Translated from the Russian by John Richardson
The original Russian title: Двенадцать стульев
OCR: Tuocs
Introduction
THE LION OF STARGOROD
1 Bezenchuk and the Nymphs
2 Madame Petukhov's Demise
3 The Parable of the Sinner
4 The Muse of Travel
5 The Smooth Operator
6 A Diamond Haze
7 Traces of the Titanic
8 The Bashful Chiseller
9 Where Are Your Curls?
10 The Mechanic, the Parrot, and the Fortune-teller
11 The Mirror-of-Life Index
12 A Passionate Woman Is a Poet's Dream
13 Breathe Deeper: You're Excited!
14 The Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare
IN MOSCOW
15 A Sea of Chairs
16 The Brother Berthold Schwartz Hostel
17 Have Respect for Mattresses, Citizens!
18 The Furniture Museum
19 Voting the European Way
20 From Seville to Granada
21 Punishment
22 Ellochka the Cannibal
23 Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov
24 The Automobile Club
25 Conversation with a Naked Engineer
26 Two Visits
27 The Marvellous Prison Basket
28 The Hen and the Pacific Rooster
29 The Author of the "Gavriliad"
30 In the Columbus Theatre
MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE
31 A Magic Night on the Volga
32 A Shady Couple
33 Expulsion from Paradise
34 The Interplanetary Chess Tournament
35 Et Alia
36 A View of the Malachite Puddle
37 The Green Cape
38 Up in the Clouds
39 The Earthquake
40 The Treasure
It has long been my considered opinion that strains in Russo-American
relations are inevitable as long as the average American persists in
picturing the Russian as a gloomy, moody, unpredictable individual, and the
average Russian in seeing the American as childish, cheerful and, on the
whole, rather primitive. Naturally, we each resent the other side's unjust
opinions and ascribe them, respectively, to the malice of capitalist or
Communist propaganda. What is to blame for this? Our national literatures;
or, more exactly, those portions of them which are read. Since few Americans
know people of the Soviet Union from personal experience, and vice versa, we
both depend to a great extent on information gathered from the printed page.
The Russians know us-let us forget for a moment about Pravda-from the works
of Jack London, James Fenimore Cooper, Mark Twain and O. Henry. We know the
Russians-let us temporarily disregard the United Nations-as we have seen
them depicted in certain novels of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and in the later
dramas of Chekhov.
There are two ways to correct these misconceptions. One would be to
import into Russia a considerable number of sober, serious-minded,
Russian-speaking American tourists, in exchange for an identical number of
cheerful, logical, English-speaking Russians who would visit America. The
other, less costly form of cultural exchange would be for the Russians to
read more of Hawthorne, Melville, Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, and for
us to become better acquainted with the less solemn-though not at all less
profound-Russians. We should do well to read more of Gogol,
Saltykov-Shchedrin, Chekhov (the short stories and the one-act plays)
and-among Soviet authors-to read Mikhail Zoshchenko and Ilf and Petrov.
Thus, in its modest way, the present volume-though outwardly not very
"serious" should contribute to our better understanding of Russia and the
Russians and aid us in facing the perils of peaceful coexistence.
If writers were to be judged not by the reception accorded to them by
literary critics but by their popularity with the reading public, there
could be no doubt that the late team of Ilf and Petrov would have few peers
among Soviet men of letters. Together with another humorist, the recently
deceased Mikhail Zoshchenko, for many years they baffled and outraged Soviet
editors and delighted Soviet readers. Yet even while their works were
officially criticized in the literary journals for a variety of sins (the
chief among them being insufficient ideological militancy and, ipso facto,
inferior educational value), the available copies of earlier editions were
literally read to shreds by millions of Soviet citizens. Russian readers
loved Ilf and Petrov because these two writers provided them with a form of
catharsis rarely available to the Soviet citizen-the opportunity to laugh at
the sad and ridiculous aspects of Soviet existence.
Anyone familiar with Soviet press and literature knows one of their
most depressing features-the emphasis on the pompous and the weighty, and
the almost total absence of the light touch. The USSR has a single Russian
journal of humour and satire, Krokodil, which is seldom amusing. There is a
very funny man in the Soviet circus, Oleg Popov, but he is a clown and
seldom talks. At the present time, among the 4,801 full-time Soviet writers
there is not a single talented humorist. And yet the thirst for humour is so
great in Russia that it was recognized as a state problem by Malenkov, who,
during his short career as Prime Minister after Stalin's death, appealed to
Soviet writers to become modern Gogols and Saltykov-Shchedrins. The writers,
however, seem to have remembered only too well the risks of producing humour
and satire in a totalitarian state (irreverent laughter can easily provoke
accusations of political disloyalty, as was the case with Zoschenko in
1946), and the appeal did not bring about desired results. Hence, during the
"liberal" years of 1953-7 the Soviet Government made available, as a
concession to its humour-starved subjects, new editions of the old works of
Soviet humorists, including 200,000 copies of Ilf and Petrov's The Twelve
Chairs and The Little Golden Calf.
Muscovites and Leningraders might disagree, but there is strong
evidence to indicate that during the first decades of this century the
capital of Russian humour was Odessa, a bustling, multilingual, cosmopolitan
city on the Black Sea. In his recently published memoirs, the veteran Soviet
novelist Konstantin Paustovsky fondly recalls the sophisticated and
iconoclastic Odessa of the early post-revolutionary years. Among the famous
sons of Odessa were Isaac Babel, the writer of brilliant, sardonic short
stories; Yurii Olesha, the creator of modernistic, ironic tales; Valentin
Katayev, author of Squaring the Circle, perhaps the best comedy in the
Soviet repertory; and both members of the team of Ilf and Petrov.
Ilya Ilf (pseudonym of Fainzilberg) was born in 1897; Yevgeny Petrov
(pseudonym of Katayev, a younger brother of Valentin) in 1903. The two men
met in Moscow, where they both worked on the railwaymen's newspaper, Gudok
(Train Whistle). Their "speciality" was reading letters to the editor, which
is a traditional Soviet means for voicing grievances about bureaucracy,
injustices and shortages. Such letters would sometimes get published as
feuilletons, short humorous stories somewhat reminiscent of Chekhov's early
output. In 1927 Ilf and Petrov formed a literary partnership, publishing at
first under a variety of names, including some whimsical ones, like Fyodor
Tolstoyevsky. In their joint "autobiography" Ilf and Petrov wrote :
It is very difficult to write together. It was easier for the
Goncourts, we suppose. After all, they were brothers, while we are not even
related to each other. We are not even of the same age. And even of
different nationalities; while one is a Russian (the enigmatic Russian
soul), the other is a Jew (the enigmatic Jewish soul).
The literary partnership lasted for ten years, until 1937, when Ilya
Ilf died of tuberculosis. Yevgeny Petrov was killed in 1942 during the siege
of Sebastopol.
The two writers are famed chiefly for three books-The Twelve Chairs
(1928; known in a British translation as Diamonds to Sit On); The Little
Golden Calf (1931), a tale of the tribulations of a Soviet millionaire who
is afraid to spend any money lest he be discovered by the police; and
One-Storey-High America (1936; known in a British translation as Little
Golden America), an amusing and, on the whole, friendly account of the two
writers' adventures in the land of Wall Street, the Empire State Building,
cars, and aspiring capitalists.
The plot of The Twelve Chairs is very simple. The mother-in-law of a
former nobleman named Vorobyaninov discloses on her deathbed a secret: she
hid her diamonds in one of the family's chairs that subsequently was
appropriated by the Soviet authorities. Vorobyaninov is joined by a young
crook named Ostap Bender with whom he forms a partnership, and together they
proceed to locate these chairs. The partners have a competitor in the priest
Vostrikov, who has also learned of the secret from his dying parishioner.
The competing treasure-hunters travel throughout Russia, which enables the
authors to show us glimpses of little towns, Moscow, and Caucasian resorts,
and also have the three central characters meet a wide variety of people
-Soviet bureaucrats, newspapermen, survivors of the pre-revolutionary
propertied classes, provincials, and Muscovites.
The events described in the novel are set in 1927, that is, toward the
end of the period of the New Economic Policy, which was characterized by a
temporary truce between the Soviet regime's Communist ideology and limited
private enterprise in commerce, industry and agriculture. The coffin-making
and bagel-making businesses referred to in the novel have long since been
nationalized; the former noblemen masquerading as petty Soviet employees and
many of the colleagues of the priest described by Ilf and Petrov are no
longer alive; and it is impossible to imagine the existence today of an
anti-Soviet "conspiracy" similar to the humorists' "Alliance of the Sword
and Ploughshare".
Other than that, however, the Soviet Union described in the novel is
very much like the Soviet Union of 1960, industrial progress and the
Sputniks notwithstanding. The standard of living in 1927 was relatively
high; it subsequently declined. Now it is just slightly higher than it was
thirty years ago. The present grotesquely overcrowded and poor-quality
housing (there is not even a Russian word for "privacy" I) is not much
different from the conditions Ilf and Petrov knew. There are now, as there
were then, people to whom sausage is a luxury, as it was to the newlyweds in
The Twelve Chairs. Embezzlers of state property, though denounced as
"survivals of the capitalist past", are found by thousands among young men
in their thirties and forties. The ominous door signs protecting Communist
bureaucrats, from unwanted visitors still adorn Soviet offices. Nor has the
species of Ellochka the Cannibal, the vulgar and greedy wife of a
hardworking engineer, become extinct. And there are still multitudes of
Muscovites who flock to museums to see how prosperously the bourgeoisie
lived before the Revolution-Muscovites who are mistaken for art lovers by
unsuspecting Western tourists who then report at home a tremendous Soviet
interest in the fine arts. Why, even the ZAGS remains unchanged; only a few
months ago Komsomolskaya Pravda, a youth newspaper, demanded that something
be done about it, because brides and grooms are embarrassed when the
indifferent clerk inquires whether they came to register a birth, a death,
or wish to get married-just as Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov did over
thirty years ago in the little Soviet town deep in the provinces.
Similarly, the "poet" Lapis who peddled nearly identical verse to
various trade publications-providing his hero Gavrila with different
professions such as chemist, postman, hunter, etc., to give the poem a
couleur local suitable for each of the journals- enjoys excellent health to
this day. There are hundreds of recent Soviet novels, poems and dramas
written by as many Soviet writers which differ only in the professions of
their protagonists; in their character delineations and conflicts they are
all very much alike. And, finally, the custom of delivering formal political
speeches, all of them long, boring, and terribly repetitious, persists to
our times. These speeches are still a regular feature at all public events
in the USSR.
Thus the Western reader, in addition to being entertained, is likely to
profit from the reading of The Twelve Chairs by getting a glimpse of certain
aspects of daily life in the Soviet Union which are not normally included in
Intourist itineraries.
The hero of The Twelve Chairs (and also, it might be added, of The
Little Golden Calf) is Ostap Bender, "the smooth operator", a resourceful
rogue and confidence man. Unlike the nobleman Vorobyaninov and the priest
Vostrikov, Bender is not a representative of the ancient regime. Only
twenty-odd years old, he does not even remember pre-revolutionary Russia: at
the first meeting of the "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare" Bender has
some difficulty playing the role of a tsarist officer. Ostap Bender is a
Soviet crook, born of Soviet conditions and quite willing to co-exist with
the Soviet system to which he has no ideological or even economic
objections. Ostap Bender's inimitable slangy Russian is heavily spiced with
cliches of the Communist jargon. Bender knows the vulnerabilities of Soviet
state functionaries and exploits them for his own purposes. He also knows
that the Soviet Man is not very different from the Capitalist Man-that he is
just as greedy, lazy, snobbish, cowardly and gullible-and uses these
weaknesses to his, Ostap Bender's, advantage. And yet, in spite of Ostap
Bender's dishonesty and lack of scruples, we somehow get to like him. Bender
is gay, carefree and clever, and when we see him matching his wits with
those of Soviet bureaucrats, we hope that he wins.
In the end Ostap Bender and his accomplices lose; yet, strangely
enough, the end of the novel seems forced, much like the cliche happy ending
of a mediocre Hollywood film. One must understand, however, that even in the
comparatively "liberal" 1920s it was difficult for a Soviet author not to
supply a happy Soviet ending to a book otherwise as aloof from Soviet
ideology as The Twelve Chairs. And so, at the end of the novel, one of the
greedy fortune-hunters is killed by his partner, while the other two end up
in a psychiatric ward. But at least Ilf and Petrov have spared us from
seeing Ostap Bender contrasted with a virtuous upright Soviet hero, and for
this we must be grateful. Much as in Gogol's Inspector General and Dead
Souls and in the satires of Saltykov-Shchedrin, we observe with fascination
a Russia of embezzlers, knaves and stupid government officials. We
understand their weaknesses and vices, for they are common to all men.
Indeed, we can even get to like these people, as we could not like the
stuffy embodiments of Communist virtues who inhabit the great majority of
Soviet novels.
Inevitably, some of the humour must get lost in the process of
translation. The protagonists in The Twelve Chairs are for the most part
semi-educated men, but they all aspire to kulturnost, and love to refer to
classics of Russian literature-which they usually misquote. They also
frequently mispronounce foreign words with comical effect. These no
translator could possibly salvage. But the English-speaking reader won't
miss the ridiculous quality of the "updated" version of The Marriage on a
Soviet stage, even if he has never seen a traditional performance of Gogol's
comedy; he will detect with equal ease the hilarious scheme of Ostap Bender
to "modernize" a famous canvas by Repin even if he has never seen the
original painting. Fortunately, most of the comic qualities of the novel are
inherent in the actions of the protagonists, and these are not affected by
being translated. They will only serve to prove once again that, basically,
Soviet Russians are fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by
the same winter and summer" as all men are.
Hunter College 1960
Part I
There were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral homes in the
regional centre of N. that the inhabitants seemed to be born merely in order
to have a shave, get their hair cut, freshen up their heads with toilet
water and then die. In actual fact, people came into the world, shaved, and
died rather rarely in the regional centre of N. Life in N. was extremely
quiet. The spring evenings were delightful, the mud glistened like
anthracite in the light of the moon, and all the young men of the town were
so much in love with the secretary of the communal-service workers' local
committee that she found difficulty in collecting their subscriptions.
Matters of life and death did not worry Ippolit Matveyevich
Vorobyaninov, although by the nature of his work he dealt with them from
nine till five every day, with a half-hour break for lunch.
Each morning, having drunk his ration of hot milk brought to him by
Claudia Ivanovna in a streaky frosted-glass tumbler, he left the dingy
little house and went outside into the vast street bathed in weird spring
sunlight; it was called Comrade Gubernsky Street. It was the nicest kind of
street you can find in regional centres. On the left you could see the
coffins of the Nymph Funeral Home glittering with silver through undulating
green-glass panes. On the right, the dusty, plain oak coffins of Bezenchuk,
the undertaker, reclined sadly behind small windows from which the putty was
peeling off. Further up, "Master Barber Pierre and Constantine" promised
customers a "manicure" and "home curlings". Still further on was a hotel
with a hairdresser's, and beyond it a large open space in which a
straw-coloured calf stood tenderly licking the rusty sign propped up against
a solitary gateway. The sign read: Do-Us-the-Honour Funeral Home.
Although there were many funeral homes, their clientele was not
wealthy. The Do-Us-the-Honour had gone broke three years before Ippolit
Matveyevich settled in the town of N., while Bezenchuk drank like a fish and
had once tried to pawn his best sample coffin.
People rarely died in the town of N. Ippolit Matveyevich knew this
better than anyone because he worked in the registry office, where he was in
charge of the registration of deaths and marriages.
The desk at which Ippolit Matveyevich worked resembled an ancient
gravestone. The left-hand corner had been eaten away by rats. Its wobbly
legs quivered under the weight of bulging tobacco-coloured files of notes,
which could provide any required information on the origins of the town
inhabitants and the family trees that had grown up in the barren regional
soil.
On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half
past seven and immediately slipped on to his nose an old-fashioned pince-nez
with a gold nosepiece. He did not wear glasses. At one time, deciding that
it was not hygienic to wear pince-nez, he went to the optician and bought
himself a pair of frameless spectacles with gold-plated sidepieces. He liked
the spectacles from the very first, but his wife (this was shortly before
she died) found that they made him look the spitting image of Milyukov, and
he gave them to the man who cleaned the yard. Although he was not
shortsighted, the fellow grew accustomed to the glasses and enjoyed wearing
them.
"Bonjour!" sang Ippolit Matveyevich to himself as he lowered his legs
from the bed. "Bonjour" showed that he had woken up in a. good humour. If he
said "Guten Morgen" on awakening, it usually meant that his liver was
playing tricks, that it was no joke being fifty-two, and that the weather
was damp at the time.
Ippolit Matveyevich thrust his legs into pre-revolutionary trousers,
tied the ribbons around his ankles, and pulled on short, soft-leather boots
with narrow, square toes. Five minutes later he was neatly arrayed in a
yellow waistcoat decorated with small silver stars and a lustrous silk
jacket that reflected the colours of the rainbow as it caught the light.
Wiping away the drops of water still clinging to his grey hairs after his
ablutions, Ippolit Matveyevich fiercely wiggled his moustache, hesitantly
felt his bristly chin, gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush and,
then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who
had just come into the room.
"Eppole-et," she thundered, "I had a bad dream last night."
The word "dream" was pronounced with a French "r".
Ippolit Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law up and down. He was six
feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for him to look down
on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt.
Claudia Ivanovna continued: "I dreamed of the deceased Marie with her
hair down, and wearing a golden sash."
The iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at the
rumble of Claudia Ivanovna's voice. "I am very disturbed. I fear something
may happen." These last words were uttered with such force that the square
of bristling hair on Ippolit Matveyevich's head moved in different
directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly:
"Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?"
It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit
Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her
advanced age gave little hope of any improvement. She was stingy in the
extreme, and it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's poverty which prevented her
giving rein to this passion. Her voice was so strong and fruity that it
might well have been envied by Richard the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is
well known, horses used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing
of all about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed
of girls in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid worn by dragoons,
caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats who went for walks
at night carrying clappers, and knitting-needles which hopped around the
room by themselves making a distressing tinkle. An empty-headed woman was
Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her upper lip was covered
by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.
Ippolit Matveyevich left the house in rather an irritable mood.
Bezenchuk the undertaker was standing at the entrance to his tumble-down
establishment, leaning against the door with his hands crossed. The regular
collapse of his commercial undertakings plus a long period of practice in
the consumption of intoxicating drinks had made his eyes bright yellow like
a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.
"Greetings to an honoured guest!" he rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov.
"Good mornin'."
Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled beaver hat. "How's your
mother-in-law, might I inquire? " "Mrr-mrr," said Ippolit Matveyevich
indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.
"God grant her health," said Bezenchuk bitterly. "Nothin' but losses,
durn it." And crossing his hands on his chest, he again leaned against the
doorway.
At the entrance to the Nymph Funeral Home Ippolit Matveyevich was
stopped once more. There were three owners of the Nymph. They all bowed to
Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.
"She's well," replied Ippolit Matveyevich. "The things she does! Last
night she saw a golden girl with her hair down. It was a dream."
The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly.
These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov on his way, and contrary to
his usual practice, he did not arrive at work until the clock on the wall
above the slogan "Finish Your Business and Leave" showed five past nine.
Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache,
Ippolit Matveyevich was known in the office as Maciste.* although the real
Maciste had no moustache. ( Translator's Note: Maciste was an
internationally known Italian actor of the time.)
Taking a blue felt cushion out of a drawer in the desk, Ippolit
Matveyevich placed it on his chair, aligned his moustache correctly
(parallel to the top of the desk) and sat down on the cushion, rising
slightly higher than his three colleagues. He was not afraid of getting
piles; he was afraid of wearing out his trousers-that was why he used the
blue cushion.
All these operations were watched timidly by two young persons-a boy
and a girl. The young man, who wore a padded cotton coat, was completely
overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink, the clock
that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice
"Finish Your Business and Leave". The young man in the coat had not even
begun his business, but he was nonetheless ready to leave. He felt his
business was so insignificant that it was shameful to disturb such a
distinguished-looking grey-haired citizen as Vorobyaninov. Ippolit
Matveyevich also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could
wait, so he opened folder no. 2 and, with a twitch of the cheek, immersed
himself in the papers. The girl, who had on a long jacket edged with shiny
black ribbon, whispered something to the young man and, pink with
embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Comrade," she said, "where do we . . ."
The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly
for himself, blurted out:
"Get married!"
Ippolit Matveyevich looked thoughtfully at the rail behind which the
young couple were standing.
"Birth? Death?"
"Get married?" repeated the young man in the coat and looked round him
in confusion.
The girl gave a giggle. Things were going fine. Ippolit Matveyevich set
to work with the skill of a magician. In spidery handwriting he recorded the
names of the bride and groom in thick registers, sternly questioned the
witnesses, who had to be fetched from outside, breathed tenderly and
lengthily on the square rubber stamps and then, half rising to his feet,
impressed them upon the tattered identification papers. Having received two
roubles from the newly-weds "for administration of the sacrament", as he
said with a smirk, and given them a receipt, Ippolit Matveyevich drew
himself up to his splendid height, automatically pushing out his chest (he
had worn a corset at one time). The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his
shoulders like epaulettes. His appearance was slightly comic, but singularly
impressive. The biconcave lenses of his pince-nez flashed white like
searchlights. The young couple stood in awe.
"Young people," said Ippolit Matveyevich pompously, "allow me to
congratulate you, as they used to say, on your legal marriage. It is very,
very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the
realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!'
Having made this address, Ippolit Matveyevich shook hands with the
newly married couple, sat down, and, extremely pleased with himself,
continued to read the papers in folder no. 2. At the next desk the clerks
sniggered into their ink-wells. The quiet routine of the working day had
begun. No one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages desk. Through the windows
citizens could be seen making their way home, shivering in the spring
chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough co-operative
began crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then came the mechanical rattling and
squeaking of a car engine. A thick cloud of violet smoke billowed out from
Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the clanking grew louder. Through the smoke
appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with
its minute radiator and bulky body. Floundering in the mud as it went, the
car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a
cloud of poisonous smoke. The clerks remained standing at the window for
some time, commenting on the event and attempting to connect it with a
possible reduction in staff. A little while later Bezenchuk cautiously went
past along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town
trying to find out if anyone had died.
The working day was drawing to a close. In the nearby white and yellow
belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one
by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting,
and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square.
It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be
born on that day had been born and registered in the thick ledgers. All
those wishing to get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the
thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of the undertakers, there had not
been a single death. Ippolit Matveyevich packed up his files, put the felt
cushion away in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache with a comb, and was
just about to leave, having visions of a bowl of steaming soup, when the
door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold.
"Greetings to an honoured guest," said Ippolit Matveyevich with a
smile. "What can I do for you?"
The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable
to utter a word.
"Well?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely.
"Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?" said the
undertaker vaguely. "Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a coffin needs
so much wood alone."
"What?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"It's the Nymph. . . . Three families livin' on one rotten business.
And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the
tassels ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in
1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a
good coffin."
"What are you talking about? Are you crazy?" snapped Ippolit
Matveyevich and moved towards the door. "Your coffins will drive you out of
your mind."
Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first
and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience.
"When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one
firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I
tell you straight, there's nothin' to beat mine. You don't even need to
look."
Ippolit Matveyevich turned round angrily, glared at Bezenchuk, and
began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office
that day, he felt rotten.
The three owners of the Nymph were standing by their establishment in
the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that morning.
They appeared not to have exchanged a single word with one another, yet a
striking change in their expressions and a kind of secret satisfaction
darkly gleaming in their eyes indicated that they had heard something of
importance.
At the sight of his business rivals, Bezenchuk waved his hand in
despair and called after Vorobyaninov in a whisper: "I'll make it thirty-two
roubles." Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and increased his pace. "You can have
credit," added Bezenchuk. The three owners of the Nymph said nothing. They
sped after Vorobyaninov in silence, continually doffing their caps and
bowing as they went.
Highly annoyed by the stupid attentions of the undertakers, Ippolit
Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably
wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of
hunger, went into the hallway. He was met by Father Theodore, priest of the
Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room
and was looking hot and bothered. Holding up his cassock in his right hand,
Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich.
It was then that Vorobyaninov noticed the extra cleanliness and the
unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in
his nose from the strong smell of medicine. In the outer room Ippolit
Matveyevich was met by his neighbour, Mrs. Kuznetsov, the agronomist. She
spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about.
"She's worse. She's just made her confession. Don't make a noise with
your boots."
"I'm not," said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. "What's happened?"
Mrs. Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner
room: "Very severe heart attack."
Then, clearly repeating what she had heard, added: "The possibility of
her not recovering should not be discounted. I've been on my feet all day. I
came this morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was
no one in the kitchen and no one in this room either. So I thought Claudia
Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to
for some time. You know what flour is like nowadays. If you don't buy it
beforehand . . ."
Mrs. Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour
and the high price of it and how she found Claudia Ivanovna lying by the
tiled stove completely unconscious, had not a groan from the next room
impinged painfully on Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. He quickly crossed himself
with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room.
MADAME PETUKHOV'S DEMISE
Claudia Ivanovna lay on her back with one arm under her head. She was
wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion
when ladies wore the "chanticleer" and had just begun to dance the tango.
Claudia Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed absolutely nothing.
Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
"Claudia Ivanovna!" called Ippolit Matveyevich.
His mother-in-law moved her lips rapidly, but instead of the
trumpet-like sounds to which his ear was accustomed, Ippolit Matveyevich
only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a
leap. A tear suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a
drop of mercury.
"Claudia Ivanovna," repeated Vorobyaninov, "what's the matter?"
But again he received no answer. The old woman had closed her eyes and
slumped to one side.
The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a
little boy taken to be washed.
"She's dropped off. The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed.
Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out
how much an ice-bag costs."
Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable
superiority in such matters.
It was a long way to the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his
fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.
It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of
Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of
bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge
from an iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the
undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his
shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:
"Always in me way, durn 'em."
In the middle of the square, near the bust of the "poet Zhukovsky,
which was inscribed with the words "Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of
the Earth", an animated conversation was in progress following the news of
Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The general opinion of the assembled citizens
could have been summed up as "We all have to go sometime" and "What the Lord
gives, the Lord takes back".
The hairdresser "Pierre and Constantine"-who also answered readily to
the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the way-once again took the opportunity to
air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok.
"Modern science," Andrew Ivanovich was saying, "has achieved the
impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his
chin. In the old days that usually resulted in blood-poisoning. But they say
that nowadays, in Moscow-I don't know whether it's true or not-a freshly
sterilized shaving brush is used for every customer." The citizens gave long
sighs. "Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Andrew? " "How could there be a
different brush for every person? That's a good one!"
Prusis, a former member of the proletariat intelligentsia, and now a
private stall-owner, actually became excited.
