Petersburg (25 page)

At this hour a large-scale military review was taking place on the wide Field of Mars; a
carré
of the Imperial Guard stood there.

From afar, through the crowd, behind the steel bristle of the bayonets of the Preobrazhentsy, the Semyonovtsy, the Izmailovtsy, the grenadiers, one could see ranks of white-horsed detachments; a solid gold ray-reflecting mirror seemed to advance slowly to a point from a point; the multicoloured insignia of the squadrons began to flutter in the air; silver bands both melodically wept and summoned from there; one could see there a row of squadrons – Cuirassiers and Horse Guards; one could also see each squadron itself – Cuirassier, Horse Guard – one could see the
galopade
of the riders in the row of squadrons – Cuirassiers, Horse Guards – fair-haired, enormous and covered in armour, in white, smooth, tight-fitting kidskin trousers, and gold and sparkling coats of mail, and radiant helmets, some crowned with a silver dove, some with a two-headed eagle; the riders of the row of squadrons pranced; the rows of the squadron pranced.
And, crowned by a metal dove, on his horse before them danced the pale-moustached Baron Ommergau; and likewise crowned by a dove haughtily pranced Count Aven – Cuirassiers, Horse Guards!
And out of the dust like a bloody cloud, plumes lowered, Hussars swept past on their grey chargers; their pelisses showed scarlet, their fur capes showed white in the wind behind them; the earth thundered, and sabres clanged upwards: and above the rumbling, above the dust, a stream of bright silver suddenly flowed.
The red cloud of Hussars flew past somewhere to the side, and the parade ground was emptied.
And again, there, in space, azure riders now emerged, giving up both to the distances and to the sun the silver of their armour: that must be a division of Gendarmes of the Guard; from afar a bugle voiced their complaint about the crowd: but they were suddenly hidden from view by brown dust; a drum rattled; infantrymen marched past.

To a Mass Meeting

After the dank early October slush, the Petersburg roofs, the Petersburg spires, and the Petersburg domes were at last dazzlingly bathed one day in frosty October sunshine.

That day Angel Peri was left alone; her husband was not at home; he was in charge of provisions – somewhere out there; the uncombed angel fluttered in her pink
kimono
between the vases of chrysanthemums and Mount Fujiyama; the skirts of the
kimono
flapped like satin wings, while the owner of that
kimono
, the afore-mentioned angel, kept biting, under the hypnosis of one and the same idea, now her handkerchief and now the end of her black tress of hair.
Nikolai Apollonovich remained, of course, a scoundrel of scoundrels, but that newspaper contributor Neintelpfain – he too!
– was also a brute.
The angel’s feelings were dishevelled in the extreme.

In order to bring at least some order to her dishevelled feelings, Angel Peri put her feet up on a quilted settee and opened her book: Henri Besançon,
Man and His Bodies
.
The angel had already opened this book many times, but … but: the book kept falling from her hands; Angel Peri’s little eyes kept closing impetuously, and in her tiny nose a stormy life would awake: her nose whistled and snuffled.

No, today she would not fall asleep: Baroness R.R.
had already inquired one day about the book; and having learned that the book had been read, one day slyly asked: ‘What can you tell me,
ma chère
?’ But
ma chère
said nothing; and Baroness R.R.
shook her finger at her: not in vain, after all, did the inscription in the book begin with the words: ‘My devachanic friend’,
⁹
and end: ‘Baroness R.R.
– a mortal shell, but with a Buddhic spark.’

But – wait, wait: what are ‘devachanic friend’, ‘shell’ and ‘Buddhic spark’?
Well, Henri Besançon will explain that.
And this time Sofya Petrovna immerses herself in Henri Besançon; but no sooner does she stick her little nose into Henri Besançon, distinctly detecting in its pages the odour of the baroness herself (the baroness perfumed herself with opoponax),
¹⁰
than the doorbell rang and in like a storm flew the
coursiste
Varvara Yevgrafovna: Angel Peri did not have time to hide the precious book properly; and the angel was caught redhanded.

‘What’s that?’ Varvara Yevgrafovna cried sternly, applied her pince-nez to her nose, and bent over the book …

‘What’s this you’ve got?
Who gave you it?’

