“Right,” responded the artiste, “and ... excuse the indiscretion, where did the four hundred dollars that were found in the privy of the apartment of which you and your wife are the sole inhabitants come from?”
“Magic!” someone in the dark house said with obvious irony.
“Exactly right — magic,” Nikanor Ivanovich timidly replied, vaguely addressing either the artiste or the dark house, and he explained: “Unclean powers, the checkered interpreter stuck me with them.”
And again the house raised an indignant roar. When silence came, the artiste said: “see what La Fontaine fables I have to listen to! Stuck him with four hundred dollars! Now, all of you here are currency dealers, so I address you as experts: is that conceivable?”
We’re not currency dealers,” various offended voices came from the theatre, “but, no, it’s not conceivable!”
“I’m entirely of the same mind,” the artiste said firmly, “and let me ask you: what is it that one can be stuck with?”
“A baby!” someone cried from the house.
“Absolutely correct,” the programme announcer confirmed, “a baby, an anonymous letter, a tract, an infernal machine, anything else, but no one will stick you with four hundred dollars, for such idiots don’t exist in nature.” And turning to Nikanor Ivanovich, the artiste added reproachfully and sorrowfully: “You’ve upset me, Nikanor Ivanovich, and I was counting on you. So, our number didn’t come off.”
Whistles came from the house, addressed to Nikanor Ivanovich.
“He’s a currency dealer,” they shouted from the house, “and we innocent ones have to suffer for the likes of him!”
“Don’t scold him,” the master of ceremonies said softly, “he’ll repent.” And turning to Nikanor Ivanovich, his blue eyes filled with tears, he added: “Well, Nikanor Ivanovich, you may go to your place.”
After that the artiste rang the bell and announced loudly: “Intermission, you blackguards!”
The shaken Nikanor Ivanovich, who unexpectedly for himself had become a participant in some sort of theatre programme, again found himself in his place on the floor. Here he dreamed that the house was plunged in total darkness, and fiery red words leaped out on the walls: Turn over your currency!” Then the curtain opened again and the master of ceremonies invited: “I call Sergei Gerardovich Dunchil to the stage.”
Dunchil turned out to be a fine-looking but rather unkempt man of about fifty.
“Sergei Gerardovich,” the master of ceremonies addressed him, “you’ve been sitting here for a month and a half now, stubbornly refusing to turn over the currency you still have, while the country is in need of it, and you have no use for it whatsoever. And still you persist. You’re an intelligent man, you understand it all perfectly well, and yet you don’t want to comply with me.”
To my regret, there is nothing I can do, since I have no more currency,” Dunchil calmly replied.
“Don’t you at least have some diamonds?” asked the artiste. “No diamonds either.”
The artiste hung his head and pondered, then clapped his hands. A middle-aged lady came out from the wings, fashionably dressed — that is, in a collarless coat and a tiny hat. The lady looked worried, but Dunchil glanced at her without moving an eyebrow.
“Who is this lady?” the programme announcer asked Dunchil. “That is my wife,” Dunchil replied with dignity and looked at the lady’s long neck with a certain repugnance.
We have troubled you, Madame Dunchil,” the master of ceremonies adverted to the lady, “with regard to the following: we wanted to ask you, does your husband have any more currency?”
“He turned it all over the other time,” Madame Dunchil replied nervously.
“Right,” said the artiste, “well, then, if it’s so, it’s so. If he turned it all over, then we ought to part with Sergei Gerardovich immediately, there’s nothing else to do! If you wish, Sergei Gerardovich, you may leave the theatre.” And the artiste made a regal gesture.
Dunchil turned calmly and with dignity, and headed for the wings. “Just a moment!” the master of ceremonies stopped him. “Allow me on parting to show you one more number from our programme.” And again he clapped his hands.
The black backdrop parted, and on to the stage came a young beauty in a ball gown, holding in her hands a golden tray on which lay a fat wad tied with candy-box ribbon and a diamond necklace from which blue, yellow and red fire leaped in all directions.
Dunchil took a step back and his face went pale. The house froze.