"Wait a moment, Andrew Ivanovich. According to the latest census, the
population of Moscow is more than two million. That means they'd need more
than two million brushes. Seems rather curious."
The conversation was becoming heated, and heaven only knows how it
would have ended had not Ippolit Matveyevich appeared at the end of the
street. "He's off to the chemist's again. Things must be bad." "The old
woman will die. Bezenchuk isn't running round the town in a flurry for
nothing." "What does the doctor say? "
"What doctor? Do you call those people in the social-insurance office
doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!"
"Pierre and Constantine", who had been longing for a chance to make a
pronouncement on the subject of medicine, looked around cautiously, and
said:
"Haemoglobin is what counts nowadays." Having said that, he fell
silent. The citizens also fell silent, each reflecting in his own way on the
mysterious power of haemoglobin.
When the moon rose and cast its minty light on the miniature bust of
Zhukovsky, a rude word could clearly be seen chalked on the poet's bronze
back.
This inscription had first appeared on June 15, 1897, the same day that
the bust had been unveiled. And despite all the efforts of the tsarist
police, and later the Soviet militia, the defamatory word had reappeared
each day with unfailing regularity.
The samovars were already singing in the little wooden houses with
their outside shutters, and it was time for supper. The citizens stopped
wasting their time and went their way. A wind began to blow.
In the meantime Claudia Ivanovna was dying. First she asked for
something to drink, then said she had to get up and fetch Ippolit
Matveyevich's best boots from the cobbler. One moment she complained of the
dust which, as she put it, was enough to make you choke, and the next asked
for all the lamps to be lit.
Ippolit Matveyevich paced up and down the room, tired of worrying. His
mind was full of unpleasant, practical thoughts. He was thinking how he
would have to ask for an advance at the mutual assistance office, fetch the
priest, and answer letters of condolence from relatives. To take his mind
off these things, Ippolit Matveyevich went out on the porch. There, in the
green light of the moon, stood Bezenchuk the undertaker.
"So how would you like it, Mr. Vorobyaninov?" asked the undertaker,
hugging his cap to his chest. "Yes, probably," answered Ippolit Matveyevich
gloomily. "Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?" said
Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. "Go to the devil! You make me sick!"
"I'm not doin' nothin'. I'm only askin' about the tassels and brocade.
How shall I make it? Best quality? Or how?"
"No tassels or brocade. Just an ordinary coffin made of pine-wood. Do
you understand? "
Bezenchuk put his finger to his lips to show that he understood
perfectly, turned round and, managing to balance his cap on his head
although he was staggering, went off. It was only then that Ippolit
Matveyevich noticed that he was blind drunk.
Ippolit Matveyevich felt singularly upset. He tried to picture himself
coming home to an empty, dirty house. He was afraid his mother-in-law's
death would deprive him of all those little luxuries and set ways he had
acquired with such effort since the revolution-a revolution which had
stripped him of much greater luxuries and a grander way of life. "Should I
marry?" he wondered. "But who? The militia chief's niece or Barbara
Stepanova, Prusis's sister? Or maybe I should hire a housekeeper. But what's
the use? She would only drag me around the law courts. And it would cost me
something, too!"
The future suddenly looked black for Ippolit Matveyevich. Full of
indignation and disgust at everything around him, he went back into the
house. Claudia Ivanovna was no longer delirious. Lying high on her pillows,
she looked at Ippolit Matveyevich, in full command of her faculties, and
even sternly, he thought.
"Ippolit Matveyevich," she whispered clearly. "Sit close to me. I want
to tell you something."
Ippolit Matveyevich sat down in annoyance, peering into his
mother-in-law's thin, bewhiskered face. He made an attempt to smile and say
something encouraging, but the smile was hideous and no words of
encouragement came to him. An awkward wheezing noise was all he could
produce.
"Ippolit," repeated his mother-in-law, "do you remember our
drawing-room suite?"
"Which one?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich with that kind of polite
attention that is only accorded to the very sick.
"The one . . . upholstered in English chintz."
"You mean the suite in my house?"
"Yes, in Stargorod."
"Yes, I remember it very well . . . a sofa, a dozen chairs and a round
table with six legs. It was splendid furniture. Made by Hambs. . . . But why
does it come to mind?"
Claudia Ivanovna, however, was unable to answer. Her face had slowly
begun to turn the colour of copper sulphate. For some reason Ippolit
Matveyevich also caught his breath. He clearly remembered the drawing-room
in his house and its symmetrically arranged walnut furniture with curved
legs, the polished parquet floor, the old brown grand piano, and the oval
black-framed daguerreotypes of high-ranking relatives on the walls.
Claudia Ivanovna then said in a wooden, apathetic voice:
"I sewed my jewels into the seat of a chair."
Ippolit Matveyevich looked sideways at the old woman.
"What jewels?" he asked mechanically, then, suddenly realizing what she
had said, added quickly:
"Weren't they taken when the house was searched?"
"I hid the jewels in a chair," repeated the old woman stubbornly.
Ippolit Matveyevich jumped up and, taking a close look at Claudia
Ivanovna's stony face lit by the paraffin lamp, saw she was not raving.
"Your jewels!" he cried, startled at the loudness of his own voice. "In
a chair? Who induced you to do that? Why didn't you give them to me?"
"Why should I have given them to you when you squandered away my
daughter's estate?" said the old woman quietly and viciously. Ippolit
Matveyevich sat down and immediately stood up again.
His heart was noisily sending the blood coursing around his body. He
began to hear a ringing in his ears.
"But you took them out again, didn't you? They're here, aren't they?"
The old woman shook her head.
"I didn't have time. You remember how quickly and unexpectedly we had
to flee. They were left in the chair . .. the one between the terracotta
lamp and the fireplace."
"But that was madness! You're just like your daughter," shouted Ippolit
Matveyevich loudly.
And no longer concerned for the fact that he was at the bedside of a
dying woman, he pushed back his chair with a crash and began prancing about
the room.
"I suppose you realize what may have happened to the chairs? Or do you
think they're still there in the drawing-room in my house, quietly waiting
for you to come and get your jewellery? " The old woman did not answer.
The registry clerk's wrath was so great that the pince-nez fell of his
nose and landed on the floor with a tinkle, the gold nose-piece glittering
as it passed his knees.
"What? Seventy thousand roubles' worth of jewellery hidden in a chair!
Heaven knows who may sit on that chair!"
At this point Claudia Ivanovna gave a sob and leaned forward with her
whole body towards the edge of the bed. Her hand described a semi-circle and
reached out to grasp Ippolit Matveyevich, but then fell back on to the
violet down quilt. Squeaking with fright, Ippolit Matveyevich ran to fetch
his neighbour. "I think she's dying," he cried.
The agronomist crossed herself in a businesslike way and, without
hiding her curiosity, hurried into Ippolit Matveyevich's house, accompanied
by her bearded husband, also an agronomist. In distraction Vorobyaninov
wandered into the municipal park.
While the two agronomists and their servants tidied up the deceased
woman's room, Ippolit Matveyevich roamed around the park, bumping into
benches and mistaking for bushes the young couples numb with early spring
love.
The strangest things were going on in Ippolit Matveyevich's head. He
could hear the sound of gypsy choirs and orchestras composed of big-breasted
women playing the tango over and over again; he imagined the Moscow winter
and a long-bodied black trotter that snorted contemptuously at the
passers-by. He imagined many different things: a pair of deliriously
expensive orange-coloured panties, slavish devotion, and a possible trip to
Cannes. Ippolit Matveyevich began walking more slowly and suddenly stumbled
over the form of Bezenchuk the undertaker. The latter was asleep, lying in
the middle of the path in his fur coat. The jolt woke him up. He sneezed and
stood up briskly.
"Now don't you worry, Mr Vorobyaninov," he said heatedly, continuing
the conversation started a while before. "There's lots of work goes into a
coffin."
"Claudia Ivanovna's dead," his client informed him.
"Well, God rest her soul," said Bezenchuk. "So the old lady's passed
away. Old ladies pass away . . . or they depart this life. It depends who
she is. Yours, for instance, was small and plump, so she passed away. But if
it's one who's a bit bigger and thinner, then they say she has departed this
life. . . ."
"What do you mean 'they say'? Who says?"
"We say. The undertakers. Now you, for instance. You're
distinguished-lookin' and tall, though a bit on the thin side. If you should
die, God forbid, they'll say you popped off. But a tradesman, who belonged
to the former merchants' guild, would breathe his last. And if it's someone
of lower status, say a caretaker, or a peasant, we say he has croaked or
gone west. But when the high-ups die, say a railway conductor or someone in
administration, they say he has kicked the bucket. They say: 'You know our
boss has kicked the bucket, don't you?' "
Shocked by this curious classification of human mortality, Ippolit
Matveyevich asked:
"And what will the undertakers say about you when you die?"
"I'm small fry. They'll say, 'Bezenchuk's gone', and nothin' more."
And then he added grimly:
"It's not possible for me to pop off or kick the bucket; I'm too small.
But what about the coffin, Mr Vorobyaninov? Do you really want one without
tassels and brocade? "
But Ippolit Matveyevich, once more immersed in dazzling dreams, walked
on without answering. Bezenchuk followed him, working something out on his
fingers and muttering to himself, as he always did.
The moon had long since vanished and there was a wintry cold. Fragile,
wafer-like ice covered the puddles. The companions came out on Comrade
Gubernsky Street, where the wind was tussling with the hanging shop-signs. A
fire-engine drawn by skinny horses emerged from the direction of Staropan
Square with a noise like the lowering of a blind.
Swinging their canvas legs from the platform, the firemen wagged their
helmeted heads and sang in intentionally tuneless voices:
"Glory to our fire chief,
Glory to dear Comrade Pumpoff!"
"They've been havin' a good time at Nicky's wedding," remarked
Bezenchuk nonchalantly. "He's the fire chief's son." And he scratched
himself under his coat. "So you really want it without tassels and brocade?"
By that moment Ippolit Matveyevich had finally made up his mind. "I'll
go and find them," he decided, "and then we'll see." And in his
jewel-encrusted visions even his deceased mother-in-law seemed nicer than
she had actually been. He turned to Bezenchuk and said:
"Go on then, damn you, make it! With brocade! And tassels!"
THE PARABLE OF THE SINNER
Having heard the dying Claudia Ivanovna's confession, Father Theodore
Vostrikov, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, left
Vorobyaninov's house in a complete daze and the whole way home kept looking
round him distractedly and smiling to himself in confusion. His bewilderment
became so great in the end that he was almost knocked down by the
district-executive-committee motor-car, Gos. No. 1. Struggling out of the
cloud of purple smoke issuing from the infernal machine, Father Vostrikov
reached the stage of complete distraction, and, despite his venerable rank
and middle age, finished the journey at a frivolous half-gallop.
His wife, Catherine, was laying the table for supper. On the days when
there was no evening service to conduct, Father Theodore liked to have his
supper early. This time, however, to his wife's surprise, the holy father,
having taken off his hat and warm padded cassock, skipped past into the
bedroom, locked himself in and began chanting the prayer "It Is Meet" in a
tuneless voice.
His wife sat down on a chair and whispered in alarm:
"He's up to something again."
Father Theodore's tempestuous soul knew no rest, nor had ever known it.
Neither at the time when he was Theo, a pupil of the Russian Orthodox Church
school, nor when he was Theodore Ivanych, a bewhiskered student at the
college. Having left the college and studied law at the university for three
years in 1915 Vostrikov became afraid of the possibility of mobilization and
returned to the Church. He was first anointed a deacon, then ordained a
priest and appointed to the regional centre of N. But the whole time, at
every stage of his clerical and secular career, Father Theodore never lost
interest in worldly possessions.
He cherished the dream of possessing his own candle factory. Tormented
by the vision of thick ropes of wax winding on to the factory drums, Father
Theodore devised various schemes that would bring in enough basic capital to
buy a little factory in Samara which he had had his eye on for some time.
Ideas occurred to Father Theodore unexpectedly, and when they did he
used to get down to work on the spot. He once started making a marble-like
washing-soap; he made pounds and pounds of it, but despite an enormous fat
content, the soap would not lather, and it cost twice as much as the Hammer
and Plough brand, to boot. For a long time after it remained in the liquid
state gradually decomposing on the porch of the house, and whenever his
wife, Catherine, passed it, she would wipe away a tear. The soap was
eventually thrown into the cesspool.
Reading in a farming magazine that rabbit meat was as tender as
chicken, that rabbits were highly prolific, and that a keen farmer could
make a mint of money breeding them, Father Theodore immediately acquired
half a dozen stud rabbits, and two months later, Nerka the dog, terrified by
the incredible number of long-eared creatures filling the yard and house,
fled to an unknown destination. However, the wretchedly provincial citizens
of the town of N. proved extraordinarily conservative and, with unusual
unanimity, refused to buy Vostrikov's rabbits. Then Father Theodore had a
talk with his wife and decided to enhance his diet with the rabbit meat that
was supposed to be tastier than chicken. The rabbits were roasted whole,
turned into rissoles and cutlets, made into soup, served cold for supper and
baked in pies. But to no avail. Father Theodore worked it out that even if
they switched exclusively to a diet of rabbit, the family could not consume
more than forty of the creatures a month, while the monthly increment was
ninety, with the number increasing in a geometrical progression.
The Vostrikovs then decided to sell home-cooked meals. Father Theodore
spent a whole evening writing out an advertisement in indelible pencil on
neatly cut sheets of graph paper, announcing the sale of tasty home-cooked
meals prepared in pure butter. The advertisement began "Cheap and Good!" His
wife filled an enamel dish with flour-and-water paste, and late one evening
the holy father went around sticking the advertisements on all the telegraph
poles, and also in the vicinity of state-owned institutions.
The new idea was a great success. Seven people appeared the first day,
among them Bendin, the military-commissariat clerk, by whose endeavour the
town's oldest monument-a triumphal arch, dating from the time of the Empress
Elizabeth-had been pulled down shortly before on the ground that it
interfered with the traffic. The dinners were very popular. The next day
there were fourteen customers. There was hardly enough time to skin the
rabbits. For a whole week things went swimmingly and Father Theodore even
considered starting up a small fur-trading business, without a car, when
something quite unforeseen took place.
The Hammer and Plough co-operative, which had been shut for three weeks
for stock-taking, reopened, and some of the counter hands, panting with the
effort, rolled a barrel of rotten cabbage into the yard shared by Father
Theodore, and dumped the contents into the cesspool. Attracted by the
piquant smell, the rabbits hastened to the cesspool, and the next morning an
epidemic broke out among the gentle rodents. It only raged for three hours,
but during that time it finished off two hundred and forty adult rabbits and
an uncountable number of offspring.
The shocked priest had been depressed for two whole months, and it was
only now, returning from Vorobyaninov's house and to his wife's surprise,
locking himself in the bedroom, that he regained his spirits. There was
every indication that Father Theodore had been captivated by some new idea.
Catherine knocked on the bedroom door with her knuckle. There was no
reply, but the chanting grew louder. A moment later the door opened slightly
and through the crack appeared Father Theodore's face, brightened by a
maidenly flush.
"Let me have a pair of scissors quickly, Mother," snapped Father
Theodore.
"But what about your supper? "
"Yes, later on."
Father Theodore grabbed the scissors, locked the door again, and went
over to a mirror hanging on the wall in a black scratched frame.
Beside the mirror was an ancient folk-painting, entitled "The Parable
of the Sinner", made from a copperplate and neatly hand-painted. The parable
had been a great consolation to Vostrikov after the misfortune with the
rabbits. The picture clearly showed the transient nature of earthly things.
The top row was composed of four drawings with meaningful and consolatory
captions in Church Slavonic: Shem saith a prayer, Ham soweth wheat, Japheth
enjoyeth power, Death overtaketh all. The figure of Death carried a scythe
and a winged hour-glass and looked as if made of artificial limbs and
orthopaedic appliances; he was standing on deserted hilly ground with his
legs wide apart, and his general appearance made it clear that the fiasco
with the rabbits was a mere trifle.
At this moment Father Theodore preferred "Japheth enjoyeth power". The
drawing showed a fat, opulent man with a beard sitting on a throne in a
small room.
Father Theodore smiled and, looking closely at himself in the mirror,
began snipping at his fine beard. The scissors clicked, the hairs fell to
the floor, and five minutes later Father Theodore knew he was absolutely no
good at beard-clipping. His beard was all askew; it looked unbecoming and
even suspicious.
Fiddling about for a while longer, Father Theodore became highly
irritated, called his wife, and, handing her the scissors, said peevishly:
"You can help me, Mother. I can't do anything with these rotten hairs."
His wife threw up her hands in astonishment.
"What have you done to yourself?" she finally managed to say.
"I haven't done anything. I'm trimming my beard. It seems to have gone
askew just here. . . ."
"Heavens!" said his wife, attacking his curls. "Surely you're not
joining the Renovators, Theo dear?"
Father Theodore was delighted that the conversation had taken this
turn.
"And why shouldn't I join the Renovators, Mother? They're human-beings,
aren't they?"
"Of course they're human-beings," conceded his wife venomously, "but
they go to the cinema and pay alimony."
"Well, then, I'll go to the cinema as well."
"Go on then!"
Twill!"
"You'll get tired of it. Just look at yourself in the mirror."
And indeed, a lively black-eyed countenance with a short, odd-looking
beard and an absurdly long moustache peered out of the mirror at Father
Theodore. They trimmed down the moustache to the right proportions.
What happened next amazed Mother still more. Father Theodore declared
that he had to go off on a business trip that very evening, and asked his
wife to go round to her brother, the baker, and borrow his fur-collared coat
and duck-billed cap for a week.
"I won't go," said his wife and began weeping.
Father Theodore walked up and down the room for half an hour,
frightening his wife by the change in his expression and telling her all
sorts of rubbish. Mother could understand only one thing-for no apparent
reason Father Theodore had cut his hair, intended to go off somewhere in a
ridiculous cap, and was leaving her for good.
"I'm not leaving you," he kept saying. "I'm not. I'll be back in a
week. A man can have a job to do, after all. Can he or can't he?"
"No, he can't," said his wife.
Father Theodore even had to strike the table with his fist, although he
was normally a mild person in his treatment of his near ones. He did so
cautiously, since he had never done it before, and, greatly alarmed, his
wife threw a kerchief around her head and ran to fetch the civilian clothing
from her brother.
Left alone, Father Theodore thought for a moment, muttered, "It's no
joke for women, either," and pulled out a small tin trunk from under the
bed. This type of trunk is mostly found among Red Army soldiers. It is
usually lined with striped paper, on top of which is a picture of Budyonny,
or the lid of a Bathing Beach cigarette box depicting three lovelies on the
pebbly shore at Batumi. The Vostrikovs' trunk was also lined with
photographs, but, to Father Theodore's annoyance, they were not of Budyonny
or Batumi beauties. His wife had covered the inside of the trunk with
photographs cut out of the magazine Chronicle of the 1914 War. They included
"The Capture of Peremyshl", "The Distribution of Comforts to Other Ranks in
the Trenches", and all sorts of other things.
Removing the books that were lying at the top (a set of the Russian
Pilgrim for 1913; a fat tome, History of the Schism, and a brochure entitled
A Russian in Italy, the cover of which showed a smoking Vesuvius), Father
Theodore reached down into the very bottom of the trunk and drew out an old
shabby hat belonging to his wife. Wincing at the smell of moth-balls which
suddenly assailed him from the trunk, he tore apart the lace and trimmings
and took from the hat a heavy sausage-shaped object wrapped in linen. The
sausage-shaped object contained twenty ten-rouble gold coins, all that was
left of Father Theodore's business ventures.
With a habitual movement of the hand, he lifted his cassock and stuffed
the sausage into the pocket of his striped trousers. He then went over to
the chest of drawers and took twenty roubles in three- and five-rouble notes
from a sweet-box. There were twenty roubles left in the box. "That will do
for the housekeeping," he decided.
An hour before the evening mail-train was due in, Father Theodore,
dressed in a short coat which came just below the knee, and carrying a
wicker basket, stood in line in front of the booking-office and kept looking
apprehensively at the station entrance. He was afraid that in spite of his
insistence, his wife might come to see him off, and then Prusis, the
stall-owner, who was sitting in the buffet treating the income-tax collector
to a glass of beer, would immediately recognize him. Father Theodore stared
with shame and surprise at his striped trousers, now exposed to the view of
the entire laity.
The process of boarding a train without reserved seats took its normal
and scandalous course. Staggering under the weight of enormous sacks,
passengers ran from the front of the train to the back, and then to the
front again. Father Theodore followed them in a daze. Like everyone else, he
spoke to the conductors in an ingratiating tone, like everyone else he was
afraid he had been given the "wrong" ticket, and it was only when he was
finally allowed into a coach that his customary calm returned and he even
became happy.
The locomotive hooted at the top of its voice and the train moved off,
carrying Father Theodore into the unknown on business that was mysterious,
yet promised great things.
An interesting thing, the permanent way. Once he gets on to it the most
ordinary man in the street feels a certain animation in himself and soon
turns into a passenger, a consignee, or simply a trouble-maker without a
ticket, who makes life difficult for the teams of conductors and platform
ticket-inspectors.
The moment a passenger approaches the right of way, which he
amateurishly calls a railway station, his life is completely changed. He is
immediately surrounded by predatory porters with white aprons and nickel
badges on their chests, and his luggage is obsequiously picked up. From that
moment, the citizen no longer is his own master. He is a passenger and
begins to perform all the duties of one. These duties are many, though they
are not unpleasant.
Passengers eat a lot. Ordinary mortals do not eat during the night, but
passengers do. They eat fried chicken, which is expensive, hard-boiled eggs,
which are bad for the stomach, and olives. Whenever the train passes over
the points, numerous teapots in the rack clatter together, and legless
chickens (the legs have been torn out by the roots by passengers) jump up
and down in their newspaper wrapping.
The passengers, however, are oblivious of all this. They tell each
other jokes. Every three minutes the whole compartment rocks with laughter;
then there is a silence and a soft-spoken voice tells the following story:
"An old Jew lay dying. Around him were his wife and children. 'Is Monya
here?' asks the Jew with difficulty. 'Yes, she's here.' 'Has Auntie Brana
come?' 'Yes.' 'And where's Grandma? I don't see her.' 'She's over here.'
'And Isaac?' 'He's here, too.' 'What about the children?' They're all here.'
'Then who's minding the shop?'"
This very moment the teapots begin rattling and the chickens fly up and
down in the rack, but the passengers do not notice. Each one has a favourite
story ready, eagerly awaiting its turn. A new raconteur, nudging his
neighbours and calling out in a pleading tone, "Have you heard this one?"
finally gains attention and begins:
"A Jew comes home and gets into bed beside his wife. Suddenly he hears
a scratching noise under the bed. The Jew reaches his hand underneath the
bed and asks: 'Is that you, Fido?' And Fido licks his hand and says: 'Yes,
it's me.' "
The passengers collapse with laughter; a dark night cloaks the
countryside. Restless sparks fly from the funnel, and the slim signals in
their luminous green spectacles flash snootily past, staring above the
train.
An interesting thing, the right of way! Long, heavy trains race to all'
parts of the country. The way is open at every point. Green lights can be
seen everywhere; the track is clear. The polar express goes up to Murmansk.
The K-l draws out of Kursk Station, bound for Tiflis, arching its back over
the points. The far-eastern courier rounds Lake Baikal and approaches the
Pacific at full speed.
The Muse of Travel is calling. She has already plucked Father Theodore
from his quiet regional cloister and cast him into some unknown province.
Even Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, former marshal of the nobility and
now clerk in a registry office, is stirred to the depths of his heart and
highly excited at the great things ahead.
People speed all over the country. Some of them are looking for
scintillating brides thousands of miles away, while others, in pursuit of
treasure, leave their jobs in the post office and rush off like schoolboys
to Aldan. Others simply sit at home, tenderly stroking an imminent hernia
and reading the works of Count Salias, bought for five kopeks instead of a
rouble.
The day after the funeral, kindly arranged by Bezenchuk the undertaker,
Ippolit Matveyevich went to work and, as part of the duties with which he
was charged, duly registered in his own hand the demise of Claudia Ivanovna
Petukhov, aged fifty-nine, housewife, non-party-member, resident of the
regional centre of N., by origin a member of the upper class of the province
of Stargorod. After this, Ippolit Matveyevich granted himself a two-week
holiday due to him, took forty-one roubles in salary, said good-bye to his
colleagues, and went home. On the way he stopped at the chemist's.
The chemist, Leopold Grigorevich, who was called Lipa by his friends
and family, stood behind the red-lacquered counter, surrounded by
frosted-glass bottles of poison, nervously trying to sell the fire chief's
sister-in-law "Ango cream for sunburn and freckles-gives the skin an
exceptional whiteness". The fire chief's sister-in-law, however, was asking
for "Rachelle powder, gold in colour-gives the skin a tan not normally
acquirable". The chemist had only the Ango cream in stock, and the battle
between these two very different cosmetics raged for half an hour. Lipa won
in the end and sold the fire chief's sister-in-law some lipstick and a
bugovar, which is a device similar in principle to the samovar, except that
it looks like a watering-can and catches bugs.
"What can I get you?"
"Something for the hair."
"To make it grow, to remove it, or to dye it? "
"Not to make it grow," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "To dye it."
"We have a wonderful hair dye called Titanic. We got it from the
customs people; it was confiscated. It's a jet black colour. A bottle
containing a six months' supply costs three roubles, twelve kopeks. I can
recommend it to you, as a good friend."
Ippolit Matveyevich twiddled the bottle in his hands, looked at the
label with a sigh, and put down his money on the counter.
He went home and, with a feeling of revulsion, began pouring Titanic
onto his head and moustache. A stench filled the house.
By the time dinner was over, the stench had cleared, the moustache had
dried and become matted and was very difficult to comb. The jet-black colour
turned out to have a greenish tint, but there was no time for a second try.
Taking from his mother-in-law's jewel box a list of the gems, found the
night before, Ippolit Matveyevich counted up his cash-in-hand, locked the
house, put the key in his back pocket and took the no. 7 express to
Stargorod.
At half past eleven a young man aged about twenty-eight entered
Stargorod from the direction of the village of Chmarovka, to the north-east.
A waif ran along behind him.
"Mister!" cried the boy gaily, "gimme ten kopeks!"
The young man took a warm apple out of his pocket "and handed it to the
waif, but the child still kept running behind. Then the young man stopped
and, looking ironically at the boy, said quietly:
"Perhaps you'd also like the key of the apartment where the money is?"
The presumptuous waif then realized the complete futility of his
pretensions and dropped behind.
The young man had not told the truth. He had no money, no apartment
where it might have been found, and no key with which to open it. He did not
even have a coat. The young man entered the town in a green suit tailored to
fit at the waist and an old woollen scarf wound several times around his
powerful neck. On his feet were patent-leather boots with orange-coloured
suede uppers. He had no socks on. The young man carried an astrolabe.
