x
"Bravo!’ the cigar puffer cried.
And suddenly Lydia and Mishin fell into each other’s arms and kissed….and kissed…and carried on smooching passionately for an inordinately long time. Aho seemed to have missed his cue. Or maybe he was delaying his entry out of mischief. The audience ooh-ed and aaaah-ed.
At long last Aho did bustle in, waving an axe. He was followed by several extras recruited from among the Governor’s own servants. These men were a little unsure as to what was actually going on, and visibly nervous to be hauling gardening tools into the best room in the house. But this was all part of the fun. The spectators cackled at the gardener with his rake and the coachmen with a pitchfork in his hand and other workmen wielding spades as cudgels. +
"Holy Saints!" shrieked Aho as he caught side of Lydia and Mishin locked in an embrace.
Lydia contrived to look demure. With eyes downcast, he delivered her punch line. "Vlad, you can tell them that Randy isn’t to have any oats, today! So much for her recently deceased husband’s favorite horse."
And that was that. Since there was no curtain---save for the curtains at the windows---Lydia, Mishin and Aho all stood stock still for a few moments, before stepping forward in unison. Lydia to curtsey, the two men to bow deeply from the waist.
259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgBc3fc1HOe
259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcGI5M9SoLI
259Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡh6ZSTXZpQa
The audience burst into applause---and the extras milled about in confusion, till Mishin noticed and chased them gruffly off. Fleeing, the servants crushed through the doorway in a pack, and the rake got jammed across it.
A heckler cried out, "Author! Author!" Turning about in their seats, everyone took up the call. Eric rose reluctantly and bowed.
"Speech! Speech! Speech!"
"No, please…" He spread out his hands beseechingly. "All the credit rightfully belong to our fine actors."
Aho brandished the axe aloft. "Not a speech about this! A speech about the expedition!"
"Absolutely so!" seconded the bewhiskered gentleman, who had recovered consciousness the moment the play was over. "To the front with you, man!"
During Eric's speech, Lydia passed blithely amongst the audience bearing a collecting bowl---which, a little later, she announced had netted a thousand rubles. Once again---what a farce, in both senses! ---The Bear had bailed Eric out!
Servants carried the chairs aside to clear the floor for dancing and drinking; and a buffet was wheeled in. Immediately half the men made a bee line for it.
Gaily Lydia handed Eric's gun back to him. "Come and chat with the Governor, Eric Saveli! Vlad!" she called to Aho, "do get rid of that axe. You look like a madman."
"Vlad," indeed? Was Lydia was still carrying on the drama in her head? Either it was the sign of the great actress, or a monomaniac.
Three musicians arrived, bearing fiddles and a guitar. "Surely I don't have to dance!" thought Eric. I'll be the bear, then! I'll be the capering, baited bear!
The original bear, Mishin, was deep in conversation with Governor Pajari. Lydia tugged at Eric's sleeve, and he pocketed the gun hastily as she drew him towards the Governor, to join in.
How many fathers or grandfathers of people in this very room had once similarly skulked towards someone in authority, with a weapon or a petition or an incriminating letter concealed about their person? It occurred to him that Exiles might be a good title for a comedy---or maybe not. Even if it was a knock-about farce, with a title like that it probably hadn't a cat in Hell's chance of passing the Censor. Still, it could make a publishable story, something to give the lie to all those smart brats at Russian Idea with their beady, liberal eyes trained remorselessly on Mr. Delko. Now, was this any way for an honest writer to think?
As he waited his turn to speak, a vivid fantasy overwhelmed him. He yearned for a summerhouse overlooking a little orchard, rather than the infinite forests hereabouts. Yes, with a good fishing stream nearby instead of a raging Siberian torrent.
But any summerhouse he bought would more than likely suffer from a severe woodworm infestation, and the trees in the orchard would likely suffer from blight. But the stream, ah, the stream! He could sit on its bank for hours on end with a rod in his hand, while the world and life degenerated all about him until the cold death of everything.
Indubitably there must be an orchard somewhere! For that matter, the whole world could be an orchard someday. What a hope, he thought. Ah, he could only hope.
The Governor clapped a hand on him.
"Eric Saveli, I haven't laughed so hard since the Czar appointed me governor of this wasteland! Please, oh, please, share with me the secrets of your comic talent!
