voice:
"Ladies and gentlemen! There's been a revolution in Petrograd and all
over Russia. His Imperial Majesty ... that bloody despot... has abdicated.
All power ha gone over to the Provisional Government. Long may it live! I,
for one, say. hooray!"
The crowd cheered.
Atlantis shouted, "And down with the principal!"
But nothing came of this. The principal had not appeared, and Stepan's
plan collapsed.
A group of teachers and the school inspector were arguing heatedly on
the corner of Breshka Street. Stepan listened to what they were saying. The
inspector was saying ponderously:
"The Committee of the Duma will review our petition this evening, and I
believe the result will be favourable. Then we will show Mister Stomolitsky
the door. The time of callous officialdom is over. Yes, indeed."
Stepan dashed back to where we were. The day suddenly seemed brighter,
and the inspector suddenly seemed such a good fellow you'd think he had
never put Stepan's name down in the Ledger.
More and more people were joining the ranks of the demonstrators.
Workers of the lumber yards, the printshop, the bone-meal factory, mechanics
from the railroad depot, plump bakers, broad-shouldered stevedores, boatmen
and bearded peasants all dressed up in their Sunday best were marching along
jubilantly.
The echo of the bass drum pounded against the walls of the granaries.
The cheering rolled along the streets in a great, sweeping wave. The
schoolgirls smiled warmly. The soft breeze fingered the telegraph wires,
strumming The Marseillaise. It was so good, so wonderful and exhilarating to
breathe, to march along in an overcoat that was unbuttoned and flapping,
against all the sacred school rules.
THE PRINCIPAL'S RUBBERS
The clock in the vestibule had long since struck nine, but still,
lessons had not begun. The classrooms were churning and boiling. Amidst the
general buzzing voices would bubble up and burst like soap bubbles. Seize'em
was patrolling the corridor, chasing the boys back into the classrooms.
There was a light square on the wall in the Teachers' Room where the tsar's
portrait had hung. The teachers were walking up and down in tense silence,
enveloped by clouds of cigarette smoke.
At last Atlantis, who was always in on everything, decided to find out
what was up and went off to the Teachers' Room, supposedly to get a wall
map. He was back in no time, and bursting with news. He did two somersaults,
jumped onto the lectern, did a handstand there and, with his feet waving to
and fro in. the air, he astounded us with a joyous howl:
"Fellows! The Committee kicked the principal out!" Oh, joy! There was a
wild slamming of desk tops, cheers and yelps. The commotion was
ear-splitting.
Hefty, who was dizzy from joy, kept pounding the boy next to him over
the head with his geometry book and shouting: "They've kicked him out!
Kicked him out! Kicked him out! Hear that? They've kicked him out!"
Just then the heavy door opened at the end of the corridor into which
glee waves of joy were pouring from every classroom, and a pair of
highly-polish boots on a pair of unbending legs squeaked softly into the
Teachers' Room. The teachers rose as the principal entered, although their
usual greeting did not folio Stomolitsky took instant notice of this. "Eh,
what seems to be the matter, gentlemen?"
"The matter, Sir, lies in the fact that you ... but perhaps you had
better read yourself," the inspector said and his beard rose and fell gently
as he spoke. He handed the principal a sheet of paper as carefully as if he
wished Stomolitsky sign something important.
The principal took the proffered sheet. One word stood out among all
the rest and this was "Dismissal". However, he refused to accept defeat.
"Eh ... the District Board appointed me, and I am responsible to it
alone," said in an icy voice. "And, furthermore, I shall report this
unlawful action to Board immediately. And now," at this he clicked open the
top of his gold pocket watch, "I suggest you all go to your classes."
"What?" Kirill Ukhov, the history teacher, exclaimed and yanked at his
angrily. "You.... You've been dismissed! It's something we all insisted on,
and not a point that's up for discussion. Gentlemen! Say something! What the
hell is this anyway!"
Boys were clustering in the doorway. Though they were dying of
curiosity, they said nothing. Those in the back rows pressed forward,
propelling those in the front through the door. As they stumbled into the
Teachers' Room they straighter their jackets, fixed their belts and looked
rather embarrassed. Stepan Gavrya elbowed his way through, looked at Ukhov
with burning eyes and suddenly cried.
"That's right, Kirill Mikhailovich!" Then he lunged towards Stomolitsky
"Down with the principal!"
A dead silence followed. Suddenly it was as if an avalanche had come
crash down upon the Teachers' Room, crushing and submerging all in its wake.
"Down with him! Get out! Down with the principal! Hooray!"
The corridor echoed from the noise. Windows rattled. The entire build
seemed to be shaking from the wild pounding of feet, the roaring and
shouting.
For the first time in his life the principal seemed shaken and bent.
Creases seemed to have suddenly appeared in his well-pressed trousers.
The inspector feigned concern. He cocked his eyes at the door politely
and said,
"I think you'd better leave, Sir. I'm afraid we cannot guarantee your
safety."
"You haven't heard the end of this yet!" the principal muttered and
stalked out.
The bottom of his jacket caught on the door knob.
He hurried to his office, clapped on his cockaded cap and put on his
overcoat on the run, so that his arms missed the armholes. He dashed
outside. The janitor hobbled out onto the porch after him.
"Sir! You've forgotten your rubbers! Your rubbers. Sir!"
The principal did not turn back, his skinny legs took him across the
muddy puddles, his shiny boots sinking into the snow. The janitor stood on
the porch, holding the principal's rubbers and clucking his tongue:
"Tut-tut-tut! My-my! Good Lord! That's the revolution for you! Look at
the principal go, and without his rubbers!" Then he chuckled. "See him
skittering! A real gee-raffe he is. My-my! A body can't help laughing! Shake
a leg! Looks just like one of them ostriches, he does."
The boys poured out onto the porch. They were laughing and shouting.
"Hey, watch him leg it! Bally-ho! Goodbye, Fish-Eye!"
A snowball hit his back.
"Whee! Keep on going! Jailer! Warden!"
It was enough to take your breath away. There was the principal, just
think of it: the principal!-whom the boys but yesterday had to greet by
standing stiffly at attention, before whom they had quaked and tipped their
caps (always holding them by the visor!), whose office they had passed on
tiptoe only-there was the principal, running away so shamefully, so
helplessly and, to top it all, having left his rubbers behind!
They could see the teachers' pleased faces in the windows. The janitor
scolded:
"Quit the ruckus! Shame on you! And you being educated boys!"
Atlantis crept up behind him, snatched one of the principal's rubbers
from him and sent it sailing after Stomolitsky. The boys roared. Then he
stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, with a trill at the
end. Only true pigeon fanciers knew how to whistle like that, and Stepan's
tumbler pigeons were famous in town.
When we trooped noisily back to the classrooms, our faces flushed from
excitement, the teachers scolded us half-heartedly, saying:
"That wasn't nice at all, gentlemen. Your behaviour was abominable.
Don't you realize that?"
But we could see they were only saying that because they had to.
We called an emergency meeting on a pile of logs in the yard after
school that day, and pupils of all the eight grades came to the popular
assembly. We were going to elect delegates to the joint meeting of the
Teachers' Council and the Parents Committee. The one item on the agenda was:
"Relieving the principal his duties."
Mitya Lamberg chaired the meeting. He presided grandly on the logs and
s;
"And now, gentlemen, present your candidates."
"Where are we supposed to present them?"
"Ha-ha-ha!" "Gentlemen! Nominate your candidates!"
"Hey, Martynenko! You nominate him one! Ho-ho!"
"Gentlemen! Let's have some order! After all, you're not a bunch of
prim school boys. And let's have some quiet at a time like this!"
"Quit it, fellows!"
The noise finally died down. The election was set into motion. Mitya
Lamb Stepan Atlantis and Shura Gvozdilo, a fourth-grade boy, were elected.
"Any more questions?"
"Yes!" Atlantis scrambled up to the top of the pile. "Listen, fellows.
It serious matter, and no fooling. We've got to make it stick and present
Fish-Eye with all our complaints. And there's something else. There should
be delegates from both sides, and no monkey-business about it!"
"That's right, Stepan! Delegates from both sides!"
"Three cheers for the delegates!"
As the boys tossed Stepan into the air a varied, assortment of things
dropped of his pockets. They included some popgun corks, cartridges, an
oilcake, a slug of lead and a pocket edition of The Adventures of Nat
Pinkerton. Mitya pounded an old pot which had served as the chairman's bell
and was now a drum. The boys carried the delegates out through the gate on
their shoulders. Everyone cheered.
The sun, tired from its steep climb during the day, had stopped to rest
on school roof which was wet from the melted snow, shiny and slippery. The
slipped, burned the windows opposite, plopped into a large puddle and winked
at the merry crowd of boys in a rainbow of colours.
The indignant principal had one last resort: he went to the Parents
Committee for help.
This was not an easy thing for him to do, since he considered the boys'
parents enemies of the state and had always forbidden the teachers to become
friendly them. As far as he was concerned, parents existed only as people to
whom he addressed reminders of non-payment of tuition fees or notices which
were intended to draw their attention to the poor behaviour of their sons.
He regarded any interference in school affairs on their part as a violation
of its sanctity. If it were up to him, he would have thrown out the phrase
"for the solace of our parents" from the morning prayer.
However, this was no time for settling scores. The principal trudged
over to see the veterinary, Shalferov, Chairman of the Parents Committee,
who was known in town as the horse doctor.
The principal arrived during Shalferov's office hours. The horse doctor
was so surprised to see him that he forgot to offer Stomolitsky a chair. He
hastily wiped his hand on a greenish smock that was covered with unsightly
spots and then offered it to the principal who was a dandy and a stickler
for cleanliness. The vet's hand smelled of fresh milk, stables and something
nauseatingly acrid. The principal felt his stomach jump, but he shook the
proffered hand readily.