Approaching the market, he broke into a song: "O, Bayadere, tum-ti-ti,
tum-ti-ti."
In the market he found plenty going on. He squeezed into the line of
vendors selling wares spread out on the ground before them, stood the
astrolabe in front of him and began shouting:
"Who wants an astrolabe? Here's an astrolabe going cheap. Special
reduction for delegations and women's work divisions !"
At first the unexpected supply met with little demand; the delegations
of housewives were more interested in obtaining commodities in short supply
and were milling around the cloth and drapery stalls. A detective from the
Stargorod criminal investigation department passed the astrolabe-vendor
twice, but since the instrument in no way resembled the typewriter stolen
the day before from the Central Union of Dairy Co-operatives, the detective
stopped glaring at the young man and passed on.
By lunchtime the astrolabe had been sold to a repairman for three
roubles.
"It measures by itself," he said, handing over the astrolabe to its
purchaser, "provided you have something to measure."
Having rid himself of the calculating instrument, the happy young man
had lunch in the Tasty Corner snack bar, and then went to have a look at the
town. He passed along Soviet Street, came out into Red Army Street
(previously Greater Pushkin Street), crossed Co-operative Street and found
himself again on Soviet Street. But it was not the same Soviet Street from
which he had come. There were two Soviet Streets in the town. Greatly
surprised by this fact, the young man carried on and found himself in Lena
Massacre Street (formerly Denisov Street). He stopped outside no. 28, a
pleasant two-storeyed private house, which bore a sign saying:
SECOND SOCIAL SECURITY HOME
OF THE
STAR-PROV-INS-AD
and requested a light from the caretaker, who was sitting by the
entrance on a stone bench.
"Tell me, dad," said the young man, taking a puff, "are there any
marriageable young girls in this town? "
The old caretaker did not show the least surprise.
"For some a mare'd be a bride," he answered, readily striking up a
conversation.
"I have no more questions," said the young man quickly. And he
immediately asked one more: "A house like this and no girls in it?"
"It's a long while since there've been any young girls here," replied
the old man. "This is a state institution-a home for old-age women
pensioners."
"I see. For ones born before historical materialism?"
"That's it. They were born when they were born."
"And what was here in the house before the days of historical
materialism?"
"When was that?"
"In the old days. Under the former regime."
"Oh, in the old days my master used to live here."
"A member of the bourgeoisie")"
"Bourgeoisie yourself! I told you. He was a marshal of the nobility."
"You mean he was from the working class?"
"Working class yourself! He was a marshal of the nobility."
The conversation with the intelligent caretaker so poorly versed in the
class structure of society might have gone on for heaven knows how long had
not the young man got down to business.
"Listen, granddad," he said, "what about a drink?"
"All right, buy me one!"
They were gone an hour. When they returned, the caretaker was the young
man's best friend.
"Right, then, I'll stay the night with you," said the newly acquired
friend.
"You're a good man. You can stay here for the rest of your life if you
like."
Having achieved his aim, the young man promptly went down into the
caretaker's room, took off his orange-coloured boots, and, stretching out on
a bench, began thinking out a plan of action for the following day.
The young man's name was Ostap Bender. Of his background he would
usually give only one detail. "My dad," he used to say, "was a Turkish
citizen." During his life this son of a Turkish citizen had had many
occupations. His lively nature had prevented him from devoting himself to
any one thing for long and kept him roving through the country, finally
bringing him to Stargorod without any socks and without a key, apartment, or
money.
Lying in the caretaker's room, which was so warm that it stank, Ostap
Bender weighed up in his mind two possibilities for a career.
He could become a polygamist and calmly move on from town to town,
taking with him a suitcase containing his latest wife's valuables, or he
could go the next day to the Stargorod Commission for the Improvement of
Children's Living Conditions and suggest they undertake the popularization
of a brilliantly devised, though yet unpainted, picture entitled "The
Bolsheviks Answer Chamberlain" based on Repin's famous canvas "The Zaporozhe
Cossacks Answer the Sultan". If it worked, this possibility could bring in
four hundred or so roubles.
The two possibilities had been thought up by Ostap during his last stay
in Moscow. The polygamy idea was conceived after reading a law-court report
in the evening paper, which clearly stated that the convicted man was given
only a two-year sentence, while the second idea came to Bender as he was
looking round the Association of Revolutionary Artists' exhibition, having
got in with a free pass.
Both possibilities had their drawbacks, however. To begin a career as a
polygamist without a heavenly grey polka-dot suit was unthinkable. Moreover,
at least ten roubles would be needed for purposes of representation and
seduction. He could get married, of course, in his green field-suits, since
his virility and good looks were absolutely irresistible to the provincial
belles looking for husbands, but that would have been, as Ostap used to say,
"poor workmanship". The question of the painting was not all plain sailing
either. There might be difficulties of a purely technical nature. It might
be awkward, for instance, to show Comrade Kalinin in a fur cap and white
cape, while Comrade Chicherin was stripped to the waist. They could be
depicted in ordinary dress, of course, but that would not be quite the same
thing.
"It wouldn't have the right effect!" said Ostap aloud.
At this point he noticed that the caretaker had been prattling away for
some time, apparently reminiscing about the previous owner of the house.
"The police chief used to salute him. . . . I'd go and wish him a happy
new year, let's say, and he'd give me three roubles. At Easter, let's say,
he'd give me another three roubles. . . . Then on his birthday, let's say.
In a year I'd get as much as fifteen roubles from wishing him. He even
promised to give me a medal. 'I want my caretaker to have a medal,' he used
to say. That's what he would say: 'Tikhon, consider that you already have
the medal.'"
"And did he give you one? "
"Wait a moment. . . . T don't want a caretaker without a medal,' he
used to say. He went to St. Petersburg to get me a medal. Well, the first
time it didn't work out. The officials didn't want to give me one. 'The
Tsar,' he used to say, 'has gone abroad. It isn't possible just now.' So the
master told me to wait. 'Just wait a bit, Tikhon,' he used to say, 'you'll
get your medal.' "
"And what happened to this master of yours? Did they bump him off?"
"No one bumped him off. He went away. What was the good of him staying
here with the soldiers? . . . Do they give medals to caretakers nowadays?"
"Certainly. I can arrange one for you."
The caretaker looked at Bender with veneration.
"I can't be without one. It's that kind of work."
"Where did your master go?"
"Heaven knows. People say he went to Paris."
"Ah, white acacia-the emigre's flower! So he's an emigre!"
"Emigre yourself. . . . He went to Paris, so people say. And the house
was taken over for old women. You greet them every day, but they don't even
give you a ten-kopek bit! Yes, he was some master!"
At that moment the rusty bell above the door began to ring.
The caretaker ambled over to the door, opened it, and stepped back in
complete amazement.
On the top step stood Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov with a black
moustache and black hair. His eyes behind his pince-nez had a
pre-revolutionary twinkle.
"Master!" bellowed Tikhon with delight. "Back from Paris!"
Ippolit Matveyevich became embarrassed by the presence of the stranger,
whose bare purple feet he had just spotted protruding from behind the table,
and was about to leave again when Ostap Bender briskly jumped up and made a
low bow.
"This isn't Paris, but you're welcome to our abode."
Ippolit Matveyevich felt himself forced to say something.
"Hello, Tikhon. I certainly haven't come from Paris. Where did you get
that strange idea from?"
But Ostap Bender, whose long and noble nose had caught the scent of
roast meat, did not give the caretaker time to utter a word.
"Splendid," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You haven't come from Paris.
You've no doubt come from Kologriv to visit your deceased grandmother."
As he spoke, he tenderly embraced the caretaker and pushed him outside
the door before the old man had time to realize what was happening. When he
finally gathered his wits, all he knew was that his master had come back
from Paris, that he himself had been pushed out of his own room, and that he
was clutching a rouble note in his left hand.
Carefully locking the door, Bender turned to Vorobyaninov, who was
still standing in the middle of the room, and said:
"Take it easy, everything's all right! My name's Bender. You may have
heard of me!"
"No, I haven't," said Ippolit Matveyevich nervously.
"No, how could the name of Ostap Bender be known in Paris? Is it warm
there just now? It's a nice city. I have a married cousin there. She
recently sent me a silk handkerchief by registered post."
"What rubbish is this?" exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. "What
handkerchief? I haven't come from Paris at all. I've come from . . ."
"Marvellous! You've come from Morshansk!"
Ippolit Matveyevich had never had dealings with so spirited a young man
as Ostap Bender and began to feel peculiar.
"Well, I'm going now," he said.
"Where are you going? You don't need to hurry anywhere. The secret
police will come for you, anyway." Ippolit Matveyevich was speechless. He
undid his coat with its threadbare velvet collar and sat down on the bench,
glaring at Bender.
"I don't know what you mean," he said in a low voice.
"That's no harm. You soon will. Just one moment."
Ostap put on his orange-coloured boots and walked up and down the room.
"Which frontier did you cross? Was it the Polish, Finnish, or Rumanian
frontier? An expensive pleasure, I imagine. A friend of mine recently
crossed the frontier. He lives in Slavuta, on our side, and his wife's
parents live on the other. He had a row with his wife over a family matter;
she comes from a temperamental family. She spat in his face and ran across
the frontier to her parents. The fellow sat around for a few days but found
things weren't going well. There was no dinner and the room was dirty, so he
decided to make it up with her. He waited till night and then crossed over
to his mother-in-law. But the frontier guards nabbed him, trumped up a
charge, and gave him six months. Later on he was expelled from the trade
union. The wife, they say, has now gone back, the fool, and her husband is
in prison. She is able to take him things. . . . Did you come that way,
too?"
"Honestly," protested Ippolit Matveyevich, suddenly feeling himself in
the power of the talkative young man who had come between him and the
jewels. "Honestly, I'm a citizen of the RSFSR. I can show you my
identification papers, if you want."
"With printing being as well developed as it is in the West, the
forgery of Soviet identification papers is nothing. A friend of mine even
went as far as forging American dollars. And you know how difficult that is.
The paper has those different-coloured little lines on it. It requires great
technique. He managed to get rid of them on the Moscow black market, but it
turned out later that his grandfather, a notorious currency-dealer, had
bought them all in Kiev and gone absolutely broke. The dollars were
counterfeit, after all. So your papers may not help you very much either."
Despite his annoyance at having to sit in a smelly caretaker's room and
listen to an insolent young man burbling about the shady dealings of his
friends, instead of actively searching for the jewels, Ippolit Matveyevich
could not bring himself to leave. He felt great trepidation at the thought
that the young stranger might spread it round the town that the ex-marshal
had come back. That would be the end of everything, and he might be put in
jail as well.
'Don't tell anyone you saw me," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "They might
really think I'm an emigre." "That's more like it! First we have an Emigre
who has returned to his home town, and then we find he is afraid the secret
police will catch him."
"But I've told you a hundred times, I'm not an emigre."
"Then who are you? Why are you here?"
"I've come from N. on certain business."
"What business?"
"Personal business."
"And then you say you're not an emigre! A friend of mine . . ."
At this point, Ippolit Matveyevich, driven to despair by the stories of
Bender's friends, and seeing that he was not getting anywhere, gave in.
"All right," he said. "I'll tell you everything."
Anyway, it might be difficult without an accomplice, he thought to
himself, and this fellow seems to be a really shady character. He might be
useful.
Ippolit Matveyevich took off his stained beaver hat, combed his
moustache, which gave off a shower of sparks at the touch of the comb, and,
having cleared his throat in determination, told Ostap Bender, the first
rogue who had come his way, what his dying mother-in-law had told him about
her jewels.
During the account, Ostap jumped up several times and, turning to the
iron stove, said delightedly:
"Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury. Things are moving."
An hour later they were both sitting at the rickety table, their heads
close together, reading the long list of jewellery which had at one time
adorned the fingers, neck, ears, bosom and hair of Vorobyaninov's
mother-in-law.
Ippolit Matveyevich adjusted the pince-nez, which kept falling off his
nose, and said emphatically:
"Three strings of pearls. . . . Yes, I remember them. Two with forty
pearls and the long one had a hundred and ten. A diamond pendant . . .
Claudia Ivanovna used to say it was worth four thousand roubles; an
antique."
Next came the rings: not thick, silly, and cheap engagement rings, but
fine, lightweight rings set with pure, polished diamonds; heavy, dazzling
earrings that bathe a small female ear in multi-coloured light; bracelets
shaped like serpents, with emerald scales; a clasp bought with the profit
from a fourteen-hundred-acre harvest; a pearl necklace that could only be
worn by a famous prima donna; to crown everything was a diadem worth forty
thousand roubles.
Ippolit Matveyevich looked round him. A grass-green emerald light
blazed up and shimmered in the dark corners of the caretaker's dirty room. A
diamond haze hung near the ceiling. Pearls rolled across the table and
bounced along the floor. The room swayed in the mirage of gems. The sound of
Ostap's voice brought the excited Ippolit Matveyevich back to earth.
"Not a bad choice. The stones have been tastefully selected, I see. How
much did all this jazz cost?"
"Seventy to seventy-five thousand."
"Hm . . . Then it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand now."
"Really as much as that?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich jubilantly.
"Not less than that. However, if I were you, dear friend from Paris, I
wouldn't give a damn about it."
"What do you mean, not give a damn?"
"Just that. Like they used to before the advent of historical
materialism."
"Why?"
"I'll tell you. How many chairs were there?"
"A dozen. It was a drawing-room suite."
"Your drawing-room suite was probably used for firewood long ago."
Ippolit Matveyevich was so alarmed that he actually stood up.
"Take it easy. I'll take charge. The hearing is continued.
Incidentally, you and I will have to conclude a little deal."
Breathing heavily, Ippolit Matveyevich nodded his assent. Ostap Bender
then began stating his terms.
"In the event of acquisition of the treasure, as a direct partner in
the concession and as technical adviser, I receive sixty per cent. You
needn't pay my national health; I don't care about that."
Ippolit Matveyevich turned grey.
"That's daylight robbery!"
"And how much did you intend offering me? "
"Well. . . er . . . five per cent, or maybe even ten per cent. You
realize, don't you, that's fifteen thousand roubles!"
"And that's all?"
"Yes
"Maybe you'd like me to work for nothing and also give you the key of
the apartment where the money is? "
"In that case, I'm sorry," said Vorobyaninov through his nose.
"I have every reason to believe I can manage the business by myself."
"Aha! In that case, I'm sorry," retorted the splendid Ostap. "I have
just as much reason to believe, as Andy Tucker used to say, that I can also
manage your business by myself."
"You villain!' cried Ippolit Matveyevich, beginning to shake.
Ostap remained unmoved.
"Listen, gentleman from Paris, do you know your jewels are practically
in my pocket? And I'm only interested in you as long as I wish to prolong
your old age."
Ippolit Matveyevich realized at this point that iron hands had gripped
his throat.
"Twenty per cent," he said morosely.
"And my grub?" asked Ostap with a sneer.
"Twenty-five."
"And the key of the apartment?"
"But that's thirty-seven and a half thousand!"
"Why be so precise? Well, all right, I'll settle for fifty per cent.
We'll go halves."
The haggling continued, and Ostap made a further concession. Out of
respect for Vorobyaninov, he was prepared to work for forty per cent.
"That's sixty thousand!" cried Vorobyaninov.
"You're a rather nasty man," retorted Bender. "You're too fond of
money."
"And I suppose you aren't?" squeaked Ippolit Matveyevich in a flutelike
voice.
"No, I'm not."
"Then why do you want sixty thousand? "
"On principle!"
Ippolit Matveyevich took a deep breath.
"Well, are things moving?" pressed Ostap.
Vorobyaninov breathed heavily and said humbly: "Yes, things are
moving."
"It's a bargain. District Chief of the Comanchi!"
As soon as Ippolit Matveyevich, hurt by the nickname, "Chief of the
Comanchi", had demanded an apology, and Ostap, in a formal apology, had
called him "Field Marshal", they set about working out their disposition.
At midnight Tikhon, the caretaker, hanging on to all the garden fences
on the way and clinging to the lamp posts, tottered home to his cellar. To
his misfortune, there was a full moon.
"Ah! The intellectual proletarian! Officer of the Broom!" exclaimed
Ostap, catching sight of the doubled-up caretaker.
The caretaker began making low-pitched, passionate noises of the kind
sometimes heard when a lavatory suddenly gurgles heatedly and fussily in the
stillness of the night.
"That's nice," said Ostap to Vorobyaninov. "Your caretaker is rather a
vulgar fellow. Is it possible to get as drunk as that on a rouble?"
"Yes, it is," said the caretaker unexpectedly.
"Listen, Tikhon," began Ippolit Matveyevich. "Have you any idea what
happened to my furniture, old man ? "
Ostap carefully supported Tikhon so that the words could flow freely
from his mouth. Ippolit Matveyevich waited tensely. But the caretaker's
mouth, in which every other tooth was missing, only produced a deafening
yell:
"Haa-aapy daa-aays . .."
The room was filled with an almighty din. The caretaker industriously
sang the whole song through. He moved about the room bellowing, one moment
sliding senseless under a chair, the next moment hitting his head against
the brass weights of the clock, and then going down on one knee. He was
terribly happy.
Ippolit Matveyevich was at a loss to know what to do.
"Cross-examination of the witness will have to be adjourned until
tomorrow morning," said Ostap. "Let's go to bed."
They carried the caretaker, who was as heavy as a chest of drawers, to
the bench.
Vorobyaninov and Ostap decided to sleep together in the caretaker's
bed. Under his jacket, Ostap had on a red-and-black checked cowboy shirt;
under the shirt, he was not wearing anything. Under Ippolit Matveyevich's
yellow waistcoat, already familiar to readers, he was wearing another
light-blue worsted waistcoat.
"There's a waistcoat worth buying," said Ostap enviously. "Just my
size. Sell it to me!"
Ippolit Matveyevich felt it would be awkward to refuse to sell the
waistcoat to his new friend and direct partner in the concession.
Frowning, he agreed to sell it at its original price-eight roubles.
"You'll have the money when we sell the treasure," said Bender, taking
the waistcoat, still warm from Vorobyaninov's body.
"No, I can't do things like that," said Ippolit Matveyevich, flushing.
"Please give it back."
Ostap's delicate nature was revulsed.
"There's stinginess for you," he cried. "We undertake business worth a
hundred and fifty thousand and you squabble over eight roubles! You want to
learn to live it up!"
Ippolit Matveyevich reddened still more, and taking a notebook from his
pocket, he wrote in neat handwriting:
25//F/27
Issued to Comrade Bender
Rs.8
Ostap took a look at the notebook.
"Oho! If you're going to open an account for me, then at least do it
properly. Enter the debit and credit. Under 'debit' don't forget to put down
the sixty thousand roubles you owe me, and under 'credit' put down the
waistcoat. The balance is in my favour-59,992 roubles. I can live a bit
longer."
Thereupon Ostap fell into a silent, childlike sleep. Ippolit
Matveyevich took off his woollen wristlets and his baronial boots, left on
his darned Jaegar underwear and crawled under the blanket, sniffling as he
went. He felt very uncomfortable. On the outside of the bed there was not
enough blanket, and it was cold. On the inside, he was warmed by the smooth
operator's body, vibrant with ideas.
All three had bad dreams.
Vorobyaninov had bad dreams about microbes, the criminal investigation
department, velvet shirts, and Bezenchuk the undertaker in a tuxedo, but
unshaven.
Ostap dreamed of: Fujiyama; the head of the Dairy Produce Co-operative;
and Taras Bulba selling picture postcards of the Dnieper.
And the caretaker dreamed that a horse escaped from the stable. He
looked for it all night in the dream and woke up in the morning worn-out and
gloomy, without having found it. For some time he stared in surprise at the
people sleeping in his bed.
Not understanding anything, he took his broom and went out into the
street to carry out his basic duties, which were to sweep up the horse
droppings and shout at the old-women pensioners.
Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven, mumbled "Guten
Morgen", and went over to the wash-basin. He washed himself with enthusiasm,
cleared his throat, noisily rinsed his face, and shook his head to get rid
of the water which had run into his ears. He dried himself with
satisfaction, but on taking the towel away from his face, Ippolit
Matveyevich noticed that it was stained with the same black colour that he
had used to dye his horizontal moustache two days before. Ippolit
Matveyevich's heart sank. He rushed to get his pocket mirror. The mirror
reflected a large nose and the left-hand side of a moustache as green as the
grass in spring. He hurriedly shifted the mirror to the right. The
right-hand mustachio was the same revolting colour. Bending his head
slightly, as though trying to butt the mirror, the unhappy man perceived
that the jet black still reigned supreme in the centre of his square of
hair, but that the edges were bordered with the same green colour.
Ippolit Matveyevich's whole being emitted a groan so loud that Ostap
Bender opened his eyes.
"You're out of your mind!" exclaimed Bender, and immediately closed his
sleepy lids.
"Comrade Bender," whispered the victim of the Titanic imploringly.
Ostap woke up after a great deal of shaking and persuasion. He looked
closely at Ippolit Matveyevich and burst into a howl of laughter. Turning
away from the founder of the concession, the chief director of operations
and technical adviser rocked with laughter, seized hold of the top of the
bed, cried "Stop, you're killing me!" and again was convulsed with mirth.
"That's not nice of you, Comrade Bender," said Ippolit Matveyevich and
twitched his green moustache.
This gave new strength to the almost exhausted Ostap, and his hearty
laughter continued for ten minutes. Regaining his breath, he suddenly became
very serious.
"Why are you glaring at me like a soldier at a louse? Take a look at
yourself."
"But the chemist told me it would be jet black and wouldn't wash off,
with either hot water or cold water, soap or paraffin. It was contraband."
"Contraband? All contraband is made in Little Arnaut Street in Odessa.
Show me the bottle. . . . Look at this! Did you read this?" '-"Yes."
"What about this bit in small print? It clearly states that after
washing with hot or cold water, soap or paraffin, the hair should not be
rubbed with a towel, but dried in the sun or in front of a primus stove. Why
didn't you do so? What can you do now with that greenery? "
Ippolit Matveyevich was very depressed. Tikhon came in and seeing his
master with a green moustache, crossed himself and asked for money to have a
drink. "Give this hero of labour a rouble," suggested Ostap, "only kindly
don't charge it to me. It's a personal matter between you and your former
colleague. Wait a minute, Dad, don't go away! There's a little matter to
discuss."
Ostap had a talk with the caretaker about the furniture, and five
minutes later the concessionaires knew the whole story. The entire furniture
had been taken away to the housing division in 1919, with the exception of
one drawing-room chair that had first been in Tikhon's charge, but was later
taken from him by the assistant warden of the second social-security home.
"Is it here in the house then?"
"That's right."
"Tell me, old fellow," said Ippolit Matveyevich, his heart beating
fast, "when you had the chair, did you . . . ever repair it?"
"It didn't need repairing. Workmanship was good in those days. The
chair could last another thirty years."
"Right, off you go, old fellow. Here's another rouble and don't tell
anyone I'm here."
"I'll be a tomb, Citizen Vorobyaninov."
Sending the caretaker on his way with a cry of "Things are moving,"
Ostap Bender again turned to Ippolit Matveyevich's moustache.
"It will have to be dyed again. Give me some money and I'll go to the
chemist's. Your Titanic is no damn good, except for dogs. In the old days
they really had good dyes. A racing expert once told me an interesting
story. Are you interested in horse-racing? No? A pity; it's exciting. Well,
anyway . . . there was once a well-known trickster called Count Drutsky. He
lost five hundred thousand roubles on races. King of the losers! So when he
had nothing left except debts and was thinking about suicide, a shady
character gave him a wonderful piece of advice for fifty roubles. The count
went away and came back a year later with a three-year-old Orloff trotter.
From that moment on the count not only made up all his losses, but won three
hundred thousand on top. Broker-that was the name of the horse-had an
excellent pedigree and always came in first. He actually beat McMahon in the
Derby by a whole length. Terrific! . . . But then Kurochkin-heard of
him?-noticed that all the horses of the Orloff breed were losing their
coats, while Broker, the darling, stayed the same colour. There was an
unheard-of scandal. The count got three years. It turned out that Broker
wasn't an Orloff at all, but a crossbreed that had been dyed. Crossbreeds
are much more spirited than Orloffs and aren't allowed within yards of them!
Which? There's a dye for you! Not quite like your moustache!"
"But what about the pedigree? You said it was a good one."
"Just like the label on your bottle of Titanic-counterfeit! Give me the
money for the dye."
Ostap came back with a new mixture.
"It's called 'Naiad'. It may be better than the Titanic. Take your coat
off!"
The ceremony of re-dyeing began. But the "Amazing chestnut colour
making the hair soft and fluffy" when mixed with the green of the Titanic
unexpectedly turned Ippolit Matveyevich's head and moustache all colours of
the rainbow.
Vorobyaninov, who had not eaten since morning, furiously cursed all the
perfumeries, both those state-owned and the illegal ones on Little Arnaut
Street in Odessa.
"I don't suppose even Aristide Briand had a moustache like that,"
observed Ostap cheerfully. "However, I don't recommend living in Soviet
Russia with ultra-violet hair like yours. It will have to be shaved off."
"I can't do that," said Ippolit Matveyevich in a deeply grieved voice.
"That's impossible."
"Why? Has it some association or other?"
"I can't do that," repeated Vorobyaninov, lowering his head.
"Then you can stay in the caretaker's room for the rest of your life,
and I'll go for the chairs. The first one is upstairs, by the way."
"All right, shave it then!"
Bender found a pair of scissors and in a flash snipped off the
moustache, which fell silently to the floor. When the hair had been cropped,
the technical adviser took a yellowed Gillette razor from his pocket and a
spare blade from his wallet, and began shaving Ippolit Matveyevich, who was
almost in tears by this time.
"I'm using my last blade on you, so don't forget to credit me with two
roubles for the shave and haircut."
"Why so expensive?" Ippolit managed to ask, although he was convulsed
with grief. "It should only cost forty kopeks."
"For reasons of security, Comrade Field Marshal!" promptly answered
Ostap.
The sufferings of a man whose head is being shaved with a safety razor
are incredible. This became clear to Ippolit Matveyevich from the very
beginning of the operation. But all things come to an end.
"There! The hearing continues! Those suffering from nerves shouldn't
look."
Ippolit Matveyevich shook himself free of the nauseating tufts that
until so recently had been distinguished grey hair, washed himself and,
feeling a strong tingling sensation all over his head, looked at himself in
the mirror for the hundredth time that day. He was unexpectedly pleased by
what he saw. Looking at him was the careworn, but rather youthful, face of
an unemployed actor.
"Right, forward march, the bugle is sounding!" cried Ostap. "I'll make
tracks for the housing division, while you go to the old women."
"I can't," said Ippolit Matveyevich. "It's too painful for me to enter
my own house."
"I see. A touching story. The exiled baron! All right, you go to the
housing division, and I'll get busy here. Our rendezvous will be here in the
caretaker's room. Platoon: 'shun!"