‘Baroness R.R.…’

‘Why, of course … But what is it?’

‘Henri Besançon …’

‘You mean Annie Besant …
Man and His Bodies?
… What nonsense is this?
… And have you read Karl Marx’s
Manifesto?
’

The little blue eyes blinked timidly, while the crimson lips pouted resentfully.

‘The bourgeoisie, sensing its end, has seized upon mysticism: we shall leave the sky to the sparrows and from the kingdom of necessity create the kingdom of freedom.’
¹¹

And Varvara Yevgrafovna triumphantly looked the angel over with a peremptory glance through her pince-nez: and Angel Peri’s little eyes began to blink more helplessly; this angel respected Varvara Yevgrafovna and Baroness R.R.
equally.
And now she had to choose between them.
Fortunately, however, Varvara Yevgrafovna did not make a scene; crossing her legs, she wiped her pince-nez.

‘It’s about this … You will, of course, be going to the Tsukatovs’ ball …’

‘Yes, I will,’ the angel replied, guiltily.

‘It’s about this: according to the rumours that have reached me, our mutual acquaintance Ableukhov will also be going to this ball.’

The angel flushed crimson.

‘Well, then: please give him this letter.’ Varvara Yevgrafovna thrust a letter into the angel’s hands.

‘Give it to him; and that’s all there is to it: you’ll give it to him?’

‘I … will …’

‘Very well then, and I’ve no time to idle away with you here: I’m going to a mass meeting …’

‘Varvara Yevgrafovna, be a dear and take me along with you.’

‘But won’t you be afraid?
We may get beaten up …’

‘No, take me, take me – be a darling dear.’

‘Oh well then, all right: let’s go.
Only you’re going to change; and the rest of it, powder yourself … So be quick about it …’

‘Oh, instantly: in a flash!’

‘O Lord, quick, quick … My corset, Mavrushka!
… My black woollen dress, yes, that one: and shoes – those ones, any ones.
Oh, but no: the high-heeled ones.’ And the skirts rustled in falling: the
pink
kimono
flew across the table on to the bed … Mavrushka got into a muddle: Mavrushka knocked a chair over …

‘No, not like that, but tighter: even tighter … those are not hands you have – they’re stumps … Where are the garters – eh, eh?
How many times have I told you?’ And the corset crackled its bone; while her trembling hands could still on no account pile up at the nape of her neck the black nights of her tresses …

Sofya Petrovna Likhutina, an ivory hairpin in her teeth, began to squint: she was squinting at a letter; and the letter bore the clear inscription:
To Nikolai Apollonovich Ableukhov
.

That she would meet ‘him’ tomorrow at the Tsukatovs’ ball, talk to him, give him this letter – that was both frightening and painful: there was something fateful here – no, one must not think of it, must not think of it!

A disobedient black lock sprang out from the nape of her neck.

Yes, a letter.
The letter was clearly marked:
To Nikolai Apollonovich Ableukhov
.
Only the strange thing was that this handwriting was the handwriting of Lippanchenko … What nonsense!

Now, in a black woollen dress that fastened at the back, she fluttered forth from the bedroom:

‘Well, let’s go, let’s go, then … By the way, that letter … Who is it from?
…’

‘?’

‘Oh well, never mind, never mind: I’m ready.’

Why was she in such a hurry to be off to the mass meeting?
In order,
en route
, to try to find out what was going on, to ask questions, to try to get what she wanted?

And ask what questions?

Outside the entrance porch they collided with the
khokhol
-Little Russian Lippanchenko:

‘Well, well, well: where are you going?’

Sofya Petrovna waved in vexation both a plush velvet hand and a muff:

‘I’m going to a mass meeting, a mass meeting.’

But the crafty
khokhol
was not to be put off so easily:

‘Splendid: I’ll come with you.’

Varvara Yevgrafovna flared up, stopped: and stared fixedly at the
khokhol
.

‘I think I know you: you rent a room … from the Manpon woman.’

Here the shameless, crafty
khokhol
was thrown into the most violent embarrassment: he suddenly began to puff and pant, to back away, raised his hat a little and fell behind.