They conversed as they stood in the cold foyer. It was cluttered with
milk cans, large bottles, wilted rubber plants and geranium pots. A cat was
digging a hole in a box of sand in the corner. Never realizing that it was
witnessing an historical event involving the fall of the principal, the cat
raised its tail and held it out stiffly.
The horse doctor listened to the ashen-faced principal's story and
promised his support. The principal thanked him humbly. The horse doctor was
hard-pressed for time, for a cow was bellowing out in the yard, and he had
to give it an enema. Shalferov suggested that the principal speak to the
Secretary of the Parents Committee.
My father was Secretary of the Parents Committee. The principal felt
very awkward about asking him for favours, since but a short while before my
father had applied for the position of school doctor when there had been a
vacancy, and the principal had written the following on my father's
application:
"We would prefer a doctor who is not of the Jewish faith."
Father had just returned from the hospital where he had been operating.
He was washing up and gargling. The water bubbled in his throat, so that it
seemed that Papa had come to a boil.
The principal awaited him in the parlour.
Goldfish were swimming in the fishbowl, dragging their long, filmy
tails along the bottom. One fish whose head looked like an aviator's helmet
(for it had big bulging eyes), swam right up to the glass. The fish's
insolent orb stared at the principal. Recalling the unpleasant nickname
given to him by the boys, he turned away in annoyance.
Just then the parlour door opened and Oska entered, pulling along a
large and mournful hobby horse. The horse had long since lost its youth and
its tail. It got stuck in the doorway and very nearly fell apart.
Then Oska noticed the principal. He paused to look at him, then came
closer and said, "Are you a patient?"
"No. I've come on business."
"Oh, I know! You're the horse doctor. You smell like a horse doctor.
Don't you? You cure cows and cats, and dogs, and colties, and all the rest.
I know. Can you cure my horse? He has a train engine in his stomach. It got
in, but it can't get out."
"You're mistaken, child," Stomolitsky said huffily. I'm not a
veterinary, I'm the principal of the Boys School."
"Oh." Oska gasped respectfully. He stared hard at the principal. "Are
you really the principal? You scared me. Lelya says you're very strict, even
the teachers are scared of you. What's your name? Snail?... No. Crab?... I
know! Shark-Eye!"
"My name is Stomolitsky," the principal said sourly. "And what is .your
name?"
"Oska. But why does everybody call you Shark-Eye?"
"Don't ask stupid questions. Why don't you tell me ... ahem ... whether
you know how to read. You do? Well, then tell me ... mm ... ah.... Can you
tell me where the Volga flows. Do you know the answer?"
"Sure. The Volga flows into Saratov. Now see if you know this: if an
elephant and a whale have a fight, who'll win?"
The principal was forced to admit that he did not know.
Oska consoled him by saying, "Nobody knows. Papa doesn't know, and the
soldier doesn't know. But why do they call you Shark-Eye? Was that your name
when you were little?"
"That is quite enough! Why don't you tell me your horse's name?"
"Horse. Everybody knows that. Horses don't have last names."
"You're wrong. For instance, Alexander the Great had a horse that was
called Busifal."
"And you're Fish-Eye, aren't you? Not Shark-Eye. I got mixed up. But I
said i1 right now, didn't I?"
Papa entered.
"What a bright boy you have!" the principal said smiling angelically as
he bowed.
Whirr! Buzz!
The ventilator in the Teachers' Room sounded like a huge fly on a
windowpane. It was suffocating in the heated room. Now and then a board of a
desk in one of the dark, deserted classrooms would creak. The clock in the
downstairs hall ticked loudly.
"I will now call to order the joint meeting of the Parents Committee
and the Teachers' Council."
The Parents Committee was seated at a large table. Facing them in a row
were the teachers. Mitya Lamberg and Shura Gvozdilo huddled together at the
far end of the table. Shura seemed lost. Lamberg, who was older and bigger,
was trying not to look too awed. The inspector had barred Stepan Atlantis
from the meeting, saying, "You can expect anything from that rascal. I
wouldn't trust him for a minute."
"I'll be very quiet," Stepan had promised.
"Show him out!" the inspector had said to the janitor.
"Out you go, my boy." The janitor had pushed the protesting Stepan
lightly. "Some delegate! Troublemaker!"
Stepan had been deeply hurt. "Well, don't blame me if nothing comes of
this. Reservoir. Adieu."
At the very outset of the meeting the lights went out. It was a usual
power failure. The Teachers' Room was plunged into darkness, Mitya stuck his
hand into his pocket to get his matches, but suddenly realized that a
non-smoking schoolboy was not supposed to have matches in his pocket. The
janitor brought in a kerosene lamp with a round green shade that resembled a
parachute. The lamp was hung over the table. It swayed slightly, casting
flickering shadows that made the noses of the people around the table now
grow very long, now become very short.
The inspector was the first speaker. He spoke smoothly and wittily, and
his forked beard, so like a snake's forked tongue, bobbed up and down
craftily.
The fathers of the boys who lived on farmsteads were breathing heavily.
Their eyes drooped as Romashov droned on. The long-haired priest put a
strand of hair behind his ear, the better to hear him. The tax collector
wiped his glasses intently, as if he were going to examine each and every
one of the inspector's words through his spectacles. The shopkeeper bent one
plump finger after another meaningfully, in time to the inspector's words.
Gutnik, the fat miller and a member of the Duma, spoke up for the
principal. "How can you teachers take things into your own hands like this?
Let me tell you, it's not right. You should have asked the District Board
first. Stomolitsky was always a man for law and order. We knew that when he
was in charge, everything was as it should be. That's why he should stay on.
And I have a feeling that that's just how things will be. Besides, these are
troubled times. It's like everything was on fire all over. And the boys'll
start acting up. Aren't I right?"
The parents began to nod in agreement. The men were afraid to let their
sons have too much freedom. If you let the reins go just a little, you'd
never again be able to manage that crowd of pigeon-fanciers, dare-devils and
loafers.
THE PRINCIPAL'S LEDGER
Nikita Pavlovich Kamyshov, the geography and science teacher, jumped to
his feet excitedly. Mitya and Shura looked at their favourite teacher with
hope. He was very intent and spoke heatedly. Every sentence he uttered was a
line in Fish-Eye's unwritten Ledger.
"Gentlemen! What's the matter? The tsar's been dethroned, but we ... we
can't even get rid of the principal! You're the parents! Your children, your
sons came here to this hateful place, to get an education. But what sort of
an education could they get? What, I ask you, could they get here, these
children, when we teachers, we grown-up people, were suffocating? There was
no air to breathe. It was disgraceful! We had a regular barracks-room
atmosphere! Why, if a boy was seen wearing a soft collar he was made to stay
after school for eight hours! My God! Now, when the air has become cleaner
all over Russia, we here, in our house, are afraid to open a window and air
the premises!" He yanked at his long, drooping moustache and dashed
breathlessly out of the room.
It became very still.
The principal, who had been sitting unobtrusively in a corner, broke
the quiet with his flat voice. He had turned green from the light of the
lampshade and from bile. He tried to explain away Kamyshov's accusations by
saying: "He's trying to get even. There's the law ... and discipline ... my
duty ... the Board."
He was interrupted by Robiiko, a huge, dark-haired man, as tall as the
freight trains he drove were long. The trainman crashed his fist down on the
table and said: "What's the use of all this talk? If there's been a
revolution, that means these are revolutionary times! We go straight on
through without any stops. As for the principal, we haven't yet seen
anything good except bad from him. And I say we ought to ask the boys. Let
their delegates have the floor. Otherwise, what was the use of electing
them?"
Mitya rattled off the speech he had learned by heart.
"And what do you say?" the chairman said, turning to Shura Gvozdilo.
Shura jumped up. His arms were plastered to his sides, as if he were
reciting a lesson.
The principal's fishy eyes stared at him with loathing.
Shura cocked a wary eye at Stomolitsky. Who could tell? Perhaps he
would remain at his post and get even later. Shura swallowed the lump in his
throat. His heart sank, all the way down to his heels, but just then Mitya
squeezed his foot so hard between his own heels that Shura's heart bounded
back into place again. Shura tossed his head, swallowed hard again and
suddenly felt better.
"We're all for down with the principal!" he shouted.
Someone had jarred the lamp. It was swaying. Once again the shadows
began to move. They were shalfing their heads reproachfully. Noses began
growing longer and getting shorter again, and the principal's dejected nose
seemed the longest of all.
The meeting dragged on far into the night. At last, the following
resolution was drawn up:
"Juvenal Bogdanovich Stomolitsky is to be relieved of his post as
principal of the Boys School. Nikolai Ilyich Romashov, the school inspector,
is to be temporarily appointed principal until the District Board confirms
his appointment."
The former principal left the meeting in silence without saying goodbye
to anyone. Romashov fluffed his beard with a victorious air. The new
principal's pleased beard no longer looked like a snake's forked tongue but,
rather, like a chunk of bread with a dent in the middle.
Shura had become much bolder. He mentioned setting up a student
council. The flame in the lamp leaped from the sudden burst of laughter that
followed. Someone even slapped his back.
"Ah, it's good to be young! Such spit and fire!"
"Delegates of those snot-nosed babies! Ha-ha-ha!"
Shura was embarrassed. He sniffled and rubbed his belt buckle.
The discussion passed on to another matter. The parents began to yawn,
covering their mouths with their hands. Shura could barely keep his eyes
open. The green parachute-lamp floated above the table. The flame hissed
faintly, casting ragged shadows. Waves of heat rose from the lamp glasses.
