Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

off the premises." "Not for personal gain. . . ." "Bagration!"

Father Theodore fled in terror, while the engineer went into the

dining-room and sat down to the goose. Bruns's favourite bird had a soothing

effect on him. He began to calm down.

Just as the engineer was about to pop a goose leg into his pink mouth,

having first wrapped a piece of cigarette paper around the bone, the face of

the priest appeared appealingly at the window.

"Not for personal gain," said a soft voice. "Fifty-five roubles." The

engineer let out a roar without turning around. Father Theodore disappeared.

The whole of that day Father Theodore's figure kept appearing at

different points near the house. At one moment it was seen coming out of the

shade of the cryptomeria, at another it rose from a mandarin grove; then it

raced across the back yard and, fluttering, dashed towards the botanical

garden.

The whole day the engineer kept calling for Moosie, complaining about

the crackpot and his own headache. From time to time Father Theodore's voice

could be heard echoing through the dusk.

"A hundred and eight," he called from somewhere in the sky. A moment

later his voice came from the direction of Dumbasoc's house.

"A hundred and forty-one. Not for personal gain, Mr. Brans, but merely

. . ."

At length the engineer could stand it no longer; he came out on to the

verandah and, peering into the darkness, began shouting very clearly:

"Damn you! Two hundred roubles then. Only leave us alone." There was a

rustle of disturbed bamboo, the sound of a soft groan and fading footsteps,

then all was quiet.

Stars floundered in the bay. Fireflies chased after Father Theodore and

circled round his head, casting a greenish medicinal glow on his face.

"Now the goose is flown," muttered the engineer, going inside.

Meanwhile, Father Theodore was speeding along the coast in the last bus in

the direction of Batumi. A slight surf washed right up to the side of him;

the wind blew in his face, and the bus hooted in reply to the whining

jackals.

That evening Father Theodore sent a telegram to his wife in the town of

N.

GOODS FOUND STOP WIRE ME TWO HUNDRED THIRTY STOP SELL ANYTHING STOP

THEO

For two days he loafed about elatedly near Bruns's house, bowing to

Moosie in the distance, and even making the tropical distances resound with

shouts of "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes of my wife who

sent me."

Two days later the money was received together with a desperate

telegram:

SOLD EVERYTHING STOP NOT A CENT LEFT STOP KISSES AND AM WAITING STOP

EVSTIGNEYEV STILL HAVING MEALS STOP KATEY

Father Theodore counted the money, crossed himself frenziedly, hired a

cart, and drove to the Green Cape.

The weather was dull. A wind from the Turkish frontier blew across

thunderclouds. The strip of blue sky became narrower and narrower. The wind

was near gale force. It was forbidden to take boats to sea and to bathe.

Thunder rumbled above Batumi. The gale shook the coast.

Reaching Bruns's house, the priest ordered the Adzhar driver to wait

and went to fetch the furniture.

"I've brought the money," said Father Theodore. "You ought to lower

your price a bit."

"Moosie," groaned the engineer, "I can't stand any more of this."

"No, no, I've brought the money," said Father Theodore hastily, "two

hundred, as you said."

"Moosie, take the money and give him the chairs, and let's get it over

with. I've a headache."

His life ambition was achieved. The candle factory in Samara was

falling into his lap. The jewels were pouring into his pocket like seeds.

Twelve chairs were loaded into the cart one after another. They were

very like Vorobyaninov's chairs, except that the covering was not flowered

chintz, but rep with blue and pink stripes.

Father Theodore was overcome with impatience. Under his shirt behind a

twisted cord he had tucked a hatchet. He sat next to the driver and,

constantly looking round at the chairs, drove to Batumi. The spirited horses

carried the holy father and his treasure down along the highway past the

Finale restaurant, where the wind swept across the bamboo tables and

arbours, past a tunnel that was swallowing up the last few tank cars of an

oil train, past the photographer, deprived that overcast day of his usual

clientele, past a sign reading "Batumi Botanical Garden", and carried him,

not too quickly, along the very line of surf. At the point where the road

touched the rocks, Father Theodore was soaked with salty spray. Rebuffed by

the rocks, the waves turned into waterspouts and, rising up to the sky,

slowly fell back again.

The jolting and the spray from the surf whipped Father Theodore's

troubled spirit into a frenzy. Struggling against the wind, the horses

slowly approached Makhinjauri. From every side the turbid green waters

hissed and swelled. Right up to Batumi the white surf swished like the edge

of a petticoat peeking from under the skirt of a slovenly woman.

"Stop!" Father Theodore suddenly ordered the driver. "Stop,

Mohammedan!"

Trembling and stumbling, he started to unload the chairs on to the

deserted shore. The apathetic Adzhar received his five roubles, whipped up

the horses and rode off. Making sure there was no one about, Father Theodore

carried the chairs down from the rocks on to a dry patch of sand and took

out his hatchet.

For a moment he hesitated, not knowing where to start. Then, like a man

walking in his sleep, he went over to the third chair and struck the back a

ferocious blow with the hatchet. The chair toppled over undamaged.

"Aha!" shouted Father Theodore. "I'll show you!"

And he flung himself on the chair as though it had been a live animal.

In a trice the chair had been hacked to ribbons. Father Theodore could not

hear the sound of the hatchet against the wood, cloth covering, and springs.

All sounds were drowned by the powerful roar of the gale.

"Aha! Aha! Aha!" cried the priest, swinging from the shoulder.

One by one the chairs were put out of action. Father Theodore's fury

increased more and more. So did the fury of the gale. Some of the waves came

up to his feet.

From Batumi to Sinop there was a great din. The sea raged and vented

its spite on every little ship. The S.S. Lenin sailed towards Novorossisk

with its two funnels smoking and its stern plunging low in the water. The

gale roared across the Black Sea, hurling thousand-ton breakers on to the

shore of Trebizond, Yalta, Odessa and Konstantsa. Beyond the still in the

Bosporus and the Dardanelles surged the Mediterranean. Beyond the Straits of

Gibraltar, the Atlantic smashed against the shores of Europe. A belt of

angry water encircled the world.

And on the Batumi shore stood Father Theodore, bathed in sweat and

hacking at the final chair. A moment later it was all over. Desperation

seized him. With a dazed look at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs,

he turned back. The water grabbed him by the feet. He lurched forward and

ran soaked to the road. A huge wave broke on the spot where he had been a

moment before and, swirling back, washed away the mutilated furniture.

Father Theodore no longer saw anything. He staggered along the road, hunched

and hugging his fist to his chest.

He went into Batumi, unable to see anything about him. His position was

the most terrible thing of all. Three thousand miles from home and twenty