Cor

Teffi

The Corsican

  The interrogation had been dragging on, and the police officer felt exhausted; he declared a break and went off to his office for a rest.

  With a sweet smile of satisfaction he was approaching the couch; suddenly he stopped, his face taking on a twisted look, as if he had seen something foul.

  The other side of the wall, a loud bass voice was singing, clearly enunciating each word: “Forward, forward, O working class!”1

  Not quite able to keep up with this, out of time and out of tune, a timid and hoarse little voice was singing: “Fowad, fowad!”

  “What on earth’s going on?” the officer exclaimed, pointing to the wall.

  The clerk straightened up a little in his chair.

  “I have already had occasion to report to you on the matter of this agent.”

  “What are you on about? Keep it simple.”

  “Agent Fialkin has expressed a pressing and imperative wish to enter the ranks of our provocateurs. This is the second winter running that he has been on duty by the Mikhailov tramway. He’s a quiet chap. Only he’s ambitious beyond his station in life. Here I am, he says, wasting my youth and expending the best of my strength on the trams. He is concerned about the slow progress of his career on the trams and the impossibility of applying his exceptional abilities—that is, supposing he possesses such abilities.”

  “For juthtith thake we thpill our blood,” went the thin voice behind the wall.

  “Out of tune!” said the bass.

  “And is he talented?” asked the officer.

  “He’s ambitious—even excessively ambitious. He wants to become a provocateur, but he doesn’t know a single revolutionary song. He’s been moaning on and on about this. And so police constable No. 4711 has come to his rescue. No. 4711 knows every song perfectly—you’d think he had the music right there in front of him. Now, of course, most constables know the words well enough. You can hardly block your ears when you’re out on the streets. But this one has a fine feel for music as well. So he’s teaching Fialkin.”

  “Well, well! And so now they’re belting out the ‘Warszawianka’,” the officer murmured dreamily. “Ambition’s no bad thing. It can help a man get on in the world. Take Napoleon. A simple Corsican, but he achieved… quite something…”

  “The people’s flag is burning red. It’s sheltered oft our martyred dead,” growled constable No. 4711.

  “They seem to be on another tune already,” said the officer, suddenly suspicious. “Is he teaching him all the revolutionary songs in one go?”

  “Every last one of them. Fialkin’s in a hurry. He thinks there’s an important conspiracy being hatched.”

  “Well, there’s certainly no lack of ambition round here!”

  “The see-eed of the future,” Fialkin bleated from behind the wall.

  “The energy of the Devil,” sighed the officer. “They say that when Napoleon was just a simple Corsican…”

  From the staircase below came muffled thumps and a kind of roar.

  “And what’s that?” asked the officer, raising his eyebrows.

  “That’s our lot, on the ground floor. They eat there. They’re getting agitated.”

  “What about?”

  “Seems they can hear the singing. They don’t like it.”

  “Damn it! This really is a bit awkward. People out on the street might hear, too. They’ll think there’s a protest meeting here in this building.”

  “Damn you!” said the bass the other side of the wall. “Howling like a dog! Is that the way a revolutionary sings? A revolutionary sings with an open heart. He makes a clear sound. Every word can be heard. But you just whimper into your cheeks, and your eyes keep darting about. Keep your eyes still! I’m saying this for the last time. Or I’ll up and leave. If you’re really so keen to have lessons, you can go and find yourself a Maximalist!”2

  “Now he’s losing his temper,” grinned the clerk. “A real Vera Figner.”3

  “Ambition! Ambition!” the officer repeated. “And he’s taken it into his head to be a provocateur… No, brother, there’s no rose without thorns. Court martials don’t have time for long deliberations. Get yourself arrested, brother, and no one will bother to check whether you’re a revolutionary or whether you’re the purest of provocateurs. You’ll swing for it anyway.”

  “Gluttons grow fat on workers’ sweat,” roared the bass, letting himself go.

  “Ow! It’s even making my teeth ache! Can’t anyone find a way to talk him out of all this?”

  “But how can they?” sighed the clerk. “He’s a man possessed. People are all such careerists nowadays.”

  “There must be some way to convince him. Tell him the fatherland needs competent sleuths every bit as much as it needs provocateurs. My tooth’s really hurting…”

  “You gave your life in sacrifice,” roared constable No. 4711.

  “You gave your life in sacrifice,” the agent bleated pathetically.

  “To hell with it all!” yelled the officer, and ran out of the room. “Get out of here!” he shouted down the corridor, his staccato voice hoarse with rage. “Scoundrels! Wanting to be provocateurs when they can’t even sing the ‘Marseillaise’! They’ll put our whole institution to shame! Corsicans! I’ll show you what happens to Corsicans!”

  A door slammed. Everything went quiet. On the other side of the wall, someone let out a sob.

  1910

  Notes

  1 From the ‘Warszawianka’ or ‘Warsaw song’, the Russian lyrics of which are traditionally attributed to Gleb Krzhizhanovsky (1872–1959). During the early twentieth century this song was one of the most popular revolutionary anthems in Russian-held Poland.

  2 A Maximalist was a member of the extreme-left faction of the Social Revolutionary Party, known from 1906 as the Union of Social Revolutionary Maximalists.

  3 Vera Figner (1852–1942), a notorious revolutionary figure, took part in an attempt to assassinate Alexander II.