He was dying to sleep. To top it all, the ventilator whirred on and on
monotonously.
The principal had been kicked out. Shura felt he had accomplished his
mission, but the teachers, parents and the new principal were still
debating, and he felt it was impossible to simply get up and leave. That was
when he construed a very adult sentence about his presence no longer being
required and, therefore, it being possible for him to leave the meeting.
Shura rose. He opened his mouth to say all this when he realized he had
forgotten the first word of the sentence. As he searched for it he forgot
all the others. The words seemed happy to have escaped from his drowsy mind
and pranced about in front of his sleepy eyes. "Presence", a very adult
word, had just donned a tunic with gold buttons and climbed into the lamp
glass insolently. The flame stuck its tongue out at him, and "possible"
started tossing the dot over the "i" at him. It was attached to a long
rubber band and bounced off his head just like the paper balls that Chi
Sun-cha sold at the market.
"What is it you wish to say?" the chairman inquired.
All eyes were on Shura.
He tugged at the bottom of his jacket in despair and said: "May I leave
the room?"
SEIZE'EM ENDS THE DAY
Shura went outside. The sky was as black as a blackboard. A cloud-rag
had wiped it clean of all the star designs. A dense black silence had
engulfed the town. For the first few moments after leaving the Teachers'
Room he stumbled about in the dark like a fly in an inkblot. At last, he
made out the shape of a human figure.
"Is that you, Shura? I'm frozen stiff."
"Atlantis!"
"Well? What happened?"
Shura dragged on each word to make an impression. "Nothing special,
really. Naturally, we got what we wanted. Fish-Eye got the sack. The
inspector's taking his place for the time being."
"Wait a minute! What about the student council?"
"Ha! Anything else you'd like? They laughed their heads off when I
mentioned it."
"What? Then what did you get? That's no revolution! They kicked out the
principal and put the inspector in his place. Ah!" Stepan disappeared in the
dark. Shura Gvozdilo shrugged and headed home. The night watchman's clapper,
that wooden cuckoo of all provincial nights, sounded in the stillness. Soon
the parents and teachers trudged home across the dark square.
Seize'em was the last to leave. He had stayed on in order to enter
Lamberg and Gvozdilo's names in the Black Book-just in case. And so that
memorable day came to a close with the Ledger and Seize'em's spindly
signature.
A new portrait was hung in the Teachers' Room. It was a portrait of
Alexander Kerensky. His hair was cut in a short brush, and the tabs of his
wing collar stood out stiffly.
The teachers pledged allegiance to the Provisional Government at a
special service. The general morning prayers were discontinued. Instead, a
short prayer was read in each classroom before lessons began each morning.
Finally, the liberal-minded new principal took a bold step and did away with
the old system of grading our work.
"All these 'F's', 'D's' and 'A-minuses' are unpedagogical," Romashov
said, addressing the Parents Committee.
From that day on the teachers no longer gave us "F's" and "A's". They
now wrote "Poor" instead of "F", "Unsatisfactory" instead of "D",
"Satisfactory" instead of "C", "Good" instead of "B" and "Excellent" instead
of "A". Then, in order to keep up the idea of pluses and minuses, they began
writing "Very good", "Not quite satisfactory", "Nearly excellent", etc.
Roachius was very dissatisfied with the new system of grading and once wrote
"Very poor, with two minuses" on Hefty's test paper. This was also the mark
he gave him for the term.
"If 'Poor' is an 'F'," Hefty mused, "then the grade he gave me for
Latin this term is someplace way down the line. Probably a 'Z'. What if it's
even worse than that?"
THE DARLING OF THE LADIES' COMMITTEE
The plot our house was on belonged to a large grain company. A winnower
was forever whirring under an overhang. Golden dunes of wheat rose on canvas
spread out on the ground, and the broad-shouldered scales would jerk their
iron shoulders like a person who was trying to scratch his back
unobtrusively. All day long women were busy patching canvas sacks in the
yard, sewing with long needles as they sang mournful songs of love and
parting.
One of the sack-menders was taken on as a cook for the family of a
company employee. The cook had a son named Arkasha, who attended primary
school. Arkasha was small for his age and so full of freckles his face
looked like a piece of canvas covered with spilled grains of wheat. He was a
very bright boy and wanted very much to go on to high school.
There was a Ladies' Charity Committee in our town, and the lady
Arkasha's mother worked for belonged to it. At her urging the Committee
decided to sponsor the gifted boy. That was how Arkasha Portyanko came to be
a scholarship pupil in my grade, having passed the entrance examination with
flying colours.
He was a very serious and kind-hearted boy, and he and I became the
best of friends. He was not a quiet boy, but his mild pranks and jokes were
quite unlike the rough play of his classmates. He was an honour pupil, and
as each term ended he would take his excellent report card home to his
mother in the kitchen. There was a line marked "Parent's signature" at the
bottom, and his mother would sign it laboriously and with great pride,
placing a dot at the end of her name as reverently as if she were lighting a
votive candle in church.
All the boys in my class knew that Arkasha was in love. The blaring
formula of his love appeared regularly on the blackboard: "Arkasha + Lucy =
!!" Lucy was the daughter of the wealthy chairwoman of the Ladies'
Committee. When Arkasha's mother discovered whom her son had a crush on she
shook her head. "Good Lord! What a girl you've chosen! Have a look at
yourself! You'll be the death of me yet!"
However, Lucy liked Arkasha very much. He would meet her in the arbour
and they would read together. The sun shining through the leaves showered
warm bits of its confetti on them. One day Arkasha brought Lucy a bouquet of
lilies-of-the-valley.
At Christmas Lucy's mother had a party for her. Lucy invited Arkasha
without having asked her mother's permission to do so. Arkasha set out for
the party in his well-brushed, well-pressed school uniform. He entered the
brightly-lit hall and was imagining the delights that awaited him when
Lucy's mother suddenly blocked his way. She was a tall woman with rustling
skirts and seemed very much disturbed to have discovered a cook's son about
to attend her daughter's party.
"Come back some other time, child," she said in a sugary voice, "and
use the back stairs. Lucy's busy. She can't see you now. Here are some
sweets for you and your mother."
Arkasha did not see Lucy again after that. He missed her very much. He
looked wan and began slipping in his studies.
In February of 1917, soon after the revolution, a portly gentleman in a
fine, fur-lined coat was speaking animatedly to a crowd of people on
Troitskaya Square, saying that now there were no more masters and no more
slaves, that from now on everyone was equal. Arkasha believed every word of
what he said, for it seemed to him that since a wealthy man was saying there
would be no more masters, it must be so. That was when he decided to write
Lucy a letter. I found it in the Ledger several years later together with a
single dried lily-of-the-valley.
"My dearest sweetheart Lucy,
"Since there has now been an overthrow of the tsarist regime, it means
everybody is equal and free. There are no more masters, and nobody has a
right to insult me and send me packing from a Christmas party like then. I
miss you so much. My mother says I even lost weight. I don't go to the
skating rink any more, but not because I'm jealous, as Lizarsky says,
watching him and you skating together. How do you like that, he says. To
hell (scratched out) To blazes with him. I'm not one bit jealous. He got
what was coming to him, because he's a monarchist (that means he's for the
tsar), and that's why he's so mad. And now, dear Lucy, you and I can be like
a brother and a sister, that is, if you want to. That's because there was a
revolution and we're equals now. Actually, though, you're a hundred times
better than I am. I can't tell you how much I miss you. My word of honour. I
keep thinking about you when I do my homework, and even when I sleep I see
you in my dreams. Just as clear as day. We had the word 'lucid' in spelling,
and I wrote 'Lucy'. You spend all your time with Petya Lizarsky. He's the
one who cribs his math from me and then says he solved the problem himself.
And he holds your arm. I'm not one bit jealous, though. It's strange,
though, because you're so smart, and pretty, and good, and intelligent,
Lucy, and there you are, walking out, arm-in-arm with a monarchist. There's
liberty, fraternity and equality now, so that no one will be angry at you if
you go out with me. I won't ever say anything about you going out with
Petya, because that was during the tsar's reign and three hundred years of
the autocracy.
"My mother and I have never been very happy. My greatest joy was the
revolution and you, dear Lucy. And I never cried like I did that day of your
party.
"I finally decided to write to you, though it means I have no pride. If
you haven't forgotten me and want to be friends again, write me a note.
It'll be the happiest day of my life. . "This flower is from that bouquet.
"Yours truly,
"Arkasha Portyanko, 3rd grade.
"P.S. Please excuse the blots. And please tear up this letter."
The algebra teacher had a very strange last name: Monokhordov. He had
fiery red hair and huge round jowls, which earned him his nickname, Red
Hippo.
He was forever giggling, and this constant merriment was weird and
impossible to understand.
"He-he-he!" he would giggle shrilly. "He-he-he! You don't know a thing.
Here, he-he-he ... you should have written a plus sign, not a minus ...
he-he-he.... That's why I've ... he-he-he ... given you ... he-he-he ... an
'F'."
Arkasha had taken out the letter he had written and was reading it
under his desk. He was so engrossed that he did not see Monokhordov creep up
on him. Arkasha jumped, but it was too late. The teacher's thick fingers,
covered generously with red hairs, closed on the letter.
"Ha-ha-ha! A letter! He-he, it's not sealed. This should be very, very
interesting... he-he ... I'd like to know what you've been doing ... he-he
... during my class!"
"Please give it back!" Arkasha shouted, shaking visibly.
"Oh, no ... he-he-he. I'm sorry, but... he-he ... this is my trophy."
