The White Guard (6 page)

   They must be crazy at headquarters - the detachments were not ready, the students not trained, no sign of the Senegalese yet and they were probably as black as a pair of boots . . . Christ, that meant they'd freeze to death - after all, they were used to a hot climate, weren't they?

   'As for your Hetman,' Alexei Turbin was shouting, 'I'd string him up the first of all! He's done nothing but insult us for the past six months. Who was it who forbade us to form a loyalist Russian army in the Ukraine? The Hetman. And now that things have gone from bad to worse, they've started to form a Russian army after all. The enemy's practically in sight and now -
now! -
we have to rake up troops, form detachments, headquarters, - and in conditions of total disorder! Christ, what lunacy!'

   'You're spreading panic', Karas said coolly.

   Turbin lost his temper.

   'Me? Spreading panic? You are simply shutting your eyes to the facts. I'm no panic-monger. I just want to get something off my chest. Panic? Don't worry. I've already decided to go and enrol in that Mortar Regiment of yours tomorrow, and if your Malyshev won't have me as a doctor I shall enlist in the ranks. I'm fed up with the whole damn business! It's not panic . . .' A piece of cucumber stuck in his throat, he began to cough furiously and to choke, and Nikolka started thumping him on the back.

   'Well done!' Karas chimed in, beating the table. 'In the ranks hell - we'll fix you to be the regimental doctor.'

   'Tomorrow we'll all go along together,' mumbled the drunken Myshlaevsky, 'all of us together. The whole of our class from the Alexander I High School. Hurrah!'

   'He's a swine,' Turbin went on with hatred in his voice, 'why, he can't even speak Ukrainian properly himself! Hell - the day before yesterday I asked that bastard Kuritsky a question. Since last November, it seems, he's forgotten how to speak Russian. Changed his name, too, to make it sound Ukrainian . . . Well, so I asked him-what's the Ukrainian for "cat"? "Kit" he said. All right, I said, so what's the Ukrainian for "kit"? That finished him.

   He just frowned and said nothing. Now he doesn't say good-morning any longer.' Nikolka roared with laughter . . .

   'Mobilisation - huh', Turbin continued bitterly. 'A pity you couldn't have seen what was going on in the police stations yesterday. All the black marketeers knew about the mobilisation three days before the decree was published. How d'you like that? And every one of them had a hernia or a patch on his lung, and any one of them who couldn't fake lung trouble simply vanished as if he'd fallen through a hole in the ground. And that, my friends, is a very bad sign. If the word's going round all the cafes even before mobilisation is officially announced and every shirker has a chance to dodge it, then things are really bad. Ah, the fool - if only he had allowed us to form units manned by Russian officers back in April, we could have taken Moscow by now. Don't you see? Here in the City alone he could have had a volunteer army of fifty thousand men-and what an army! An elite, none but the very best, because all the officer-cadets, all the students and high school boys and all the officers - and there are thousands of them in the City - would have gladly joined up. Not only would we have chased Petlyura out of the Ukraine, but we would have reached Moscow by now and swatted Trotsky like a fly.
Now
would have been the time to attack Moscow - it seems they're reduced to eating cats. And Hetman Skoropodsky, the son of a bitch, could have saved Russia.'

   Turbin's face was blotchy and the words flew out of his mouth in a thin spray of saliva. His eyes burned.

   'Hey, you shouldn't be a doctor - you should be the Minister of Defense, and that's a fact', said Karas. He was smiling ironically, but Turbin's speech had pleased him and excited him.

   'Alexei is indispensable at meetings, he's a real orator', said N'ikolka.

   'Nikolka, I've told you twice already that you're not funny', his brother replied. 'Drink some wine instead of trying to be witty.'

   'But you must realise,' said Karas, 'that the Germans would never have allowed the formation of a loyalist army - they're too afraid of it.'

   'Wrong!' exclaimed Alexei sharply. 'All that was needed was someone with a good head on his shoulders and we could have always come to terms with the Hetman. Then we should have made it clear to the Germans that we were no threat to them.
That
war is over, and we have lost it. Now we have something much worse on our hands, much worse than the war, worse than the Germans, worse than anything on earth - and that is Trotsky. We should have said to the Germans - you need wheat and sugar, don't you? Right - take all you want and feed your troops. Occupy the Ukraine if you like, only help us. Let us form our army - it will be to your advantage, we'll help you to keep order in the Ukraine and prevent these God-forsaken peasants of ours from catching the Moscow disease. If there were a Russian-manned army in the City now we would be insulated from Moscow by a wall of steel. And as for Petlyura . . . k-khh ...' Turbin drew his finger expressively across his throat and was seized by a furious coughing fit.