“Eighteen thousand dollars and a necklace worth forty thousand in gold,” the artiste solemnly announced, “kept by Sergei Gerardovich in the city of Kharkov, in the apartment of his mistress, Ida Herkulanovna Vors, whom we have the pleasure of seeing here before us and who so kindly helped in discovering these treasures — priceless, vet useless in the hands of a private person. Many thanks, Ida Herkulanovna!”
The beauty smiled, flashing her teeth, and her lush eyelashes fluttered. “And under your so very dignified mask,” the artiste adverted to Dunchil, “is concealed a greedy spider and an astonishing bamboozler and liar. You wore everyone out during this month and a half with your dull obstinacy. Go home now, and let the hell your wife sets up for you be your punishment.”
Dunchil swayed and, it seems, wanted to fall down, but was held up by someone’s sympathetic hands. Here the front curtain dropped and concealed all those on-stage.
Furious applause shook the house, so much so that Nikanor Ivano-vich fancied the lights were leaping in the chandeLers. When the front curtain went up, there was no one on-stage except the lone artiste. Greeted with a second burst of applause, he bowed and began to speak: “In the person of this Dunchil, our programme has shown you a typical ass. I did have the pleasure of saying yesterday that the concealing of currency is senseless. No one can make use of it under any circumstances, I assure you. Let’s take this same Dunchil. He gets a splendid salary and doesn’t want for anything. He has a splendid apartment, a wife and a beautiful mistress. But no, instead of living quietly and peacefully without any troubles, having turned over the currency and stones, this mercenary blockhead gets himself exposed in front of everybody, and to top it off contracts major family trouble. So, who’s going to turn over? Any volunteers? In that case, for the next number on our programme, a famous dramatic talent, the actor Kurolesov, Sawa Potapovich, especially invited here, will perform excerpts from The Covetous Knight by the poet Pushkin.”[94]
The promised Kurolesov was not slow in coming on stage and turned out to be a strapping and beefy man, clean-shaven, in a tailcoat and white tie.
Without any preliminaries, he concocted a gloomy face, knitted his brows, and began speaking in an unnatural voice, glancing sidelong at the golden bell: “As a young scapegrace awaits a tryst with some sly strumpet...”[95]
And Kurolesov told many bad things about himself. Nikanor Ivano-vich heard Kurolesov confess that some wretched widow had gone on her knees to him, howling, in the rain, but had failed to move the actor’s callous heart.
Before his dream, Nikanor Ivanovich had been completely ignorant of the poet Pushkin’s works, but the man himself he knew perfectly well and several times a day used to say phrases like: “And who’s going to pay the rent Pushkin?”[96] or Then who did unscrew the bulb on the stairway — Pushkin?” or ‘so who’s going to buy the fuel — Pushkin?”
Now, having become acquainted with one of his works, Nikanor Ivanovich felt sad, imagined the woman on her knees, with her orphaned children, in the rain, and involuntarily thought: "What a type, though, this Kurolesov!”
And the latter, ever raising his voice, went on with his confession and got Nikanor Ivanovich definitively muddled, because he suddenly started addressing someone who was not on-stage, and responded for this absent one himself, calling himself now dear sir, now baron, now father, now son, now formally, and now familiarly.
Nikanor Ivanovich understood only one thing, that the actor died an evil death,
crying out: “Keys! My keys!”, after which he collapsed on the floor, gasping and carefully tearing off his tie.
Having died, Kurolesov got up, brushed the dust from his trousers, bowed with a false smile, and withdrew to the accompaniment of thin applause. And the master of ceremonies began speaking thus: “We have just heard The Covetous Knight wonderfully performed by Sawa Potapovich. This knight hoped that frolicking nymphs would come running to him, and that many other pleasant things in the same vein would occur. But, as you see, none of it happened, no nymphs came running to him, and the muses paid him no tribute, and he raised no mansions, but, on the contrary, ended quite badly, died of a stroke, devil take him, on his chest of currency and jewels. I warn you that the same sort of thing, if not worse, is going to happen to you if you don’t turn over your currency!”
Whether Pushkin’s poetry produced such an effect, or it was the prosaic speech of the master of ceremonies, in any case a shy voice suddenly came from the house: “I’ll turn over my currency.”
“Kindly come to the stage,” the master of ceremonies courteously invited, peering into the dark house.
On-stage appeared a short, fair-haired citizen, who, judging by his face, had not shaved in about three weeks.
