– something even Kolya can dance to . . . because, as you can well imagine, we haven’t prepared any of this. We need to agree on what we’re doing, practise till everything’s perfect, then head off to Nevsky Prospect, where the public is far more discerning and we’ll be noticed right away. Lenya knows “Little Farm”40 . . . “Little Farm” and nothing else – they’re all at it! We should be singing something far nobler . . . Any ideas, Polya? You, at least, should help me out! My memory’s gone, clean gone, or else I’d remember! We can hardly sing “The Hussar Leaning on His Sabre” can we? Oh, let’s sing that French song “Cinq sous”!41 I taught you, didn’t I? The main thing is it’s in French, so they’ll see straight away that you’re gentry children and that will be so much more touching . . . Or even “Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre”, as it’s perfect for children and is sung as a lullaby in every aristocratic household.
Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre,
Ne sait quand reviendra . . .’42
she began singing . . . ‘Actually, no – let’s have “Cinq sous!” Come on, Kolya, hands on hips, look lively, and Lenya, you spin round the other way, while Polechka and I sing along and clap!
Cinq sous, cinq sous,
Pour monter notre ménage . . .43
Cuh-cuh-cuh!’ (Once again, the coughs came thick and fast.) ‘Straighten that dress, Polechka, your shoulders are showing,’ she observed between coughs, out of breath. ‘Now more than ever you have to look decent and dainty, so that everyone can see you’re gentry. Didn’t I say that your bodice should have been cut a bit longer and made from two widths? It was you, Sonya, who kept saying, “Shorter, shorter,” and now look, the child’s a disgrace . . . But what are you all crying about again? Such stupid children! Come on then, Kolya, I’m waiting – oh, what an insufferable boy!
Cinq sous, cinq sous . . .
Not another soldier! Well, what do you want?’
A policeman really was squeezing through the crowd. But at the very same time a respectable-looking civil servant of about fifty, wearing uniform, a greatcoat and a decoration around his neck (which particularly pleased Katerina Ivanovna and impressed the policeman), came up and silently handed a green, three-rouble banknote to Katerina Ivanovna. His face expressed sincere compassion. Katerina Ivanovna accepted it and made a courteous, even ceremonious, bow.
‘I thank you, kind sir,’ she began loftily. ‘The reasons prompting us to . . . Now take the money, Polechka. See, there are noble, generous souls, ready, at a moment’s notice, to help a poor gentlewoman in distress. You see before you, kind sir, well-born orphans with, one might say, the most aristocratic connections . . . Meanwhile, that poxy general just sat there eating hazel grouse . . . and stamping his feet at me for having disturbed him . . . “Your Excellency,” I say, “protect the orphans,” I say, “knowing the late Semyon Zakharych so very well and bearing in mind the fact that his own daughter was slandered so viciously by that scoundrel, that scum of the earth, on the very day of his death . . .” Not that soldier again! Protect us!’ she screamed at the civil servant. ‘Why does he have to keep pestering me? We only came here to get away from another one, on Meshchanskaya Street . . . Mind your own business, you stupid man!’
‘But this is forbidden in public, ma’am. Please cease this disgraceful behaviour.’
‘You’re the disgrace! I’m no different from an organ-grinder, so mind your business!’
‘Organ-grinders need a licence, since you mention it, but you’re making a public nuisance of yourself. Where are you lodging, ma’am?’
‘A licence!’ yelled Katerina Ivanovna. ‘I buried my husband today and you talk about licences!’
‘Madam, madam, please calm down,’ the civil servant began. ‘Let’s go – I’ll accompany you . . . It’s unseemly here, with all this crowd . . . You’re not well . . .’
‘Kind sir, you know nothing!’ shouted Katerina Ivanovna. ‘We’re off to Nevsky – Sonya, Sonya! Where has she got to? Crying as well! What’s wrong with you all? . . .