A reddish giggling filled the classroom. Monokhordov went back to the
lectern and pored over the letter. A boy he had called on and had forgotten
all about stood by the blackboard unhappily. His fingers were full of chalk
dust. The teacher was busy reading.
"He-he-he ... very amusing...," he said as he came to the end. "Rather
interesting. A letter ... he-he ... to his lady-love. I will read it aloud
... he-he-he ... as a lesson to you all."
"Read it! Read it!" everyone shouted excitedly, drowning out Arkasha's
desperate pleas.
Monokhordov kept stopping every now and then to get the giggles out as
he read the letter addressed to Lucy aloud from beginning to end. The boys
yowled. Arkasha was as white as a sheet. He had never been so humiliated in
his life.
"You're starting young, Portyanko ... he-he ... very young." Arkasha
knew that he could never send Lucy the defiled letter. All the lofty words
he had used and which had caused such ribald laughter now seemed stupid to
him, too. However, the terrible hurt he felt made him say in a very quiet
and menacing voice:
"Please give me my letter."
The boys stopped laughing instantly.
"Oh, no," Monokhordov chuckled. "This'll go into the Ledger ...
he-he-he."
Then Arkasha exploded. "Don't you dare! You've no right to!" he
screamed and stamped his feet. "Reading somebody else's letter's the same as
stealing!"
"Get out! This minute!" Monokhordov bellowed and his fat jowls shook.
'Don't you ever forget that you're a charity boy. You'll fly out of here ...
he-he ... ike a balloon."
The dried lily-of-the-valley cracked faintly as the hard covers of the
class journal snapped shut over it. Later, the new principal gave Arkasha a
dressing down.
"You scoundrel," he said softly. "How dare you talk to your elders like
that? I'll expel you, you brat. You'll end your days at hard labour, you
ingrate. Just who do you think you are? Hm?"
Arkasha was again reminded that he was a charity boy, that he was only
there because of the kindness of others, and that the revolution had nothing
to do with anything. There had to be order, above all, and he, Arkasha,
would be expelled in no time if this order were disturbed. Arkasha's name
was entered in the Ledger. He was left after school for two hours. In the
end, what he gathered was that the world was still the same old place and
that it was still divided into the rich and the poor.
The Schwambranian Fleet set out on a great voyage around the continent
in order to chart the exact boundaries of Schwambrania. The ships set sail
in the middle of 1916 and did not dock until November 1917. The significance
of this voyage in the history of Schwambrania was great, indeed, as can be
seer from the documents which have come down to us. My Schwambranian archive
contain a detailed map of Schwambrania and the log of the flagship Brenabor
There is no sense quoting it in full here, as it is very long and rather
dull. Today's readers will find many of its pages hard to understand. That
is why the account o the voyage is given in a revised and abridged form and
some things are explained in parenthesis. I have tried to retain the
Schwambranian style of writing wherever possible.
I would also like to explain the following:
At the time in question, Brenabor Case IV was the Emperor of
Schwambrania We borrowed the name complete from a well-known ad of the day.
That was when two automobiles were added to the coat of arms of
Schwambrania, although it already boasted the Schwambranian wisdom tooth,
the Black Queen, Keeper of the Secret, and the ship of Jack, the Sailor's
Companion.
King Brenabor No. 4 was a rather easy-going fellow. Still and all, he
was a monarch, and none of us wanted to be him. Then again, we didn't want
to be plain commoners, either. That was when Brenabor adopted us. We decided
he had picked us up at sea when we were very little. The vicious old
Chatelains Urodena had put us, new-born, into an empty sauerkraut barrel and
had tossed us into the sea. King Brenabor was out rowing when he got a whiff
of stale cabbage and rescued us.
At that time nearly every children's story had an orphan in it. A tale
about an adopted child was both fashionable and touching. As for the smell
of stale cabbage, that did not in any way make us less attractive, for many
parents insisted that all children, and not only adopted ones, were found in
cabbage patches.
The squadron was made up of the following ships: the flagship Brenabor,
Beef Stroganoff, the Jules Verne, the Liquid Metal, the Prince Courant, the
Cascara Sagrada, the Gratis, the Valiant, the Gambit, and the Donnerwetter.
Despite his youth, Admiral and Captain Ardelar Case, meaning me, was ii
command of the squadron. Oska was the Vice-Admiral and Chief Able-Bodied
Seaman. His name was Satanrex. The name was of operatic origin. The local
druggist often sang at our home musicales. He had a deep basso and sang
Mephistopheles' aria, which included the words "Satan wreaks his vengeance
there". Hi ran his words together when he sang, and so the first two words
sounded like "Satanrex". Oska kept asking everyone who Satanrex was.
Jack, the Sailor's Companion, was our faithful guardian at sea.
Page 1 of Admiral Ardelar Case's diary began as follows: "The sun rose
in the morning and shone above the horizon. The view of the sea was very
beautiful. A hundred thousand soldiers and a million people were there to
see us off. A brass band was blasting away, and it was a regular
manifestation. New Schlyamburg was all illustrated (This is an error. The
admiral wanted to say "illuminated".). I had on a pair of white bell-bottom
flannel trousers, white shoes and spurs, a starched collar, a light-blue bow
tie, a long-waisted purple Circassian coat with gold cartridge slots and
epaulets, a short crimson cape lined with a tiger-skin and a captain's cap
with a plume. I led the way. I was tall and lithe."
The ships were moored at the pier. The second whistle had sounded. The
stevedores were busy loading pastries and thousands of tubes of strawberry
jelly.
The Navy-passenger dreadnought Brenabor was so huge that street cars
and hacks coursed back and forth along the deck, charging twenty kopecks to
take you from the stern to the bow, although oats were very cheap in
Schwambrania. The Brenabor's six stacks smoked like six huge fires. It had a
ten thousand camel-power whistle, and its masts were so high they were
always capped with snow.
"Attention in the engine room!" I said.
"Stand by!" Jack, the Sailor's Companion, said. "Steh fertig bei der
Machine!"
The tsar was there to see us off. He climbed up on a barrel and said
the following manifesto:
"Yo-ho-ho, ye Schwambranian knights in shining armour! We, by the Grace
of God, Emperor of Schwambrania, Tsar of Caldonia, Balvonia et cetera, et
cetera, command you to have a bon voyage both ways. If you happen to see a
war anyplace, get right into the fight and slash away! Give the enemy their
comeuppance. Men! All the centuries, as many as there were and will be, are
looking down on you from the tops of these masts! Forward march, my friends,
on your voyage! Bugles, blare a song of victory! And be sure to go below
deck if you get caught in a squall or a storm so's you won't catch cold.
Forward, fearless knights! Off to the rolling seas, heading southwest. God
bless us and Godspeed!"
At this, everyone burst into the Schwambranian anthem, composed by the
Vice-Admiral, and having all the stresses on the first syllable:
"Hoo-ray, hoo-ray!" they all shouted,
The Schwambranians.
"Hoo-ray, hoo-ray!" they were clouted!
Do-re-mi-mans.
But not one of them was murdered,
All of them survived.
And they blasted all the others.
Lo! They're strong and live!
The Brenabor sounded its ten thousand camel-power whistle for the third
time. Riders tumbled, and their horses galloped off. Anyone standing was now
sitting. Anyone sitting was now lying. As for those that had been lying,
there wasn't much else they could do. The ships cast off. The voyage had
begun.
"Don't forget to write!" the tsar shouted.
The squadron was going full steam ahead. The pennants fluttered in the
breeze. The tall, sleek Brenabor led the caravan, going a hundred knots an
hour. The wind was blowing up. The waves churned. The sun went down in the
evening.
The voyage was progressing well, with the sun coming up in the morning
and going down in the evening. If we are to believe the Admiral's log, the
wind was becoming stronger with each passing day. The squadron did not drop
anchor a Port Manteau and passed Cape Gialmar, coming round the tip of
Cacophonia and Cape Rugby as it headed for Drandzonsk. A small,
single-breasted ship was sent out to meet us (Another error. Suits are
single-breasted, not ships.), and the people of Drandzonsk offered us
Triumph cigarettes. We stopped for a smoke and continued on our way. Two
days later we dropped anchor in Medusa Harbour.
Vast, masculine forests stretched off into the distance beyond Medusa
(Naturally, there are no such forests. One sometimes speaks of a virgin
forest, but the admiral was a woman-hater.). There, in the masculine
forests, we hunted wild run toddies. The rum toddies were animals we had
discovered in an ad of the well known Shustov Distilleries. Rum toddies were
not to be found in any other country except Schwambrania. They had the head
of a buffalo and the body of a horse, s' that they both kicked and butted.
They were ferocious.
Then Satanrex and I explored the Cor-i-Dor Desert. Everything was
deserted in the desert. Meanwhile, the squadron under Jack, the Sailor's
Companion rounded Cape Pudding and steamed into Balvonsk. We boarded our
ship again and continued on our way. The Piliguinian Fleet was sighted off
Cape Charade, with the vile cad, Count Chatelains Urodenal, in command.
"Ah, main royal yard!" Jack, Sailor's Companion, cursed. "Fore royal
standin backstay! Unter lissel left and right, too! Plombiren Sie die
Schiffsraume! Seal the holds!" And he began to flash his eyes. Chatelains
Urodenal picked up his megaphone and declared war on us. A battle at sea
followed. Our ships and their ships attacked each other and tried to send
over boarding parties. What followed was a regular Trafalgar, which ended as
our Waterloo. The Liquid Metal, Donnerwetter and the Boef a la Stroganoff
were all sunk, and the others were towed off by the Piliguinians. They took
them off to their prison, which was on Garlandia, a desert island in the
"Ladies and gentlemen! There's been a revolution in Petrograd and all
over Russia. His Imperial Majesty ... that bloody despot... has abdicated.
