nightfall, or else I'm automatically removing you from the list of shareholders in the concession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ." "Yes," mumbled the marshal. "In that case, repeat the words." "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma." "Once again. Make it more heart-rending." Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words. "All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go. The rendezvous is at midnight here by the spring. That's not for romantic reasons, mind you, but simply because people give more in the evening." "What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?" "Don't worry about me. As usual, I shall be where things are most difficult." The friends went their ways. Ostap hurried to a small stationery shop, bought a book of receipts with his last ten-kopek bit, and sat on a stone block for an hour or so, numbering the receipts and scribbling something on each one. "System above all," he muttered to himself. "Every public kopek must be accounted for." The smooth operator marched up the mountain road that led round Mashuk to the site of Lermontov's duel with Martynov, passing sanatoriums and rest homes. Constantly overtaken by buses and two-horse carriages, he arrived at the Drop. A narrow path cut in the cliff led to a conical drop. At the end of the path was a parapet from which one could see a puddle of stinking malachite at the bottom of the Drop. This Drop is considered one of the sights of Pyatigorsk and is visited by a large number of tourists in the course of a day. Ostap had seen at once that for a man without prejudice the Drop could be a source of income. "What a remarkable thing," mused Ostap, "that the town has never thought of charging ten kopeks to see the Drop. It seems to be the only place where the people of Pyatigorsk allow the sightseers in free. I will remove that blemish on the town's escutcheon and rectify the regrettable omission." And Ostap acted as his reason, instinct, and the situation in hand prompted. He stationed himself at the entrance to the Drop and, rustling the receipt book, called out from time to time: "Buy your tickets here, citizens. Ten kopeks. Children and servicemen free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!" It was a sure bet. The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went to the Drop, and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no great difficulty. The non-union members, of whom there were many in Pyatigorsk, were a great help. They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife: "You see, Tanyusha, what did I tell you? And you said there was no charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?" "You're absolutely right. It would be quite impossible not to charge for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members." Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the Drop in two wagons. Ostap was alarmed and was about to pretend to be an innocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded round the smooth operator so timidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice: "Union members, ten kopeks; but since representatives of the militia can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks." The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what purpose the money was being collected. "For general repairs to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't drop too much." While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of the malachite puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame, stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by, mumbled his three phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ." People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly. However, by exploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pulling at their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of the Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins. The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between. Brightly coloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, and came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying matsoni on the verandah of the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne and sulphur gas. "Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal. "Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah! Ah! First rate!" Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He had changed his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with a playful spotted pattern. He was in unusual spirits and from time to time jumped as much as five or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov did not recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions. "Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald? Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!" Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused marshal's hand and ran off. But for some time afterwards his thick thighs could be glimpsed in various parts of the Flower Garden, and his voice seemed to float down from the trees. "Ah! Ah! 'Don't sing to me, my beauty, of sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They remind me of another life and a distant shore.' 'And in the morning she smiled again.' First rate!" Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he did so. He missed a lot. In the enchanting darkness of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shukin strolled through the park, dragging after her the submissive and newly reconciled Ernest Pavlovich. The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard battle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud American girl had recently set sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht. "Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!" In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen. Her cheeks were still adorned with sideburns. Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab, washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered. After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan, "By carefully masticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have a holiday and enjoy himself. Fate itself had saved the full-bellied little crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles. Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to the spring as the musicians were folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden. "How much did you collect?" asked Ostap as soon as the marshal's hunched figure appeared at the spring. "Seven roubles, twenty-nine kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest, copper and silver." "For the first go-terrific! An executive's rate! You amaze me, Pussy. But what fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know? You didn't give him change, I hope?" "It was Iznurenkov." "What, really? Absalom! Why, that rolling stone. Where has he rolled to! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn't recognize you!" "He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma. And laughed." "There, you see, marshal, it's not really so bad being a beggar, particularly with a moderate education and a feeble voice. And you were stubborn about it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were the Lord Privy Seal. Well, Pussy my lad, I haven't been wasting my time, either. Fifteen roubles. Altogether that's enough." The next morning the fitter received his money and brought them two chairs in the evening. He claimed it was not possible to get the third chair as the sound effects were playing cards on it. For greater security the friends climbed practically to the top of Mashuk. Beneath, the lights of Pyatigorsk shone strong and steady. Below Pyatigorsk more feeble lights marked Goryachevodsk village. On the horizon Kislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines. Ostap glanced up at the starry sky and took the familiar pliers from his pocket. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN THE GREEN CAPE Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of which cast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his white shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineer was restlessly awaiting his dinner. Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a petulant, chubby little boy: "Moo-oosie!" The house was silent. The tropical flora fawned on the engineer. Cacti stretched out their spiky mittens towards him. Dracaena shrubs rustled their leaves. Banana trees and sago palms chased the flies from his face, and the roses with which the verandah was woven fell at his feet. But all in vain. Bruns was hungry. He glowered petulantly at the mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant cape at Batumi, and called out in a singsong voice: "Moosie, moosie!" The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air. There was no answer. Bruns had visions of a large golden-brown goose with sizzling, greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out: "Moosie, where's the goosie?" "Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on at me." The engineer, who was already pouting his lips into the accustomed shape, promptly answered: "Moosie, you haven't any pity for your little hubby." "Get out, you glutton," came the reply from inside. The engineer did not give in, however. He was just about to continue his appeals for the goose, which had been going on unsuccessfully for two hours, when a sudden rustling made him turn round. From the black-green clumps of bamboo there had emerged a man in torn blue tunic-shirt-belted with a shabby twisted cord with tassels-and frayed striped trousers. The stranger's kindly face was covered with ragged stubble. He was carrying his jacket in his hand. The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice: "Where can I find Engineer Bruns?" "I'm Engineer Bruns," said the goose-charmer in an unexpectedly deep voice. "What can I do for you?" The man silently fell to his knees. It was Father Theodore. "Have you gone crazy? " cried the engineer. "Stand up, please." "I won't," said Father Theodore, following the engineer with his head and gazing at him with bright eyes. "Stand up." "I won't." And carefully, so that it would not hurt, the priest began beating his head against the gravel. "Moosie, come here!" shouted the frightened engineer. "Look what's happening! Please get up. I implore you." "I won't," repeated Father Theodore. Moosie ran out on to the verandah; she was very good at interpreting her husband's intonation. Seeing the lady, Father Theodore promptly crawled over to her and, bowing to her feet, rattled off: "On you, Mother, on you, my dear, on you I lay my hopes." Engineer Bruns thereupon turned red in the face, seized the petitioner under the arms and, straining hard, tried to lift him to his feet. Father Theodore was crafty, however, and tucked up his legs. The disgusted Bruns dragged his extraordinary visitor into a corner and forcibly sat him in a chair (a Hambs chair, not from Vorobyaninov's house, but one belonging to General Popov's wife). "I dare not sit in the presence of high-ranking persons," mumbled Father Theodore, throwing the baker's jacket, which smelt of kerosene, across his knees. And he made another attempt to go down on his knees. With a pitiful cry the engineer restrained him by the shoulders. "Moosie," he said, breathing heavily, "talk to this citizen. There's been some misunderstanding." Moosie at once assumed a businesslike tone. "In my house," she said menacingly, "kindly don't go down on anyone's knees." "Dear lady," said Father Theodore humbly, "Mother!" "I'm not your mother. What do you want? " The priest began burbling something incoherent, but apparently deeply moving. It was only after lengthy questioning that they were able to gather that he was asking them to do him a special favour and sell him the suite of twelve chairs, one of which he was sitting on at that moment. The engineer let go of Father Theodore with surprise, whereupon the latter immediately plumped down on his knees again and began creeping after the engineer like a tortoise. "But why," cried the engineer, trying to