Short Fiction

all. What does he want?”

“He wishes to see you, but I don’t think he is quite himself.”

Serpov entered the room, bowed, stamped his foot and said⁠—

“Serpov⁠—a wayfarer.” They shook hands. “Nothing but ignorance⁠—no education. I admonish Russia in vain. Russia is a fool. The peasant is industrious but Russia is a fool. Don’t you agree? I knew your father. We used to sit and chat, and he would say, ‘You will get on.’ But why are you dressed like that? I am as plainspoken as a soldier, and I ask why?”

“I am going to make a journey on foot.”

“I am on the road myself. I am a wayfarer. I have been all the way to Greece, to the Athos Monastery, but I never saw anyone as honest as our peasants.”

Serpov sat down, asked for vodka, and then went to bed. Borzin was puzzled. Next day Serpov was the listener and, as Borzin liked to talk, Serpov heard all about his theory and the aim of his journey. Serpov thoroughly approved of it, and ended by offering himself as companion, which Borzin accepted; partly because he did not know how to get rid of him; partly because, with all his craziness, Serpov could flatter; partly, and chiefly, because Borzin regarded the monk as a remarkable, though somewhat complicated, phenomenon of Russian life.

They set out, and when we found them on the highroad they were nearing the place, where, according to their plan, the first night was to be spent. They had accomplished the first twenty-two versts of their journey.

Serpov had a glass at the public-house and was in good spirits.

Khodinka332

An Incident of the Coronation of Nicholas II

“I cannot understand such obstinacy. Why should you do without sleep and go ‘with the people,’ when you can go straight to the pavilion with your Aunt Vera, and see everything without any trouble? I told you Behr had promised to pass you through, though, as far as that’s concerned, you have the right of entry as a maid of honour.”

It was thus that Prince Paul Golitsin⁠—known in the aristocratic set as “Pigeon”⁠—addressed his twenty-three-year-old daughter Alexandra, called for shortness’ sake “Rina.”

The conversation took place in Moscow on 17th May 1893⁠—on the eve of the popular fête held to celebrate the coronation. Rina, a strong, handsome girl, with a profile characteristic of her race⁠—the hooked nose of a bird of prey⁠—had long ceased to be passionately devoted to balls or social functions, and was, or at least considered herself to be, an “advanced” woman and a lover of “the people.” She was her father’s only daughter and his favourite, and always did what he wished. In this particular instance it occurred to her that she would like to go to the popular festival with her cousin, not at midday with the Court, but together with the people, the porter and the grooms of their own household, who intended to start in the early morning.

“But, father, I do not want to look at the people; I want to be with them. I want to see how they feel towards the young Tsar. Surely for once⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, well, do as you like. I know how obstinate you are.”

“Don’t be angry, father, dear. I promise to be careful, and Alec will not leave my side.”

Although the plan seemed wild and fantastic to her father, he gave his consent.

“Yes, of course you may,” he answered when she asked if she might have the victoria. “Drive to Khodinka and send it back.”

“All right.”

She went up to him, and he blessed her, as was his custom, and she kissed his big white hand, and they separated.

There was no talk of anything but the morrow’s festival among the cigarette-makers in the lodgings let by the notorious Marie Yakovlevna. Several of Emelian Tagodin’s friends had met in his room to discuss when they should start.

“It’s not worthwhile going to bed at all. You’ll only oversleep yourself,” said Yakov, a bright youth who occupied a space behind a wooden partition.

“Why not have a little sleep?” retorted Emelian. “We’ll start at dawn. Everyone says that’s the thing to do.”

“Well, if we are going to bed, it’s time we went.”

“But, Emelian, mind you call us if we don’t wake up in time.”

Emelian promised he would, and, taking a reel of silk from a drawer in the table, drew the lamp nearer, and began to sew a missing button on his summer overcoat. When he had finished this job he laid out his best clothes and cleaned his boots, and, after saying several prayers⁠—“Our Father,” “Hail Mary,” etc., the meaning of which he had never fathomed, and had not even been interested in⁠—he took off his boots, and lay down on the crumpled, creaking bed.

“Why not?” he said to himself. “There is such a thing as luck. Perhaps I shall get a lottery ticket and win.” The rumour had spread among the people that, besides other gifts, some lottery tickets were to be distributed. “Well, the 10,000 rouble prize is expecting too much, but one might win 500 roubles. What couldn’t I do with it? I could send something to the old folk; I’d make my wife leave her situation: it’s no sort of existence living apart like this. I’d buy a good watch and a fur coat. As it is, it’s one long struggle, and you’re never out of your difficulties.”

He began to dream that he and his wife were walking around the Alexander Gardens, and that the same policeman who had taken him up a year ago for using bad language when he was drunk was no longer a policeman, but a general, and that this same general smiled at him and invited him to go to a neighbouring public-house with him to hear a mechanical organ. The organ sounded just like a clock striking, and Emelian awoke to find that the clock really was striking wheezily, and that the landlady was coughing behind his door.