyaninov. After the terrible fiasco in
Batumi, after all his hopes had been dashed, this new chance of gaining
riches had an extraordinary effect on the priest. He grabbed Ippolit
Matveyevich by his scraggy Adam's apple, squeezed his fingers together, and
shouted hoarsely:
"What have you done with the treasure that you slew your mother-in-law
to obtain?" Ippolit Matveyevich, who had not been expecting anything of this
nature, said nothing, but his eyes bulged so far that they almost touched
the lenses of his pince-nez.
"Speak!" ordered the priest. "Repent, you sinner!"
Vorobyaninov felt himself losing his senses.
Suddenly Father Theodore caught sight of Bender leaping from rock to
rock; the technical adviser was coining down, shouting at the top of his
voice:
"Against the sombre rocks they dash, Those waves, they foam and
splash."
A terrible fear gripped Father Theodore. He continued mechanically
holding the marshal by the throat, but his knees began to knock.
"Well, of all people!" cried Ostap in a friendly tone. "The rival
concern."
Father Theodore did not dally. Obeying his healthy instinct, ' he
grabbed the concessionaires' bread and sausage and fled.
"Hit him, Comrade Bender!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich, who was sitting
on the ground recovering his breath. "Catch him!. Stop him I"
Ostap began whistling and whooping.
"Wooh-wooh," he warbled, starting in pursuit. "The Battle of the
Pyramids or Bender goes hunting. Where are you going, client? I can offer
you a well-gutted chair."
This persecution was too much for Father Theodore and he began climbing
up a perpendicular wall of rock. He was spurred on by his heart, which was
in his mouth, and an itch in his heels known only to cowards. His legs moved
over the granite by themselves, carrying their master aloft.
"Wooooh-woooh!" yelled Ostap from below. "Catch him!"
"He's taken our supplies," screeched Vorobyaninov, running up.
"Stop!" roared Ostap. "Stop, I tell you."
But this only lent new strength to the exhausted priest. He wove about,
making several leaps, and finally ended ten feet above the highest
inscription.
"Give back our sausage!" howled Ostap. "Give back the sausage, you
fool, and we'll forget everything."
Father Theodore no longer heard anything. He found himself on a flat
ledge, on to which no man had ever climbed before. Father Theodore was
seized by a sickening dread. He realized he could never get down again by
himself. The cliff face dropped vertically to the road.
He looked below. Ostap was gesticulating furiously, and the marshal's
gold pince-nez glittered at the bottom of the gorge.
"I'll give back the sausage," cried the holy father, "only get me
down."
He could see all the movements of the concessionaires. They were
running about below and, judging from their gestures, swearing like
troopers.
An hour later, lying on his stomach and peering over the edge, Father
Theodore saw Bender and Vorobyaninov going off in the direction of the Cross
gap.
Night fell quickly. Surrounded by pitch darkness and deafened by the
infernal roar, Father Theodore trembled and wept up in the very clouds. He
no longer wanted earthly treasures, he only wanted one thing-to get down on
to the ground.
During the night he howled so loudly that at times the sound of the
Terek was drowned, and when morning came, he fortified himself with sausage
and bread and roared with demoniac laughter at the cars passing underneath.
The rest of the day was spent contemplating the mountains and that heavenly
body, the sun. The next night he saw the Tsaritsa Tamara. She came flying
over to him from her castle and said coquettishly:
"Let's be neighbours! "
"Mother!" said Father Theodore with feeling. "Not for personal gain . .
."
"I know, I know," observed the Tsaritsa, "but merely at the wishes of
your wife who sent you."
"How did you know?" asked the astonished priest.
"I just know. Why don't you stop by, neighbour? We'll play sixty-six.
What about it?"
She gave a laugh and flew off, letting off firecrackers into the night
sky as she went.
The day after, Father Theodore began preaching to the birds. For some
reason he tried to sway them towards Lutheranism.
"Birds," he said in a sonorous voice, "repent your sins publicly."
On the fourth day he was pointed out to tourists from below.
"On the right we have Tamara's castle," explained the experienced
guides, "and on the left is a live human being, but it is not known what he
lives on or how he got there."
"My, what a wild people!" exclaimed the tourists in amazement.
"Children of the mountains!"
Clouds drifted by. Eagles cruised above Father Theodore's head. The
bravest of them stole the remains of the sausage and with its wings swept a
pound and a half of bread into the foaming Terek.
Father Theodore wagged his finger at the eagle and, smiling radiantly,
whispered:
"God's bird does not know Either toil or unrest, He leisurely builds
His long-lasting nest."
The eagle looked sideways at Father Theodore, squawked cockadoodledoo
and flew away.
"Oh, eagle, you eagle, you bitch of a bird!"
Ten days later the Vladikavkaz fire brigade arrived with suitable
equipment and brought Father Theodore down.
As they were lowering him, he clapped his hands and sang in a tuneless
voice:
"And you will be queen of all the world, My lifelo-ong frie-nd!"
And the rugged Caucuses re-echoed Rubinstein's setting of the Lermontov
poem many times.
"Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes . . ." Father Theodore
told the fire chief.
The cackling priest was taken on the end of a fire ladder to the
psychiatric hospital.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE EARTHQUAKE
"What do you think, marshal," said Ostap as the concessionaires
approached the settlement of Sioni, "how can we earn money in a dried-up
spot like this?"
Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could
have kept himself going was begging, but here in the mountain spirals and
ledges there was no one to beg from.
Anyway, there was begging going on already-alpine begging, a special
kind. Every bus and passenger car passing through the settlement was
besieged by children who performed a few steps of a local folk dance to the
mobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of:
"Give us money! Give money!"
The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and continued on their
way to the Cross gap.
"A noble cause," said O...