‘Tell me, who is that unpleasant individual?’

‘Lippanchenko.’

‘Well, that’s quite untrue: his name isn’t Lippanchenko, it’s Mavrokordato, a Greek from Odessa; he visits the room through the wall from me: I wouldn’t advise you to receive him in your home.’

But Sofya Petrovna was not listening.
Mavrokordato, Lippanchenko – it was all the same … The letter, now, the letter …

Noble, Slender, Pale …

They were walking along the Moika.

To their left the last gold and the last crimson of the garden trembled in the leaves; and, approaching more closely, one could have seen the blue tit as well; while from the garden on to the stones obediently stretched a rustling thread, in order to twine and chase at the feet of the passing pedestrian and to whisper, weaving from the leaves yellow and red alluvial deposits of words.

‘Ooo-ooo-ooo …’ – thus did space resound.

‘Do you hear?’

‘What is it?’

‘Ooo-ooo.’

‘I don’t hear anything.’

But that sound was heard softly in towns, woodlands and fields, in the suburban expanses of Moscow, Petersburg, Saratov.
Have you heard this October song of the year nineteen hundred and five?
This song did not exist earlier; this song will not exist …

‘It must be a factory siren: there’s a strike at a factory somewhere.’

But no factory siren was sounding, there was no wind; and the dog was silent.

To the right, below their feet, was the blue of the Moika canal, while behind it above the water rose the reddish line of the embankment’s stones, crowned by trellised iron lace: that same bright building of the Alexandrine era rested on its five stone columns; and the entrance showed gloomy between the columns; above the second storey still passed the same stripe of ornamental stucco: ring upon ring – the same stucco rings.

Between the canal and the building, drawn by its own private horses, an overcoat flew past, concealing in its beaver fur the freezing tip of a haughty nose; and a bright yellow cap-band swayed, and the pink cushion of the driver’s hat flickered ever so slightly.
Drawing even with Likhutina, high above his bald spot flew the bright yellow cap-band of one of Her Majesty’s Cuirassiers: it was Baron Ommau-Ommergau.

Ahead, where the canal curved, rose the red walls of the church, tapering to a high tower and a green steeple; while more to the left, above a ledge of houses and stone, the dazzling cupola of St Isaac’s rose sternly in a glassy turquoise.

Here too was the embankment: depth, a greenish blue.
There far away, far away, almost further than was proper, the islands fell and cowered: the buildings also cowered; at any moment the depths might come washing, surging over them, the greenish blue.
And above this greenish blue an unmerciful sunset sent here and there its radiant crimson blow: and the Troitsky Bridge shone crimson; and so did the Palace.

Suddenly under this depth and greenish blue a clear silhouette appeared against the crimson background of the sunset: in the wind a grey Nikolayevka beat its wings; and a waxen face with protruding lips nonchalantly threw itself back: in the bluish expanses of the Neva its eyes constantly looked for something, could not find it, flew past above her modest little fur hat; did not see the hat: did not see anything – either her, or Varvara Yevgrafovna: saw only the depth, and the greenish blue; rose and fell – there fell the eyes, on the other side of the Neva, where the banks cowered and the
buildings of the islands showed crimson.
While ahead, snuffling, ran a dark, striped bulldog, carrying a small silver whip in its teeth.

Drawing level, he came to his senses, screwed up his eyes slightly, touched his cap-band slightly with his hand; said nothing – and walked off there: there only the buildings showed crimson.

With completely squinting eyes, hiding her little face in her muff (she was now redder than a peony), Sofya Petrovna helplessly nodded her little head somewhere to the side: not to him, but to the bulldog.
While Varvara Yevgrafovna fairly stared, breathed heavily, fastened her eyes.

‘Ableukhov?’

‘Yes … apparently.’

And, hearing an affirmative reply (she was short-sighted), Varvara Yevgrafovna began to whisper to herself excitedly:

Noble, slender, pale,

Hair like flax has he;

Rich in thought, in feeling poor

N.A.A. – who can he be?
¹²

There, there he was:

Famous revolutionary,

Though aristocrat.

But better than his shameful folks

A hundred times, mark that.