The Assistant Warden of the Second Home of Stargorod Social Security
Administration was a shy little thief. His whole being protested against
stealing, yet it was impossible for him not to steal. He stole and was
ashamed of himself. He stole constantly and was constantly ashamed of
himself, which was why his smoothly shaven cheeks always burned with a blush
of confusion, shame, bashfulness and embarrassment. The assistant warden's
name was Alexander Yakovlevich, and his wife's name was Alexandra
Yakovlevna. He used to call her Sashchen, and she used to call him Alchen.
The world has never seen such a bashful chiseller as Alexander Yakovlevich.
He was not only the assistant warden, but also the chief warden. The
previous one had been dismissed for rudeness to the inmates, and had been
appointed conductor of a symphony orchestra. Alchen was completely different
from his ill-bred boss. Under the system of fuller workdays, he took upon
himself the running of the home, treating the pensioners with marked
courtesy, and introducing important reforms and innovations.
Ostap Bender pulled the heavy oak door of the Vorobyaninov home and
found himself in the hall. There was a smell of burnt porridge. From the
upstairs rooms came the confused sound of voices, like a distant "hooray"
from a line of troops. There was no one about and no one appeared. An oak
staircase with two flights of once-lacquered stairs led upward. Only the
rings were now left; there was no sign of the stair rods that had once held
the carpet in place.
"The Comanche chief lived in vulgar luxury," thought Ostap as he went
upstairs.
In the first room, which was spacious and light, fifteen or so old
women in dresses made of the cheapest mouse-grey woollen cloth were sitting
in a circle.
Craning their necks and keeping their eyes on a healthy-looking man in
the middle, the old women were singing:
"We hear the sound of distant jingling,
The troika's on its round;
Far into the distant stretches
The sparkling snowy ground."
The choirmaster, wearing a shirt and trousers of the same mouse-grey
material, was beating time with both hands and, turning from side to side,
kept shouting:
"Descants, softer! Kokushkin, not so loud!"
He caught sight of Ostap, but unable to restrain the movement of his
hands, merely glanced at the newcomer and continued conducting. The choir
increased its volume with an effort, as though singing through a pillow.
"Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta,
Te-ro-rom, tu-ru-rum, tu-ru-rum . . ."
"Can you tell me where I can find the assistant warden?" asked Ostap,
breaking into the first pause.
"What do you want, Comrade?"
Ostap shook the conductor's hand and inquired amiably: "National
folk-songs? Very interesting! I'm the fire inspector."
The assistant warden looked ashamed.
"Yes, yes," he said, with embarrassment. "Very opportune. I was
actually going to write you a report."
"There's nothing to worry about," said Ostap magnanimously. "I'll write
the report myself. Let's take a look at the premises."
Alchen dismissed the choir with a wave of his hand, and the old women
made off with little steps of delight.
"Come this way," invited the assistant warden.
Before going any further, Ostap scrutinized the furniture in the first
room. It consisted of a table, two garden benches with iron legs (one of
them had the name "Nicky" carved on the back), and a light-brown harmonium.
"Do they use primus stoves or anything of that kind in this room?"
"No, no. This is where our recreational activities are held. We have a
choir, and drama, painting, drawing, and music circles."
When he reached the word "music" Alexander Yakovlevich blushed. First
his chin turned red, then his forehead and cheeks. Alchen felt very ashamed.
He had sold all the instruments belonging to the wind section a long time
before. The feeble lungs of the old women had never produced anything more
than a puppy-like squeak from them, anyway. It was ridiculous to see such a
mass of metal in so helpless a condition. Alchen had not been able to resist
selling the wind section, and now he felt very guilty.
A slogan written in large letters on a piece of the same mouse-grey
woollen cloth spanned the wall between the windows. It said:
TO COLLECTIVE CREATIVITY
"Very good," said Ostap. "This recreation room does not constitute a
fire hazard. Let's go on."
Passing through the front rooms of Vorobyaninov's house, Ostap could
see no sign of a walnut chair with curved legs and English chintz
upholstery. The iron-smooth walls were plastered with directives issued to
the Second Home. Ostap read them and, from time to time, asked
enthusiastically:
"Are the chimneys swept regularly? Are the stoves working properly?"
And, receiving exhaustive answers, moved on.
The fire inspector made a diligent search for at least one corner of
the house which might constitute a fire hazard, but in that respect
everything seemed to be in order. His second quest, however, was less
successful. Ostap went into the dormitories. As he appeared, the old women
stood up and bowed low. The rooms contained beds covered with blankets, as
hairy as a dog's coat, with the word "Feet" woven at one end. Below the beds
were trunks, which at the initiative of Alexander Yakovlevich, who liked to
do things in a military fashion, projected exactly one-third of their
length.
Everything in the Home was marked by its extreme modesty; the furniture
that consisted solely of garden benches taken from Alexander Boulevard (now
renamed in honour of the Proletarian Voluntary Saturdays), the paraffin
lamps bought at the local market, and the very blankets with that
frightening word, "Feet". One feature of the house, however, had been made
to last and was developed on a grand scale-to wit, the door springs.
Door springs were Alexander Yakovlevich's passion. Sparing no effort,
he fitted all the doors in the house with springs of different types and
systems. There were very simple ones in the form of an iron rod;
compressed-air ones with cylindrical brass pistons; there were ones with
pulleys that raised and lowered heavy bags of shot. There were springs which
were so complex in design that the local mechanic could only shake his head
in wonder. And all the cylinders, springs and counterweights were very
powerful, slamming doors shut with the swiftness of a mousetrap. Whenever
the mechanisms operated, the whole house shook. With pitiful squeals, the
old women tried to escape the onslaught of the doors, but not always with
success. The doors gave the fugitives a thump in the back, and at the same
time, a counterweight shot past their ears with a dull rasping sound.
As Bender and the assistant warden walked around the house, the doors
fired a noisy salute.
But the feudal magnificence had nothing to hide: the chair was not
there. As the search progressed, the fire inspector found himself in the
kitchen. Porridge was cooking in a large copper pot and gave off the smell
that the smooth operator had noticed in the hall. Ostap wrinkled his nose
and said: "What is it cooking in? Lubricating oil?" "It's pure butter, I
swear it," said Alchen, blushing to the roots of his hair. "We buy it from a
farm." He felt very ashamed.
"Anyway, it's not a fire risk," observed Ostap. The chair was not in
the kitchen, either. There was only a stool, occupied by the cook, wearing a
cap and apron of mouse-grey woollen material.
"Why is everybody's clothing grey? That cloth isn't even fit to wipe
the windows with!" The shy Alchen was even more embarrassed. "We don't
receive enough funds." He was disgusted with himself.
Ostap looked at him disbelievingly and said: "That is no concern of the
fire brigade, which I am at present representing." Alchen was alarmed.
"We've taken all the necessary fire precautions," he declared. "We even
have a fire extinguisher. An Eclair."
The fire inspector reluctantly proceeded in the direction of the fire
extinguisher, peeping into the lumber rooms as he went. The red-iron nose of
the extinguisher caused the inspector particular annoyance, despite the fact
that it was the only object in the house which had any connection with fire
precautions. "Where did you get it? At the market?" And without waiting for
an answer from the thunderstruck Alexander Yakovlevich, he removed the
Eclair from the rusty nail on which it was hanging, broke the capsule
without warning, and quickly pointed the nose in the air. But instead of the
expected stream of foam, all that came out was a high-pitched hissing which
sounded like the ancient hymn "How Glorious Is Our Lord on Zion".
"You obviously did get it at the market," said Ostap, his earlier
opinion confirmed. And he put back the fire extinguisher, which was still
hissing, in its place.
They moved on, accompanied by the hissing.
Where can it be? wondered Ostap. I don't like the look of things. And
he made up his mind not to leave the place until he had found out the truth.
While the fire inspector and the assistant warden were crawling about
the attics, considering fire precautions in detail and examining the
chimneys, the Second Home of the Stargorod Social Security Administration
carried on its daily routine.
Dinner was ready. The smell of burnt porridge had appreciably
increased, and it overpowered all the sourish smells inhabiting the house.
There was a rustling in the corridors. Holding iron bowls full of porridge
in front of them with both hands, the old women cautiously emerged from the
kitchen and sat down at a large table, trying not to look at the refectory
slogans, composed by Alexander Yakolevich and painted by his wife. The
slogans read:
FOOD IS THE SOURCE OF HEALTH
ONE EGG CONTAINS AS MUCH FAT AS A HALF-POUND OF MEAT
BY CAREFULLY MASTICATING YOUR FOOD YOU HELP SOCIETY
MEAT IS BAD FOR YOU
These sacred words aroused in the old ladies memories of teeth that had
disappeared before the revolution, eggs that had been lost at approximately
the same time, meat that was inferior to eggs in fat, and perhaps even the
society that they were prevented from helping by careful mastication.
Seated at table in addition to the old women were Isidor, Afanasy,
Cyril and Oleg, and also Pasha Emilevich. Neither in age nor sex did these
young men fit into the pattern of social security, but they were the younger
brothers of Alchen, and Pasha Emilevich was Alexandra Yakovlevna's cousin,
once removed. The young men, the oldest of whom was the thirty-two-year-old
Pasha Emilevich, did not consider their life in the pensioners' home in any
way abnormal. They lived on the same basis as the old women; they too had
government-property beds and blankets with the word "Feet"; they were
clothed in the same mouse-grey material as the old women, but on account of
their youth and strength they ate better than the latter. They stole
everything in the house that Alchen did not manage to steal himself. Pasha
could put away four pounds of fish at one go, and he once did so, leaving
the home dinnerless.
Hardly had the old women had time to taste their porridge when the
younger brothers and Pasha Emilevich rose from the table, having gobbled
down their share, and went, belching, into the kitchen to look for something
more digestible.
The meal continued. The old women began jabbering:
"Now they'll stuff themselves full and start bawling songs."
"Pasha Emilevich sold the chair from the recreation room this morning.
A second-hand dealer took it away at the back door."
"Just you see. He'll come home drunk tonight."
At this moment the pensioners' conversation was interrupted by a
trumpeting noise that even drowned the hissing of the fire extinguisher, and
a husky voice began:
'. . . vention .. ."
The old women hunched their shoulders and, ignoring the loudspeaker in
the corner on the floor, continued eating in the hope that fate would spare
them, but the loud-speaker cheerfully went on:
"Evecrashshsh . . . viduso . . . valuable invention. Railwayman of the
Murmansk Railway, Comrade Sokutsky, S Samara, O Oriel, K Kaliningrad, U
Urals, Ts Tsaritsina, K Kaliningrad, Y York. So-kuts-ky."
The trumpet wheezed and renewed the broadcast in a thick voice.
". . . vented a system of signal lights for snow ploughs. The invention
has been approved by Dorizul. . . ."
The old women floated away to their rooms like grey ducklings. The
loud-speaker, jigging up and down by its own power, blared away into the
empty room:
"And we will now play some Novgorod folk music."
Far, far away, in the centre of the earth, someone strummed a balalaika
and a black-earth Battistini broke into song:
"On the wall the bugs were sitting,
Blinking at the sky;
Then they saw the tax inspector
And crawled away to die."
In the centre of the earth the verses brought forth a storm of
activity. A horrible gurgling was heard from the loud-speaker. It was
something between thunderous applause and the eruption of an underground
volcano.
Meanwhile the disheartened fire inspector had descended an attic ladder
backwards and was now back in the kitchen, where he saw five citizens
digging into a barrel of sauerkraut and bolting it down. They ate in
silence. Pasha Emilevich alone waggled his head in the style of an epicurean
and, wiping some strings of cabbage from his moustache, observed:
"It's a sin to eat cabbage like this without vodka."
"Is this a new intake of women?" asked Ostap.
"They're orphans," replied Alchen, shouldering the inspector out of the
kitchen and surreptitiously shaking his fist at the orphans.
"Children of the Volga Region?"
Alchen was confused.
"A trying heritage from the Tsarist regime?"
Alchen spread his arms as much as to say: "There's nothing you can do
with a heritage like that."
"Co-education by the composite method?"
Without further hesitation the bashful Alchen invited the fire
inspector to take pot luck and lunch with him.
Pot luck that day happened to be a bottle of Zubrovka vodka,
home-pickled mushrooms, minced herring, Ukrainian beet soup containing
first-grade meat, chicken and rice, and stewed apples.
"Sashchen," said Alexander Yakovlevich, "I want you to meet a comrade
from the province fire-precaution administration."
Ostap made his hostess a theatrical bow and paid her such an
interminable and ambiguous compliment that he could hardly get to the end of
it. Sashchen, a buxom woman, whose good looks were somewhat marred by
sideburns of the kind that Tsar Nicholas used to have, laughed softly and
took a drink with the two men.
"Here's to your communal services," exclaimed Ostap.
The lunch went off gaily, and it was not until they reached the stewed
fruit that Ostap remembered the point of his visit.
"Why is it," he asked, "that the furnishings are so skimpy in your
establishment?"
"What do you mean?" said Alchen. "What about the harmonium?"
"Yes, I know, vox humana. But you have absolutely nothing at all of any
taste to sit on. Only garden benches."
"There's a chair in the recreation room," said Alchen in an offended
tone. "An English chair. They say it was left over from the original
furniture."
"By the way, I didn't see your recreation room. How is it from the
point of view of fire hazard? It won't let you down, I hope. I had better
see it."
"Certainly."
Ostap thanked his hostess for the lunch and left.
No primus was used in the recreation room; there was no portable stove
of any kind; the chimneys were in a good state of repair and were cleaned
regularly, but the chair, to the incredulity of Alchen, was missing. They
ran to look for it. They looked under the beds and under the trunks; for
some reason or other they moved back the harmonium; they questioned the old
women, who kept looking at Pasha Emilevich timidly, but the chair was just
not there. Pasha Emilevich himself showed great enthusiasm in the search.
When all had calmed down, Pasha still kept wandering from room to room,
looking under decanters, shifting iron teaspoons, and muttering:
"Where can it be? I saw it myself this morning. It's ridiculous !"
"It's depressing, girls," said Ostap in an icy voice.
"It's absolutely ridiculous!" repeated Pasha Emilevich impudently.
At this point, however, the Eclair fire extinguisher, which had been
hissing the whole time, took a high F, which only the People's Artist,
Nezhdanova, can do, stopped for a second and then emitted its first stream
of foam, which soaked the ceiling and knocked the cook's cap off. The first
stream of foam was followed by another, mouse-grey in colour, which bowled
over young Isidor Yakovlevich. After that the extinguisher began working
smoothly. Pasha Emilevich, Alchen and all the surviving brothers raced to
the spot.
"Well done," said Ostap. "An idiotic invention!"
As soon as the old women were left alone with Ostap and without the
boss, they at once began complaining:
"He's brought his family into the home. They eat up everything."
"The piglets get milk and we get porridge."
"He's taken everything out of the house."
"Take it easy, girls," said Ostap, retreating. "You need someone from
the labour-inspection department. The Senate hasn't empowered me . . ."
The old women were not listening.
"And that Pasha Melentevich. He went and sold a chair today. I saw him
myself."
"Who did he sell it to? " asked Ostap quickly.
"He sold it. . . that's all. He was going to steal my blanket. . ."
A fierce struggle was going on in the corridor. But mind finally
triumphed over matter and the extinguisher, trampled under Pasha Emilevich's
feet of iron, gave a last dribble and was silent for ever.
The old women were sent to clean the floor. Lowering his head and
waddling slightly, the fire inspector went up to Pasha Emilevich.
"A friend of mine," began Ostap importantly, "also used to sell
government property. He now lives a monastic life in the penitentiary."
"I find your groundless accusations strange," said Pasha, who smelled
strongly of foam.
"Who did you sell the chair to?" asked Ostap in a ringing whisper.
Pasha Emilevich, who had supernatural understanding, realized at this
point he was about to be beaten, if not kicked.
"To a second-hand dealer."
"What's his address?"
"I'd never seen him before."
"Never?"
"No, honestly."
"I ought to bust you in the mouth," said Ostap dreamily, "only
Zarathustra wouldn't allow it. Get to hell out of here!"
Pasha Emilevich grinned fawningly and began walking away.
"Come back, you abortion," cried Ostap haughtily. "What was the dealer
like?"
Pasha Emilevich described him in detail, while Ostap listened
carefully. The interview was concluded by Ostap with the words: "This
clearly has nothing to do with fire precautions."
In the corridor the bashful Alchen went up to Ostap and gave him a gold
piece.
"That comes under Article 114 of the Criminal Code," said Ostap.
"Bribing officials in the course of their duty."
Nevertheless he took the money and, without saying good-bye, went
towards the door. The door, which was fitted with a powerful contraption,
opened with an effort and gave Ostap a one-and-a-half-ton shove in the
backside.
"Good shot!" said Ostap, rubbing the affected part. "The hearing is
continued."
While Ostap was inspecting the pensioners' home, Ippolit Matveyevich
had left the caretaker's room and was wandering along the streets of his
home town, feeling the chill on his shaven head.
Along the road trickled clear spring water. There was a constant
splashing and plopping as diamond drops dripped from the rooftops. Sparrows
hunted for manure, and the sun rested on the roofs. Golden carthorses
drummed their hoofs against the bare road and, turning their ears downward,
listened with pleasure to their own sound. On the damp telegraph poles the
wet advertisements, "I teach the guitar by the number system" and
"Social-science lessons for those preparing for the People's Conservatory",
were all wrinkled up, and the letters had run. A platoon of Red Army
soldiers in winter helmets crossed a puddle that began at the Stargorod
co-operative shop and stretched as far as the province planning
administration, the pediment of which was crowned with plaster tigers,
figures of victory and cobras.
Ippolit Matveyevich walked along, looking with interest at the people
passing him in both directions. As one who had spent the whole of his life
and also the revolution in Russia, he was able to see how the way of life
was changing and acquiring a new countenance. He had become used to this
fact, but he seemed to be used to only one point on the globe-the regional
centre of N. Now he was back in his home town, he realized he understood
nothing. He felt just as awkward and strange as though he really were an
emigre just back from Paris. In the old days, whenever he rode through the
town in his carriage, he used invariably to meet friends or people he knew
by sight. But now he had gone some way along Lena Massacre Street and there
was no friend to be seen. They had vanished, or they might have changed so
much that they were no longer recognizable, or perhaps they had become
unrecognizable because they wore different clothes and different hats.
Perhaps they had changed their walk. In any case, they were no longer there.
Vorobyaninov walked along, pale, cold and lost. He completely forgot
that he was supposed to be looking for the housing division. He crossed from
pavement to pavement and turned into side streets, where the uninhibited
carthorses were quite intentionally drumming their hoofs. There was more of
winter in the side streets, and rotting ice was still to be seen in places.
The whole town was a different colour; the blue houses had become green and
the yellow ones grey. The fire indicators had disappeared from the fire
tower, the fireman no longer climbed up and down, and the streets were much
noisier than Ippolit Matveyevich could remember.
On Greater Pushkin Street, Ippolit Matveyevich was amazed by the tracks
and overhead cables of the tram system, which he had never seen in Stargorod
before. He had not read the papers and did not know that the two tram routes
to the station and the market were due to be opened on May Day. At one
moment Ippolit Matveyevich felt he had never left Stargorod, and the next
moment it was like a place completely unfamiliar to him.
Engrossed in these thoughts, he reached Marx and Engels Street. Here he
re-experienced a childhood feeling that at any moment a friend would appear
round the corner of the two-storeyed house with its long balcony. He even
stopped walking in anticipation. But the friend did not appear. The first
person to come round the corner was a glazier with a box of Bohemian glass
and a dollop of copper-coloured putty. Then came a swell in a suede cap with
a yellow leather peak. He was pursued by some elementary-school children
carrying books tied with straps.
Suddenly Ippolit Matveyevich felt a hotness in his palms and a sinking
feeling in his stomach. A stranger with a kindly face was coming straight
towards him, carrying a chair by the middle, like a 'cello. Suddenly
developing hiccups Ippolit Matveyevich looked closely at the chair and
immediately recognized it.
Yes! It was a Hambs chair upholstered in flowered English chintz
somewhat darkened by the storms of the revolution; it was a walnut chair
with curved legs. Ippolit Matveyevich felt as though a gun had gone off in
his ear.
"Knives and scissors sharpened! Razors set!" cried a baritone voice
nearby. And immediately came the shrill echo;
"Soldering and repairing!"
"Moscow News, magazine Giggler, Red Meadow."
Somewhere up above, a glass pane was removed with a crash. A truck from
the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration passed by, making the
town vibrate. A militiaman blew his whistle. Everything brimmed over with
life. There was no time to be lost.
With a leopard-like spring, Ippolit Matveyevich leaped towards the
repulsive stranger and silently tugged at the chair. The stranger tugged the
other way. Still holding on to one leg with his left hand, Ippolit
Matveyevich began forcibly detaching the stranger's fat fingers from the
chair.
"Thief!" hissed the stranger, gripping the chair more firmly.
"Just a moment, just a moment!" mumbled Ippolit Matveyevich, continuing
to unstick the stranger's fingers.
A crowd began to gather. Three or four people were already standing
nearby, watching the struggle with lively interest. They both glanced around
in alarm and, without looking at one another or letting go the chair,
rapidly moved on as if nothing were the matter.
"What's happening?" wondered Ippolit Matveyevich in dismay.
What the stranger was thinking was impossible to say, but he was
walking in a most determined way.
They kept walking more and more quickly until they saw a clearing
scattered with bits of brick and other building materials at the end of a
blind alley; then both turned into it simultaneously. Ippolit Matveyevich's
strength now increased fourfold.
"Give it to me!" he shouted, doing away with all ceremony.
"Help!" exclaimed the stranger, almost inaudibly.
Since both of them had their hands occupied with the chair, they began
kicking one another. The stranger's boots had metal studs, and at first
Ippolit Matveyevich came off badly. But he soon adjusted himself, and,
skipping to the left and right as though doing a Cossack dance, managed to
dodge his opponents' blows, trying at the same time to catch him in the
stomach. He was not successful, since the chair was in the way, but he
managed to land him a kick on the kneecap, after which the enemy could only
lash out with one leg.
"Oh, Lord!" whispered the stranger.
It was at this moment that Ippolit Matveyevich saw that the stranger
who had carried off his chair in the most outrageous manner was none other
than Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence.
"Father!" he exclaimed, removing his hands from the chair in
astonishment.
Father Vostrikov turned purple and finally loosed his grip. The chair,
no longer supported by either of them, fell on to the brick-strewn ground.
"Where's your moustache, my dear Ippolit Matveyevich?" asked the cleric
as caustically as possible.
"And what about your curls? You used to have curls, I believe!"
Ippolit Matveyevich's words conveyed utter contempt. He threw Father
Theodore a look of singular disgust and, tucking the chair under his arm,
turned to go. But the priest had now recovered from his embarrassment and
was not going to yield Vorobyaninov such an easy victory. With a cry of "No,
I'm sorry," he grasped hold of the chair again. Their initial position was
restored. The two opponents stood clutching the chair and, moving from side
to side, sized one another up like cats or boxers. The tense pause lasted a
whole minute.
"So you're after my property, Holy Father?" said Ippolit Matveyevich
through clenched teeth and kicked the holy father in the hip.
Father Theodore feinted and viciously kicked the marshal in the groin,
making him double up.
"It's not your property."
"Whose then?"
"Not yours!"
"Whose then?"
"Not yours!"
"Whose then? Whose?"
Spitting at each other in this way, they kept kicking furiously.
"Whose property is it then?" screeched the marshal, sinking his foot in
the holy father's stomach.
"It's nationalized property," said the holy father firmly, overcoming
his pain.
"Nationalized? "
"Yes, nationalized."
They were jerking out the words so quickly that they ran together.
" Who-nationalized-it? "
"The-Soviet-Government. The-Soviet-Government."
"Which-government? "
"The-working-people's-government."
"Aha!" said Ippolit Matveyevich icily. "The government of workers and
peasants?"
"Yes!"
"Hmm . . . then maybe you're a member of the Communist Party, Holy
Father?"
"Maybe I am!"
Ippolit Matveyevich could no longer restrain himself and with a shriek
of "Maybe you are" spat juicily in Father Theodore's kindly face. Father
Theodore immediately spat in Ippolit Matveyevich's face and also found his
mark. They had nothing with which to wipe away the spittle since they were
still holding the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich made a noise like a door
opening and thrust the chair at his enemy with all his might. The enemy fell
over, dragging the panting Vorobyaninov with him. The struggle continued in
the stalls.
Suddenly there was a crack and both front legs broke on simultaneous'y.
The opponents completely forgot one another and began tearing the walnut
treasure-chest to pieces. The flowered English chintz split with the
heart-rending scream of a seagull. The back was torn off by a mighty tug.
The treasure hunters ripped off the sacking together with the brass tacks
and, grazing their hands on the springs, buried their fingers in the woollen
stuffing. The disturbed springs hummed. Five minutes later the chair had
been picked clean. Bits and pieces were all that was left. Springs rolled in
all directions, and the wind blew the rotten padding all over the clearing.
The curved legs lay in a hole. There were no jewels.
"Well, have you found anything?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, panting.
Father Theodore, covered in tufts of wool, puffed and said nothing.
"You crook!" shouted Ippolit Matveyevich. "I'll break your neck, Father
Theodore!"
"I'd like to see you! " retorted the priest. "Where are you going all
covered in fluff? " "Mind your own business!"
"Shame on you, Father! You're nothing but a thief!" "I've stolen
nothing from you."
"How did you find out about this? You exploited the sacrament of
confession for your own ends. Very nice! Very fine!"
With an indignant "Fooh! " Ippolit Matveyevich left the clearing and,
brushing his sleeve as he went, made for home. At the corner of Lena
Massacre and Yerogeyev streets he caught sight of his partner. The technical
adviser and director-general of the concession was having the suede uppers
of his boots cleaned with canary polish; he was standing half-turned with
one foot slightly raised. Ippolit Matveyevich hurried up to him. The
director was gaily crooning the shimmy:
"The camels used to do it,
The barracudas used to dance it,
Now the whole world's doing the shimmy."
"Well, how was the housing division?" he asked in a businesslike way,
and immediately added:
"Wait a moment. Don't tell me now; you're too excited. Cool down a
little."
Giving the shoeshiner seven kopeks, Ostap took Vorobyaninov by the arm
and led him down the street. He listened very carefully to everything the
agitated Ippolit Matveyevich told him.
"Aha! A small black beard? Right! A coat with a sheepskin collar? I
see. That's the chair from the pensioner's home. It was bought today for
three roubles."
"But wait a moment. . . ."
And Ippolit Matveyevich told the chief concessionaire all about Father
Theodore's low tricks.
Ostap's face clouded.
"Too bad," he said. "Just like a detective story. We have a mysterious
rival. We must steal a march on him. We can always break his head later."