   'Stop!' Shervinsky stood up. 'Wait. I must speak in defense of the Hetman. I admit some mistakes were made, but the Hetman's plan was fundamentally correct. He knows how to be diplomatic. First of all a Ukrainian state ... then the Hetman would have done exactly as you say - a Russian-manned army and no nonsense. And to prove that I'm right ...' - Shervinsky gestured solemnly toward the window - ' the Imperial tricolor flag is already flying over Vladimirskaya Street.'

   'Too late!'

   'Well, yes, you may be right. It is rather late, but the Hetman is convinced that the mistake can be rectified.'

   'I sincerely hope to God that it can', and Alexei Turbin crossed himself in the direction of the ikon of the Virgin in the corner of the room.

   'Now the plan was as follows,' Shervinsky announced solemnly. 'Once the war was over the Germans would have recovered, and turned to help us against the Bolsheviks. Then when Moscow was captured, the Hetman would have laid the allegiance of the Ukraine at the feet of His Majesty the Emperor Nicholas II.'

   At this remark a deathly silence fell on the room. Nikolka turned white with agony.

   'But the Emperor is dead', he whispered.

   'What d'you mean - Nicholas II?' asked Alexei Turbin in astunned voice, and Myshlaevsky, swaying, squinted drunkenly into Shervinsky's glass. Obviously Shervinsky had had one too many to keep his courage up.

   Leaning her head on one hand, Elena stared in horror at him.

   But Shervinsky was not particularly drunk. He raised his hand and said in a powerful voice:

   'Not so fast. Listen. But I beg you, gentlemen, to remain silent until I've finished what I have to say. I suppose you all know what happened when the Hetman's suite was presented to Kaiser Wilhelm?'

   'We haven't the slightest idea', said Karas with interest.

   'Well, I know.'

   'Huh! He knows everything', sneered Myshlaevsky.

   'Gentlemen! Let him speak.'

   'After the Kaiser had graciously spoken to the Hetman and his suite he said: "I shall now leave you, gentlemen; discussion of the future will be conducted with ..." The drapes parted and into the hall came Tsar Nicholas II. "Go back to the Ukraine, gentlemen," he said, "and raise your regiments. When the moment comes I shall place myself in person at the head of the army and lead it on to the heart of Russia-to Moscow." With these words he broke down and wept.'

   Shervinsky beamed round at the whole company, tossed down a glass of wine in one gulp and grimaced. Ten eyes stared at him and silence reigned until he had sat down and eaten a slice of ham.

   'See here . . . that's all a myth', said Alexei Turbin, frowning painfully. 'I've heard that story before.'

   'They were all murdered,' said Myshlaevsky, 'the Tsar, the Tsarina and the heir.'

   Shervinsky glanced sideways towards the stove, took a deep breath and declared:

   'You're making a mistake if you believe that. The news of His Imperial Majesty's death . . .'

   'Is slightly exaggerated', said Myshlaevsky in a drunken attempt at wit.

   Elena shivered indignantly and boomed out of the haze at him.

   'You should be ashamed at yourself, Viktor - you, an officer.'

   Myshlaevsky sank back into the mist.

   '. . . was purposely invented by the Bolsheviks', Shervinsky went on. 'The Emperor succeeded in escaping with the aid of his faithful tutor . . . er, sorry, of the Tsarevich's tutor, Monsieur Gilliard and several officers, who conveyed him to er, to Asia. From there they reached Singapore and thence by sea to Europe. Now the Emperor is the guest of Kaiser Wilhelm.'

   'But wasn't the Kaiser thrown out too?' Karas enquired.

   'They are both in Denmark, with Her Majesty the Empress-Dowager Maria Fyodorovna, who is a Danish princess by birth. If you don't believe me, I may tell you that I was personally told this news by the Hetman himself.'

   Nikolka groaned inwardly, his soul racked with doubt and confusion. He wanted to believe it.

   'Then if it's true,' he suddenly burst out, jumping to his feet and wiping the sweat from his brow, 'I propose a toast: to the health of His Imperial Majesty!' His glass flashed, the cut-crystal arrows on its side piercing the German white wine. Spurs clinked against chair-legs. Swaying, Myshlaevsky stood up and clutched the table. Elena stood up. Her crescent braid of golden hair had unwound itself and her hair hung down beside her temples.