All power ha gone over to the Provisional Government. Long may it live! I,
for one, say. hooray!"
The crowd cheered.
Atlantis shouted, "And down with the principal!"
But nothing came of this. The principal had not appeared, and Stepan's
plan collapsed.
A group of teachers and the school inspector were arguing heatedly on
the corner of Breshka Street. Stepan listened to what they were saying. The
inspector was saying ponderously:
"The Committee of the Duma will review our petition this evening, and I
believe the result will be favourable. Then we will show Mister Stomolitsky
the door. The time of callous officialdom is over. Yes, indeed."
Stepan dashed back to where we were. The day suddenly seemed brighter,
and the inspector suddenly seemed such a good fellow you'd think he had
never put Stepan's name down in the Ledger.
More and more people were joining the ranks of the demonstrators.
Workers of the lumber yards, the printshop, the bone-meal factory, mechanics
from the railroad depot, plump bakers, broad-shouldered stevedores, boatmen
and bearded peasants all dressed up in their Sunday best were marching along
jubilantly.
The echo of the bass drum pounded against the walls of the granaries.
The cheering rolled along the streets in a great, sweeping wave. The
schoolgirls smiled warmly. The soft breeze fingered the telegraph wires,
strumming The Marseillaise. It was so good, so wonderful and exhilarating to
breathe, to march along in an overcoat that was unbuttoned and flapping,
against all the sacred school rules.
THE PRINCIPAL'S RUBBERS
The clock in the vestibule had long since struck nine, but still,
lessons had not begun. The classrooms were churning and boiling. Amidst the
general buzzing voices would bubble up and burst like soap bubbles. Seize'em
was patrolling the corridor, chasing the boys back into the classrooms.
There was a light square on the wall in the Teachers' Room where the tsar's
portrait had hung. The teachers were walking up and down in tense silence,
enveloped by clouds of cigarette smoke.
At last Atlantis, who was always in on everything, decided to find out
what was up and went off to the Teachers' Room, supposedly to get a wall
map. He was back in no time, and bursting with news. He did two somersaults,
jumped onto the lectern, did a handstand there and, with his feet waving to
and fro in. the air, he astounded us with a joyous howl:
"Fellows! The Committee kicked the principal out!" Oh, joy! There was a
wild slamming of desk tops, cheers and yelps. The commotion was
ear-splitting.
Hefty, who was dizzy from joy, kept pounding the boy next to him over
the head with his geometry book and shouting: "They've kicked him out!
Kicked him out! Kicked him out! Hear that? They've kicked him out!"
Just then the heavy door opened at the end of the corridor into which
glee waves of joy were pouring from every classroom, and a pair of
highly-polish boots on a pair of unbending legs squeaked softly into the
Teachers' Room. The teachers rose as the principal entered, although their
usual greeting did not folio Stomolitsky took instant notice of this. "Eh,
what seems to be the matter, gentlemen?"
"The matter, Sir, lies in the fact that you ... but perhaps you had
better read yourself," the inspector said and his beard rose and fell gently
as he spoke. He handed the principal a sheet of paper as carefully as if he
wished Stomolitsky sign something important.
The principal took the proffered sheet. One word stood out among all
the rest and this was "Dismissal". However, he refused to accept defeat.
"Eh ... the District Board appointed me, and I am responsible to it
alone," said in an icy voice. "And, furthermore, I shall report this
unlawful action to Board immediately. And now," at this he clicked open the
top of his gold pocket watch, "I suggest you all go to your classes."
"What?" Kirill Ukhov, the history teacher, exclaimed and yanked at his
angrily. "You.... You've been dismissed! It's something we all insisted on,
and not a point that's up for discussion. Gentlemen! Say something! What the
hell is this anyway!"
Boys were clustering in the doorway. Though they were dying of
curiosity, they said nothing. Those in the back rows pressed forward,
propelling those in the front through the door. As they stumbled into the
Teachers' Room they straighter their jackets, fixed their belts and looked
rather embarrassed. Stepan Gavrya elbowed his way through, looked at Ukhov
with burning eyes and suddenly cried.
"That's right, Kirill Mikhailovich!" Then he lunged towards Stomolitsky
"Down with the principal!"
A dead silence followed. Suddenly it was as if an avalanche had come
crash down upon the Teachers' Room, crushing and submerging all in its wake.
"Down with him! Get out! Down with the principal! Hooray!"
The corridor echoed from the noise. Windows rattled. The entire build
seemed to be shaking from the wild pounding of feet, the roaring and
shouting.
For the first time in his life the principal seemed shaken and bent.
Creases seemed to have suddenly appeared in his well-pressed trousers.
The inspector feigned concern. He cocked his eyes at the door politely
and said,
"I think you'd better leave, Sir. I'm afraid we cannot guarantee your
safety."
"You haven't heard the end of this yet!" the principal muttered and
stalked out.
The bottom of his jacket caught on the door knob.
He hurried to his office, clapped on his cockaded cap and put on his
overcoat on the run, so that his arms missed the armholes. He dashed
outside. The janitor hobbled out onto the porch after him.
"Sir! You've forgotten your rubbers! Your rubbers. Sir!"
The principal did not turn back, his skinny legs took him across the
muddy puddles, his shiny boots sinking into the snow. The janitor stood on
the porch, holding the principal's rubbers and clucking his tongue:
"Tut-tut-tut! My-my! Good Lord! That's the revolution for you! Look at
the principal go, and without his rubbers!" Then he chuckled. "See him
skittering! A real gee-raffe he is. My-my! A body can't help laughing! Shake
a leg! Looks just like one of them ostriches, he does."
The boys poured out onto the porch. They were laughing and shouting.
"Hey, watch him leg it! Bally-ho! Goodbye, Fish-Eye!"
A snowball hit his back.
"Whee! Keep on going! Jailer! Warden!"
It was enough to take your breath away. There was the principal, just
think of it: the principal!-whom the boys but yesterday had to greet by
standing stiffly at attention, before whom they had quaked and tipped their
caps (always holding them by the visor!), whose office they had passed on
tiptoe only-there was the principal, running away so shamefully, so
helplessly and, to top it all, having left his rubbers behind!
They could see the teachers' pleased faces in the windows. The janitor
scolded:
"Quit the ruckus! Shame on you! And you being educated boys!"
Atlantis crept up behind him, snatched one of the principal's rubbers
from him and sent it sailing after Stomolitsky. The boys roared. Then he
stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, with a trill at the
end. Only true pigeon fanciers knew how to whistle like that, and Stepan's
tumbler pigeons were famous in town.
When we trooped noisily back to the classrooms, our faces flushed from
excitement, the teachers scolded us half-heartedly, saying:
"That wasn't nice at all, gentlemen. Your behaviour was abominable.
Don't you realize that?"
But we could see they were only saying that because they had to.
We called an emergency meeting on a pile of logs in the yard after
school that day, and pupils of all the eight grades came to the popular
assembly. We were going to elect delegates to the joint meeting of the
Teachers' Council and the Parents Committee. The one item on the agenda was:
"Relieving the principal his duties."
Mitya Lamberg chaired the meeting. He presided grandly on the logs and
s;
"And now, gentlemen, present your candidates."
"Where are we supposed to present them?"
"Ha-ha-ha!" "Gentlemen! Nominate your candidates!"
"Hey, Martynenko! You nominate him one! Ho-ho!"
"Gentlemen! Let's have some order! After all, you're not a bunch of
prim school boys. And let's have some quiet at a time like this!"
"Quit it, fellows!"
The noise finally died down. The election was set into motion. Mitya
Lamb Stepan Atlantis and Shura Gvozdilo, a fourth-grade boy, were elected.
"Any more questions?"
"Yes!" Atlantis scrambled up to the top of the pile. "Listen, fellows.
It serious matter, and no fooling. We've got to make it stick and present
Fish-Eye with all our complaints. And there's something else. There should
be delegates from both sides, and no monkey-business about it!"
"That's right, Stepan! Delegates from both sides!"
"Three cheers for the delegates!"
As the boys tossed Stepan into the air a varied, assortment of things
dropped of his pockets. They included some popgun corks, cartridges, an
oilcake, a slug of lead and a pocket edition of The Adventures of Nat
Pinkerton. Mitya pounded an old pot which had served as the chairman's bell
and was now a drum. The boys carried the delegates out through the gate on
their shoulders. Everyone cheered.
The sun, tired from its steep climb during the day, had stopped to rest
on school roof which was wet from the melted snow, shiny and slippery. The
slipped, burned the windows opposite, plopped into a large puddle and winked
at the merry crowd of boys in a rainbow of colours.
The indignant principal had one last resort: he went to the Parents
Committee for help.
This was not an easy thing for him to do, since he considered the boys'
parents enemies of the state and had always forbidden the teachers to become
friendly them. As far as he was concerned, parents existed only as people to
whom he addressed reminders of non-payment of tuition fees or notices which
were intended to draw their attention to the poor behaviour of their sons.
He regarded any interference in school affairs on their part as a violation
of its sanctity. If it were up to him, he would have thrown out the phrase
"for the solace of our parents" from the morning prayer.
However, this was no time for settling scores. The principal trudged
over to see the veterinary, Shalferov, Chairman of the Parents Committee,
who was known in town as the horse doctor.
The principal arrived during Shalferov's office hours. The horse doctor
was so surprised to see him that he forgot to offer Stomolitsky a chair. He
hastily wiped his hand on a greenish smock that was covered with unsightly
spots and then offered it to the principal who was a dandy and a stickler
for cleanliness. The vet's hand smelled of fresh milk, stables and something
nauseatingly acrid. The principal felt his stomach jump, but he shook the
proffered hand readily.