dodge Father Theodore's long arms, "why should I sell my chairs? It's no use how much you go down on your knees like that, I just don't understand anything." "But they're my chairs," groaned the holy father. "What do you mean, they're yours? How can they be yours? You're crazy. Moosie, I see it all. This man's a crackpot." "They're mine," repeated the priest in humiliation. "Do you think I stole them from you, then?" asked the engineer furiously. "Did I steal them? Moosie, this is blackmail." "Oh, Lord," whispered Father Theodore. "If I stole them from you, then take the matter to court, but don't cause pandemonium in my house. Did you hear that, Moosie? How impudent can you get? They don't even let a man have his dinner in peace." No, Father Theodore did not want to recover "his" chairs by taking the matter to court. By no means. He knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolen them from him. Oh, no. That was the last idea he had in his mind. But the chairs had nevertheless belonged to him before the revolution, and his wife, who was on her deathbed in Voronezh, was very attached to them. It was to comply with her wishes and not on his own initiative that he had taken the liberty of finding out the whereabouts of the chairs and coming to see Citizen Bruns. Father Theodore was not asking for charity. Oh, no. He was sufficiently well off (he owned a small candle factory in Samara) to sweeten his wife's last few minutes by buying the old chairs. He was ready to splurge and pay twenty roubles for the whole set of chairs. "What?" cried the engineer, growing purple. "Twenty roubles? For a splended drawing-room suite? Moosie, did you hear that? He really is a nut. Honestly he is." "I'm not a nut, but merely complying with the wishes of my wife who sent me." "Oh, hell!" said the engineer. "Moosie, he's at it again. He's crawling around again." "Name your price," moaned Father Theodore, cautiously beating his head against the trunk of an araucaria. "Don't spoil the tree, you crazy man. Moosie, I don't think he's a nut. He's simply distraught at his wife's illness. Shall we sell him the chairs and get rid of him? Otherwise, he'll crack his skull." "And what are we going to sit on?" asked Moosie. "We'll buy some more." "For twenty roubles?" "Suppose I don't sell them for twenty. Suppose I don't sell them for two hundred, but supposing I do sell them for two-fifty?" In response came the sound of a head against a tree. "Moosie, I'm fed up with this!" The engineer went over to Father Theodore, with his mind made up and began issuing an ultimatum. "First, move back from the palm at least three paces; second, stand up at once; third, I'll sell you the chairs for two hundred and fifty and not a kopek less." "It's not for personal gain," chanted Father Theodore, "but merely in compliance with my sick wife's wishes." "Well, old boy, my wife's also sick. That's right, isn't it, Moosie? Your lungs aren't in too good a state, are they? But on the strength of that I'm not asking you to . . . er . . . sell me your jacket for thirty kopeks." "Have it for nothing," exclaimed Father Theodore. The engineer waved him aside in irritation and then said coldly: "Stop your tricks. I'm not going to argue with you any more. I've assessed the worth of the chairs at two hundred and fifty roubles and I'm not shifting one cent." "Fifty," offered the priest. "Moosie," said the engineer, "call Bagration. Let him see this citizen 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 roubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question. Father Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he was advised in a perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contraband Batumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowd of porters. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT UP IN THE CLOUDS Three days after the concessionaires' deal with Mechnikov the fitter, the Columbus Theatre left by railway via Makhacha-Kala and Baku. The whole of these three days the concessionaires, frustrated by the contents of the two chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to bring them the third of the Columbus chairs. But the narzan-tortured fitter converted the whole of the twenty roubles into the purchase of plain vodka and drank himself into such a state that he was kept locked up in the props room. "That's Mineral Waters for you!" said Ostap, when he heard about the theatre's departure. "A useful fool, that fitter. Catch me having dealings with theatre people after this!" Ostap became much more nervy than before. The chances of finding the treasure had increased infinitely. "We need money to get to Vladikavkaz," said Ostap. "From there we'll drive by car to Tiflis along the Georgian Military Highway. Glorious scenery! Magnificent views! Wonderful mountain air! And at the end of it all-one hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks. There is some point in continuing the hearing." But it was not quite so easy to leave Mineral Waters. Vorobyaninov proved to have absolutely no talent for bilking the railway, and so when all attempts to get him aboard a train had failed he had to perform again in the Flower Garden, this time as an educational district ward. This was not at all a success. Two roubles for twelve hours' hard and degrading work, though it was a large enough sum for the fare to Vladikavkaz. At Beslan, Ostap, who was travelling without a ticket, was thrown off the train, and the smooth operator impudently ran behind it for a mile or so, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich. Soon after, Ostap managed to jump on to a train slowly making its way to the Caucasian ridge. From his position on the steps Ostap surveyed with great curiosity the panorama of the mountain range that unfolded before him. It was between three and four in the morning. The mountain-tops were lit by dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains. "Too showy," he said. "Weird kind of beauty. An idiot's imagination. No use at all." At Vladikavkaz station the passengers were met by a large open bus