Then Karas praised the layout of the Lisovichs' apartment and discussed the arrangements for signalling to the Turbins: one bell was installed in the kitchen, another in the lobby.
At the slightest sign they were to ring upstairs.
And if anyone had to go and open the front door it would be Myshlaevsky, who knew what to do in case of trouble.
Karas was loud in praise of the apartment: it was comfortable and well furnished. There was only one thing wrong - it was cold.
That night Vasilisa himself fetched logs and with his own hands lit the stove in the drawing-room.
Having undressed, Karas lay down on a couch between two luxurious sheets and felt extremely well and comfortable.
Vasilisa, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, came in, sat down in an armchair and said:
'L can't sleep, so do you mind if we sit and talk for a while?'
The stove was burning low. Calm at last, settled in his armchair, Vasilisa sighed and said:
'That's how it goes, Fyodor Nikolaevich.
Everything I've earned in a lifetime of hard work has disappeared in one evening into the pockets of those scoundrels ... by violence.
Don't think I rejected the revolution - oh no, I fully understand the historical reasons which caused it all.'
A crimson glow played over Vasilisa's face and on the clasps of his suspenders.
Feeling pleasantly languorous from the brandy, Karas was beginning to doze, whilst trying to keep his face in a look of polite attention.
'But you must agree that here in Russia, this most backward country, the revolution has already degenerated into savagery and chaos . . .
Look what has happened: in less than two years we have been deprived of any protection by the law, of the very minimal protection of our rights as human beings and citizens.
The English have an expression . . .'
'M'mm, yes, the English . . . They, of course . . .' Karas mumbled, feeling that a soft wall was beginning to divide him from Vasilisa.
'. . . but here - how can one say "my home is my castle" when even in your own apartment, behind seven locks, there's no guarantee that a gang like that one which got in here today won't come and take away not only your property but, who knows, your life as well!'
'We'll prevent it with our signalling system', Karas replied rather vaguely in a sleepy voice.
'But Fyodor Nikolaevich!
There's more to the problem than just a signalling system!
No signalling system is going to stop the ruin and decay which have eaten into people's souls.
Our signalling system is a particular case, but let's suppose it goes wrong?'
'Then we'll fix it', answered Karas happily.
'But you can't build a whole way of life on a warning system and a few revolvers.
That's not the point.
I'm talking in broader terms, generalising from a single instance, if you like.
The fact is that the most important thing of all has disappeared -1 mean respect for property.
And once that happens, it's the end.
We're finished.
I'm a convinced democrat by nature and I come from a poor background.
My father was just a foreman on the railroad.
Everything you can see here and everything those rogues stole from me today - all that was earned by my own efforts.
And believe me I never defended the old regime, on the contrary, I can admit to you in secret I belonged to the Constitutional Democrat party, but now that I've seen with my own eyes what this revolution's turning into, then I swear to you I am horribly convinced that there's only one thing that can save us . . .' From some point in the fuzzy cocoon in which Karas was wrapped came the whispered word: '. . '. Autocracy.
Yes, sir . . . the most ruthless dictatorship imaginable . . . it's our only hope . . .
Autocracy . . .'
'God, how he goes on', Karas thought beatifically. 'M'yes . . . autocracy - good idea.
Aha . . . h'm m.' he mumbled through the surrounding cotton wool.
'Yes, mumble, mumble, mumble . . . habeas corpus, mumble mumble . . . Yes, mumble, mumble . . .' The voice droned on through the wadding, 'mumble, mumble they're making a mistake if they think this state of affairs can last for long, mumble, mumble and they shout hurrah and sing "Long Live."
No sir!
It will not be long lived, and it would be ridiculous to think . . .'
'Long live Fort Ivangorod.' Vasilisa's voice was unexpectedly interrupted by the dead commandant of the fort in which Karas had served during the war.
'And long live Ardagan and Kars!' echoed Karas from the mists.
From far away came the thin sound of Vasilisa's polite laughter.
'Long may he live!' sang joyous voices in Karas' head.
Sixteen
'Long may he live.
Long may he live.
Lo-o-ong li-i-ive . . .' sang the nine basses of Tolmashevsky's famous choir.