cleanliness on stage.”
Prince Sobakin says nothing, but nods. Then he speaks:
“Tell me, gentlemen, does hydrogen sulfide, which our valiant warriors fart—does it burn?”
The observer nods. “It burns.”
“Well, if it burns,” the prince continues, twisting his mustached, “then what does Europe have to fear from our farts?”
Now that’s a member of the Inner Circle for you! He sees right to the bottom of things! You can heat European cities with Russian farts! Everyone grows thoughtful. I blame my brain: I didn’t catch on to an obvious thing! But then, my education was in the humanities…
The director pales and coughs nervously.
The observer scratches his beard. “Hmm. Yes…there’s a little discrepancy…”
“A blunder in the script!” The culture head lifts a fat finger in forewarning. “Who’s the author?”
In the darkness of the hall a lean man in glasses and a belted peasant shirt appears.
“My good man, how did you slip up like this? The story of our gas is as old as the world!” the culture head asks him.
“I’m at fault. I’ll fix it.”
“Fix it, fix it, my dear,” yawns the prince.
“Just remember that dress rehearsal is the day after tomorrow!” the observer says sternly.
“We’ll make it in time, of course.”
“One more thing,” the prince adds. “On the subject of moles: the ray gun causes his intestines to fall out. It’s a bit too much.”
“What, your Highness?”
“Intestines. Naturalism is out of place here. Fewer gizzards, my man.”
“At your command. We’ll fix everything.”
“And what about the obscenity?” I ask.
The prince glances at me sideways:
“It isn’t obscenity, Sir Oprichnik, but healthy army humor, which helps our Streltsy bear the severe conditions on the far borders of our Motherland.”
Laconic. Can’t argue. The prince is smart. And judging by his cold, sideways look—he doesn’t like us oprichniks. Well, that’s understandable: we step on the Inner Circle’s toes, we breathe down their necks.
“What else is there?” the prince asks, taking out a nail file.
“The aria of Ivan Susanin.”
Don’t have to watch that one. I rise, bow, and head toward the exit. Suddenly in the darkness someone grabs me by the hand:
“Sir, Sir Oprichnik, I beg of you!”
A woman.
“Who are you?” I pull my hand away.
“I beg of you, hear me out!” she says in a hot, fitful whisper. “I’m the wife of the arrested scribe Koretsky.”
“Get away, you Zemstvo spawn.”
“I beg you, I beg of you!” She falls on her knees and grabs my legs.
“Away with you.” I kick her in the chest with my boot.
She lies on the floor. Then, from behind me—another pair of hot female hands, and more whispering:
“Andrei Danilovich, we beg you, beg you!”
I grab my dagger from its scabbard:
“Away, you whores!”
Thin hands recoil in the darkness:
“Andrei Danilovich, I am not a whore. I am Uliana Sergeevna Kozlova.”
Ah! The prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Theatre. His Majesty’s favorite, the best Odile and Giselle of all…I didn’t recognize her in the dark. I look closer. Yes—it’s her. And the Zemstvo bitch lies prone. I remove my dagger:
“Madame, how may I be of service?”
Kozlova comes closer. Her face, like the faces of all ballerinas, is far more ordinary than on stage. And she’s not in the least tall.
“Andrei Danilovich,” she whispers, glancing at the dim stage, where Susanin, with his stick and sheepskin coat, sings his aria slowly, “I beseech you to intercede, I implore you in the name of all the saints, I beg you with my heart! Klavdia Lvovna is the godmother of my children, she’s my closest, most beloved friend, she’s an honest, pure, God-fearing woman, together we built a school for orphans, an orphanage, a neat, spacious school, where orphans study. I beg of you, we beg of you…the day after tomorrow Klavdia Lvovna will be sent to the settlement, there’s only a day left, I
Prince Sobakin says nothing, but nods. Then he speaks:
“Tell me, gentlemen, does hydrogen sulfide, which our valiant warriors fart—does it burn?”
The observer nods. “It burns.”
“Well, if it burns,” the prince continues, twisting his mustached, “then what does Europe have to fear from our farts?”
Now that’s a member of the Inner Circle for you! He sees right to the bottom of things! You can heat European cities with Russian farts! Everyone grows thoughtful. I blame my brain: I didn’t catch on to an obvious thing! But then, my education was in the humanities…
The director pales and coughs nervously.
The observer scratches his beard. “Hmm. Yes…there’s a little discrepancy…”
“A blunder in the script!” The culture head lifts a fat finger in forewarning. “Who’s the author?”
In the darkness of the hall a lean man in glasses and a belted peasant shirt appears.
“My good man, how did you slip up like this? The story of our gas is as old as the world!” the culture head asks him.
“I’m at fault. I’ll fix it.”
“Fix it, fix it, my dear,” yawns the prince.
“Just remember that dress rehearsal is the day after tomorrow!” the observer says sternly.
“We’ll make it in time, of course.”
“One more thing,” the prince adds. “On the subject of moles: the ray gun causes his intestines to fall out. It’s a bit too much.”
“What, your Highness?”
“Intestines. Naturalism is out of place here. Fewer gizzards, my man.”
“At your command. We’ll fix everything.”
“And what about the obscenity?” I ask.
The prince glances at me sideways:
“It isn’t obscenity, Sir Oprichnik, but healthy army humor, which helps our Streltsy bear the severe conditions on the far borders of our Motherland.”
Laconic. Can’t argue. The prince is smart. And judging by his cold, sideways look—he doesn’t like us oprichniks. Well, that’s understandable: we step on the Inner Circle’s toes, we breathe down their necks.
“What else is there?” the prince asks, taking out a nail file.
“The aria of Ivan Susanin.”
Don’t have to watch that one. I rise, bow, and head toward the exit. Suddenly in the darkness someone grabs me by the hand:
“Sir, Sir Oprichnik, I beg of you!”
A woman.
“Who are you?” I pull my hand away.
“I beg of you, hear me out!” she says in a hot, fitful whisper. “I’m the wife of the arrested scribe Koretsky.”
“Get away, you Zemstvo spawn.”
“I beg you, I beg of you!” She falls on her knees and grabs my legs.
“Away with you.” I kick her in the chest with my boot.
She lies on the floor. Then, from behind me—another pair of hot female hands, and more whispering:
“Andrei Danilovich, we beg you, beg you!”
I grab my dagger from its scabbard:
“Away, you whores!”
Thin hands recoil in the darkness:
“Andrei Danilovich, I am not a whore. I am Uliana Sergeevna Kozlova.”
Ah! The prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Theatre. His Majesty’s favorite, the best Odile and Giselle of all…I didn’t recognize her in the dark. I look closer. Yes—it’s her. And the Zemstvo bitch lies prone. I remove my dagger:
“Madame, how may I be of service?”
Kozlova comes closer. Her face, like the faces of all ballerinas, is far more ordinary than on stage. And she’s not in the least tall.
“Andrei Danilovich,” she whispers, glancing at the dim stage, where Susanin, with his stick and sheepskin coat, sings his aria slowly, “I beseech you to intercede, I implore you in the name of all the saints, I beg you with my heart! Klavdia Lvovna is the godmother of my children, she’s my closest, most beloved friend, she’s an honest, pure, God-fearing woman, together we built a school for orphans, an orphanage, a neat, spacious school, where orphans study. I beg of you, we beg of you…the day after tomorrow Klavdia Lvovna will be sent to the settlement, there’s only a day left, I
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