Pavel pushed his red beard close to Wilfred’s face and said very loudly in pidgin Russian—for he had forgotten most of the English words he had prepared, “Eta—bumaga—horosho—ah?”
“Horosho, horosho,” mumbled Wilfred, vaguely, feeling flattered by the word of approval.
Pavel, encouraged, produced another sheet of paper—his own composition this time. “Tatiana Ostapenko and Sergei Malinin marriaged good ? ? ? Is it? This Indenture Witnesseth true? Is it ? ? ? R.S.V.P. Very Importance.”
Before Wilfred had time to achieve full understanding of this last message, Pavel—nervous lest the man should prematurely shake his head—thrust the Russian history before his guest, open at a picture of the wedding of Peter the Great. “All same?” shouted Pavel, in a sweating frenzy of suspense and mental effort, rapping his finger first on the picture of the wedding and then on Wilfred’s draft of the deed.
“All same—all same,” said Wilfred, heartily, though still uncertain what was required of him.
Pavel, more and more hopeful, yet still in an agony lest someone should come in before understanding was complete, positively prodded the deed, indicating—so forcibly that Wilfred’s kneecap below was quite bruised—the four signatures—Wilfred’s own, Pavel’s own, Seryozha’s and Tatiana’s.
“Marriaged good, is it? All same church,” he rasped into Wilfred’s ear, consulting his notes again. “Very importance because this night they have sleeped ensemble like marriaged. Now fornication not, is it?”
Wilfred now understood. His brain cleared and began reviewing the results of this premature acceptance of his drafted agreement. His eyes cleared and saw a pile of ten-yen notes on the table. He woke up wholly. He read his draft through carefully, his tongue, as well as his bright eyes, leaning out of his head with a creator’s eagerness.
His first thought was regret that these impetuous people had not waited for him to show what he could really do in the way of drawing up an agreement. This scribble was nothing; it had a blot in the middle of one page; it did not do Wilfred Chew, Esquire, of the Middle Temple, London, any credit at all. Besides, added an afterthought, it was quite worthless. There were no witnesses to the signatures, and very little substance to the matter. Yet—what of it? These were decent people, who were made happy by believing themselves decently folded within the limits of the law. Law-abiding people only too anxious to abide by even this exiguous semblance of the law. Outlaws craving to be in. Supposing Wilfred, as he thought loftily, annulled by a sceptical word this marriage that he had accidentally made, much disturbance of mind would result—and no advantage. “Morally it is a real marriage,” thought Wilfred. “And it must be God’s will, since God has not provided these poor barbarians with their orthodox machinery for getting married.” He felt conscientiously that he was, in this instance, an instrument of God’s will. In fact, since the law, as represented by Wilfred, had more to do with the making of this marriage than Heaven had, he felt himself to be in the position of chief justice in this crown colony of Heaven. His it was, not God’s, to exercise, as it were, the discretion of the court in this case. Reverend Mr. Oswald Fawcett would surely be the last to wish quibbles of church or law to destroy these innocent barbarian illusions. Supposing a baby were to result from last night’s naive precipitancy, would it not be a misuse of Wilfred’s supreme power to make the poor little thing illegitimate by a careless word?
While Wilfred thought all these things, his eye dwelt blankly on the pile of ten-yen notes on the table.
“Are all the parties concerned in the agreement prepared to carry out the various undertakings named?” asked Wilfred, sternly.
“Schto?” asked the anxious Pavel, his chestnut eyes almost leaning out of their sockets. Perhaps, he thought, the whole crux of the matter depends on these unknown words that he is saying.
“Have all the signatories expressed their honest intention of abiding by all the provisions of the indenture?”
“Schto?”
Wilfred clicked in his throat. For a second he considered tearing the silly old paper in half. Then he pointed to the clauses that dealt with the money payment. Pavel’s eyes, like a thirsty proboscis, sucked in the information indicated. Wilfred gave Pavel time to reabsorb the idea under examination, and then leaned over, took the pile of notes, and counted out on to his own knee one hundred and fifty yen.
“Horosho—ah?” yelled Wilfred.
“Horosho—horosho,” replied Pavel in a rival bellow.
“Then in this case the bumaga is perfectly horosho,” said Wilfred, throwing himself with abandon backward on the sofa, to show that the matter was settled.
“Horosho—ah?” queried Pavel, making sure.
“Horosho, horosho.”
“Bumaga horosho—ah?”
“Horosho, horosho.”
“Horosho.”
The storm of sibilant uncertainty died down. Everything was all right. Everything was safe. Wilfred and Pavel sat and looked at each other, a little tired but with glorious faces.
Then Pavel leapt to his feet and threw open the door to let the world come in. “Breakfast—breakfast,” he shouted in Russian, clapping his hands like a kindly sultan summoning slaves.
Varvara and Katya and the dog surged in, without rancor. Tatiana and Seryozha were late. They came in, hand in hand, as Pavel, Varvara and Wilfred began to eat. All three of their seniors looked at them for a moment in an odd silence.
Tatiana had the sense that they—two humble victims of a strangeness—were offering themselves tentatively to these eyes. She often had this pitying sense that comers-in were on approval, shrinking behind the transparent, hopefully decorated, adjusted screen of their faces. “Will I do? This is the best me I can show you. Will it do?” Egoists