As the friends were having a snack in the Stenka Razin beer-hall and
Ostap was asking questions about the past and present state of the housing
division, the day came to an end.
The golden carthorses became brown again. The diamond drops grew cold
in mid-air and plopped on to the ground. In the beer-halls and Phoenix
restaurant the price of beer went up. Evening had come; the street lights on
Greater Pushkin Street lit up and a detachment of Pioneers went by, stamping
their feet, on the way home from their first spring outing.
The tigers, figures of victory, and cobras on top of the
province-planning administration shone mysteriously in the light of the
advancing moon.
As he made his way home with Ostap, who was now suddenly silent,
Ippolit Matveyevich gazed at the tigers and cobras. In his time, the
building had housed the Provincial Government and the citizens had been
proud of their cobras, considering them one of the sights of Stargorod.
"I'll find them," thought Ippolit Matveyevich, looking at one of the
plaster figures of victory.
The tigers swished their tails lovingly, the cobras contracted with
delight, and Ippolit Matveyevich's heart filled with determination.
THE MECHANIC, THE PARROT, AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER
No. 7 Pereleshinsky Street was not one of Stargorod's best buildings.
Its two storeys were constructed in the style of the Second Empire and were
embellished with timeworn lion heads, singularly reminiscent of the once
well-known writer Artsybashec. There were exactly seven of these
Artsybashevian physiognomies, one for each of the windows facing on to the
street. The faces had been placed at the keystone of each window.
There were two other embellishments on the building, though these were
of a purely commercial nature. On one side hung the radiant sign:
MOSCOW
BUN ARTEL
The sign depicted a young man wearing a tie and ankle-length French
trousers. Ift one dislocated hand he held the fabulous cornucopia, from
which poured an avalanche of ochre-coloured buns; whenever necessary, these
were passed off as Moscow rolls. The young man had a sexy smile on his face.
On the other side, the Fastpack packing office announced itself to
prospective clients by a black board with round gold lettering.
Despite the appreciable difference in the signs and also in the capital
possessed by the two dissimilar enterprises, they both engaged in the same
business, namely, speculation in all types of fabrics: coarse wool, fine
wool, cotton, and, whenever silk of good colour and design came their way,
silk as well.
Passing through the tunnel-like gateway and turning right into the yard
with its cement well, you could see two doorways without porches, giving
straight on to the angular flagstones of the yard. A dulled brass plate with
a name engraved in script was fixed to the right-hand door:
The left-hand door was fitted with a piece of whitish tin:
This was also only for show.
Inside the fashions-and-millinery workroom there was no esparterie, no
trimmings, no headless dummies with soldierly bearing, nor any large heads
for elegant ladies' hats. Instead, the three-room apartment was occupied by
an immaculately white parrot in red underpants. The parrot was riddled with
fleas, but could not complain since it was unable to talk. For days on end
it used to crack sunflower seeds and spit the husks through the bars of its
tall, circular cage on to the carpet. It only needed a concertina and new
squeaky Wellingtons to resemble a peasant on a spree. Dark-brown patterned
curtains flapped at the window. Dark-brown hues predominated in the
apartment. Above the piano was a reproduction of Boecklin's "Isle of the
Dead" in a fancy frame of dark-green oak, covered with glass. One corner of
the glass had been broken off some time before, and the flies had added so
many finishing touches to the picture at this bared section that it merged
completely with the frame. What was going on in that section of the "Isle of
the Dead" was quite impossible to say.
The owner herself was sitting in the bedroom and laying out cards,
resting her arms on an octagonal table covered by a dirty Richelieu
tablecloth. In front of her sat Widow Gritsatsuyev, in a fluffy shawl.
"I should warn you, young lady, that I don't take less than fifty
kopeks per session,' said the fortune-teller.
The widow, whose anxiousness to find a new husband knew no bounds,
agreed to pay the price.
"But predict the future as well, please," she said plaintively. "You
will be represented by the Queen of Clubs." "I was always the Queen of
Hearts," objected the widow. The fortune-teller consented apathetically and
began manipulating the cards. A rough estimation of the widow's lot was
ready in a few minutes. Both major and minor difficulties awaited her, but
near to her heart was the King of Clubs, who had befriended the Queen of
Diamonds.
A fair copy of the prediction was made from the widow's hand. The lines
of her hand were clean, powerful, and faultless. Her life line stretched so
far that it ended up at her pulse and, if it told the truth, the widow
should have lived till doomsday. The head line and line of brilliancy gave
reason to believe that she would give up her grocery business and present
mankind with masterpieces in the realm of art, science, and social studies.
Her Mounts of Venus resembled Manchurian volcanoes and revealed incredible
reserves of love and affection. The fortune-teller explained all this to the
widow, using the words and phrases current among graphologists, palmists,
and horse-traders.
"Thank you, madame," said the widow. "Now I know who the King of Clubs
is. And I know who the Queen of Diamonds is, too. But what about the King?
Does that mean marriage?" "It does, young lady." The widow went home in a
dream, while the fortune-teller threw the cards into a drawer, yawned,
displaying the mouth of a fifty-year-old woman, and went into the kitchen.
There she busied herself with the meal that was warming on a Graetz stove;
wiping her hands on her apron like a cook, she took a chipped-enamel pail
and went into the yard to fetch water.
She walked across the yard, dragging her flat feet. Her drooping
breasts wobbled lazily inside her dyed blouse. Her head was crowned with
greying hair. She was an old woman, she was dirty, she regarded everyone
with suspicion, and she had a sweet tooth. If Ippolit Matveyevich had seen
her now, he would never have recognized Elena Bour, his former mistress,
about whom the clerk of the court had once said in verse that "her lips were
inviting and she was so spritely!" At the well, Mrs. Bour was greeted by her
neighbour, Victor Mikhailovich Polesov, the mechanic-intellectual, who was
collecting water in an empty petrol tin. Polesov had the face of an operatic
Mephistopheles who is carefully rubbed with burnt cork just before he goes
on stage.
As soon as they had exchanged greetings, the neighbours got down to a
discussion of the affair concerning the whole of Stargorod.
"What times we live in!" said Polesov ironically. "Yesterday I went all
over the town but couldn't find any three-eighths-inch dies anywhere. There
were none available. And to think-they're going to open a tramline!"
Elena Stanislavovna, who had as much idea about three-eighths-inch dies
as a student of the Leonardo da Vinci ballet school, who thinks that cream
comes from cream tarts, expressed her sympathy.
"The shops we have now! Nothing but long queues. And the names of the
shops are so dreadful. Stargiko!"
"But I'll tell you something else, Elena Stanislavovna. They have four
General Electric engines left. And they just about work, although the bodies
are junk. The windows haven't any shock absorbers. I've seen them myself.
The whole lot rattles. Horrible! And the other engines are from Kharkov.
Made entirely by the State Non-Ferrous Metallurgy Industry."
The mechanic stopped talking in irritation. His black face glistened in
the sun. The whites of his eyes were yellowish. Among the artisans owning
cars in Stargorod, of whom there were many, Victor Polesov was the most
gauche, and most frequently made an ass of himself. The reason for this was
his over-ebullient nature. He was an ebullient idler. He was forever
effervescing. In his own workshop in the second yard of no. 7 Pereleshinsky
Street, he was never to be found. Extinguished portable furnaces stood
deserted in the middle of his stone shed, the corners of which were
cluttered up with punctured tyres, torn Triangle tyre covers, rusty padlocks
(so enormous you could have locked town gates with them), fuel cans with the
names "Indian" and "Wanderer", a sprung pram, a useless dynamo, rotted
rawhide belts, oil-stained rope, worn emery paper, an Austrian bayonet, and
a great deal of other broken, bent and dented junk. Clients could never find
Victor Mikhailovich. He was always out somewhere giving orders. He had no
time for work. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch a horse . and
cart drive into his or anyone else's yard. He immediately went out and,
clasping his hands behind his back, watched the carter's actions with
contempt. Finally he could bear it no longer.
"Where do you think you're going?" he used to shout in a horrified
voice. "Move over!"
The startled carter would move the cart over.
"Where do you think you're moving to, wretch?" Victor Polesov cried,
rushing up to the horse. "In the old days you would have got a slap for
that, then you would have moved over."
Having given orders in this way for half an hour or so, Polesov would
be just about to return to his workshop, where a broken bicycle pump awaited
repair, when the peaceful life of the town would be disturbed by some other
contretemps. Either two carts entangled their axles in the street and Victor
Mikhailovich would show the best and quickest way to separate them, or
workmen would be replacing a telegraph pole and Polesov would check that it
was perpendicular with his own plumb-line brought specially from the
workshop; or, finally, the fire-engine would go past and Polesov, excited by
the noise of the siren and burned up with curiosity, would chase after it.
But from time to time Polesov was seized by a mood of practical
activity. For several days he used to shut himself up in his workshop and
toil in silence. Children ran freely about the yard and shouted what they
liked, carters described circles in the yard, carts completely stopped
entangling their axles and fire-engines and hearses sped to the fire
unaccompanied-Victor Mikhailovich was working. One day, after a bout of this
kind, he emerged from the workshop with a motor-cycle, pulling it like a ram
by the horns; the motor-cycle was made up of parts of cars,
fire-extinguishers, bicycles and typewriters. It had a one-and-a-half
horsepower Wanderer engine and Davidson wheels, while the other essential
parts had lost the name of the original maker. A piece of cardboard with the
words "Trial Run" hung on a cord from the saddle. A crowd gathered. Without
looking at anyone, Victor Mikhailovich gave the pedal a twist with his hand.
There was no spark for at least ten minutes, but then came a metallic
splutter and the contraption shuddered and enveloped itself in a cloud of
filthy smoke. Polesov jumped into the saddle, and the motor-cycle,
accelerating madly, carried him through the tunnel into the middle of the
roadway and stopped dead. Polesov was about to get off and investigate the
mysterious vehicle when it suddenly reversed and, whisking its creator
through the same tunnel, stopped at its original point of departure in the
yard, grunted peevishly, and blew up. Victor Mikhailovich escaped by a
miracle and during the next bout of activity used the bits of the
motor-cycle to make a stationary engine, very similar to a real one-except
that it did not work.
The crowning glory of the mechanic-intellectual's academic activity was
the epic of the gates of building no. 5, next door. The housing co-operative
that owned the building signed a contract with Victor Polesov under which he
undertook to repair the iron gates and paint them any colour he liked. For
its part, the housing co-operative agreed to pay Victor Mikhailovich Polesov
the sum of twenty-one roubles, seventy-five kopeks, subject to approval by a
special committee. The official stamps were charged to the contractor.
Victor Mikhailovich carried off the gates like Samson. He set to work
in his shop with enthusiasm. It took several days to un-rivet the gates.
They were taken to pieces. Iron curlicues lay in the pram; iron bars and
spikes were piled under the work-bench. It took another few days to inspect
the damage. Then a great disaster occurred in the town. A water main burst
on Drovyanaya Street, and Polesov spent the rest of the week at the scene of
the misfortune, smiling ironically, shouting at the workmen, and every few
minutes looking into the hole in the ground.
As soon as his organizational ardour had somewhat abated, Polesov
returned to his gates, but it was too late. The children from the yard were
already playing with the iron curlicues and spikes of the gates of no. 5.
Seeing the wrathful mechanic, the children dropped their playthings and
fled. Half the curlicues were missing and were never found. After that
Polesov lost interest in the gates.
But then terrible things began to happen in no. 5, which was now wide
open to all. The wet linen was stolen from the attics, and one evening
someone even carried off a samovar that was singing in the yard. Polesov
himself took part in the pursuit, but the thief ran at quite a pace, even
though he was holding the steaming samovar in front of him, and looking over
his shoulder, covered Victor Mikhailovich, who was in the lead, with foul
abuse. The one who suffered most, however, was the yard-keeper from no. 5.
He lost his nightly wage since there were now no gates, there was nothing to
open, and residents returning from a spree had no one to give a tip to. At
first the yard-keeper kept coming to ask if the gates would soon be
finished; then he tried praying, and finally resorted to vague threats. The
housing cooperative sent Polesov written reminders, and there was talk of
taking the matter to court. The situation had grown more and more tense.
Standing by the well, the fortune-teller and the mechanic-enthusiast
continued their conversation.
"Given the absence of seasoned sleepers," cried Victor Mikhailovich for
the whole yard to hear, "it won't be a tramway, but sheer misery!"
"When will all this end!" said Elena Stanislavovna. "We live like
savages!"
"There's no end to it. . . . Yes. Do you know who I saw today?
Vorobyaninov."
In her amazement Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the wall,
continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.
"I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for
the hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly two
people came towards me. One of them seemed familiar; he looked like
Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.
I told them it used to be a girls' secondary school, and later became the
housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said,
Thanks' and went off. Then I saw clearly that it really was Vorobyaninov,
only without his moustache. The other one with him was a fine-looking
fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought. . ."
At that moment Victor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant.
Breaking off what he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind
the dustbin. Into the yard sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped
by the well and began looking round at the buildings. Not seeing Polesov
anywhere, he asked sadly:
"Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"
"I really don't know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."
And with unusual nervousness she hurried off to her apartment, spilling
water from the pail.
The yard-keeper stroked the cement block at the top of the well and
went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:
ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP
was another sign:
AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS
under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the
padlock and said with loathing:
"Ugh, that stinker!"
He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up
the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it
to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet,
began creating an unholy row.
"You have thieves in no. 7!" howled the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all
kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a
damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"
During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting
behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a
bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight
of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
"Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"
The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed
with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex
crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed
where they were.
"I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"
While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly
began hauling the fellow off to the police station. He was assisted by Some
young toughs from Fastpack. The yard-keeper put his arms around the
militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.
A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin. There
was a stir among the audience.
"Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. "I'll show you! You
louse!"
But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear. He was
carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove
Repairs" was also taken along as factual evidence. Victor Mikhailovich
bristled with fury for some time.
"Sons of bitches!" he said, turning to the spectators. "Conceited
bums!"
"That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena Stanislavovna from
the window. "Come in here a moment."
She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up
and down the room, began asking him questions.
"But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him,"
said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well. It was the spitting image
of Vorobyaninov."
"Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you think he's here?"
An ironic smile appeared on Polesov's face.
"Well, what do you think? "
He chuckled with even greater irony.
"At any rate, not to sign a treaty with the Bolsheviks."
"Do you think he's in danger? "
The reserves of irony amassed by Polesov over the ten years since the
revolution were inexhaustible. A series of smiles of varying force and
scepticism lit up his face.
"Who isn't in danger in Soviet Russia, especially a man in
Vorobyaninov's position. Moustaches, Elena Stanislavovna, are not shaved off
for nothing."
"Has he been sent from abroad?" asked Elena Stanislavovna, almost
choking.
"Definitely," replied the brilliant mechanic.
"What is his purpose here?"
"Don't be childish!"
"I must see him all the same."
"Do you know what you're risking? "
"I don't care. After ten years of separation I cannot do otherwise than
see Ippolit Matveyevich."
And it actually seemed to her that fate had parted them while they were
still in love with one another.
"I beg you to find him. Find out where he is. You go everywhere; it
won't be difficult for you. Tell him I want to see him. Do you hear?"
The parrot in the red underpants, which had been dozing on its perch,
was startled by the noisy conversation; it turned upside down and froze in
that position.
"Elena Stanislavovna," said the mechanic, half-rising and pressing his
hands to his chest, "I will contact him."
"Would you like some more stewed fruit?" asked the fortune-teller,
deeply touched.
Victor Mikhailovich consumed the stewed fruit irritably, gave Elena
Stanislavovna a lecture on the faulty construction of the parrot's cage, and
then left with instructions to keep everything strictly secret.
The next day the partners saw that it was no longer convenient to live
in the caretaker's room. Tikhon kept muttering away to himself and had
become completely stupid, having seen his master first with a black
moustache, then with a green one, and finally with no moustache at all.
There was nothing to sleep on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in
on Tikhon's new felt boots. His old ones stood in the corner and did not
help to purify the air, either.
"I declare the old boys' reunion over," said Ostap. "We must move to a
hotel."
Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I shall have to register."
"Aren't your papers in order?"
"My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours
will spread."
The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.
"How do you like the name Michelson?" suddenly asked the splendid
Ostap.
"Which Michelson? The Senator?"
"No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union."
"I don't get you."
"That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!"
Bender took a union card out of his green jacket and handed it to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Konrad Karlovich Michelson, aged forty-eight, non-party member,
bachelor; union member since 1921 and a person of excellent character; a
good friend of mine and seems to be a friend of children. . . . But you
needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you."
Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. "But is it right? "
"Compared with our" concession, this misdeed, though it does come under
the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game."
Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.
"You're an idealist, Konrad Karlovich. You're lucky, otherwise you
might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov."
There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon,
the concessionaires went out into the street.
They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms. Ostap threw the whole of
the small hotel staff into confusion. First he looked at the seven-rouble
rooms, but disliked the furnishings. The cleanliness of the five-rouble
rooms pleased him more, but the carpets were shabby and there was an
objectionable smell. In the three-rouble rooms everything was satisfactory
except for the pictures.
"I can't live in a room with landscapes," said Ostap.
They had to take a room for one rouble, eighty. It had no landscapes,
no carpets, and the furniture was very conservative -two beds and a night
table.
"Stone-age style," observed Ostap with approval. "I hope there aren't
any prehistoric monsters in the mattresses."
"Depends on the season," replied the cunning room-cleaner. "If there's
a provincial convention of some kind, then of course there aren't any,
because we have many visitors and we clean the place thoroughly before they
arrive. But at other times you may find some. They come across from the
Livadia Rooms next door."
That day the concessionaires visited the Stargorod communal services,
where they obtained the information they required. It turned out that the
housing division had been disbanded in 1921 and that its voluminous records
had been merged with those of the communal services.
The smooth operator got down to business. By evening the partners had
found out the address of the head of the records department, Bartholomew
Korobeinikov, a former clerk in the Tsarist town administration and now an
office-employment official.
Ostap attired himself in his worsted waistcoat, dusted his jacket
against the back of a chair, demanded a rouble, twenty kopeks from Ippolit
Matveyevich, and set off to visit the record-keeper. Ippolit Matveyevich
remained at the Sorbonne Hotel and paced up and down the narrow gap between
the two beds in agitation. The fate of the whole enterprise was in the
balance that cold, green evening. If they could get hold of copies of the
orders for the distribution of the furniture requisitioned from
Vorobyaninov's house, half the battle had been won. There would still be
tremendous difficulties facing them, but at least they would be on the right
track.
"If only we can get the orders," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich to
himself, lying on the bed, "if only we can get them."
The springs of the battered mattress nipped him like fleas, but he did
not feel them. He still only had a vague idea of what would follow once the
orders had been obtained, but felt sure everything would then go swimmingly.
Engrossed in his rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about on the
bed. The springs bleated underneath him.
Ostap had to go right across town. Korobeinikov lived in Gusishe, on
the outskirts.
It was an area populated largely by railway workers. From time to time
a snuffling locomotive would back its way along the walled-off embankment,
above the houses. For a second the roof-tops were lit by the blaze from the
firebox. Now and then empty goods trains went by, and from time to time
detonators could be heard exploding. Amid the huts and temporary wooden
barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats.
Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club- checked the
address from a piece of paper, and halted in front of the record-keeper's
house. He rang a bell marked "Please Ring" in embossed letters.
After prolonged questioning as to "Who do you want?" and "What is it
about?" the door was opened, and he found himself in a dark,
cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did
not speak.
"Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?" asked Ostap.
The person who had been breathing took Ostap by the arm and led him
into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him
a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt
that this was Citizen Korobeinikov himself. Without waiting for an
invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down.
The old man looked fearlessly at the high-handed stranger and remained
silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation.
"I've come on business. You work at the communal-services records
office, don't you? "
The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively.
"And you worked before that in the housing division?"
"I have worked everywhere," he answered gaily.
"Even in the Tsarist town administration?"
Here Ostap smiled graciously. The old man's back contorted for some
time and finally ended up in a position implying that his employment in the
Tsarist town administration was something long passed and that it was not
possible to remember everything for sure.'
"And may I ask what I can do for you?" said the host, regarding his
visitor with interest.
"You may," answered the visitor. "I am Vorobyaninov's son."
"Whose? The marshal's?"
"Yes." . "Is he still alive?"
"He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest."
"Yes," said the old man without any particular grief, "a sad event. But
I didn't think he had any children."
"He didn't," said Ostap amiably in confirmation.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm from a morganatic marriage."
"Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son? "
"Right!"
"How is she?"
"Mum's been in her grave some time."
"I see. I see. How sad."
And the old man gazed at Ostap with tears of sympathy in his eyes,
although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in
the market.
"We all pass away," he said, "but please tell me on what business
you're here, my dear . . . I don't know your name."
"Voldemar," promptly replied Ostap.
"Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good."
The old man sat down at the table covered with patterned oilcloth and
peered into Ostap's eyes.
In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his
parents. He much regretted that he had invaded the privacy of the respected
record-keeper so late at night and disturbed him by the visit, but hoped
that the respected record-keeper would forgive him when he knew what had
brought him.
"I would like to have some of my dad's furniture," concluded Ostap with
inexpressible filial love, "as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the
furniture from dad's house?"
"That's difficult," said the old man after a moment's thought. "Only a
well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask? "
"I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines."
The old man looked dubiously at young Vorobyaninov's green suit, but
made no comment.
"A smart young man," he thought.
"A typical old bastard," decided Ostap, who had by then completed his
observation of Korobeinikov.
"So there you are," said Ostap.
"So there you are," said the record-keeper. "It's difficult, but
possible."
"And it involves expense," suggested the refrigeration-plant owner
helpfully.
"A small sum . . ."
" 'Is nearer one's heart', as Maupassant used to say. The information
will be paid for."
"All right then, seventy roubles."
"Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?"
The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine.
"Joke if you will. . ."
"I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?"
"Have you the money on you? "
Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket.
"Then now, if you like," said Korobeinikov triumphantly.
He lit a candle and led Ostap into the next room. Besides a bed,
obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself, the room contained a
desk piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves.
The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the
edges of the shelves. Bundles of orders bound with new string lay on the
shelves.
"Oho!" exclaimed the delighted Ostap. "A full set of records at home."
"A complete set," said the record-keeper modestly. "Just in case, you
know. The communal services don't need them and they might be useful to me
in my old age. We're living on top of a volcano, you know. Anything can
happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it
be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will
have preserved it? Who will have looked after it? Korobeinikov! So the
gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And
I don't need very much; ten roubles an order will do me. Otherwise, they
might as well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture
without me."
Ostap looked at the old man in rapture.
"A marvellous office," he said. "Complete mechanization. You're an
absolute hero of labour!"
The flattered record-keeper began explaining the details of his
pastime. He opened the thick registers.
"It's all here," he said, "the whole of Stargorod. All the furniture.
Who it was taken from and who it was given to. And here's the alphabetical
index-the mirror of life! Whose furniture do you want to know about?
Angelov, first-guild merchant? Certainly. Look under A. A, Ak, Am, Am,
Angelov. The number? Here it is-82742. Now give me the stock book. Page 142.
Where's Angelov? Here he is. Taken from Angelov on December 18, 1918:
Baecker grand piano, one, no. 97012; piano stools, one, soft; bureaux, two;
wardrobes, four (two mahogany); bookcases, one . . . and so on. And who was
it all given to? Let's look at the distribution register. The same number.
Issued to. The bookcase to the town military committee, three wardrobes to
the Skylark boarding school, another wardrobe for the personal use of the
Stargorod province food office. And where did the piano go? The piano went
to the old-age pensioners' home, and it's there to this day."
"I don't think I saw a piano there," thought Ostap, remembering
Alchen's shy little face.
"Or for instance, Murin, head of the town council. So we look under M.
It's all here. The whole town. Pianos, settees, pier glasses, chairs,
divans, pouffes, chandeliers . . . even dinner services."
"Well," said Ostap, "they ought to erect a monument to you. But let's
get to the point. The letter V, for example."
"The letter V it is," responded Korobeinikov willingly. "In one moment.
Vm, Vn. Vorotsky, no. 48238, Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich, your father,
God rest his soul, was a man with a big heart. . . A Baecker piano, no.
54809. Chinese vases, marked, four, from Sevres in France; Aubusson carpets,
eight, different sizes; a tapestry, "The Shepherd Boy'; a tapestry, 'The
Shepherd Girl'; Tekke carpets, two; Khorassan carpets, one; stuffed bears
with dish, one; a bedroom suite to seat twelve; a dining-room suite to seat
sixteen; a drawing-room suite to seat twelve, walnut, made by Hambs."
"And who was given it?" asked Ostap impatiently. "We're just coming to
that. The stuffed bear with dish went to the police station No. 2. The
Shepherd Boy tapestry went to the art treasure collection; the Shepherd Girl
tapestry to the water-transport club; the Aubusson, Tekke and Khorassan
carpets to the Ministry of Foreign Trade. The bedroom suite went to the
hunters' trade-union; the dining-room suite to the Stargorod branch of the
chief tea administration. The walnut suite was divided up. The round table
and one chair went to the pensioners' home, a curved-back settee was given
to the housing division (it's still in the hall, and the bastards spilled
grease all over the covering); one chair went to Comrade Gritsatsuyev as an
imperialist war invalid, at his own request, granted by Comrade Burkin, head
of the housing division. Ten chairs went to Moscow to the furniture museum,
in accordance with a circular sent round by the Ministry of Education . . .
Chinese vases, marked .. ."
"Well done!" said Ostap jubilantly. "That's more like it! Now it would
be nice to see the actual orders."
"In a moment. We'll come to the orders in a moment. Letter V, No.
48238."
The old man went up to the cupboard and, standing on tiptoe, took down
the appropriate bundle.
"Here you are. All your father's furniture. Do you want all the
orders?"
"What would I do with all of them? Just something to remind me of my
childhood. The drawing-room suite . . . I remember how I used to play on the
Khorassan carpet in the drawing-room, looking at the Shepherd Boy tapestry .
. . I had a fine time, a wonderful childhood. So let's stick to the
drawing-room suite, dad."
Lovingly the old man began to open up the bundle of green counterfoils
and searched for the orders in question. He took out five of them. One was
for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for the round table, and one for
tapestry.
"lust see. They're all in order. You know where each item is. All the
counterfoils have the addresses on them and also the receiver's own
signature. So no one can back out if anything happens. Perhaps you'd like
Madame Popov's furniture? It's very good and also made by Hambs."
But Ostap was motivated solely by love for his parents; he grabbed the
orders, stuffed them in the depths of his pocket and declined the furniture
belonging to General Popov's wife.
"May I make out a receipt?" inquired the record-keeper, adroitly
arching himself.
"You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!"
"I will then."
"Do that!"
They went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in
neat handwriting and handed it smilingly to his visitor. The chief
concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in
a singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious
orders.