They conversed as they stood in the cold foyer. It was cluttered with
milk cans, large bottles, wilted rubber plants and geranium pots. A cat was
digging a hole in a box of sand in the corner. Never realizing that it was
witnessing an historical event involving the fall of the principal, the cat
raised its tail and held it out stiffly.
The horse doctor listened to the ashen-faced principal's story and
promised his support. The principal thanked him humbly. The horse doctor was
hard-pressed for time, for a cow was bellowing out in the yard, and he had
to give it an enema. Shalferov suggested that the principal speak to the
Secretary of the Parents Committee.
My father was Secretary of the Parents Committee. The principal felt
very awkward about asking him for favours, since but a short while before my
father had applied for the position of school doctor when there had been a
vacancy, and the principal had written the following on my father's
application:
"We would prefer a doctor who is not of the Jewish faith."
Father had just returned from the hospital where he had been operating.
He was washing up and gargling. The water bubbled in his throat, so that it
seemed that Papa had come to a boil.
The principal awaited him in the parlour.
Goldfish were swimming in the fishbowl, dragging their long, filmy
tails along the bottom. One fish whose head looked like an aviator's helmet
(for it had big bulging eyes), swam right up to the glass. The fish's
insolent orb stared at the principal. Recalling the unpleasant nickname
given to him by the boys, he turned away in annoyance.
Just then the parlour door opened and Oska entered, pulling along a
large and mournful hobby horse. The horse had long since lost its youth and
its tail. It got stuck in the doorway and very nearly fell apart.
Then Oska noticed the principal. He paused to look at him, then came
closer and said, "Are you a patient?"
"No. I've come on business."
"Oh, I know! You're the horse doctor. You smell like a horse doctor.
Don't you? You cure cows and cats, and dogs, and colties, and all the rest.
I know. Can you cure my horse? He has a train engine in his stomach. It got
in, but it can't get out."
"You're mistaken, child," Stomolitsky said huffily. I'm not a
veterinary, I'm the principal of the Boys School."
"Oh." Oska gasped respectfully. He stared hard at the principal. "Are
you really the principal? You scared me. Lelya says you're very strict, even
the teachers are scared of you. What's your name? Snail?... No. Crab?... I
know! Shark-Eye!"
"My name is Stomolitsky," the principal said sourly. "And what is .your
name?"
"Oska. But why does everybody call you Shark-Eye?"
"Don't ask stupid questions. Why don't you tell me ... ahem ... whether
you know how to read. You do? Well, then tell me ... mm ... ah.... Can you
tell me where the Volga flows. Do you know the answer?"
"Sure. The Volga flows into Saratov. Now see if you know this: if an
elephant and a whale have a fight, who'll win?"
The principal was forced to admit that he did not know.
Oska consoled him by saying, "Nobody knows. Papa doesn't know, and the
soldier doesn't know. But why do they call you Shark-Eye? Was that your name
when you were little?"
"That is quite enough! Why don't you tell me your horse's name?"
"Horse. Everybody knows that. Horses don't have last names."
"You're wrong. For instance, Alexander the Great had a horse that was
called Busifal."
"And you're Fish-Eye, aren't you? Not Shark-Eye. I got mixed up. But I
said i1 right now, didn't I?"
Papa entered.
"What a bright boy you have!" the principal said smiling angelically as
he bowed.
Whirr! Buzz!
The ventilator in the Teachers' Room sounded like a huge fly on a
windowpane. It was suffocating in the heated room. Now and then a board of a
desk in one of the dark, deserted classrooms would creak. The clock in the
downstairs hall ticked loudly.
"I will now call to order the joint meeting of the Parents Committee
and the Teachers' Council."
The Parents Committee was seated at a large table. Facing them in a row
were the teachers. Mitya Lamberg and Shura Gvozdilo huddled together at the
far end of the table. Shura seemed lost. Lamberg, who was older and bigger,
was trying not to look too awed. The inspector had barred Stepan Atlantis
from the meeting, saying, "You can expect anything from that rascal. I
wouldn't trust him for a minute."
"I'll be very quiet," Stepan had promised.
"Show him out!" the inspector had said to the janitor.
"Out you go, my boy." The janitor had pushed the protesting Stepan
lightly. "Some delegate! Troublemaker!"
Stepan had been deeply hurt. "Well, don't blame me if nothing comes of
this. Reservoir. Adieu."
At the very outset of the meeting the lights went out. It was a usual
power failure. The Teachers' Room was plunged into darkness, Mitya stuck his
hand into his pocket to get his matches, but suddenly realized that a
non-smoking schoolboy was not supposed to have matches in his pocket. The
janitor brought in a kerosene lamp with a round green shade that resembled a
parachute. The lamp was hung over the table. It swayed slightly, casting
flickering shadows that made the noses of the people around the table now
grow very long, now become very short.
The inspector was the first speaker. He spoke smoothly and wittily, and
his forked beard, so like a snake's forked tongue, bobbed up and down
craftily.
The fathers of the boys who lived on farmsteads were breathing heavily.
Their eyes drooped as Romashov droned on. The long-haired priest put a
strand of hair behind his ear, the better to hear him. The tax collector
wiped his glasses intently, as if he were going to examine each and every
one of the inspector's words through his spectacles. The shopkeeper bent one
plump finger after another meaningfully, in time to the inspector's words.
Gutnik, the fat miller and a member of the Duma, spoke up for the
principal. "How can you teachers take things into your own hands like this?
Let me tell you, it's not right. You should have asked the District Board
first. Stomolitsky was always a man for law and order. We knew that when he
was in charge, everything was as it should be. That's why he should stay on.
And I have a feeling that that's just how things will be. Besides, these are
troubled times. It's like everything was on fire all over. And the boys'll
start acting up. Aren't I right?"
The parents began to nod in agreement. The men were afraid to let their
sons have too much freedom. If you let the reins go just a little, you'd
never again be able to manage that crowd of pigeon-fanciers, dare-devils and
loafers.
THE PRINCIPAL'S LEDGER
Nikita Pavlovich Kamyshov, the geography and science teacher, jumped to
his feet excitedly. Mitya and Shura looked at their favourite teacher with
hope. He was very intent and spoke heatedly. Every sentence he uttered was a
line in Fish-Eye's unwritten Ledger.
"Gentlemen! What's the matter? The tsar's been dethroned, but we ... we
can't even get rid of the principal! You're the parents! Your children, your
sons came here to this hateful place, to get an education. But what sort of
an education could they get? What, I ask you, could they get here, these
children, when we teachers, we grown-up people, were suffocating? There was
no air to breathe. It was disgraceful! We had a regular barracks-room
atmosphere! Why, if a boy was seen wearing a soft collar he was made to stay
after school for eight hours! My God! Now, when the air has become cleaner
all over Russia, we here, in our house, are afraid to open a window and air
the premises!" He yanked at his long, drooping moustache and dashed
breathlessly out of the room.
It became very still.
The principal, who had been sitting unobtrusively in a corner, broke
the quiet with his flat voice. He had turned green from the light of the
lampshade and from bile. He tried to explain away Kamyshov's accusations by
saying: "He's trying to get even. There's the law ... and discipline ... my
duty ... the Board."
He was interrupted by Robiiko, a huge, dark-haired man, as tall as the
freight trains he drove were long. The trainman crashed his fist down on the
table and said: "What's the use of all this talk? If there's been a
revolution, that means these are revolutionary times! We go straight on
through without any stops. As for the principal, we haven't yet seen
anything good except bad from him. And I say we ought to ask the boys. Let
their delegates have the floor. Otherwise, what was the use of electing
them?"
Mitya rattled off the speech he had learned by heart.
"And what do you say?" the chairman said, turning to Shura Gvozdilo.
Shura jumped up. His arms were plastered to his sides, as if he were
reciting a lesson.
The principal's fishy eyes stared at him with loathing.
Shura cocked a wary eye at Stomolitsky. Who could tell? Perhaps he
would remain at his post and get even later. Shura swallowed the lump in his
throat. His heart sank, all the way down to his heels, but just then Mitya
squeezed his foot so hard between his own heels that Shura's heart bounded
back into place again. Shura tossed his head, swallowed hard again and
suddenly felt better.
"We're all for down with the principal!" he shouted.
Someone had jarred the lamp. It was swaying. Once again the shadows
began to move. They were shalfing their heads reproachfully. Noses began
growing longer and getting shorter again, and the principal's dejected nose
seemed the longest of all.
The meeting dragged on far into the night. At last, the following
resolution was drawn up:
"Juvenal Bogdanovich Stomolitsky is to be relieved of his post as
principal of the Boys School. Nikolai Ilyich Romashov, the school inspector,
is to be temporarily appointed principal until the District Board confirms
his appointment."
The former principal left the meeting in silence without saying goodbye
to anyone. Romashov fluffed his beard with a victorious air. The new
principal's pleased beard no longer looked like a snake's forked tongue but,
rather, like a chunk of bread with a dent in the middle.
Shura had become much bolder. He mentioned setting up a student
council. The flame in the lamp leaped from the sudden burst of laughter that
followed. Someone even slapped his back.
"Ah, it's good to be young! Such spit and fire!"
"Delegates of those snot-nosed babies! Ha-ha-ha!"
Shura was embarrassed. He sniffled and rubbed his belt buckle.
The discussion passed on to another matter. The parents began to yawn,
covering their mouths with their hands. Shura could barely keep his eyes
open. The green parachute-lamp floated above the table. The flame hissed
faintly, casting ragged shadows. Waves of heat rose from the lamp glasses.
