Fifty-Two Stories

CHAPTER SEVEN / AN UNSUCCESSFUL DEBUT

One fine evening the master walked into the room with the dirty wallpaper and, rubbing his hands, said:

“Well…”

He wanted to say something more, but did not say it and left. Auntie had made a close study of his face and voice during her lessons, and she could tell that he was disturbed, worried, maybe even angry. A little later he came back and said:

“Today I’ll take Auntie and Fyodor Timofeyich with me. Today, in the Egyptian Pyramid, you, Auntie, will replace the late Ivan Ivanych. Devil knows what will come of it! Nothing’s ready, nothing’s been learned by heart, we haven’t rehearsed enough! It’ll be a disgrace, a flop!”

Then he went out again and came back after a minute in a fur coat and top hat. Going over to the cat, he picked him up by the front paws and put him on his chest inside the fur coat, to which Fyodor Timofeyich seemed very indifferent and did not even bother opening his eyes. For him, clearly, it was decidedly all the same: to lie down, or to be picked up by the feet, to sprawl on his mat, or to rest on his master’s chest under the fur coat…

“Let’s go, Auntie,” said the master.

Understanding nothing, Auntie wagged her tail and followed him. Soon she was sitting in a sleigh at her master’s feet, and heard him say, shivering with cold and worry:

“It’ll be a disgrace! A flop!”

The sleigh pulled up in front of a large, peculiar building that looked like a turned-over soup tureen. The long, wide entrance of the building with its three glass doors was lighted by a dozen bright lanterns. The doors opened with a loud clang and, like mouths, swallowed up the people who were milling around by the entrance. There were many people; horses, too, trotted up to the entrance, but there were no dogs to be seen.

The master picked Auntie up and shoved her under his coat with Fyodor Timofeyich. It was dark and stuffy there, but it was warm. Two dull green sparks flashed for a second—the cat, disturbed by his neighbor’s cold, rough paws, opened his eyes. Auntie licked his ear and, trying to make herself comfortable, squirmed and crushed the cat under her cold paws and accidentally stuck her head out of the fur coat, but at once gave an angry growl and ducked back inside. She thought she had seen a huge, poorly lit room full of monsters. Horrible heads peered out from the partitions and bars that lined both sides of the room: horses with horns or with enormous ears, and one huge fat mug with a tail where its nose should be and two long gnawed bones sticking out of its mouth.

The cat meowed hoarsely under Auntie’s paws, but at that moment the coat was thrown open, the master said, “Hup!” and Fyodor Timofeyich and Auntie jumped to the floor. They were now in a little room with gray plank walls; here, besides a small table with a mirror, a stool, and rags hung in a corner, there was no furniture at all, and instead of a lamp or a candle, a fan-shaped light attached to a little tube in the wall was burning brightly. Fyodor Timofeyich licked his fur where Auntie had rumpled it, got under the stool and lay down. The master, still nervous and rubbing his hands, began to undress…He undressed in the same way he usually did at home, preparing to lie down under the flannel blanket, that is, he took off everything except his underclothes, then sat on the stool and, looking in the mirror, started doing the most amazing things to himself. First he put on a wig with a part down the middle and two tufts of hair sticking up like horns. Then he smeared a thick coat of white stuff on his face, and over the white he painted eyebrows, a moustache, and red spots on his cheeks. But his antics did not stop there. Having made such a mess of his face and neck, he began getting into an outlandish, incongruous costume, unlike anything Auntie had ever seen before, either at home or outside. Imagine a pair of the baggiest trousers, made out of chintz with a big flowery print such as is used in tradesmen’s houses for curtains or slipcovers, trousers that came up to the armpits, one leg of brown chintz, the other of bright yellow. Having sunk into them, the master then put on a short chintz jacket with a big ruffled collar and a gold star on the back, socks of different colors, and green shoes…

Auntie’s eyes and soul were dazzled. The white-faced, baggy figure smelled like her master, the voice was her master’s familiar voice, yet at moments she had great doubts and almost wanted to back away and bark at this colorful figure. The new place, the fan-shaped light, the smell, the metamorphosis that had come over her master—all this instilled a vague fear in her and a presentiment that she was sure to meet some horror like a fat mug with a tail in place of a nose. What’s more, they were playing hateful music somewhere outside the wall and every now and then an incomprehensible roar was heard. Only Fyodor Timofeyich’s calmness reassured her. He was most quietly napping under the stool, and didn’t open his eyes even when the stool was moved.

A man in a tailcoat and white vest looked into the room and said:

“Miss Arabella is just going on. You’re next.”

The master didn’t answer. He took a small suitcase from under the table, sat down, and waited. From his trembling lips and hands one could see that he was nervous, and Auntie could hear him breathing in short gasps.

“Monsieur Georges, you’re on!” someone called outside the door. The master stood up, crossed himself three times, took the cat from under the stool, and put him in the suitcase.