"Well, so long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a
lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king
of the office!"
The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand.
"Good-bye!" repeated Ostap.
He moved towards the door.
Korobeinikov was at a loss to understand. He even looked on the table
to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly:
"What about the money?"
"What money?" said Ostap, opening the door. "Did I hear you say
something about money? "
"Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!"
"Honestly, chum," crooned Ostap, "I swear by my late father, I'd be
glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account."
The old man began to tremble and put out a puny hand to restrain his
nocturnal visitor.
"Don't be a fool," said Ostap menacingly. "I'm telling you in plain
Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!"
The door slammed. Korobeinikov opened it and ran into the street, but
Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing
overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke.
"Things are moving," cried Ostap to the driver, "things are moving,
gentlemen of the jury!"
The driver could not hear; he waved his hand, and the wheels of the
locomotive began pulling the steel elbows of the cranks with still greater
force. The locomotive raced away.
Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back
into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room
and kicked the table with rage. The clog-shaped ash-tray with the word
"Triangle" on it jumped up and down, and the glass clinked against the
decanter.
Never before had Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.
He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such
brilliant simplicity that all he could do was stand for some time, lashing
out at the thick legs of the table.
In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned
to him in cases of extreme need. He acted as a pawnbroker and charged
cannibalistic rates of interest. He had been doing this for several years
and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game,
a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.
"A fine thing!" he cried, remembering the lost orders. "From now on
money in advance. How could I have bungled it like that? I gave him the
walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by
hand. . . ."
An uncertain hand had been ringing the bell marked "Please Ring" for
some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door
was still open, when there was a heavy thud, and' the voice of a man
entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:
"How do I get in?"
Korobeinikov went into the hallway, took hold of somebody's coat (it
felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.
"I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.
After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both sides, it came
to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding
Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore was not averse to paying
for it. Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great amusement, the visitor
turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to
keep something in memory of him, for example, a walnut drawing-room suite.
The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.
Korobeinikov asked a hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's
memory considerably lower than that, say thirty roubles. They agreed on
fifty.
"I'd like the money first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of
mine."
"Does it matter if I give it to you in ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked
Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat.
"I'll take them at the official rate of exchange. Today's rate is nine
and a half."
Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half
in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper. The latter counted
the coins twice, scooped them up into one hand and, requesting his visitor
to wait, went to fetch the orders. Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for
long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P, quickly found the
right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's
wife. Disembowelling the bundle, he selected the order for twelve walnut
chairs from the Hambs factory, issued to Comrade Bruns, resident of 34
Vineyard Street. Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled
to himself and took the order to the purchaser.
"Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser.
"All there together. It's a splendid suite. It'll make you drool.
Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!"
Father Theodore rapturously gave the record-keeper a prolonged
handshake and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in the hall,
fled into the darkness of the night.
For quite a while longer Bartholomeich chuckled to himself at the
customer he had cheated. He spread the gold coins out in a row on the table
and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs.
"What is it about Vorobyaninov's furniture that attracts them?" he
wondered. "They're out of their minds."
He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on the
narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep.
A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM
During the night the cold was completely consumed. It became so warm
that the feet of early passers-by began to ache. The sparrows chirped
various nonsense. Even the hen that emerged from the kitchen into the hotel
yard felt a surge of strength and tried to take off. The sky was covered
with small dumpling-like clouds and the dustbin reeked of violets and soupe
paysanne. The wind lazed under the eaves. Tomcats lounged on the rooftops
and, half closing their eyes, condescendingly watched the yard, across which
the room-cleaner, Alexander, was hurrying with a bundle of dirty washing.
Things began stirring in the corridors of the Sorbonne. Delegates were
arriving from other regions for the opening of the tramway. A whole crowd of
them got down from a wagon bearing the name of the Sorbonne Hotel.
The sun was warming to its fullest extent. Up flew the corrugated iron
shutters of the shops, and workers in Soviet government offices on their way
to work in padded coats breathed heavily and unbuttoned themselves, feeling
the heaviness of spring.
On Co-operative Street an overloaded truck belonging to the
grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration broke a spring, and Victor
Polesov arrived at the scene to give advice.
From one of the rooms furnished with down-to-earth luxury (two beds and
a night table) came a horse-like snorting and neighing. Ippolit Matveyevich
was happily washing himself and blowing his nose. The smooth operator lay in
bed inspecting the damage to his boots.
"By the way," he said, "kindly settle your debt."
Ippolit Matveyevich surfaced from under his towel and looked at his
partner with bulging, pince-nezless eyes.
"Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? What are you
surprised about? The debt? Yes! You owe me some money. I forgot to tell you
yesterday that I had to pay, with your authority, seventy roubles for the
orders. Herewith the receipt. Sling over thirty-five roubles.
Concessionaires, I hope, share the expenses on an equal footing?"
Ippolit Matveyevich put on his pince-nez, read the receipt and,
sighing, passed over the money. But even that could not dampen his spirits.
The riches were in their hands. The thirty-rouble speck of dust vanished in
the glitter of a. diamond mountain.
Smiling radiantly, Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the corridor and
began strolling up and down. His plans for a new life built on a foundation
of precious stones brought him great comfort. "And the holy father," he
gloated, "has been taken for a ride. He'll see as much of the chairs as his
beard."
Reaching the end of the corridor, Vorobyaninov turned round. The
cracked white door of room no. 13 opened wide, and out towards him came
Father Theodore in a blue tunic encircled by a shabby black cord with a
fluffy tassel. His kindly face was beaming with happiness. He had also come
into the corridor to stretch his legs. The rivals approached one another
several times, looking at each other triumphantly as they passed. At the two
ends of the corridor they both turned simultaneously and approached again. .
. . Ippolit Matveyevich's heart was bursting with joy. Father Theodore was
experiencing a similar feeling. Each was sorry for his defeated enemy. By
the time they reached the fifth lap, Ippolit Matveyevich could restrain
himself no longer.
"Good morning, Father," he said with inexpressible sweetness.
Father Theodore mustered all the sarcasm with which God had endowed him
and replied with:
"Good morning, Ippolit Matveyevich."
The enemies parted. When their paths next crossed, Vorobyaninov said
casually:
"I hope I didn't hurt you at our last meeting."
"Not at all, it was very pleasant to see you," replied the other
jubilantly..
They moved apart again. Father Theodore's physiognomy began to disgust
Ippolit Matveyevich.
"I don't suppose you're saying Mass any more?" he remarked at the next
encounter.
"There's nowhere to say it. The parishioners have all run off in search
of treasure."
"Their own treasure, mark you. Their own!"
"I don't know whose it is, but only that they're looking for it."
Ippolit Matveyevich wanted to say something nasty and even opened his
mouth to do so, but was unable to think of anything and angrily returned to
his room. At that moment, the son of a Turkish citizen, Ostap Bender,
emerged from the room in a light-blue waistcoat, and, treading on his own
laces, went towards Vostrikov. The roses on Father Theodore's cheeks
withered and turned to ash.
"Do you buy rags and bones?" he asked menacingly. "Chairs, entrails,
tins of boot polish?"
"What do you want?" whispered Father Theodore.
"I want to sell you an old pair of trousers."
The priest stiffened and moved away.
"Why are you silent, like an archbishop at a party?"
Father Theodore slowly walked towards his room.
"We buy old stuff and steal new stuff!" called Ostap after him.
Vostrikov lowered his head and stopped by the door. Ostap continued
taunting him.
"What about my pants, my dear cleric? Will you take them? There's also
the sleeves of a waistcoat, the middle of a doughnut, and the ears of a dead
donkey. The whole lot is going wholesale-it's cheaper. And they're not
hidden in chairs, so you won't need to look for them."
The door shut behind the cleric.
Ostap sauntered back satisfied, his laces flopping against the carpet.
As soon as his massive figure was sufficiently far away, Father
Theodore quickly poked his head round the door and, with long pent-up
indignation, squeaked:
"Silly old fool!"
"What's that?" cried Ostap, promptly turning back but the door was
already shut and the only sound was the click of the lock.
Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand to his mouth, and said
clearly:
"How much is opium for the people?"
There was silence behind the door:
"Dad, you're a nasty old man," said Ostap loudly.
That very moment the point of Father Theodore's pencil shot out of the
keyhole and wiggled in the air in an attempt to sting his enemy. The
concessionaire jumped back in time and grasped hold of it. Separated by the
door, the adversaries began a tug-of-war. Youth was victorious, and the
pencil, clinging like a splinter, slowly crept out of the keyhole. Ostap
returned with the trophy to his room, where the partners were still more
elated.
"And the enemy's in flight, flight, flight," he crooned.
He carved a rude word on the edge of the pencil with a pocket-knife,
ran into the corridor, pushed the pencil through the priest's keyhole, and
hurried back.
The friends got out the green counterfoils and began a careful
examination of them.
"This one's for the Shepherd Girl tapestry," said Ippolit Matveyevich
dreamily. "I bought it from a St. Petersburg antique dealer."
"To hell with the Shepherd Girl," said Ostap, tearing the order to
ribbons.
"A round table . . . probably from the suite. . ."
"Give me the table. To hell with the table!"
Two orders were left: one for ten chairs transferred to the furniture
museum in Moscow, and the other for the chair given to Comrade Gritsatsuyev
in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.
"Have your money ready," said Ostap. "We may have to go to Moscow."
"But there's a chair here!"
"One chance in ten. Pure mathematics. Anyway, citizen Gritsatsuyev may
have lit the stove with it."
"Don't joke like that!"
"Don't worry, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Michelson, we'll find them.
It's a sacred cause!"
"We'll be wearing cambric footcloths and eating Margo cream."
"I have a hunch the jewels are in that very chair."
"Oh, you have a hunch, do you. What other hunches do you have? None?
All right. Let's work the Marxist way. We'll leave the sky to the birds and
deal with the chairs ourselves. I can't wait to meet the imperialist war
invalid, citizen Gritsatsuyev, at 15 Plekhanov Street. Don't lag behind,
Konrad Karlovich. We'll plan as we go."
As they passed Father Theodore's door the vengeful son of a Turkish
citizen gave it a kick. There was a low snarling from the harassed rival
inside.
"Don't let him follow us!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in alarm.
"After today's meeting of the foreign ministers aboard the yacht no
rapprochement is possible. He's afraid of me."
The friends did not return till evening. Ippolit Matveyevich looked
worried. Ostap was beaming. He was wearing new raspberry-coloured shoes with
round rubber heel taps, green-and-black check socks, a cream cap, and a
silk-mixture scarf of a brightly coloured Rumanian shade.
"It's there all right," said Vorobyaninov, reflecting on his visit to
Widow Gritsatsuyev, "but how are we going to get hold of it? By buying it?"
"Certainly not!" said Ostap. "Besides being a totally unproductive
expense, that would start rumours. Why one chair, and why that chair in
particular?"
"What shall we do?"
Ostap lovingly inspected the heels of his new shoes.
"Chic moderne" he said. "What shall we do? Don't worry, Judge, I'll
take on the operation myself. No chair can withstand these shoes."
Ippolit Matveyevich brightened up.
"You know, while you were talking to Mrs. Gritsatsuyev about the flood,
I sat down on our chair and I honestly felt something hard underneath me.
They're there, I'll swear to it. They're there, I know it."
"Don't get excited, citizen Michelson."
"We must steal it during the night; honestly, we must steal it!"
"For a marshal of the nobility your methods are too crude. Anyway, do
you know the technique? Maybe you have a travelling kit with a set of
skeleton keys. Get rid of the idea. It's a scummy trick to rob a poor
widow."
Ippolit Matveyevich pulled himself together.
"It's just that we must act quickly," he said imploringly.
"Only cats are born quickly," said Ostap instructively. "I'll marry
her."
"Who?"
"Madame Gritsatsuyev."
"Why?"
"So that we can rummage inside the chair quietly and without any fuss."
"But you'll tie yourself down for life!"
"The things we do for the concession!"
"For life!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in a whisper.
He threw up his hands in amazement. His pastor-like face was bristly
and his bluish teeth showed they had not been cleaned since the day he left
the town of N.
"It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Life!" said Ostap. "Sacrifice! What do you know about life and
sacrifices? Do you think that just because you were evicted from your own
house you've tasted life? And just because they requisitioned one of your
imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice? Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a
complex affair, but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex affair which can be
managed as simply as opening a box. All you have to do is to know how to
open it. Those who don't-have had it."
Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the sleeve of his jacket, played
a flourish with his lips and went off.
Towards morning he rolled into the room, took off his shoes, put them
on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly:
"My little friends."
"Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep.
"At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice.
Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow.
"And are you going to marry her? "
Ostap's eyes sparkled.
"I'll have to make an honest woman of her now."
Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment.
"A passionate woman," said Ostap, "is a poet's dream. Provincial
straightforwardness. Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital
of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas."
"When's the wedding?"
"The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow's impossible. It's May Day, and
everything's shut."
"But what about our own business? You're getting married . . . but we
may have to go to Moscow."
"What are you worried about? The hearing is continued."
"And the wife?"
"Wife? The little diamond widow? She's our last concern. A sudden
summons to the capital. A short report to be given to the Junior Council of
Ministers. A wet-eyed farewell and a roast chicken for the journey. We'll
travel in comfort. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a holiday."
BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!
On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst
for activity, hurried out into the street and headed for the centre. At
first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there
were still few people about and the reviewing stands, guarded by mounted
militiamen, were empty. By nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring,
wheezing, and whistling in various parts of the town. Housewives came
running out of their gates.
A column of musicians'-union officials in soft collars somehow strayed
into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and
upsetting everyone.
A lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter
"S" kept running into the musicians from behind, eliciting shouts from the
bowels of the locomotive in the direction of the toilers of the oboe and
flute:
"Where's your supervisor? You're not supposed to be on Red Army Street!
Can't you see you're causing a traffic jam?"
At this point, to the misfortune of the musicians, Victor Polesov
intervened.
"That's right! You're supposed to turn into the blind alley here. They
can't even organize a parade! Scandalous!"
The children were riding in lorries belonging to the Stargorod communal
services and the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration. The
youngest ones stood at the sides of the lorry and the bigger ones in the
middle. The junior army waved paper flags and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
It was crowded, noisy, and hot. Every minute there were bottlenecks, and
every other minute they were cleared. To pass the time during the
bottlenecks the crowd tossed old men and activists in the air. The old men
wailed in squeaky voices, while the activists sailed up and down with
serious faces in silence. One merry column of people mistook Polesov for a
supervisor as he was trying to squeeze through them and began tossing him.
Polesov thrashed about like Punchinello.
Then came an effigy of Neville Chamberlain, being beaten on his top-hat
with a cardboard hammer by a worker possessing a model anatomical physique.
This was followed by a truck carrying three members of the Communist Youth
in tails and white gloves. They kept looking at the crowd with
embarrassment.
"Basil!" shouted someone from the pavement, "you bourgeois ! Give back
those braces!"
Girls were singing. Alchen was marching along in a group of
social-security workers with a large red bow on his chest. As he went he
crooned in a nasal voice:
From the forests of Siberia
To the British Sea,
There's no one superior
To the Red Army. . . .
At a given command, gymnasts disjointedly shouted out something
unintelligible. Everything walked, rode and marched to the new tram depot
from where at exactly one o'clock the first electric tram in Stargorod was
due to move off.
No one knew exactly when the construction of the tramline had been
begun. Some time back in 1920, when voluntary Saturday work was introduced,
railway workers and ropemakers had marched to Gusishe to the accompaniment
of music and spent the whole day digging holes. They dug a great number of
large, deep holes. A comrade in an engineer's cap had run about among the
diggers, followed by a foreman carrying coloured poles. Work had continued
at the same spot the next Saturday. Two holes dug in the wrong place had to
be filled in again. The comrade descended on the foreman and demanded an
explanation. Then fresh holes had been dug that were even bigger and deeper.
Next, the bricks were delivered and the real builders arrived. They set
about laying the foundations, but then everything quieted down. The comrade
in the engineer's cap still appeared now and then at the deserted building
site and wandered round and round the brick-lined pit, muttering:
"Cost accounting!"
He tapped the foundations with a stick and then hurried home, covering
his frozen ears with his hands. The engineer's name was Treukhov.
The idea of the tram depot, the construction of which ceased abruptly
at the foundation stage, was conceived by Treukhov in 1912, but the Tsarist
town council had rejected the project. Two years later Treukhov stormed the
town council again, but the war prevented any headway. Then the Revolution
interfered, and now the New Economic Plan, cost accounting, and capital
recovery were the obstacles. The foundations were overgrown with flowers in
the summer, and in the winter children turned them into a snow-slide.
Treukhov dreamed of great things. He was sick and tired of working in
the town-improvement department of the Stargorod communal services, tired of
mending the kerbs, and tired of estimating the cost of hoardings. But the
great things did not pan out. The tramline project, re-submitted for
consideration, became bogged down at the higher instances of the provincial
administration; it was approved by one and rejected by another, passed on to
the capital, regardless of approval or rejection, became covered in dust,
and no money was forthcoming.
"It's barbarous!" Treukhov shouted at his wife. "No money, indeed! But
they have enough money to pay for cab drivers and for carting merchandise to
the station! The Stargorod's cab-drivers would rob their own grandmothers!
It's a pillagers' monopoly, of course. Just try carrying your own stuff to
the station! A tramline would pay for itself in six years."
His withered moustache drooped angrily, and his snub-nosed face worked
convulsively. He took some blueprints out of the desk and showed them to his
wife for the thousandth time. They were plans for a terminus, depot and
twelve tramcar routes.
"To hell with twelve routes! They can wait. But three! Three! Stargorod
will choke without them!"
Treukhov snorted and went into the kitchen to chop wood. He did all the
household chores himself. He designed and built a cradle for the baby and
also constructed a washing-machine. For a while he washed the clothes in it
himself, explaining to his wife how to work the machine. At least a fifth of
Treukhov's salary went on subscriptions to foreign technical literature. To
make ends meet he gave up smoking.
He took his project to Gavrilin, the new chief of the Stargorod
communal services who had been transferred from Samarkand. The new chief,
deeply tanned by the Tunisian sun, listened to Treukhov for some time,
though without particular attention, and finally said:
"In Samarkand, you know, we don't need trams. Everyone rides donkeys. A
donkey costs three roubles-dirt cheap-and it can carry about three hundred
pounds. Just a little donkey; it's amazing!"
"But that's Asia," said Treukhov angrily. "A donkey costs three
roubles, but you need thirty roubles a year to feed it."
"And how many times do you think you can travel on your trams for
thirty roubles? Three hundred. And that's not even every day for a year."
"Then you'd better send for some of your donkeys," shouted Treukhov and
rushed out of the office, slamming the door. Whenever he met Treukhov from
that time on, the new chief would ask derisively: "Well, then, shall we send
for donkeys or build a tramway?"
Gavrilin's face was like a smoothly-peeled turnip. His eyes were filled
with cunning. About two months later he sent for the engineer and said to
him earnestly:
"I have a little plan. One thing is clear, though; there's no money,
and a tramline is not like a donkey-it can't be bought for three roubles.
We'll have to get some funds. What practical solution is there? A
shareholding company? What else? A loan repayable with interest! How long
will it take for a tramline to pay for itself? "
"Six years from the opening of the first three routes."
"Well, let's say ten years then. Now, the shareholding company. Who
will buy the shares? The food co-operatives and the-central union of dairy
co-operatives. Do the ropemakers need trams? Yes, they do. We will be
dispatching freight cars to the railway station. So that's the ropemakers.
The Ministry of Transport may contribute something, and also the province
executive committee. That's definite. And once we've got things going, the
State Bank and the Commercial Bank will give us loans. So that's my little
plan. It is going to be discussed at the executive committee meeting on
Friday, and if they agree, the rest is up to you."
Treukhov stayed up till the early hours, excitedly washing clothes and
explaining to his wife the advantages of trams over horse-drawn
transportation.
The decision taken on the Friday was favourable. But that was when the
trouble started. It proved very difficult to form a shareholding company.
The Ministry of Transport kept changing its mind about becoming a
shareholder. The food co-operatives tried their best to avoid taking fifteen
per cent of the shares and only wanted to take ten per cent. The shares were
finally distributed, though not without a few skirmishes. Gavrilin was sent,
for by the province control commission and reprimanded for using his
position to exert pressure. But everything came out all right, and then it
was only a question of beginning.
"Well, Comrade Treukhov," said Gavrilin, "get cracking! Do you think
you'll manage? Well and good. It's not like buying a donkey."
Treukhov immersed himself in his work. The great things which he had
dreamed of for years had finally arrived. Estimates were made, a
construction programme drawn up, and the materials ordered. But difficulties
arose where they were least expected. It was found that there were no cement
experts in Stargorod, so they had to be brought in from Leningrad. Gavrilin
tried to force the pace, but the plants could not deliver the machinery for
eighteen months, even though it was actually needed within a year, at the
latest. A threat to order the machinery from abroad, however, brought about
the required effect. Then there were minor difficulties. First it was
impossible to find shaped iron of the right size, then unseasoned sleepers
were received instead of seasoned ones. The right ones were finally
delivered, but Treukhov, who had gone personally to the seasoning plant,
rejected sixty per cent of the sleepers. There were defects in the cast-iron
parts, and the timber was damp. Gavrilin made frequent visits to the
building sites in his ancient, wheezing Fiat and had rows with Treukhov.
While the terminus and depot were being erected, the citizens of
Stargorod merely made jokes.
In the Stargorod Truth the tram story was reported by the "Prince of
Denmark", writer of humorous pieces, known to the whole town under the pen
name of "Flywheel". Not less than three times a week, in a long account,
Flywheel expressed his irritation at the slowness of the construction. The
newspaper's third column -which used to bound with such sceptical headlines
as "No sign of a club", "Around the weak points", "Inspections are needed,
but what is the point of shine and long tails?" "Good and . . . bad", "What
we like and what we don't", "Deal with the saboteurs of education", and
"It's time to put an end to red tape"-began to present readers with such
sunny and encouraging headings at the top of Flywheel's reports as "How we
are living and how we are building", "Giant will soon start work", "Modest
builder", and so on, in that vein.
Treukhov used to open the newspaper with a shudder and, feeling disgust
for the brotherhood of writers, read such cheerful lines about himself as:
. . . I'm climbing over the rafters with the wind whistling in my ears.
Above me is the invisible builder of our powerful tramway, that thin,
pug-nosed man in a shabby cap with crossed hammers.
It brings to mind Pushkin's poem: "There he stood, full of great
thoughts, on the bank. . . ."
I approach him. Not a breath of air. The rafters do not stir.
I ask him: How is the work progressing? Engineer Treukhov's ugly face
brightens up. . . .
He shakes my hand and says: "Seventy per cent of the target has been
reached." [The article ended like this]:
He shakes my hand in farewell. The rafters creak behind me. Builders
scurry to and fro. Who could forget the feverish activity of the building
site or the homely face of our builder?
FLYWHEEL
The only thing that saved Treukhov was that he had no time to read the
papers and usually managed to miss Comrade Flywheel's jottings.
On one occasion Treukhov could not restrain himself, and he wrote a
carefully worded and malicious reply.
"Of course [he wrote], you can call a bolt a transmission, but people
who do so know nothing about building. And I would like to point out to
Comrade Flywheel that the only time rafters creak is when the building is
about to fall down. To speak of rafters in this way is much the same as
claiming that a 'cello can give birth to children.
"Yours, [etc.]"
After that the indefatigable prince stopped visiting the building site,
but his reports continued to grace the third column, standing out sharply
against a background of such prosaic headlines as "15,000 Roubles Growing
Rusty", "Housing Hitches", "Materials Are Weeping", and "Curiosities and
Tears".
The construction was nearing its end. Rails were welded by the thermite
method, and they stretched, without gaps, from the station to the
slaughterhouse, and from the market to the cemetery.
In the beginning it was intended to time the opening of the tramway for
the Ninth Anniversary of the October Revolution, but the car-building plant
was unable to supply the cars by the promised date and made some excuse
about "fittings". The opening had to be postponed until May Day. By this
date everything was definitely ready.
Wandering about, the concessionaires reached Gusishe at the same time
as the processions. The whole of Stargorod was there. The new depot was
decorated with garlands of evergreen; the flags flapped, and the wind
rippled the banners. A mounted militiaman galloped after an ice-cream seller
who had somehow got into the circular space cordoned off by railway workers.
A rickety platform, as yet empty, with a public-address system, towered
between the two gates of the depot. Delegates began mounting the platform. A
combined band of communal-service workers and ropemakers was trying out its
lungs. The drum lay on the ground.
A Moscow correspondent in a shaggy cap wandered around inside the
depot, which contained ten light-green trams numbered 701 to 710. He was
looking for the chief engineer in order to ask him a few questions on the
subject of tramlines. Although the correspondent had already prepared in his
mind the report on the opening, with a summary of the speeches, he
conscientiously continued his search, his only complaint being the absence
of a bar. The crowds sang, yelled, and chewed sunflower seeds while waiting
for the railway to be opened.
The presidium of the province executive committee mounted the platform.
The Prince of Denmark stammered out a few phrases to his fellow writer.
Newsreel cameramen from Moscow were expected any moment.
"Comrades," said Gavrilin, "I declare the official meeting to celebrate
the opening of the Stargorod tramway open."
The brass trumpets sprang into action, sighed, and played the
International right through three times.
"Comrade Gavrilin will now give a report," cried Comrade Gavrilin.
The Prince of Denmark (Flywheel) and the visitor from Moscow both wrote
in their notebooks, without collusion:
"The ceremony opened with a report by Comrade Gavrilin, Chairman of the
Stargorod Communal Services. The crowd listened attentively."
The two correspondents were people of completely different types. The
Muscovite was young and single, while Flywheel was burdened with a large
family and had passed his forties some time ago. One had lived in Moscow all
his life, while the other had never been there. The Muscovite liked beer,
while Flywheel never let anything but vodka pass his lips. Despite this
difference in character, age, habits and upbringing, however, the
impressions of both the journalists were cast in the same hackneyed,
second-hand, dust-covered phrases. Their pencils began scratching and
another observation was recorded in the notebooks: "On this day of festivity
it is as though the streets of Stargorod have grown wider. . . ."
Gavrilin began his speech in a good and simple fashion. "Building a
tramway is not like buying a donkey."
A loud guffaw was suddenly heard from Ostap Bender in the crowd; he had
appreciated the remark. Heartened by the response, Gavrilin, without knowing
why himself, suddenly switched to the international situation. Several times
he attempted to bring his speech back on to the rails, but, to his horror,
found he was unable to. The international words just flowed out by
themselves, against the speaker's will. After Chamberlain, to whom Gavrilin
devoted half an hour, the international arena was taken by the American
Senator Borah; the crowd began to wilt. Both correspondents wrote: "The
speaker described the international situation in vivid language. . . ."