   'I don't care - even if he is dead', she cried, hoarse with misery. 'What does it matter now? I'll drink to him.'

   'He can never, never be forgiven for his abdication at Dno Station. Never. But we have learned by bitter experience now, and we know that only the monarchy can save Russia. Therefore if the Tsar is dead - long live the Tsar!' shouted Alexei and raised his glass.

   'Hurrah! Hur-rah! Hur-ra-ah!' The threefold cry roared across the dining-room.

   Downstairs Vasilisa leaped up in a cold sweat. Suddenly weakened, he gave a piercing shriek and woke up his wife Wanda.

   'My God, oh my God . . ' Wanda mumbled, clutching his nightshirt.

   'What the hell's going on? At three o'clock in the morning!' the weeping Vasilisa shrieked at the black ceiling. 'This time I really am going to lodge a complaint!'

   Wanda groaned. Suddenly they both went rigid. Quite clearly, seeping down through the ceiling, came a thick, greasy wave of sound, dominated by a powerful baritone resonant as a bell:

   '. . . God Save His Majesty, Tsar of all Russia . . .'

   Vasilisa's heart stopped and even his feet broke out into a cold sweat. Feeling as if his tongue had turned to felt, he burbled:

   'No ... it can't be . . . they're insane .. . They'll get us into such trouble that we'll never come out of it alive. The old anthem is illegal now! Christ, what are they doing? They can be heard out on the street, for God's sake!'

   Wanda had already slumped back like a stone and had fallen asleep again, but Vasilisa could not bring himself to lie down until the last chord had faded away upstairs amid a confused babble of shouts.

   'Russia acknowledges only one Orthodox faith and one Tsar!' shouted Myshlaevsky, swaying.

   'Right!'

   'Week ago ... at the theater . . . went to see
Paul the First',
Myshlaevsky mumbled thickly, 'and when the actor said those words I couldn't keep quiet and I shouted out "Right!" - and d'you know what? Everyone clapped. All except some swine in the upper circle who yelled "Idiot!" '

   'Damned Yids', growled Karas, now almost equally drunk.

   A thickening haze enveloped them all . . . Tonk-tank . . . tonk-tank . . . they had passed the point when there was any longer any sense in drinking more vodka, even wine; the only remaining stage was stupor or nausea. In the narrow little lavatory, where the lamp jerked and danced from the ceiling as though bewitched, everything went blurred and spun round and round. Pale and miserable, Myshlaevsky retched violently. Alexei Turbin, drunk himself, looking terrible with a twitching nerve on his cheek, his hair plastered damply over his forehead, supported Myshlaevsky.

   'Ah-aakh

   Finally Myshlaevsky leaned back from the bowl with a groan, tried painfully to focus his eyes and clung to Alexei's arms like a limp sack.

   'Ni-kolka!' Someone's voice boomed out through the fog and black spots, and it took Alexei several seconds to realise that the voice was his own. 'Nikolka!' he repeated. A white lavatory wall swung open and turned green. 'God, how sickening, how disgusting. I swear I'll never mix vodka and wine again. Nikol . . .'

   'Ah-ah', Myshlaevsky groaned hoarsely and sat down on the floor.

   A black crack widened and through it appeared Nikolka's head and chevron.

   'Nikol. . . help me to get him up. There, pick him up like this, under his arm.'

   'Poor fellow', muttered Nikolka shaking his head sympathetically and straining himself to pick up his friend. The half-lifeless body slithered around, twitching legs slid in every direction and the lolling head hung like a puppet's on a string. Tonk-tank went the clock, as it fell off the wall and jumped back into place again. Bunches of flowers danced a jig in the vase. Elena's face was flushed with red patches and a lock of hair dangled over her right eyebrow.

   'That's right. Now put him to bed.'

   'At least wrap him in a bathrobe. He's indecent like that with me around. You damned fools - you can't hold your drink. Viktor! Viktor! What's the matter with you? Vik . . .'

   'Shut up, Elena. You're no help. Listen, Nikolka, in my study . . . there's a medicine bottle ... it says "Liquor ammonii", you can tell because the corner of the label's torn off . . . anyway, you can't mistake the smell of sal ammoniac.'

   'Yes, right away . . .'

   'You, a doctor - you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alexei. ..'

   'All right, I know . . .'

   'What? Has his pulse stopped?'