belonging to the Transcaucasian car-hire-and-manufacturing society, and nice, kind people said: "Those travelling by the Georgian Military Highway will be taken into the town free." "Hold on, Pussy," said Ostap. "We want the bus. Let them take us free." When the bus had given him a lift to the centre of the town, however, Ostap was in no hurry to put his name down for a seat in a car. Talking enthusiastically to Ippolit Matveyevich, he gazed admiringly at the view of the cloud-enveloped Table Mountain, but finding that it really was like a table, promptly retired. They had to spend several days in Vladikavkaz. None of their attempts to obtain money for the road fare met with any success, nor provided them with enough money to buy food. An attempt to make the citizens pay ten-kopek bits failed. The mountain ridge was so high and clear that it was not possible to charge for looking at it. It was visible from practically every point, and there were no other beauty spots in Vladikavkaz. There was the Terek, which flowed past the "Trek", but the town charged for entry to that without Ostap's assistance. The alms collected in two days by Ippolit Matveyevich only amounted to thirteen kopeks. "There's only one thing to do," said Ostap. "We'll go to Tiflis on foot. We can cover the hundred miles in five days. Don't worry, dad, the mountain view is delightful and the air is bracing . . . We only need money for bread and salami sausage. You can add a few Italian phrases to your vocabulary, or not, as you like; but by evening you've got to collect at least two roubles. We won't have a chance to eat today, dear chum. Alas! What bad luck!" Early in the morning the partners crossed the little bridge across the Terek river, went around the barracks, and disappeared deep into the green valley along which ran the Georgian Military Highway. "We're in luck, Pussy," said Ostap. "It rained last night so we won't have to swallow the dust. Breathe in the fresh air, marshal. Sing something. Recite some Caucasian poetry and behave as befits the occasion." But Ippolit Matveyevich did not sing or recite poetry. The road went uphill. The nights spent in the open made themselves felt by pains in his side and heaviness in his legs, and the salami sausage made itself felt by a constant and griping indigestion. He walked along, holding in his hand a five-pound loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper, his left foot dragging slightly. On the move again! But this time towards Tiflis; this time along the most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich could not have cared less. He did not look around him as Ostap did. He certainly did not notice the Terek, which now could just be heard rumbling at the bottom of the valley. It was only the ice-capped mountain-tops glistening in the sun which somehow reminded him of a sort of cross between the sparkle of diamonds and the best brocade coffins of Bezenchuk the undertaker. After Balta the road entered and continued as a narrow ledge cut in the dark overhanging cliff. The road spiralled upwards, and by evening the concessionaires reached the village of Lars, about three thousand feet above sea level. They passed the night in a poor native hotel without charge and were even given a glass of milk each for delighting the owner and his guests with card tricks. The morning was so glorious that Ippolit Matveyevich, braced by the mountain air, began to stride along more cheerfully than the day before. Just behind Lars rose the impressive rock wall of the Bokovoi ridge. At this point the Terek valley closed up into a series of narrow gorges. The scenery became more and more sombre, while the inscriptions on the cliffs grew more frequent At the point where the cliffs squeezed the Terek's flow between them to the extent that the span of the bridge was no more than ten feet, the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions on the side of the gorge that Ostap forgot the majestic sight of the Daryal gorge and shouted out, trying to drown the rumble and rushing of the Terek: "Great people! Look at that, marshal! Do you see it? Just a little higher than the cloud and slightly lower than the eagle! An inscription which says, 'Micky and Mike, July 1914'. An unforgettable sight! Notice the artistry with which it was done. Each letter is three feet high, and they used oil paints. Where are you now, Nicky and Mike?" "Pussy," continued Ostap, "let's record ourselves for prosperity, too. I have some chalk, by the way. Honestly, I'll go up and write 'Pussy and Ossy were here'." And without giving it much thought, Ostap put down the supply of sausage on the wall separating the road from the seething depths of the Terek and began clambering up the rocks. At first Ippolit Matveyevich watched the smooth operator's ascent, but then lost interest and began to survey the base of Tamara's castle, which stood on a rock like a horse's tooth. Just at this time, about a mile away from the concessionaires, Father Theodore entered the Daryal gorge from the direction of Tiflis. He marched along like a soldier with his eyes, as hard as diamonds, fixed ahead of him, supporting himself on a large crook. With his last remaining money Father Theodore had reached Tiflis and was now walking home, subsisting on charity. While crossing the Cross gap he had been bitten by an eagle. Father Theodore hit out at the insolent bird with his crook and continued on his way. As he went along, intermingling with the clouds, he muttered: "Not for personal gain, but at the wishes of my wife who sent me." The distance between the enemies narrowed. Turning a sharp bend, Father Theodore came across an old man in a gold pince-nez. The gorge split asunder before Father Theodore's eyes. The Terek stopped its thousand-year-old roar. Father Theodore recognized Vorobyaninov. After the terrible fiasco in Batumi, after all his hopes had been dashed, this new chance of gaining riches had an extraordinary effect on the priest. He grabbed Ippolit Matveyevich by his scraggy Adam's apple, squeezed his fingers together, and shouted hoarsely: "What have you done with the treasure that you slew your mother-in-law to obtain?" Ippolit Matveyevich, who had not been expecting anything of this nature, said nothing, but his eyes bulged so far that they almost touched the lenses of his pince-nez. "Speak!" ordered the priest. "Repent, you sinner!" Vorobyaninov felt himself losing his senses. Suddenly Father Theodore caught sight of Bender leaping from rock to rock; the technical adviser was coining down, shouting at the top of his voice: "Against the sombre rocks they dash, Those waves, they foam and splash." A terrible fear gripped Father Theodore. He continued mechanically holding the marshal by the throat, but his knees began to knock. "Well, of all people!" cried Ostap in a friendly tone. "The rival concern." Father Theodore did not dally. Obeying his healthy instinct, ' he grabbed the concessionaires' bread and sausage and fled. "Hit him, Comrade Bender!