Gavrilin, now worked up, made some nasty comments about the Rumanian
nobility and then turned to Mussolini. It was only towards the end of his
speech that he was able to suppress his second international nature and say
in a good, businesslike way:
"And so, Comrades, I think that the tram about to leave the depot . . .
is leaving on whose account? Yours, of course, Comrades-and that of all
workers who have really worked, not from fear, Comrades, but from
conscience. It is also due, Comrades, to that honest Soviet specialist,
Chief Engineer Treukhov. We must thank him as well."
A search for Treukhov was made, but he was not to be found. The
representative of the dairy co-operatives, who had been itching to have his
say, squeezed through to the front of the platform, waved his hand, and
began speaking loudly of the international situation. At the end of the
speech, both correspondents promptly jotted down, and they listened to the
feeble applause: "Loud applause turning into an ovation." They both wondered
whether "turning into an ovation" wasn't too strong. The Muscovite made up
his mind to cross it out. Flywheel sighed and left it.
The sun rapidly rolled down an inclined plane. Slogans resounded from
the platform, and the band played a flourish. The sky became a vivid dark
blue and the meeting went on and on. Both the speakers and the listeners had
felt for some time that something was wrong, that the meeting had gone on
much too long and that the tramway should be started up as soon as possible.
But they had all become so used to talking that they could not stop.
Treukhov was finally found. He was covered with dirt and took a long
time to wash his face and hands before going on to the platform.
"Comrade Treukhov, chief engineer, will now say a few words," announced
Gavrilin jubilantly. "Well, say something-I said all the wrong things," he
added in a whisper.
Treukhov wanted to say a number of things. About voluntary Saturdays,
the difficulties of his work, and about everything that had been done and
remained to do. And there was a lot to be done: the town ought to do away
with the horrible market; there were covered glass buildings to be
constructed; a permanent bridge could be built instead of the present
temporary one, which was swept away each year by the ice drifts, and finally
there was the plan for a very large meat-refrigeration plant.
Treukhov opened his mouth and, stuttering, began. "Comrades ! The
international position of our country . . ." And then he went on to burble
such boring truisms that the crowd, now listening to its sixth international
speech, lost interest.
It was only when he had finished that Treukhov realized he had not said
a word about the tramway. "It's a shame," he said to himself, "we have
absolutely no idea how to make speeches."
He remembered hearing a speech by a French Communist at a meeting in
Moscow. The Frenchman was talking about the bourgeois press. "Those acrobats
of the pen, those virtuosos of farce, those jackals of the rotary press," he
exclaimed. The first part of his speech had been delivered in the key of A,
the second in C, and the final part, the pathetique, had been in the key of
E. His gestures were moderate and elegant.
"But we only make a mess of things," decided Treukhov. "It would be
better if we didn't talk at all."
It was completely dark when the chairman of the province executive
committee snipped the red tape sealing off the depot. Workers and
representatives of public organizations noisily began taking their seats in
the trams. There was a tinkling of bells and the first tram, driven by
Treukhov himself, sailed out of the depot to the accompaniment of deafening
shouts from the crowd and groans from the band. The illuminated cars seemed
even more dazzling than in the daytime. They made their way through Gusishe
in a line; passing under the railway bridge, they climbed easily into the
town and turned into Greater Pushkin Street. The band was in the second
tramcar; poking their trumpets out of the windows they played the Budyonny
march.
Gavrilin, in a conductor's coat and with a bag across his shoulders,
smiled tenderly as he jumped from one car to another, ringing the bell at
the wrong time and handing out invitations to:
on May 1 at 9 p.m.
GALA EVENING
at the COMMUNAL SERVICES WORKERS' CLUB
Programme
1. Report by Comrade Mosin.
2. Award of certificates by the Communal Service Workers' Union.
3. Informal half: grand concert, family supper and bar.
On the platform of the last car stood Victor Polesov, who had somehow
or other been included among the guests of honour. He sniffed the motor. To
his extreme surprise, it looked perfectly all right and seemed to be working
normally. The glass in the windows was not rattling, and, looking at the
panes closely, he saw that they were padded with rubber. He had already made
several comments to the driver and was now considered by the public to be an
expert on trams in the West.
"The pneumatic brake isn't working too well," said Polesov, looking
triumphantly at the passengers. "It's not sucking!"
"Nobody asked you," replied the driver. "It will no doubt suck all
right,"
Having made a festive round of the town, the cars returned to the
depot, where a crowd was waiting for them. Treukhov was tossed in the air
beneath the full glare of electric lights. They also tried tossing Gavrilin,
but since he weighed almost 216 pounds and did not soar very high, he was
quickly set down again. Comrade Mosin and various technicians were also
tossed. Victor Polesov was then tossed for the second time that day. This
time he did not kick with his legs, but soared up and down, gazing sternly
and seriously at the starry sky. As he soared up for the last time, Polesov
noticed that the person holding him by the foot and laughing nastily was
none other than the former marshal of the nobility, Ippolit Matveyevich
Vorobyaninov. Polesov politely freed himself and went a short distance away,
still keeping the marshal in sight. Observing that Ippolit Matveyevich and
the young stranger with him, clearly an ex-officer, were leaving, he
cautiously started to follow them.
As soon as everything was over, and Comrade Gavrilin was sitting in his
lilac Fiat waiting for Treukhov to issue final instructions so that they
could then drive together to the club, a Ford station-wagon containing
newsreel cameramen drove up to the depot gates.
A man wearing twelve-sided horn-rimmed spectacles and a sleeveless
leather coat was the first to spring nimbly out of the vehicle. A long
pointed beard grew straight out of his Adam's apple. A second man carried
the camera and kept tripping over a long scarf of the kind that Ostap Bender
usually called chic moderne. Next came assistants, lights and girls. The
whole group tore into the depot with loud shouts.
"Attention!" cried the bearded owner of the leather coat. "Nick, set
the lights up!"
Treukhov turned crimson and went over to the late arrivals.
"Are you the newsreel reporters?" he asked. "Why didn't you come during
the day? "
"When is the tramway going to be opened? "
"It has already been opened."
"Yes, yes, we are a little late. We came across some good nature shots.
There was loads of work. A sunset! But, anyway, we'll manage. Nick, lights!
Close-up of a turning wheel. Close-up of the feet of the moving crowd.
Lyuda, Milochka, start walking! Nick, action! Off you go! Keep walking, keep
walking ! That's it, thank you! Now we'll take the builder. Comrade
Treukhov? Would you mind, Comrade Treukhov? No, not like that.
Three-quarters. Like this, it's more original! Against a tram . . . Nick!
Action! Say something! "
"I. . . I. . . honestly, I feel so awkward!"
"Splendid! Good! Say something else! Now you're talking to the first
passenger. Lyuda, come into the picture! That's it. Breathe deeper, you're
excited! . . . Nick! A close-up of their legs! Action! That's it. Thanks
very much. Cut! "
Gavrilin clambered out of the throbbing Fiat and went to fetch his
missing friend. The producer with the hairy Adam's apple came to life.
"Nick! Over here! A marvellous character type. A worker! A tram
passenger. Breathe deeper, you're excited! You've never been in a tram
before. Breathe! "
Gavrilin wheezed malevolently.
"Marvellous! Milochka, come here! Greetings from the Communist Youth!
Breathe deeper, you're excited! That's it! Swell! Nick, cut!"
"Aren't you going to film the tramway?" asked Treukhov shyly.
"You see," lowed the leather producer, "the lighting conditions make it
difficult. We'll have to fill in the shots in Moscow. 'Bye-'bye!"
The newsreel reporters disappeared quicker than lightning.
"Well, let's go and relax, pal," said Gavrilin. "What's this? You
smoking!"
"I've begun smoking," confessed Treukhov. "I couldn't stop myself."
At the family gathering, the hungry Treukhov smoked one cigarette after
another, drank three glasses of vodka, and became hopelessly drunk. He
kissed everyone and they kissed him. He tried to say something nice to his
wife, but only burst into laughter. Then he shook Gavrilin's hand for a long
time and said:
"You're a strange one! You should learn to build railway bridges. It's
a wonderful science, and the chief thing is that it's so simple. A bridge
across the Hudson . . ."
Half an hour later he was completely gone and made a Philippic against
the bourgeois press.
"Those acrobats of the press, those hyenas of the pen! Those virtuosos
of the rotary printing machine!" he cried.
His wife took him home in a horse-cab.
"I want to go by tram," he said to his wife. "Can't you understand? If
there's a tramway system, we should use it. Why? First, because it's an
advantage!"
Polesov followed the concessionaires, spent some time mustering his
courage, and finally, waiting until there was no one about, went up to
Vorobyaninov.
"Good evening, Mr. Ippolit Matveyevich!" he said respectfully.
Vorobyaninov turned pale. "I don't think I know you," he mumbled.
Ostap stuck out his right shoulder and went up to the
mechanic-intellectual. "Come on now, what is it that you want to tell my
friend?"
"Don't be alarmed," whispered Polesov, "Elena Stanislavovna sent me."
"What! Is she here?"
"Yes, and she wants to see you."
"Why?" asked Ostap. "And who are you?"
"I . . . Don't you think anything of the sort, Ippolit Matveyevich. You
don't know me, but I remember you very well."
"I'd like to visit Elena Stanislavovna," said Vorobyaninov
indecisively.
"She's very anxious to see you."
"Yes, but how did she find out? "
"I saw you in the corridor of the communal services building and
thought to myself for a long time: 'I know that face.' Then I remembered.
Don't worry about anything, Ippolit Matveyevich. It will all be absolutely
secret."
"Do you know the woman?" asked Ostap in a business-like tone.
"Mm . . . yes. An old friend."
"Then we might go and have supper with your old friend. I'm famished
and all the shops are shut."
"We probably can."
"Let's go, then. Lead the way, mysterious stranger."
And Victor Mikhailovich, continually looking behind him, led the
partners through the back yards to the fortune-teller's house on
Pereleshinsky Street.
THE ALLIANCE OF THE SWORD AND PLOUGHSHARE
When a woman grows old, many unpleasant things may happen to her: her
teeth may fall out, her hair may thin out and turn grey, she may become
short-winded, she may unexpectedly develop fat or grow extremely thin, but
her voice never changes. It remains just as it was when she was a
schoolgirl, a bride, or some young rake's mistress.
That was why Vorobyaninov trembled when Polesov knocked at the door and
Elena Stanislavovna answered: "Who's that?" His mistress's voice was the
same as it had been in 1899 just before the opening of the Paris Fair. But
as soon as he entered the room, squinting from the glare of the light, he
saw that there was not a trace of her former beauty left.
"How you've changed," he said involuntarily.
The old woman threw herself on to his neck. "Thank you," she said. "I
know what you risk by coming here to see me. You're the same chivalrous
knight. I'm not going- to ask you why you're here from Paris. I'm not
curious, you see."
"But I haven't come from Paris at all," said Ippolit Matveyevich in
confusion.
"My colleague and I have come from Berlin," Ostap corrected her,
nudging Ippolit Matveyevich, "but it's not advisable to talk about it too
loudly."
"Oh, how pleased I am to see you," shrilled the fortune-teller. "Come
in here, into this room. And I'm sorry, Victor Mikhailovich, but couldn't
you come back in half an hour?"
"Oh!" Ostap remarked. "The first meeting. Difficult moments! Allow me
to withdraw as well. May I come with you, dear Victor Mikhailovich?"
The mechanic trembled with joy. They both went off to Polesov's
apartment, where Ostap, sitting on a piece of one of the gates of No. 5
Pereleshinsky Street, outlined his phantasmagoric ideas for the salvation of
the motherland to the dumbstruck artisan. An hour later they returned to
find the old couple lost in reminiscence.
"And do you remember, Elena Stanislavovna?" Ippolit Matveyevich was
saying.
"And do you remember, Ippolit Matveyevich?" Elena Stanislavovna was
saying.
"The psychological moment for supper seems to have arrived," thought
Ostap, and, interrupting Ippolit Matveyevich, who was recalling the
elections to the Tsarist town council, said: "They have a very strange
custom in Berlin. They eat so late that you can't tell whether it's an early
supper or a late lunch."
Elena Stanislavovna gave a start, took her rabbit's eyes off
Vorobyaninov, and dragged herself into the kitchen.
"And now we must act, act, and act," said Ostap, lowering his voice to
a conspiratorial whisper. He took Polesov by the arm. "The old woman is
reliable, isn't she, and won't give us away?"
Polesov joined his hands as though praying.
"What's your political credo?"
"Always!" replied Polesov delightedly.
"You support Kirillov, I hope?"
"Yes, indeed." Polesov stood at attention.
"Russia will not forget you," Ostap rapped out.
Holding a pastry in his hand, Ippolit Matveyevich listened in dismay to
Ostap, but there was no holding the smooth operator. He was carried away. He
felt inspired and ecstatically pleased at this above-average blackmail. He
paced up and down like a leopard.
This was the state in which Elena Stanislavovna found him as she carted
in the samovar from the kitchen. Ostap gallantly ran over to her, took the
samovar without stopping, and placed it on the table. The samovar gave a
peep and Ostap decided to act.
"Madame," he said, "we are happy to see in you . . ."
He did not know whom he was happy to see in Elena Stanislavovna. He had
to start again. Of all the flowery expressions of the Tsarist regime, only
one kept coming to mind-"has graciously commanded". This was out of place,
so he began in a businesslike way.
"Strict secrecy. A state secret." He pointed to Vorobyaninov. "Who do
you think this powerful old man is? Don't say you don't know. He's the
master-mind, the father of Russian democracy and a person close to the
emperor."
Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height and goggled
in confusion. He had no idea of what was happening, but knowing from
experience that Ostap Bender never did anything without good reason, kept
silent. Polesov was thrilled. He stood with his chin tucked in, like someone
about to begin a parade.
Elena Stanislavovna sat down in a chair and looked at Ostap in fright.
"Are there many of us in the town?" he asked outright. "What's the
general feeling?"
"Given the absence . . ." said Polesov, and began a muddled account of
his troubles. These included that conceited bum, the yard-keeper from no. 5,
the three-eighths-inch dies, the tramway, and so on.
"Good!" snapped Ostap. "Elena Stanislavovna! With your assistance we
want to contact the best people in the town who have been forced underground
by a cruel fate. Who can we ask to come here?"
"Who can we ask! Maxim Petrovich and his wife."
"No women," Ostap corrected her. "You will be the only pleasant
exception. Who else?"
From the discussion, in which Polesov also took an active part, it came
to light that they could ask Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov, a former Tsarist
town councillor, who had now in some miraculous way been raised to the rank
of a Soviet official; Dyadyev, owner of Fastpack; Kislarsky, chairman of the
Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun Artel; and two young men who were
nameless but fully reliable.
"In that case, please ask them to come here at once for a small
conference. In the greatest secrecy."
Polesov began speaking. "I'll fetch Maxim Petrovich, Nikesha, and
Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna, be so good as to run down to Fastpack
for Kislarsky."
Polesov sped off. The fortune-teller looked reverently at Ippolit
Matveyevich and also went off.
"What does this mean?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"It means," retorted Ostap, "that you're behind the times."
"Why?"
"Because! Excuse a vulgar question, but how much money do you have?"
"What money?"
"All kinds-including silver and copper."
"Thirty-five roubles."
"And I suppose you intended to recover the entire outlay on the
enterprise with that much money? "
Ippolit Matveyevich was silent.
"Here's the point, dear boss. I reckon you understand me. You will have
to be the master-mind and person close to the emperor for an hour or so."
"Why?"
"Because we need capital. Tomorrow's my wedding. I'm not a beggar. I
want to have a good time on that memorable day."
"What do T have to do?" groaned Ippolit Matveyevich.
"You have to keep quiet. Puff out your cheeks now and then to look
important."
"But that's. . .fraud!"
"Who are you to talk-Count Tolstoy or Darwin? That comes well from a
man who was only yesterday preparing to break into Gritsatsuyev's apartment
at night and steal her furniture. Don't think too much. Just keep quiet and
don't forget to puff out your cheeks."
"Why involve ourselves in such a dangerous business. We might be
betrayed."
"Don't worry about that. I don't bet on poor odds. We'll work it so
that none of them understands anything. Let's have some tea."
While the concessionaires were eating and drinking, and the parrot was
cracking sunflower seeds, the guests began arriving at the apartment.
Nikesha and Vladya came with Victor Mikhailovich. He was hesitant to
introduce the young men to the master-mind. They sat down in a corner and
watched the father of Russian democracy eating cold veal. Nikesha and Vladya
were complete and utter gawks. Both were in their late twenties and were
apparently very pleased at being invited to the meeting.
Charusknikov, the former Tsarist town councillor, was a fat, elderly
man. He gave Ippolit Matveyevich a prolonged handshake and peered into his
face.
Under the supervision of Ostap, the old-timers began exchanging
reminiscences.
As soon as the conversation was moving smoothly, Ostap turned to
Charushnikov. "Which regiment were you in?"
Charushnikov took a deep breath. "I . . . I . . . wasn't, so to speak,
in any, since I was entrusted with the confidence of society and was elected
to office."
"Are you a member of the upper class?"
"Yes, I was."
"I hope you still are. Stand firm! We shall need your help. Has Polesov
told you? We will be helped from abroad. It's only a question of public
opinion. The organization is strictly secret. Be careful!"
Ostap chased Polesov away from Nikesha and Vladya and asked them with
genuine severity: "Which regiment were you in? You will have to serve your
fatherland. Are you members of the upper class? Very good. The West will
help us. Stand firm! Contributions-I mean the organization-will be strictly
secret. Be careful!"
Ostap was on form. Things seemed to be going well. Ostap led the owner
of Fastpack into a corner as soon as Elena Stanislavovna had introduced him,
advised him to stand firm, inquired which regiment he had served in, and
promised him assistance from abroad and complete secrecy of the
organization. The first reaction of the owner of Fastpack was a desire to
run away from the conspiratorial apartment as soon as possible. He felt that
his firm was too solvent to engage in such a risky business. But taking a
look at Ostap's athletic figure, he hesitated and began thinking: "Supposing
. . . Anyway, it all depends on what kind of sauce this thing will be served
with."
The tea-party conversation livened up. Those initiated religiously kept
the secret and chatted about the town.
Last to arrive was citizen Kislarsky, who, being neither a member of
the upper class nor a former guardsman, quickly sized up the situation after
a brief talk with Ostap.
"Stand firm!" said Ostap instructively.
Kislarsky promised he would.
"As a representative of private enterprise, you cannot ignore the cries
of the people."
Kislarsky saddened sympathetically.
"Do you know who that is sitting there?" asked Ostap, pointing to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Of course," said Kislarsky. "It's Mr. Vorobyaninov."
"That," said Ostap, "is the master-mind, the father of Russian
democracy and a person close to the emperor."
Two years' solitary confinement at best, thought Kislarsky, beginning
to tremble. Why did I have to come here?
"The secret Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare," whispered Ostap
ominously.
Ten years, flashed through Kislarsky's mind.
"You can leave, by the way, but I warn you, we have a long reach." I'll
show you, you son of a bitch, thought Ostap. You'll not get away from here
for less than a hundred roubles.
Kislarsky became like marble. That day he had had such a good, quiet
dinner of chicken gizzards and soup with nuts, and knew nothing of the
terrible "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare". He stayed. The words "long
reach" made an unfavourable impression on him.
"Citizens," said Ostap, opening the meeting, "life dictates its own
laws, its own cruel laws. I am not going to talk about the aim of our
gathering-you all know it. Our aim is sacred. From everywhere we hear cries.
From every corner of our huge country people are calling for help. We must
extend a helping hand and we will do so. Some of you have work and eat bread
and butter; others earn on the side and eat caviar sandwiches. All of you
sleep in your own beds and wrap yourselves in warm blankets. It is only the
young children, the waifs and strays, who are not looked after. These
flowers of the street, or, as the white-collar proletarians call them,
'flowers in asphalt', deserve a better lot. We must help them, gentlemen of
the jury, and, gentlemen of the jury, we will do so."
The smooth operator's speech caused different reactions among the
audience.
Polesov could not understand his young friend, the guards officer.
"What children?" he wondered. "Why children?"
Ippolit Matveyevich did not even try to understand. He was utterly sick
and tired with the whole business and sat there in silence, puffing out his
cheeks.
Elena Stanislavovna became melancholy. Nikesha and Vladya gazed in
devotion at Ostap's sky-blue waistcoat.
The owner of Fastpack was extremely pleased. Nicely put, he decided.
With that sauce I might even contribute some money. If it's successful, I
get the credit. If it's not, I don't know anything about it. I just helped
the children, and that's all.
Charushnikov exchanged a significant look with Dyadyev and, giving the
speaker his due for conspiratorial ability, continued rolling pellets of
bread across the table.
Kislarsky was in seventh heaven. What a brain, he thought. He felt he
had never loved waifs and strays as much as that evening.
"Comrades," Ostap continued, "immediate help is required. We must tear
these children from the clutches of the street, and we will do so. We will
help these children. Let us remember that they are the flowers of life. I
now invite you to make your contributions and help the children-the children
alone and no one else. Do you understand me? "
Ostap took a receipt book from his side pocket.
"Please make your contributions. Ippolit Matveyevich will vouch for my
authority."
Ippolit Matveyevich puffed out his cheeks and bowed his head. At this,
even the dopey Nikesha and Vladya, and the fidgety mechanic, too, realized
the point of Ostap's allusions.
"In order of seniority, gentlemen," said Ostap. "We'll begin with dear
Maxim Petrovich."
Maxim Petrovich fidgeted and forced himself to give thirty roubles. "In
better times I'd give more," he declared.
"Better times will soon be coming," said Ostap. "Anyway, that has
nothing to do with the children who I am at present representing."
Nikesha and Vladya gave eight roubles. "That's not much, young men."
The young men reddened. Polesov ran home and brought back fifty. "Well
done, hussar," said Ostap. "For a car-owning hussar working by himself
that's enough for the first time. What say the merchants?"
Dyadyev and Kislarsky haggled for some time and complained about taxes.
Ostap was unmoved. "I consider such talk out of place in the presence
of Ippolit Matveyevich."
Ippolit Matveyevich bowed his head. The merchants contributed two
hundred roubles each for the benefit of the children.
"Four hundred and eighty-five roubles in all," announced Ostap. "Hm . .
. twelve roubles short of a round figure."
Elena Stanislavovna, who had been trying to stand firm for some time,
went into the bedroom and brought back the necessary twelve roubles in a
bag.
The remaining part of the meeting was more subdued and less festive in
nature. Ostap began to get frisky. Elena Stanislavovna drooped completely.
The guests gradually dispersed, respectfully taking leave of the organizers.
"You will be given special notice of the date of our next meeting,"
said Ostap as they left. "It's strictly secret. The cause must be kept
secret. It's also in your own interests, by the way."
At these words, Kislarsky felt the urge to give another fifty roubles
and not to come to any more meetings. He only just restrained himself.
"Right," said Ostap, "let's get moving. Ippolit Matveyevich, you, I
hope, will take advantage of Elena Stanislavovna's hospitality and spend the
night here. It will be a good thing for the conspiracy if we separate for a
time, anyway, as a blind. I'm off."
Ippolit Matveyevich was winking broadly, but Ostap pretended he had not
noticed and went out into the street. Having gone a block, he remembered the
five hundred honestly earned roubles in his pocket.
"Cabby! " he cried. "Take me to the Phoenix."
The cabby leisurely drove Ostap to a closed restaurant.
"What's this! Shut?"
"On account of May Day."
"Damn them! All the money in the world and nowhere to have a good time.
All right, then, take me to Plekhanov Street. Do you know it?"
"What was the street called before? " asked the cabby.
"I don't know."
"How can I get there? I don't know it, either."
Ostap nevertheless ordered him to drive on and find it.
For an hour and a half they cruised around the dark and empty town,
asking watchmen and militiamen the way. One militiaman racked his brains and
at length informed them that Plekhanov Street was none other than the former
Governor Street.
"Governor Street! I've been taking people to Governor Street for
twenty-five years."
"Then drive there!"
They arrived at Governor Street, but it turned out to be Karl Marx and
not Plekhanov Street.
The frustrated Ostap renewed his search for the lost street, but was
not able to find it. Dawn cast a pale light on the face of the moneyed
martyr who had been prevented from disporting himself.
"Take me to the Sorbonne Hotel!" he shouted. "A fine driver you are!
You don't even know Plekhanov! "
Widow Gritsatsuyev's palace glittered. At the head of the banquet table
sat the King of Clubs-the son of a Turkish citizen. He was elegant and
drunk. All the guests were talking loudly.
The young bride was no longer young. She was at least thirty-five.
Nature had endowed her generously. She had everything: breasts like
watermelons, a bulging nose, brightly coloured cheeks and a powerful neck.
She adored her new husband and was afraid of him. She did not therefore call
him by his first name, or by his patronymic, which she had not managed to
find out, anyway, but by his surname-Comrade Bender.
Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting on his cherished chair. All through the
wedding feast he bounced up and down, trying to feel something hard. From
time to time he did. Whenever this happened, the people present pleased him,
and he began shouting "Kiss the bride" furiously.
Ostap kept making speeches and proposing toasts. They drank to public
education and the irrigation of Uzbekistan. Later on the guests began to
depart. Ippolit Matveyevich lingered in the hall and whispered to Bender:
"Don't waste time, they're there."
"You're a moneygrubber," replied the drunken Ostap. "Wait for me at the
hotel. Don't go anywhere. I may come at any moment. Settle the hotel bill
and have everything ready. Adieu, Field Marshal! Wish me good night!"
Ippolit Matveyevich did so and went back to the Sorbonne to worry.
Ostap turned up at five in the morning carrying the chair. Vorobyaninov
was speechless. Ostap put down the chair in the middle of the room and sat
on it.
"How did you manage it? " Vorobyaninov finally got out.
"Very simple. Family style. The widow was asleep and dreaming. It was a
pity to wake her. 'Don't wake her at dawn!' Too bad! I had to leave a note.
'Going to Novokhopersk to make a report. Won't be back to dinner. Your own
Bunny.' And I took the chair from the dining-room. There aren't any trams
running at this time of the morning, so I rested on the chair on the way."
Ippolit Matveyevich flung himself towards the chair with a burbling
sound.
"Go easy," said Ostap, "we must avoid making a noise." He took a pair
of pliers out of his pocket, and work soon began to hum. "Did you lock the
door?" he asked.
Pushing aside the impatient Vorobyaninov, he neatly laid open the
chair, trying not to damage the flowered chintz.
"This kind of cloth isn't to be had any more; it should be preserved.
There's a dearth of consumer goods and nothing can be done about it."
Ippolit Matveyevich was driven to a state of extreme irritation.
"There," said Ostap quietly. He raised the covering and groped among
the springs with both his hands. The veins stood out like a "V" on his
forehead.
"Well?" Ippolit Matveyevich kept repeating in various keys. "Well?
Well?"