“Beg pardon, what is your name?” the master of ceremonies inquired.
“Kanavkin, Nikolai,” the man responded shyly.
“Ah! Very pleased. Citizen Kanavkin. And so? ...”
“I’ll turn it over,” Kanavkin said quietly.
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars and twenty ten-rouble gold pieces.”
“Bravo! That’s all, then?”
The programme announcer stared straight into Kanavkin’s eyes, and it even seemed to Nikanor Ivanovich that those eyes sent out rays that penetrated Kanavkin like X-rays. The house stopped breathing.
“I believe you!” the artiste exclaimed finally and extinguished his gaze. I do! These eyes are not lying! How many times have I told you that your basic error consists in underestimating the significance of the human eye. Understand that the tongue can conceal the truth, but the eyes — never! A sudden question is put to you, you don’t even flinch, in one second you get hold of yourself and know what you must say to conceal the truth, and you speak quite convincingly, and not a wrinkle on your face moves, but
— alas — the truth which the question stirs up from the bottom of your soul leaps momentarily into your eyes, and it’s all over! They see it, and you’re caught!”
Having delivered, and with great ardour, this highly convincing speech, the artiste tenderly inquired of Kanavkin: “And where is it hidden?”
With my aunt, Porokhovnikova, on Prechistenka.”
“Ah! That’s ... wait ... that’s Klavdia Ilyinishna, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, yes, yes, yes, yes! A separate little house? A little front garden opposite? Of course, I know, I know! And where did you put it there?”
“In the cellar, in a candy tin ...”
The artiste clasped his hands.
“Have you ever seen the like?” he cried out, chagrined. "Why, it’ll get damp and mouldy there! Is it conceivable to entrust currency to such people?
Eh? Sheer childishness! By God! ...”
Kanavkin himself realized he had fouled up and was in for it, and he hung his tufty head.
“Money,” the artiste went on, “must be kept in the state bank, in special dry and well-guarded rooms, and by no means in some aunt’s cellar, where it may, in particular, suffer damage from rats! Really, Kanavkin, for shame! You’re a grown-up!”
Kanavkin no longer knew what to do with himself, and merely picked at the lapel of his jacket with his finger.
“Well, all right,” the artiste relented, “let bygones be ...” And he suddenly added unexpectedly: “Ah, by the way ... so that in one ... to save a trip ... this same aunt also has some, eh?”
Kanavkin, never expecting such a turn of affairs, wavered, and the theatre fell silent.
“Ehh, Kanavkin...” the master of ceremonies said in tender reproach, “and here I was praising him! Look, he just went and messed it up for no reason at all! It’s absurd, Kanavkin! Wasn’t I just talking about eyes?
Can’t we see that the aunt has got some? Well, then why do you torment us for nothing?”
“She has!” Kanavkin cried dashingly.
“Bravo!” cried the master of ceremonies.
“Bravo!” the house roared frightfully.
When things quieted down, the master of ceremonies congratulated Kanavkin, shook his hand, offered him a ride home to the city in a car, and told someone in the wings to go in that same car to fetch the aunt and ask her kindly to come for the programme at the women’s theatre.
“Ah, yes, I wanted to ask you, has the aunt ever mentioned where she hides hers?” the master of ceremonies inquired, courteously offering Kanavkin a cigarette and a lighted match. As he lit up, the man grinned somehow wistfully.
“I believe you, I believe you,” the artiste responded with a sigh. “Not just her nephew, the old pinchfist wouldn’t tell the devil himself! Well, so, we’ll try to awaken some human feelings in her. Maybe not all the strings have rotted in her usurious little soul. Bye-bye, Kanavkin!”
And the happy Kanavkin drove off. The artiste inquired whether there were any others who wished to turn over their currency, but was answered with silence.
“Odd birds, by God!” the artiste said, shrugging, and the curtain hid him.
The lights went out, there was darkness for a while, and in it a nervous tenor was heard singing from far away: There great heaps of gold do shine, and all those heaps of gold are mine ..."[97]
Then twice the sound of subdued applause came from somewhere.