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich, who was sitting on the ground recovering his breath. "Catch him!. Stop him I" Ostap began whistling and whooping. "Wooh-wooh," he warbled, starting in pursuit. "The Battle of the Pyramids or Bender goes hunting. Where are you going, client? I can offer you a well-gutted chair." This persecution was too much for Father Theodore and he began climbing up a perpendicular wall of rock. He was spurred on by his heart, which was in his mouth, and an itch in his heels known only to cowards. His legs moved over the granite by themselves, carrying their master aloft. "Wooooh-woooh!" yelled Ostap from below. "Catch him!" "He's taken our supplies," screeched Vorobyaninov, running up. "Stop!" roared Ostap. "Stop, I tell you." But this only lent new strength to the exhausted priest. He wove about, making several leaps, and finally ended ten feet above the highest inscription. "Give back our sausage!" howled Ostap. "Give back the sausage, you fool, and we'll forget everything." Father Theodore no longer heard anything. He found himself on a flat ledge, on to which no man had ever climbed before. Father Theodore was seized by a sickening dread. He realized he could never get down again by himself. The cliff face dropped vertically to the road. He looked below. Ostap was gesticulating furiously, and the marshal's gold pince-nez glittered at the bottom of the gorge. "I'll give back the sausage," cried the holy father, "only get me down." He could see all the movements of the concessionaires. They were running about below and, judging from their gestures, swearing like troopers. An hour later, lying on his stomach and peering over the edge, Father Theodore saw Bender and Vorobyaninov going off in the direction of the Cross gap. Night fell quickly. Surrounded by pitch darkness and deafened by the infernal roar, Father Theodore trembled and wept up in the very clouds. He no longer wanted earthly treasures, he only wanted one thing-to get down on to the ground. During the night he howled so loudly that at times the sound of the Terek was drowned, and when morning came, he fortified himself with sausage and bread and roared with demoniac laughter at the cars passing underneath. The rest of the day was spent contemplating the mountains and that heavenly body, the sun. The next night he saw the Tsaritsa Tamara. She came flying over to him from her castle and said coquettishly: "Let's be neighbours! " "Mother!" said Father Theodore with feeling. "Not for personal gain . . ." "I know, I know," observed the Tsaritsa, "but merely at the wishes of your wife who sent you." "How did you know?" asked the astonished priest. "I just know. Why don't you stop by, neighbour? We'll play sixty-six. What about it?" She gave a laugh and flew off, letting off firecrackers into the night sky as she went. The day after, Father Theodore began preaching to the birds. For some reason he tried to sway them towards Lutheranism. "Birds," he said in a sonorous voice, "repent your sins publicly." On the fourth day he was pointed out to tourists from below. "On the right we have Tamara's castle," explained the experienced guides, "and on the left is a live human being, but it is not known what he lives on or how he got there." "My, what a wild people!" exclaimed the tourists in amazement. "Children of the mountains!" Clouds drifted by. Eagles cruised above Father Theodore's head. The bravest of them stole the remains of the sausage and with its wings swept a pound and a half of bread into the foaming Terek. Father Theodore wagged his finger at the eagle and, smiling radiantly, whispered: "God's bird does not know Either toil or unrest, He leisurely builds His long-lasting nest." The eagle looked sideways at Father Theodore, squawked cockadoodledoo and flew away. "Oh, eagle, you eagle, you bitch of a bird!" Ten days later the Vladikavkaz fire brigade arrived with suitable equipment and brought Father Theodore down. As they were lowering him, he clapped his hands and sang in a tuneless voice: "And you will be queen of all the world, My lifelo-ong frie-nd!" And the rugged Caucuses re-echoed Rubinstein's setting of the Lermontov poem many times. "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes . . ." Father Theodore told the fire chief. The cackling priest was taken on the end of a fire ladder to the psychiatric hospital. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE THE EARTHQUAKE "What do you think, marshal," said Ostap as the concessionaires approached the settlement of Sioni, "how can we earn money in a dried-up spot like this?" Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could have kept himself going was begging, but here in the mountain spirals and ledges there was no one to beg from. Anyway, there was begging going on already-alpine begging, a special kind. Every bus and passenger car passing through the settlement was besieged by children who performed a few steps of a local folk dance to the mobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of: "Give us money! Give money!" The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and continued on their way to the Cross gap. "A noble cause," said O