The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories

The count-master replies that for him such an opinion is even strange.

“If I start acting that way myself,” he says, “what can I demand of my people after that? Arkashka has been told that I’ve decided so, and everybody knows it, and for that he’s kept better than any of them, and if he ever dares to touch anyone else but me with his art—I’ll have him flogged to death and sent for a soldier.”

His brother says:

“It’ll be one or the other: either flogged to death or sent for a soldier, you can’t do both.”

“All right,” says the count, “let it be as you say: not to death, but half to death, and then sent.”

“And that,” the other says, “is your last word?”

“Yes, my last.”

“And that’s all there is to it?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Well, in that case it’s fine, otherwise I’d have thought you hold your own brother cheaper than a bonded serf. Don’t change your word, then, but send me Arkashka to clip my poodle. And there it’s my business what he does.”

The count felt awkward denying him that.

“All right,” he says, “I’ll send him to clip your poodle.”

“Well, that’s all I need.”

He shook the count’s hand and left.

VIII

It was that time before evening, at dusk, in winter, when the lamps are lit.

The count summons Arkady and says:

“Go to my brother’s house and clip his poodle for him.”

Arkady asks:

“Will that be your only order?”

“Nothing more,” says the count. “But come back quickly to make up the actresses. Lyuba has to be made up for three roles today, and after the theater present her to me as St. Cecilia.”

Arkady staggered.

The count says:

“What’s the matter?”

Arkady replies:

“Sorry, I tripped on the rug.”

The count hints:

“Look out, that doesn’t bode well!”

But Arkady’s soul was in such a state that it was all the same to him whether it boded well or ill.

He had heard himself ordered to bring me as St. Cecilia, and, as if seeing and hearing nothing, he took his instruments in their leather case and left.

IX

He comes to the count’s brother, who already has candles lit by the mirror and again the two pistols next to it, and there are already not two gold pieces, but ten, and the pistols are loaded, not with blanks, but with Circassian bullets.

The count’s brother says:

“I haven’t got any poodle, but here’s what I want: do me up in the bravest fashion and you get ten gold pieces, but if you cut me, I’ll kill you.”

Arkady looked and looked, and suddenly—God knows what got into him—started clipping and shaving the count’s brother. In one minute he did it all in the best way, poured the gold into his pocket, and said:

“Good-bye.”

The other replies:

“Go, only I’d like to know: what made you so reckless that you dared to do it?”

Arkady says:

“Why I dared—only my breast and what’s inside it know.”

“Or maybe you’ve got a spell on you against bullets, so that you’re not afraid of pistols?”

“Pistols are nothing,” Arkady replies. “I wasn’t even thinking about them.”

“How is that? Did you dare think the count’s word is firmer than mine and I wouldn’t shoot you for cutting me? If there’s no spell on you, your life would have been over.”

At the mention of the count, Arkady gave another start, and as if in half sleep, said:

“There’s no spell on me, but there’s understanding from God: while you were raising your hand with a pistol to shoot me, I’d have cut your throat first with a razor.”

And with that he rushed out and came to the theater just on time and began doing my hair, and he was shaking all over. Each time he curled a lock of my hair, he bent down to blow on it, and whispered:

“Don’t be afraid, I’ll carry you off.”

X

The performance went well, because we were all like stone, used to fear and torment: whatever was in our hearts, we did our job so that nothing could be noticed.

From the stage we saw the count and his brother—the one resembling the other. When they came backstage, it was even hard to tell them apart. Only ours was very, very quiet, as if he’d grown kind. That always happened to him before the greatest ferocity.

And we all went numb and crossed ourselves. “Lord, have mercy upon us and save us! Whoever his bestiality falls upon!”

We didn’t know yet about the insanely desperate thing Arkasha had done, but Arkady himself, of course, understood that there would be no merciness for him, and he turned pale when the count’s brother glanced at him and quietly murmured something to our count. But I had very keen hearing, and I made it out.

“I advise you as a brother: beware of him when he shaves you.”

Ours only smiled quietly.

It seems Arkasha himself heard something, because, when he began making me up as the duchess for the last performance, he—something that never happened to him—put on so much powder that the French costumier started shaking me and said:

“Trop beaucoup, trop beaucoup!”^†—and brushed off the excess.

XI