White and silent Nikolka went back into the kitchen.
'Lord, you're filthy - let me clean you up', cried Anyuta.
'Leave me alone, for God's sake', replied Nikolka and passed on into the apartment wiping his frozen hands on his trousers. 'Larion, you may punch me on the jaw', he said to Lariosik, who blinked, then stared and said:
'Why, Nikolashka? There's no need for despair.' He began
timidly to brush the snow from Nikolka's back with his hands. 'Apart from the fact that if Alyosha recovers - which pray God he does - he will never forgive me,' Nikolka went on, 'it means I've lost the Colt that belonged to Colonel Nai-Turs! I'd rather have been killed myself! It's God's punishment on me for sneering at Vasilisa. I feel bad enough about Vasilisa as it is, but it's far worse for me now because those were the guns they used to rob him. Although anyone could rob him without a gun at all, he's so feeble . . . What a man. God, it's a terrible business. Come on, Larion, get some paper and we'll mend the window.'
#
That night Nikolka, Myshlaevsky and Lariosik crawled into the gap with axe, hammer and nails to mend the fence. Nikolka himself frenziedly drove in the long, thick nails so far that their points stuck out on the far side. Later still they went out with candles on to the verandah, from where they climbed through the cold storeroom into the attic. There, above the apartment, they clambered everywhere, squeezing between the hot water pipes and trunks full of clothes, until they had cut a listening-hole in the ceiling.
When he heard about the expedition to the attic, Vasilisa showed the liveliest interest and joined them in crawling around among the beams, thoroughly approving of everything that Myshlaevsky was doing.
'What a pity you didn't warn us somehow. You should have sent Wanda Mikhailovna up to us by the back door', said Nikolka, wax dripping from his candle.
'That wouldn't have done much good', Myshlaevsky objected. 'By the time they were in the apartment the game was up. You don't believe they wouldn't have put up a fight, do you? Of course they would - and how. You'd have had a bullet in your belly before there was time to reach us. And that would have been that. No - your best bet was never to have let them in by the front door at all.'
'But they threatened to shoot through the door, Viktor Viktoro-vich', said Vasilisa pathetically.
'They would never have done that', Myshlaevsky replied as he banged away with the hammer. 'Not a chance of it. That would have brought the whole street down on their heads.'
Later still that night Karas found himself luxuriating like Louis XIV in the Lisovichs' apartment. This was preceded by the following conversation:
'Oh no, they won't come back again tonight', said Myshlaevsky.
'No, no, no', Wanda and Vasilisa replied in chorus on the staircase, 'please - we beg you or Fyodor Nikolaevich to come down and spend the rest of the night with us - please! It won't be any trouble to you. Wanda Mikhailovna will make tea for you, and we'll make you up a comfortable bed. Please come tonight - and tomorrow too. We must have another man in the apartment.'
'Otherwise I won't sleep a wink', added Wanda, wrapping herself in an angora shawl.
'And there's a drop or two of brandy in the house to keep the cold out', said Vasilisa in an unexpectedly devil-may-care voice.
'Go on, Karas', said Myshlaevsky.
So Karas went and settled in comfortably. Brains and thin soup with vegetable oil were, as might be expected, no more than a symptom of the loathsome disease of meanness with which Vasilisa had infected his wife. In reality there were considerable treasures concealed in the depths of their apartment, treasures known only to Wanda. There appeared on the dining-room table a jar of pickled mushrooms, veal, cherry jam and a bottle of real, good Shustov's brandy with a bell on the label. Karas called for a glass for Wanda Mikhailovna and poured some out for her.
'Not a full glass!' cried Wanda.
With a despairing gesture Vasilisa obeyed Karas and drank a glassful.
'Don't forget, Vasya - it's not good for you', said Wanda tenderly.
After Karas had explained authoritatively that brandy never harmed anyone and that mixed with milk it was even given to
people suffering from anaemia, Vasilisa drank a second glass. His cheeks turned pink and his forehead broke out in sweat. Karas drank five glasses and was soon in excellent spirits. 'Feed her up a bit and she wouldn't be at all bad', he thought as he looked at Wanda.
Then Karas praised the layout of the Lisovichs' apartment and discussed the arrangements for signalling to the Turbins: one bell was installed in the kitchen, another in the lobby. At the slightest sign they were to ring upstairs. And if anyone had to go and open the front door it would be Myshlaevsky, who knew what to do in case of trouble.
Karas was loud in praise of the apartment: it was comfortable and well furnished. There was only one thing wrong - it was cold.
That night Vasilisa himself fetched logs and with his own hands lit the stove in the drawing-room. Having undressed, Karas lay down on a couch between two luxurious sheets and felt extremely well and comfortable. Vasilisa, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, came in, sat down in an armchair and said:
'L can't sleep, so do you mind if we sit and talk for a while?'
The stove was burning low. Calm at last, settled in his armchair, Vasilisa sighed and said:
'That's how it goes, Fyodor Nikolaevich. Everything I've earned in a lifetime of hard work has disappeared in one evening into the pockets of those scoundrels ... by violence. Don't think I rejected the revolution - oh no, I fully understand the historical reasons which caused it all.'
A crimson glow played over Vasilisa's face and on the clasps of his suspenders. Feeling pleasantly languorous from the brandy, Karas was beginning to doze, whilst trying to keep his face in a look of polite attention.
'But you must agree that here in Russia, this most backward country, the revolution has already degenerated into savagery and chaos . . . Look what has happened: in less than two years we have been deprived of any protection by the law, of the very minimal protection of our rights as human beings and citizens. The English have an expression . . .'
'M'mm, yes, the English . . . They, of course . . .' Karas mumbled, feeling that a soft wall was beginning to divide him from Vasilisa.
'. . . but here - how can one say "my home is my castle" when even in your own apartment, behind seven locks, there's no guarantee that a gang like that one which got in here today won't come and take away not only your property but, who knows, your life as well!'
'We'll prevent it with our signalling system', Karas replied rather vaguely in a sleepy voice.
'But Fyodor Nikolaevich! There's more to the problem than just a signalling system! No signalling system is going to stop the ruin and decay which have eaten into people's souls. Our signalling system is a particular case, but let's suppose it goes wrong?'
'Then we'll fix it', answered Karas happily.
'But you can't build a whole way of life on a warning system and a few revolvers. That's not the point. I'm talking in broader terms, generalising from a single instance, if you like. The fact is that the most important thing of all has disappeared -1 mean respect for property. And once that happens, it's the end. We're finished. I'm a convinced democrat by nature and I come from a poor background. My father was just a foreman on the railroad. Everything you can see here and everything those rogues stole from me today - all that was earned by my own efforts. And believe me I never defended the old regime, on the contrary, I can admit to you in secret I belonged to the Constitutional Democrat party, but now that I've seen with my own eyes what this revolution's turning into, then I swear to you I am horribly convinced that there's only one thing that can save us . . .' From some point in the fuzzy cocoon in which Karas was wrapped came the whispered word: '. . '. Autocracy. Yes, sir . . . the most ruthless dictatorship imaginable . . . it's our only hope . . . Autocracy . . .'