“Some little lady in the women’s theatre is turning hers over,” Nikanor Ivanovich’s red-bearded neighbour spoke up unexpectedly, and added with a sigh: “Ah, if it wasn’t for my geese! ... I’ve got fighting geese in Lianozovo, my dear fellow ... they’ll die without me, I’m afraid. A fighting bird’s delicate, it needs care ... Ah, if it wasn’t for my geese!
“... They won’t surprise me with Pushkin...” And again he began to sigh.
Here the house lit up brightly, and Nikanor Ivanovich dreamed that cooks in white chef’s hats and with ladles in their hands came pouring from all the doors. Scullions dragged in a cauldron of soup and a stand with cut-up rye bread. The spectators livened up. The jolly cooks shuttled among the theatre buffs, ladled out bowls of soup, and distributed bread.
“Dig in, lads,” the cooks shouted, “and turn over your currency! What’s the point of sitting here? Who wants to slop up this swill! Go home, have a good drink, a little bite, that’s the way!”
“Now, you, for instance, what’re you doing sitting here, old man?"
Nikanor Ivanovich was directly addressed by a fat cook with a raspberry-coloured neck, as he offered him a bowl in which a lone cabbage leaf floated in some liquid.
“I don’t have any! I don’t! I don’t!” Nikanor Ivanovich cried out in a terrible voice. “You understand, I don’t!”
“You don’t?” the cook bellowed in a menacing bass. “You don’t?” he asked in a tender woman’s voice. “You don’t, you don’t,” he murmured soothingly, turning into the nurse Praskovya Fyodorovna.
She was gently shaking Nikanor Ivanovich by the shoulder as he moaned in his sleep. Then the cooks melted away, and the theatre with its curtain broke up. Through his tears, Nikanor Ivanovich made out his room in the hospital and two people in white coats, who were by no means casual cooks getting at people with their advice, but the doctor and that same Praskovya Fyodorovna, who was holding not a bowl but a little dish covered with gauze, with a syringe lying on it.
“What is all this?” Nikanor Ivanovich said bitterly, as they were giving him the injection. “I don’t have any and that’s that! Let Pushkin turn over his currency for them. I don’t have any!”
“No, you don’t, you
don’t,” the kind-hearted Praskovya Fyodorovna soothed him, “and if you don’t, there’s no more to be said.”
After the injection, Nikanor Ivanovich felt better and fell asleep without any dreams.
But, thanks to his cries, alarm was communicated to room 120, where the patient woke up and began looking for his head, and to room 118, where the unknown master became restless and wrung his hands in anguish, looking at the moon, remembering the last bitter autumn night of his life, a strip of light under the basement door, and uncurled hair.
From room 118, the alarm flew by way of the balcony to Ivan, and he woke up and began to weep.
But the doctor quickly calmed all these anxious, sorrowing heads, and they began to fall asleep. Ivan was the last to become oblivious, as dawn was already breaking over the river. After the medicine, which suffused his whole body, calm came like a wave and covered him. His body grew lighter, his head basked in the warm wind of reverie. He fell asleep, and the last waking thing he heard was the pre-dawn chirping of birds in the woods. But they soon fell silent, and he began dreaming that the sun was already going down over Bald Mountain, and the mountain was cordoned off by a double cordon...
Chapter 16. The Execution
The sun was already going down over Bald Mountain, and the mountain was cordoned off by a double cordon.
The cavalry ala that had cut across the procurator’s path around noon came trotting up to the Hebron gate of the city. Its way had already been prepared. The infantry of the Cappadocian cohort had pushed the conglomeration of people, mules and camels to the sides, and the ala, trotting and raising white columns of dust in the sky, came to an intersection where two roads met: the south road leading to Bethlehem, and the north-west road to Jaffa. The ala raced down the north-west road. The same Cappadocians were strung out along the sides of the road, and in good time had driven to the sides of it all the caravans hastening to the feast in Yershalaim. Crowds of pilgrims stood behind the Cappadocians, having abandoned their temporary striped tents, pitched right on the grass. Going on for about a half-mile, the ala caught up with the second cohort of the Lightning legion and, having covered another half-mile, was the first to reach the foot of Bald Mountain. Here they dismounted. The commander broke the ala up into squads, and they cordoned off the whole foot of the small hill, leaving open only the way up from the Jaffa road.