“Come, Auntie,” he said softly.

Auntie, who had no idea what was happening, went up to him. He kissed her on the head and put her in next to Fyodor Timofeyich. Then it became dark. Auntie stepped all over the cat, and clawed at the sides of the suitcase, but she was so frightened that she couldn’t utter a sound. The suitcase rocked and swayed as if it were floating on water…

“Here I am!” the master shouted loudly. “Here I am!” After this shout, Auntie felt the suitcase hit against something solid and stop swaying. There was a loud, deep roar. It sounded as if someone were being slapped, and someone—probably the fat mug with a tail where its nose should be—roared and laughed so loudly that the latch on the suitcase rattled. In response to the roar, the master laughed in a shrill, squeaky voice, not at all the way he laughed at home.

“Ha!” he yelled, trying to outshout the roar. “Most esteemed public! I’ve just come from the station! My granny dropped dead and left me an inheritance! The suitcase is very heavy—gold, obviously…Ha-a! And suddenly we’ve got a million here! Let’s open it right now and have a look…”

The latch clicked. Bright light struck Auntie’s eyes. She jumped out of the suitcase and, deafened by the roar, ran around her master as fast as she could go, yelping all the while.

“Ha!” shouted the master. “Uncle Fyodor Timofeyich! Dear Auntie! My nice relatives, devil take you all!”

He fell down on the sand, grabbed Auntie and the cat, and started hugging them. Auntie, while he was squeezing her in his embrace, caught a glimpse of that world which fate had brought her to and, struck by its immensity, froze for a moment in amazement and rapture, then tore herself from his arms and, from the keenness of the impression, spun in place like a top. This new world was big and full of bright light, and everywhere she looked from floor to ceiling there were faces, faces, nothing but faces.

“Auntie, allow me to offer you a seat!” the master shouted.

Remembering what that meant, Auntie jumped up on the chair and sat. She looked at her master. His eyes were serious and kind, as usual, but his face, especially his mouth and teeth, were distorted by a wide, fixed grin. He himself guffawed, leaped about, hunched his shoulders, and pretended to be very happy in front of the thousands of faces. Auntie believed in his happiness, and suddenly felt with her whole body that those thousands of faces were all looking at her, and she raised her foxlike head and howled joyfully.

“Sit there, Auntie,” the master said to her, “while Uncle and I dance a kamerinsky.”

Fyodor Timofeyich, while waiting until he was forced to do stupid things, stood and glanced about indifferently. He danced sluggishly, carelessly, glumly, and by his movements, by his tail and whiskers, one could see that he deeply despised the crowd, the bright lights, his master, and himself…Having done his part, he yawned and sat down.

“Well, Auntie,” said the master, “now you and I will sing a song, and then we’ll dance. All right?”

He took a little flute from his pocket and started playing. Auntie, who couldn’t stand music, fidgeted on her chair uneasily and howled. Roars and applause came from all sides. The master bowed, and when things quieted down, he continued playing…Just as he hit a very high note, someone high up in the audience gasped loudly.

“Daddy!” a child’s voice cried. “That’s Kashtanka!”

“Kashtanka it is!” confirmed a cracked, drunken little tenor. “Kashtanka! Fedyushka, so help me God, it’s Kashtanka! Phweet!”

A whistle came from the top row, and two voices, one a boy’s and the other a man’s, called out:

“Kashtanka! Kashtanka!”

Auntie was startled, and looked in the direction of the voices. Two faces—one hairy, drunk, and grinning and the other chubby, pink-cheeked, and frightened—struck her eyes as the bright light had done earlier…She remembered, fell off the chair, floundered in the sand, jumped up, and with a joyful yelp ran toward those faces. There was a deafening roar, pierced by whistles and the shrill shout of a child:

“Kashtanka! Kashtanka!”

Auntie jumped over the barrier, then over someone’s shoulder, and landed in a box seat. To get to the next tier, she had to leap a high wall. She leaped, but not high enough, and slid back down the wall. Then she was picked up and passed from hand to hand, she licked hands and faces, she kept getting higher and higher, and at last she reached the top row…

Half an hour later, Kashtanka was walking down the street, following the people who smelled of glue and varnish. Luka Alexandrych staggered as he went, and instinctively, having been taught by experience, kept as far as possible from the gutter.

“Lying in the abyss of sinfulness in my womb…,” he muttered. “And you, Kashtanka, are a bewilderment. Compared to a man, you’re like a carpenter compared to a cabinetmaker.”

Fedyushka walked beside him wearing his father’s cap. Kashtanka watched their backs, and it seemed to her that she had been happily following them all this time, and that her life had not been interrupted for a single moment.

She remembered the little room with dirty wallpaper, the goose, Fyodor Timofeyich, the tasty dinners, the lessons, the circus, but it all now seemed to her like a long, confused, and painful dream…

1887