He was dying to sleep. To top it all, the ventilator whirred on and on
monotonously.
The principal had been kicked out. Shura felt he had accomplished his
mission, but the teachers, parents and the new principal were still
debating, and he felt it was impossible to simply get up and leave. That was
when he construed a very adult sentence about his presence no longer being
required and, therefore, it being possible for him to leave the meeting.
Shura rose. He opened his mouth to say all this when he realized he had
forgotten the first word of the sentence. As he searched for it he forgot
all the others. The words seemed happy to have escaped from his drowsy mind
and pranced about in front of his sleepy eyes. "Presence", a very adult
word, had just donned a tunic with gold buttons and climbed into the lamp
glass insolently. The flame stuck its tongue out at him, and "possible"
started tossing the dot over the "i" at him. It was attached to a long
rubber band and bounced off his head just like the paper balls that Chi
Sun-cha sold at the market.
"What is it you wish to say?" the chairman inquired.
All eyes were on Shura.
He tugged at the bottom of his jacket in despair and said: "May I leave
the room?"
SEIZE'EM ENDS THE DAY
Shura went outside. The sky was as black as a blackboard. A cloud-rag
had wiped it clean of all the star designs. A dense black silence had
engulfed the town. For the first few moments after leaving the Teachers'
Room he stumbled about in the dark like a fly in an inkblot. At last, he
made out the shape of a human figure.
"Is that you, Shura? I'm frozen stiff."
"Atlantis!"
"Well? What happened?"
Shura dragged on each word to make an impression. "Nothing special,
really. Naturally, we got what we wanted. Fish-Eye got the sack. The
inspector's taking his place for the time being."
"Wait a minute! What about the student council?"
"Ha! Anything else you'd like? They laughed their heads off when I
mentioned it."
"What? Then what did you get? That's no revolution! They kicked out the
principal and put the inspector in his place. Ah!" Stepan disappeared in the
dark. Shura Gvozdilo shrugged and headed home. The night watchman's clapper,
that wooden cuckoo of all provincial nights, sounded in the stillness. Soon
the parents and teachers trudged home across the dark square.
Seize'em was the last to leave. He had stayed on in order to enter
Lamberg and Gvozdilo's names in the Black Book-just in case. And so that
memorable day came to a close with the Ledger and Seize'em's spindly
signature.
A new portrait was hung in the Teachers' Room. It was a portrait of
Alexander Kerensky. His hair was cut in a short brush, and the tabs of his
wing collar stood out stiffly.
The teachers pledged allegiance to the Provisional Government at a
special service. The general morning prayers were discontinued. Instead, a
short prayer was read in each classroom before lessons began each morning.
Finally, the liberal-minded new principal took a bold step and did away with
the old system of grading our work.
"All these 'F's', 'D's' and 'A-minuses' are unpedagogical," Romashov
said, addressing the Parents Committee.
From that day on the teachers no longer gave us "F's" and "A's". They
now wrote "Poor" instead of "F", "Unsatisfactory" instead of "D",
"Satisfactory" instead of "C", "Good" instead of "B" and "Excellent" instead
of "A". Then, in order to keep up the idea of pluses and minuses, they began
writing "Very good", "Not quite satisfactory", "Nearly excellent", etc.
Roachius was very dissatisfied with the new system of grading and once wrote
"Very poor, with two minuses" on Hefty's test paper. This was also the mark
he gave him for the term.
"If 'Poor' is an 'F'," Hefty mused, "then the grade he gave me for
Latin this term is someplace way down the line. Probably a 'Z'. What if it's
even worse than that?"
THE DARLING OF THE LADIES' COMMITTEE
The plot our house was on belonged to a large grain company. A winnower
was forever whirring under an overhang. Golden dunes of wheat rose on canvas
spread out on the ground, and the broad-shouldered scales would jerk their
iron shoulders like a person who was trying to scratch his back
unobtrusively. All day long women were busy patching canvas sacks in the
yard, sewing with long needles as they sang mournful songs of love and
parting.
One of the sack-menders was taken on as a cook for the family of a
company employee. The cook had a son named Arkasha, who attended primary
school. Arkasha was small for his age and so full of freckles his face
looked like a piece of canvas covered with spilled grains of wheat. He was a
very bright boy and wanted very much to go on to high school.
There was a Ladies' Charity Committee in our town, and the lady
Arkasha's mother worked for belonged to it. At her urging the Committee
decided to sponsor the gifted boy. That was how Arkasha Portyanko came to be
a scholarship pupil in my grade, having passed the entrance examination with
flying colours.
He was a very serious and kind-hearted boy, and he and I became the
best of friends. He was not a quiet boy, but his mild pranks and jokes were
quite unlike the rough play of his classmates. He was an honour pupil, and
as each term ended he would take his excellent report card home to his
mother in the kitchen. There was a line marked "Parent's signature" at the
bottom, and his mother would sign it laboriously and with great pride,
placing a dot at the end of her name as reverently as if she were lighting a
votive candle in church.
All the boys in my class knew that Arkasha was in love. The blaring
formula of his love appeared regularly on the blackboard: "Arkasha + Lucy =
!!" Lucy was the daughter of the wealthy chairwoman of the Ladies'
Committee. When Arkasha's mother discovered whom her son had a crush on she
shook her head. "Good Lord! What a girl you've chosen! Have a look at
yourself! You'll be the death of me yet!"
However, Lucy liked Arkasha very much. He would meet her in the arbour
and they would read together. The sun shining through the leaves showered
warm bits of its confetti on them. One day Arkasha brought Lucy a bouquet of
lilies-of-the-valley.
At Christmas Lucy's mother had a party for her. Lucy invited Arkasha
without having asked her mother's permission to do so. Arkasha set out for
the party in his well-brushed, well-pressed school uniform. He entered the
brightly-lit hall and was imagining the delights that awaited him when
Lucy's mother suddenly blocked his way. She was a tall woman with rustling
skirts and seemed very much disturbed to have discovered a cook's son about
to attend her daughter's party.
"Come back some other time, child," she said in a sugary voice, "and
use the back stairs. Lucy's busy. She can't see you now. Here are some
sweets for you and your mother."
Arkasha did not see Lucy again after that. He missed her very much. He
looked wan and began slipping in his studies.
In February of 1917, soon after the revolution, a portly gentleman in a
fine, fur-lined coat was speaking animatedly to a crowd of people on
Troitskaya Square, saying that now there were no more masters and no more
slaves, that from now on everyone was equal. Arkasha believed every word of
what he said, for it seemed to him that since a wealthy man was saying there
would be no more masters, it must be so. That was when he decided to write
Lucy a letter. I found it in the Ledger several years later together with a
single dried lily-of-the-valley.
"My dearest sweetheart Lucy,
"Since there has now been an overthrow of the tsarist regime, it means
everybody is equal and free. There are no more masters, and nobody has a
right to insult me and send me packing from a Christmas party like then. I
miss you so much. My mother says I even lost weight. I don't go to the
skating rink any more, but not because I'm jealous, as Lizarsky says,
watching him and you skating together. How do you like that, he says. To
hell (scratched out) To blazes with him. I'm not one bit jealous. He got
what was coming to him, because he's a monarchist (that means he's for the
tsar), and that's why he's so mad. And now, dear Lucy, you and I can be like
a brother and a sister, that is, if you want to. That's because there was a
revolution and we're equals now. Actually, though, you're a hundred times
better than I am. I can't tell you how much I miss you. My word of honour. I
keep thinking about you when I do my homework, and even when I sleep I see
you in my dreams. Just as clear as day. We had the word 'lucid' in spelling,
and I wrote 'Lucy'. You spend all your time with Petya Lizarsky. He's the
one who cribs his math from me and then says he solved the problem himself.
And he holds your arm. I'm not one bit jealous, though. It's strange,
though, because you're so smart, and pretty, and good, and intelligent,
Lucy, and there you are, walking out, arm-in-arm with a monarchist. There's
liberty, fraternity and equality now, so that no one will be angry at you if
you go out with me. I won't ever say anything about you going out with
Petya, because that was during the tsar's reign and three hundred years of
the autocracy.
"My mother and I have never been very happy. My greatest joy was the
revolution and you, dear Lucy. And I never cried like I did that day of your
party.
"I finally decided to write to you, though it means I have no pride. If
you haven't forgotten me and want to be friends again, write me a note.
It'll be the happiest day of my life. . "This flower is from that bouquet.
"Yours truly,
"Arkasha Portyanko, 3rd grade.
"P.S. Please excuse the blots. And please tear up this letter."
The algebra teacher had a very strange last name: Monokhordov. He had
fiery red hair and huge round jowls, which earned him his nickname, Red
Hippo.
He was forever giggling, and this constant merriment was weird and
impossible to understand.
"He-he-he!" he would giggle shrilly. "He-he-he! You don't know a thing.
Here, he-he-he ... you should have written a plus sign, not a minus ...
he-he-he.... That's why I've ... he-he-he ... given you ... he-he-he ... an
'F'."
Arkasha had taken out the letter he had written and was reading it
under his desk. He was so engrossed that he did not see Monokhordov creep up
on him. Arkasha jumped, but it was too late. The teacher's thick fingers,
covered generously with red hairs, closed on the letter.
"Ha-ha-ha! A letter! He-he, it's not sealed. This should be very, very
interesting... he-he ... I'd like to know what you've been doing ... he-he
... during my class!"
"Please give it back!" Arkasha shouted, shaking visibly.
"Oh, no ... he-he-he. I'm sorry, but... he-he ... this is my trophy."
