Fifty-Two Stories

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.