If they'd only give us one look at him.'
'Petlyura, madam, is on the square at this moment taking the salute as the parade marches past.'
'Nothing of the sort.
Petlyura's in Berlin at the moment meeting the president to sign a treaty.'
'What president?
Are you trying to spread rumors, mister?'
'The president of Germany.
Didn't you know? Germany's been declared a republic.'
'Did you see him?
Did you see him?
He looked splendid .. .
He's just driven down Rylsky Street in a coach and six horses.'
'But will they recognise the Orthodox Church?'
'I don't know. Work it out for yourself . . .' 'The fact is that the priests are praying for him, anyway . . .'
'He'll be stronger if he keeps the priests on his side . . .'
'Petlyura.
Petlyura.
Petlyura.
Petlyura . . .'
There was a fearsome rumbling of heavy wheels and rattling limbers and after the ten regiments of cavalry rolled an endless stream of artillery.
Blunt-muzzled, fat mortars, small-caliber howitzers; the crews sat on the limbers, cheerful, well-fed, victorious, the drivers riding calmly and sedately.
Straining and creaking, the six-inch guns rumbled past, hauled by teams of powerful, well-fed, big-rumped horses and smaller hard-working peasant ponies that looked like pregnant fleas.
The light mountain artillery clattered briskly along, the little guns bouncing up and down between their jaunty crews.
'Who said Petlyura only had fifteen thousand men?
It was all a lie.
Just a rabble, they said, no more than fifteen thousand and demoralised . . .
God, there are so many I've lost count already.
Another battery . . . and another . . .'
His sharp nose thrust into the upturned collar of his student's greatcoat, Nikolka was shoved and jostled by the crowd until he finally succeeded in climbing up into a niche in a wall and installed himself.
A jolly little peasant woman in felt boots was already in the niche and said cheerfully to Nikolka:
'You hold on to me, mister, and I'll hang on to this brick and we'll be all right.'
'Thanks,' Nikolka sniffled dejectedly inside his frozen collar, 'I'll hold on to this hook.'
'Where's Petlyura?' the talkative woman babbled on. 'Oh, I do want to see Petlyura.
They say he's the handsomest man you've ever seen.'
'Yes,' Nikolka mumbled vaguely into the beaver fur, 'so they say . . .' ('Another battery . . .
God, now I understand . . .')
'Look, there he goes, driving in that open car . . .
Didn't you see?'
'He's at Vinnitsa', Nikolka replied in a dry, dull voice, wriggled his freezing toes inside his boots.
'Why the hell didn't I put felt boots on?
Hellish cold.'
'Look, look, there's Petlyura.'
'That's not Petlyura, that's the commander of the bodyguard.'
'Petlyura has a palace in Belaya Tserkov.
Belaya Tserkov will be the capital now.'
'Won't he come to the City, then?'
'He'll come in his own good time.'
'I see, I see . . .'
Clang, clank, clank.
The muffled boom of kettledrums rolled across St Sophia's Square; then down the street, machine-guns thrust menacingly from their gun-ports, swaying slightly from the weight of their turrets, rolled the four terrible armored cars.