A reddish giggling filled the classroom. Monokhordov went back to the
lectern and pored over the letter. A boy he had called on and had forgotten
all about stood by the blackboard unhappily. His fingers were full of chalk
dust. The teacher was busy reading.
"He-he-he ... very amusing...," he said as he came to the end. "Rather
interesting. A letter ... he-he ... to his lady-love. I will read it aloud
... he-he-he ... as a lesson to you all."
"Read it! Read it!" everyone shouted excitedly, drowning out Arkasha's
desperate pleas.
Monokhordov kept stopping every now and then to get the giggles out as
he read the letter addressed to Lucy aloud from beginning to end. The boys
yowled. Arkasha was as white as a sheet. He had never been so humiliated in
his life.
"You're starting young, Portyanko ... he-he ... very young." Arkasha
knew that he could never send Lucy the defiled letter. All the lofty words
he had used and which had caused such ribald laughter now seemed stupid to
him, too. However, the terrible hurt he felt made him say in a very quiet
and menacing voice:
"Please give me my letter."
The boys stopped laughing instantly.
"Oh, no," Monokhordov chuckled. "This'll go into the Ledger ...
he-he-he."
Then Arkasha exploded. "Don't you dare! You've no right to!" he
screamed and stamped his feet. "Reading somebody else's letter's the same as
stealing!"
"Get out! This minute!" Monokhordov bellowed and his fat jowls shook.
'Don't you ever forget that you're a charity boy. You'll fly out of here ...
he-he ... ike a balloon."
The dried lily-of-the-valley cracked faintly as the hard covers of the
class journal snapped shut over it. Later, the new principal gave Arkasha a
dressing down.
"You scoundrel," he said softly. "How dare you talk to your elders like
that? I'll expel you, you brat. You'll end your days at hard labour, you
ingrate. Just who do you think you are? Hm?"
Arkasha was again reminded that he was a charity boy, that he was only
there because of the kindness of others, and that the revolution had nothing
to do with anything. There had to be order, above all, and he, Arkasha,
would be expelled in no time if this order were disturbed. Arkasha's name
was entered in the Ledger. He was left after school for two hours. In the
end, what he gathered was that the world was still the same old place and
that it was still divided into the rich and the poor.
The Schwambranian Fleet set out on a great voyage around the continent
in order to chart the exact boundaries of Schwambrania. The ships set sail
in the middle of 1916 and did not dock until November 1917. The significance
of this voyage in the history of Schwambrania was great, indeed, as can be
seer from the documents which have come down to us. My Schwambranian archive
contain a detailed map of Schwambrania and the log of the flagship Brenabor
There is no sense quoting it in full here, as it is very long and rather
dull. Today's readers will find many of its pages hard to understand. That
is why the account o the voyage is given in a revised and abridged form and
some things are explained in parenthesis. I have tried to retain the
Schwambranian style of writing wherever possible.
I would also like to explain the following:
At the time in question, Brenabor Case IV was the Emperor of
Schwambrania We borrowed the name complete from a well-known ad of the day.
That was when two automobiles were added to the coat of arms of
Schwambrania, although it already boasted the Schwambranian wisdom tooth,
the Black Queen, Keeper of the Secret, and the ship of Jack, the Sailor's
Companion.
King Brenabor No. 4 was a rather easy-going fellow. Still and all, he
was a monarch, and none of us wanted to be him. Then again, we didn't want
to be plain commoners, either. That was when Brenabor adopted us. We decided
he had picked us up at sea when we were very little. The vicious old
Chatelains Urodena had put us, new-born, into an empty sauerkraut barrel and
had tossed us into the sea. King Brenabor was out rowing when he got a whiff
of stale cabbage and rescued us.
At that time nearly every children's story had an orphan in it. A tale
about an adopted child was both fashionable and touching. As for the smell
of stale cabbage, that did not in any way make us less attractive, for many
parents insisted that all children, and not only adopted ones, were found in
cabbage patches.
The squadron was made up of the following ships: the flagship Brenabor,
Beef Stroganoff, the Jules Verne, the Liquid Metal, the Prince Courant, the
Cascara Sagrada, the Gratis, the Valiant, the Gambit, and the Donnerwetter.
Despite his youth, Admiral and Captain Ardelar Case, meaning me, was ii
command of the squadron. Oska was the Vice-Admiral and Chief Able-Bodied
Seaman. His name was Satanrex. The name was of operatic origin. The local
druggist often sang at our home musicales. He had a deep basso and sang
Mephistopheles' aria, which included the words "Satan wreaks his vengeance
there". Hi ran his words together when he sang, and so the first two words
sounded like "Satanrex". Oska kept asking everyone who Satanrex was.
Jack, the Sailor's Companion, was our faithful guardian at sea.
Page 1 of Admiral Ardelar Case's diary began as follows: "The sun rose
in the morning and shone above the horizon. The view of the sea was very
beautiful. A hundred thousand soldiers and a million people were there to
see us off. A brass band was blasting away, and it was a regular
manifestation. New Schlyamburg was all illustrated (This is an error. The
admiral wanted to say "illuminated".). I had on a pair of white bell-bottom
flannel trousers, white shoes and spurs, a starched collar, a light-blue bow
tie, a long-waisted purple Circassian coat with gold cartridge slots and
epaulets, a short crimson cape lined with a tiger-skin and a captain's cap
with a plume. I led the way. I was tall and lithe."
The ships were moored at the pier. The second whistle had sounded. The
stevedores were busy loading pastries and thousands of tubes of strawberry
jelly.
The Navy-passenger dreadnought Brenabor was so huge that street cars
and hacks coursed back and forth along the deck, charging twenty kopecks to
take you from the stern to the bow, although oats were very cheap in
Schwambrania. The Brenabor's six stacks smoked like six huge fires. It had a
ten thousand camel-power whistle, and its masts were so high they were
always capped with snow.
"Attention in the engine room!" I said.
"Stand by!" Jack, the Sailor's Companion, said. "Steh fertig bei der
Machine!"
The tsar was there to see us off. He climbed up on a barrel and said
the following manifesto:
"Yo-ho-ho, ye Schwambranian knights in shining armour! We, by the Grace
of God, Emperor of Schwambrania, Tsar of Caldonia, Balvonia et cetera, et
cetera, command you to have a bon voyage both ways. If you happen to see a
war anyplace, get right into the fight and slash away! Give the enemy their
comeuppance. Men! All the centuries, as many as there were and will be, are
looking down on you from the tops of these masts! Forward march, my friends,
on your voyage! Bugles, blare a song of victory! And be sure to go below
deck if you get caught in a squall or a storm so's you won't catch cold.
Forward, fearless knights! Off to the rolling seas, heading southwest. God
bless us and Godspeed!"
At this, everyone burst into the Schwambranian anthem, composed by the
Vice-Admiral, and having all the stresses on the first syllable:
"Hoo-ray, hoo-ray!" they all shouted,
The Schwambranians.
"Hoo-ray, hoo-ray!" they were clouted!
Do-re-mi-mans.
But not one of them was murdered,
All of them survived.
And they blasted all the others.
Lo! They're strong and live!
The Brenabor sounded its ten thousand camel-power whistle for the third
time. Riders tumbled, and their horses galloped off. Anyone standing was now
sitting. Anyone sitting was now lying. As for those that had been lying,
there wasn't much else they could do. The ships cast off. The voyage had
begun.
"Don't forget to write!" the tsar shouted.
The squadron was going full steam ahead. The pennants fluttered in the
breeze. The tall, sleek Brenabor led the caravan, going a hundred knots an
hour. The wind was blowing up. The waves churned. The sun went down in the
evening.
The voyage was progressing well, with the sun coming up in the morning
and going down in the evening. If we are to believe the Admiral's log, the
wind was becoming stronger with each passing day. The squadron did not drop
anchor a Port Manteau and passed Cape Gialmar, coming round the tip of
Cacophonia and Cape Rugby as it headed for Drandzonsk. A small,
single-breasted ship was sent out to meet us (Another error. Suits are
single-breasted, not ships.), and the people of Drandzonsk offered us
Triumph cigarettes. We stopped for a smoke and continued on our way. Two
days later we dropped anchor in Medusa Harbour.
Vast, masculine forests stretched off into the distance beyond Medusa
(Naturally, there are no such forests. One sometimes speaks of a virgin
forest, but the admiral was a woman-hater.). There, in the masculine
forests, we hunted wild run toddies. The rum toddies were animals we had
discovered in an ad of the well known Shustov Distilleries. Rum toddies were
not to be found in any other country except Schwambrania. They had the head
of a buffalo and the body of a horse, s' that they both kicked and butted.
They were ferocious.
Then Satanrex and I explored the Cor-i-Dor Desert. Everything was
deserted in the desert. Meanwhile, the squadron under Jack, the Sailor's
Companion rounded Cape Pudding and steamed into Balvonsk. We boarded our
ship again and continued on our way. The Piliguinian Fleet was sighted off
Cape Charade, with the vile cad, Count Chatelains Urodenal, in command.
"Ah, main royal yard!" Jack, Sailor's Companion, cursed. "Fore royal
standin backstay! Unter lissel left and right, too! Plombiren Sie die
Schiffsraume! Seal the holds!" And he began to flash his eyes. Chatelains
Urodenal picked up his megaphone and declared war on us. A battle at sea
followed. Our ships and their ships attacked each other and tried to send
over boarding parties. What followed was a regular Trafalgar, which ended as
our Waterloo. The Liquid Metal, Donnerwetter and the Boef a la Stroganoff
were all sunk, and the others were towed off by the Piliguinians. They took
them off to their prison, which was on Garlandia, a desert island in the