"Well and well," said Ostap irritably. "One chance in eleven . . ." He
thoroughly examined the inside of the chair and concluded: "And this chance
isn't ours."
He stood up straight and dusted his knees. Ippolit Matveyevich flung
himself on the chair. The jewels were not there. Vorobyaninov's hands
dropped, but Ostap was in good spirits as before.
"Our chances have now increased."
He began walking up and down the room.
"It doesn't matter. The chair cost the widow twice as much as it did
us."
He took out of his side pocket a gold brooch set with coloured stones,
a hollow bracelet of imitation gold, half-a-dozen gold teaspoons, and a
tea-strainer.
In his grief Ippolit Matveyevich did not even realize that he had
become an accomplice in common or garden theft.
"A shabby trick," said Ostap, "but you must agree I couldn't leave my
beloved without something to remember her by. However, we haven't any time
to lose. This is only the beginning. The end will be in Moscow. And a
furniture museum is not like a widow-it'll be a bit more difficult."
The partners stuffed the pieces of the chair under the bed and, having
counted their money (together with the contributions for the children's
benefit, they had five hundred and thirty-five roubles), drove to the
station to catch the Moscow train.
They had to drive right across the town.
On Co-operative Street they caught sight of Polesov running along the
pavement like a startled antelope. He was being pursued by the yard-keeper
from No. 5 Pereleshinsky Street. Turning the corner, the concessionaires
just had time to see the yard-keeper catch him up and begin bashing him.
Polesov was shouting "Help!" and "Bum!"
Until the train departed they sat in the gentlemen's to avoid meeting
the beloved.
The train whisked the friends towards the noisy capital. They pressed
against the window. The cars were speeding over Gusishe.
Suddenly Ostap let out a roar and seized Vorobyaninov by the biceps.
"Look, look!" he cried. "Quick! It's Alchen, that son of a bitch!"
Ippolit Matveyevich looked downward. At the bottom of the embankment a
tough-looking young man with a moustache was pulling a wheelbarrow loaded
with a light-brown harmonium and five window frames. A shamefaced citizen in
a mouse-grey shirt was pushing the barrow from behind.
The sun forced its way through the dark clouds, and on the churches the
crosses glittered.
"Pashka! Going to market?"
Pasha Emilevich raised his head but only saw the buffers of the last
coach; he began working even harder with his legs.
"Did you see that?" asked Ostap delightedly. "Terrific! That's the way
to work! "
Ostap slapped the mournful Vorobyaninov on the back.
"Don't worry, dad! Never say die! The hearing is continued. Tomorrow
evening we'll be in Moscow."
Statistics know everything.
It has been calculated with precision how much ploughland there is in
the USSR, with subdivision into black earth, loam and loess. All citizens of
both sexes have been recorded in those neat, thick registers-so familiar to
Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov-the registry office ledgers. It is known
how much of a certain food is consumed yearly by the average citizen in the
Republic. It is known how much vodka is imbibed as an average by this
average citizen, with a rough indication of the titbits consumed with it. It
is known how many hunters, ballerinas, revolving lathes, dogs of all breeds,
bicycles, monuments, girls, lighthouses and sewing machines there are in the
country.
How much life, full of fervour, emotion and thought, there is in those
statistical tables!
Who is this rosy-cheeked individual sitting at a table with a napkin
tucked into his collar and putting away the steaming victuals with such
relish? He is surrounded with herds of miniature bulls. Fattened pigs have
congregated in one corner of the statistical table. Countless numbers of
sturgeon, burbot and chekhon fish splash about in a special statistical
pool. There are hens sitting on the individual's head, hands and shoulders.
Tame geese, ducks and turkeys fly through cirrus clouds. Two rabbits are
hiding under the table. Pyramids and Towers of Babel made of bread rise
above the horizon. A small fortress of jam is washed by a river of milk. A
pickle the size of the leaning tower of Pisa appears on the horizon.
Platoons of wines, spirits and liqueurs march behind ramparts of salt and
pepper. Tottering along in the rear in a miserable bunch come the soft
drinks: the non-combatant soda waters, lemonades and wire-encased syphons.
Who is this rosy-cheeked individual-a gourmand and a tosspot-with a
sweet tooth? Gargantua, King of the Dipsodes? Silaf Voss? The legendary
soldier, Jacob Redshirt? Lucullus?
It is not Lucullus. It is Ivan Ivanovich Sidorov or Sidor Sidorovich
Ivanov-an average citizen who consumes all the victuals described in the
statistical table as an average throughout his life. He is a normal consumer
of calories and vitamins, a quiet forty-year-old bachelor, who works in a
haberdashery and knitwear shop.
You can never hide from statistics. They have exact information not
only on the number of dentists, sausage shops, syringes, caretakers, film
directors, prostitutes, thatched roofs, widows, cab-drivers and bells; they
even know how many statisticians there are in the country.
But there is one thing that they do not know.
They do not know how many chairs there are in the USSR.
There are many chairs.
The census calculated the population of the Union Republics at a
hundred and forty-three million people. If we leave aside ninety million
peasants who prefer benches, boards and earthen seats, and in the east of
the country, shabby carpets and rugs, we still have fifty million people for
whom chairs are objects of prime necessity in their everyday lives. If we
take into account possible errors in calculation and the habit of certain
citizens in the Soviet Union of sitting on the fence, and then halve the
figure just in case, we find that there cannot be less than twenty-six and a
half million chairs in the country. To make the figure truer we will take
off another six and a half million. The twenty million left is the minimum
possible number.
Amid this sea of chairs made of walnut, oak, ash, rosewood, mahogany
and Karelian birch, amid chairs made of fir and pine-wood, the heroes of
this novel are to find one Hambs walnut chair with curved legs, containing
Madame Petukhov's treasure inside its chintz-upholstered belly.
The concessionaires lay on the upper berths still asleep as the train
cautiously crossed the Oka river and, increasing its speed, began nearing
Moscow.
THE BROTHER BERTHOLD SCHWARTZ HOSTEL
Leaning against one another, Ippolit Matveyevich and Ostap stood at the
open window of the unupholstered railway carriage and gazed at the cows
slowly descending the embankment, the pine needles and the plank platforms
of the country stations.
The traveller's stories had all been told. Tuesday's copy of the,
Stargorod Truth had been read right through, including the advertisements,
and was now covered in grease spots. The chickens, eggs and olives had all
been consumed.
All that remained was the most wearisome lap of the journey -the last
hour before Moscow.
Merry little country houses came bounding up to the embankment from
areas of sparse woodland and clumps of trees. Some of them were wooden
palaces with verandahs of shining glass and newly painted iron roofs. Some
were simple log cabins with tiny square windows, real box-traps for
holiday-makers.
While the passengers scanned the horizon with the air of experts and
told each other about the history of Moscow, muddling up what they vaguely
remembered about the battle of Kalka, Ippolit Matveyevich was trying to
picture the furniture museum. He imagined a tremendously long corridor lined
with chairs. He saw himself walking rapidly along between them.
"We still don't know what the museum will be like . . . how things will
turn out," he was saying nervously.
"It's time you had some shock treatment, Marshal. Stop having premature
hysterics! If you can't help suffering, at least suffer in silence."
The train bounced over the switches and the signals opened their mouths
as they watched it. The railway tracks multiplied constantly and proclaimed
the approach of a huge junction. Grass disappeared from the sides and was
replaced by cinder; goods trains whistled and signalmen hooted. The din
suddenly increased as the train dived in between two lines of empty goods
trucks and, clicking like a turnstile, began counting them off.
The tracks kept dividing.
The train leapt out of the corridor of trucks and the sun came out.
Down below, by the very ground, point signals like hatchets moved rapidly
backward and forward. There came a shriek from a turntable where depot
workers were herding a locomotive into its stall.
The train's joints creaked as the brakes were suddenly applied.
Everything squealed and set Ippolit Matveyevich's teeth on edge. The train
came to a halt by an asphalt platform.
It was Moscow. It was Ryazan Station, the freshest and newest of all
the Moscow termini.
None of the eight other Moscow stations had such vast, high-ceilinged
halls as the Ryazan. The entire Yaroslavl station with all its
pseudo-Russian heraldic ornamentation could easily have fitted into the
large buffet-restaurant of the Ryazan.
The concessionaires pushed their way through to the exit and found
themselves on Kalanchev Square. On their right towered the heraldic birds of
Yaroslavl Station. Directly in front of them was October Station, painted in
two colours dully reflecting the light. The clock showed five past ten. The
clock on top of the Yaroslavl said exactly ten o'clock. Looking up at the
Ryazan Station clock, with its zodiac dial, the travellers noted that it was
five to ten.
"Very convenient for dates," said Ostap. "You always have ten minutes'
grace."
The coachman made a kissing sound with his lips and they passed under
the bridge. A majestic panorama of the capital unfolded before them.
"Where are we going, by the way?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked.
"To visit nice people," Ostap replied. "There are masses of them in
Moscow and they're all my friends."
"And we're staying with them?"
"It's a hostel. If we can't stay with one, we can always go to
another."
On Hunter's Row there was confusion. Unlicensed hawkers were running
about in disorder like geese, with their trays on their heads. A militiaman
trotted along lazily after them. Some waifs were sitting beside an asphalt
vat, breathing in the pleasant smell of boiling tar.
They came out on Arbat Square, passed along Prechistenka Boulevard,
and, turning right, stopped in a small street called Sivtsev Vrazhek.
"What building is that?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked.
Ostap looked at the pink house with a projecting attic and answered:
"The Brother Berthold Schwartz Hostel for chemistry students."
"Was he really a monk? "
"No, no I'm only joking. It's the Semashko hostel."
As befits the normal run of student hostels in Moscow, this building
had long been lived in by people whose connections with chemistry were
somewhat remote. The students had gone their ways; some of them had
completed their studies and gone off to take up jobs, and some had been
expelled for failing their exams. It was the latter group which, growing in
number from year to year, had formed something between a housing
co-operative and a feudal settlement in the little pink house. In vain had
ranks of freshmen sought to invade the hostel; the ex-chemists were highly
resourceful and repulsed all assaults. Finally the house was given up as a
bad job and disappeared from the housing programmes of the Moscow real
estate administration. It was as though it had never existed. It did exist,
however, and there were people living in it.
The concessionaires went upstairs to the second floor and turned into a
corridor cloaked in complete darkness.
"Light and airy!" said Ostap.
Suddenly someone wheezed in the darkness, just by Ippolit Matveyevich's
elbow.
"Don't be alarmed," Ostap observed. "That wasn't in the corridor, but
behind the wall. Plyboard, as you know from physics, is an excellent
conductor of sound. Careful! Hold on to me! There should be a cabinet here
somewhere."
The cry uttered at that moment by Ippolit Matveyevich as he hit his
chest against a sharp steel corner showed that there was indeed a cabinet
there somewhere.
"Did you hurt yourself?" Ostap inquired. "That's nothing. That's
physical pain. I'd hate to think how much mental suffering has gone on here.
There used to be a skeleton in here belonging to a student called Ivanopulo.
He bought it at the market, but was afraid to keep it in his room. So
visitors first bumped into the cabinet and then the skeleton fell on top of
them. Pregnant women were always very annoyed."
The partners wound their way up a spiral staircase to the large attic,
which was divided by plyboard partitions into long slices five feet wide.
The rooms were like pencil boxes, the only difference being that besides
pens and pencils they contained people and primus stoves as well.
"Are you there, Nicky?" Ostap asked quietly, stopping at a central
door.
The response was an immediate stirring and chattering in all five
pencil boxes.
"Yes," came the answer from behind the door.
"That fool's guests have arrived too early again!" whispered a woman's
voice in the last box on the left.
"Let a fellow sleep, can't you!" growled box no. 2.
There was a delighted hissing from the third box.
"It's the militia to see Nicky about that window he smashed yesterday."
No one spoke in the fifth pencil box; instead came the hum of a primus
and the sound of kissing.
Ostap pushed open the door with his foot. The whole of the plyboard
erection gave a shake and the concessionaires entered Nicky's cell.
The scene that met Ostap's eye was horrible, despite all its outward
innocence. The only furniture in the room was a red-striped mattress resting
on four bricks. But it was not that which disturbed Ostap, who had long been
aware of the state of Nicky's furniture; nor was he surprised to see Nicky
himself, sitting on the legged mattress. It was the heavenly creature
sitting beside him who made Ostap's face cloud over immediately. Such girls
never make good business associates. Their eyes are too blue and the lines
of their necks too clean for that sort of thing. They make mistresses or,
what is worse, wives-beloved wives. And, indeed, Nicky addressed this
creature as Liza and made funny faces at her.
Ippolit Matveyevich took off his beaver cap, and Ostap led Nicky out
into the corridor, where they conversed in whispers for some time.
"A splendid morning, madam," said Ippolit Matveyevich.
The blue-eyed madam laughed and, without any apparent bearing on
Ippolit Matveyevich's remark, began telling him what fools the people in the
next box were.
"They light the primus on purpose so that they won't be heard kissing.
But think how silly that is. We can all hear. The point is they don't hear
anything themselves because of the primus. Look, I'll show you."
And Nicky's wife, who had mastered all the secrets of the primus stove,
said loudly: "The Zveryevs are fools!"
From behind the wall came the infernal hissing of the primus stove and
the sound of kisses.
"You see! They can't hear anything. The Zveryevs are fools, asses and
cranks! You see!"
"Yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich.
"We don't have a primus, though. Why? Because we eat at the vegetarian
canteen, although I'm against a vegetarian diet. But when Nicky and I were
married, he was longing for us to eat together in the vegetarian canteen, so
that's why we go there. I'm actually very fond of meat, but all you get
there is rissoles made of noodles. Only please don't say anything to Nicky."
At this point Nicky and Ostap returned.
"Well, then, since we definitely can't stay with you, we'll go and see
Pantelei."
"That's right, fellows," cried Nicky, "go and see Ivanopulo. He's a
good sport."
"Come and visit us," said Nicky's wife. "My husband and I will always
be glad to see you."
"There they go inviting people again!" said an indignant voice in the
last pencil box. "As though they didn't have enough visitors!"
"Mind your own business, you fools, asses and cranks!" said Nicky's
wife without raising her voice.
"Do you hear that, Ivan Andreyevich?" said an agitated voice in the
last box. "They insult your wife and you say nothing."
Invisible commentators from the other boxes added their voices to the
fray and the verbal cross-fire increased. The partners went downstairs to
Ivanopulo.
The student was not at home. Ippolit Matveyevich lit a match and saw
that a note was pinned to the door. It read: "Will not be back before nine.
Pantelei".
"That's no harm," said Ostap. "I know where the key is." He groped
underneath the cabinet, produced a key, and unlocked the door.
Ivanopulo's room was exactly of the same size as Nicky's, but, being a
corner room, had one wall made of brick; the student was very proud of it.
Ippolit Matveyevich noted with dismay that he did not even have a mattress.
"This will do nicely," said Ostap. "Quite a decent size for Moscow. If
we all three lie on the floor, there will even be some room to spare. I
wonder what that son of a bitch, Pantelei, did with the mattress."
The window looked out on to a narrow street. A militiaman was walking
up and down outside the little house opposite, built in the style of a
Gothic tower, which housed the embassy of a minor power. Behind the iron
gates some people could be seen playing tennis. The white ball flew backward
and forward accompanied by short exclamations.
"Out!" said Ostap. "And the standard of play is not good. However,
let's have a rest."
The concessionaires spread newspapers on the floor and Ippolit
Matveyevich brought out the cushion which he carried with him.
Ostap dropped down on to the papers and dozed off. Vorobyaninov was
already asleep.
HAVE RESPECT FOR MATTRESSES, CITIZENS!
"Liza, let's go and have dinner!"
"I don't feel like it. I had dinner yesterday."
"I don't get you."
"I'm not going to eat mock rabbit."
"Oh, don't be silly!"
"I can't exist on vegetarian sausages."
"Today you can have apple pie."
"I just don't feel like it."
"Not so loud. Everything can be heard."
The young couple changed voices to a stage whisper.
Two minutes later Nicky realized for the first time in three months of
married life that his beloved liked sausages of carrots, potatoes, and peas
less than he did.
"So you prefer dog meat to a vegetarian diet," cried Nicky,
disregarding the eavesdropping neighbours in his burst of anger.
"Not so loud, I say!" shouted Liza. "And then you're nasty to me! Yes,
I do like meat. At times. What's so bad about that?"
Nicky said nothing in his amazement. This was an unexpected turn of
events. Meat would make an enormous, unfillable hole in his budget. The
young husband strolled up and down beside the mattress on which the
red-faced Liza was sitting curled up into a ball, and made some desperate
calculations.
His job of tracing blueprints at the Technopower design office brought
Nicky Kalachov no more than forty roubles, even in the best months. He did
not pay any rent for the apartment for there was no housing authority in
that jungle settlement and rent was an abstract concept. Ten roubles went on
Liza's dressmaking lessons. Dinner for the two of them (one first course of
monastery beet soup and a second course of phoney rabbit or genuine noodles)
consumed in two honestly halved portions in the Thou-Shalt-Not-Steal
vegetarian canteen took thirteen roubles each month from the married
couple's budget. The rest of their money dwindled away heavens knows where.
This disturbed Nicky most of all. "Where does the money go?" he used to
wonder, drawing a thin line with a special pen on sky-blue tracing paper. A
change to meat-eating under these circumstances would mean ruin. That was
why Nicky had spoken so heatedly.
"Just think of eating the bodies of dead animals. Cannibalism in the
guise of culture. All diseases stern from meat."
"Of course they do," said Liza with modest irony, "angina, for
instance."
"Yes, they do-including angina. Don't you believe me? The organism is
weakened by the continual consumption of meat and is unable to resist
infection."
"How stupid!"
"It's not stupid. It's the stupid person who tries to stuff his stomach
full without bothering about the quantity of vitamins."
Nicky suddenly became quiet. An enormous pork chop had loomed up before
his inner eye, driving the insipid, uninteresting baked noodles, porridge
and potato nonsense further and further into the background. It seemed to
have just come out of the pan. It was sizzling, bubbling, and giving off
spicy fumes. The bone stuck out like the barrel of a duelling pistol.
"Try to understand," said Nicky, "a pork chop reduces a man's life by a
week."
"Let it," said Liza. "Mock rabbit reduces it by six months. Yesterday
when we were eating that carrot entree I felt I was going to die. Only I
didn't want to tell you."
"Why didn't you want to tell me?"
"I hadn't the strength. I was afraid of crying."
"And aren't you afraid now?"
"Now I don't care." Liza began sobbing.
"Leo Tolstoy," said Nicky in a quavering voice, "didn't eat meat
either."
"No," retorted Liza, hiccupping through her tears, "the count ate
asparagus."
"Asparagus isn't meat."
"But when he was writing War and Peace he did eat meat. He did! He did!
And when he was writing Anna Karenina he stuffed himself and stuffed
himself."
"Do shut up!"
"Stuffed himself! Stuffed himself!"
"And I suppose while he was writing The Kreutzer Sonata he also stuffed
himself?" asked Nicky venomously.
"The Kreutzer Sonata is short. Just imagine him trying to write War and
Peace on vegetarian sausages! "
"Anyway, why do you keep nagging me about your Tolstoy?"
"Me nag you about Tolstoy! I like that. Me nag you!"
There was loud merriment in the pencil boxes. Liza hurriedly pulled a
blue knitted hat on to her head.
"Where are you going?"
"Leave me alone. I have something to do."
And she fled.
"Where can she have gone?" Nicky wondered. He listened hard.
"Women like you have a lot of freedom under the Soviet regime," said a
voice in the last pencil box on the left. "She's gone to drown herself,"
decided the third pencil box. The fifth pencil box lit the primus and got
down to the routine kissing. Liza ran from street to street in agitation.
It was that Sunday hour when lucky people carry mattresses along the
Arbat and from the market.
Newly-married couples and Soviet farmers are the principal purchasers
of spring mattresses. They carry them upright, clasping them with both arms.
Indeed, how can they help clasping those blue, shiny-flowered foundations of
their happiness!
Citizens! have respect for a blue-flowered spring mattress. It's a
family hearth. The be-all and the end-all of furnishings and the essence of
domestic comfort; a base for love-making; the father of the primus. How
sweet it is to sleep to the democratic hum of its springs. What marvellous
dreams a man may have when he falls asleep on its blue hessian. How great is
the respect enjoyed by a mattress owner.
A man without a mattress is pitiful. He does not exist. He does not pay
taxes; he has no wife; friends will not lend him money "until Wednesday";
cab-drivers shout rude words after him and girls laugh at him. They do not
like idealists.
People without mattresses largely write such verse as:
It's nice to rest in a rocking-chair
To the quiet tick of a Bouret clock.
When snow flakes swirling fill the air
And the daws pass, like dreams, In a flock.
They compose the verse at high desks in the post office, delaying the
efficient mattress owners who come to send telegrams.
A mattress changes a man's life. There is a certain attractive,
unfathomed force hidden in its covering and springs. People and things come
together to the alluring ring of its springs. It summons the income-tax
collector and girls. They both want to be friends with the1 mattress owner.
The tax collector does so for fiscal reasons and for the benefit of the
state, and the girls do so unselfishly, obeying the laws of nature.
Youth begins to bloom. Having collected his tax like a bumblebee
gathering spring honey, the tax collector flies away with a joyful hum to
his district hive. And the fast-retking girls are replaced by a wife and a
Jewel No. 1 primus.
A mattress is insatiable. It demands sacrifices. At night it makes the
sound of a bouncing ball. It needs a bookcase. It needs a table with thick
stupid legs. Creaking its springs, it demands drapes, a door curtain, and
pots and pans for the kitchen. It shoves people and says to them:
"Goon! Buy a washboard and rolling-pin!"
"I'm ashamed of you, man. You haven't yet got a carpet."
"Work! I'll soon give you children. You need money for nappies and a
pram."
A mattress remembers and does everything in its own way.
Not even a poet can escape the common lot. Here he comes, carrying one
from the market, hugging it to his soft belly with horror.
"I'll break down your resistance, poet," says the mattress. "You no
longer need to run to the post office to write poetry. And, anyway, is it
worth writing? Work and the balance will always be in your favour. Think
about your wife and children!"
"I haven't a wife," cries the poet, staggering back from his sprung
teacher.
"You will have! But I don't guarantee she will be the loveliest girl on
earth. I don't even know whether she will be kind. Be prepared for anything.
You will have children."
"I don't like children."
"You will."
"You frighten me, citizen mattress."
"Shut up, you fool. You don't know everything. You'll also obtain
credit from the Moscow woodworking factory."
"I'll kill you, mattress!"
"Puppy! If you dare to, the neighbours will denounce you to the housing
authority."
So every Sunday lucky people cruise around Moscow to the joyful sound
of mattresses. But that is not the only thing, of course, which makes a
Moscow Sunday. Sunday is museum day.
There is a special group of people in Moscow who know nothing about
art, are not interested in architecture, and do not like historical
monuments. These people visit museums solely because they are housed in
splendid buildings. These people stroll through the dazzling rooms, look
enviously at the frescoes, touch the things they are requested not to touch,
and mutter continually:
"My, how they used to live!"
They are not concerned with the fact that the murals were painted by
the Frenchman Puvis de Chavannes. They are only concerned with how much they
cost the former owner of the house. They go up staircases with marble
statues on the landings and try to imagine how many footmen used to stand
there, what wages were paid to them, and how much they received in tips.
There is china on the mantelpiece, but they disregard it and decide that a
fireplace is not such a good thing, as it uses up a lot of wood. In the
oak-panelled dining-room they do not examine the wonderful carving. They are
troubled by one thought: what used the former merchant-owner to eat there
and how much would it cost at present prices.
People like this can be found in any museum. While the conducted tours
are cheerfully moving from one work of art to another, this kind of person
stands in the middle of the room and, looking in front of him, sadly moans:
"My, how they used to live!"
Liza ran along the street, stifling her tears. Her thoughts spurred her
on. She was thinking about her poor, unhappy life.
"If we just had a table and two more chairs, it would be fine. And
we'll have a primus in the long run. We must get organized."
She slowed down, suddenly remembering her quarrel with Nicky.
Furthermore, she felt hungry. Hatred for her husband suddenly welled up in
her.
"It's simply disgraceful," she said aloud.
She felt even more hungry.
"Very well, then, I know what I'll do."
And Liz blushingly bought a slice of bread and sausage from a vendor.
Hungry as she was, it was awkward eating in the street. She was, after all,
a mattress-owner and understood the subtleties of life. Looking around, she
turned into the entrance to a large two-storeyed house. Inside, she attacked
the slice of bread and sausage with great avidity. The sausage was
delicious. A large group of tourists entered the doorway. They looked at
Liza by the wall as they passed.
Let them look! decided the infuriated girl.
Liza wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and brushed the crumbs off her
blouse. She felt happier. She was standing in front of a notice that read:
MUSEUM OF FURNITURE-MAKING
To return home would be awkward. She had no one she could go and see.
There were twenty kopeks in her pocket. So Liza decided to begin her life of
independence with a visit to the museum. Checking her cash in hand, she went
into the lobby.
Inside she immediately bumped into a man with a shabby beard who was
staring at a malachite column with a grieved expression and muttering
through his moustache:
"People certainly lived well!"
Liza looked respectfully at the column and went upstairs.
For ten minutes or so she sauntered through small square rooms with
ceilings so low that people entering them looked like giants.
The rooms were furnished in the style of the period of Emperor Paul
with mahogany and Karelian birch furniture that was austere, magnificent,
and militant. Two square dressers, the doors of which were crisscrossed with
spears, stood opposite a writing desk. The desk was vast. Sitting at it
would have been like sitting at the Theatre Square with the Bolshoi Theatre
with its colonnade and four bronze horses drawing Apollo to the first night
of "The Red Poppy" as an inkwell. At least, that is how it seemed to Liza,
who was being reared on carrots like a rabbit. There were high-backed chairs
in the corners of the room with tops twisted to resemble the horns of a ram.
The sunshine lay on their peach-coloured covers.
The chairs looked very inviting, but it was forbidden to sit on them.
Liza made a mental comparison to see how a priceless Empire chair would
look beside her red-striped mattress. The result was not too bad. She read
the plate on the wall which gave a scientific and ideological justification
of the period, and, regretting that she and Nicky did not have a room in
this palatial building, went out, unexpectedly finding herself in a
corridor.
Along the left-hand-side, at floor level, was a line of semicircular
windows. Through them Liza could see below her a huge columned hall with two
rows of large windows. The hall was also full of furniture, and visitors
strolled about inspecting it. Liza stood still. Never before had she seen a
room under her feet.
Marvelling and thrilling at the sight, she stood for some time gazing
downward. Suddenly she noticed the friends she had made that day, Bender and
his travelling companion, the distinguished-looking old man with the shaven
head; they were moving from the chairs towards the desks.
"Good," said Liza. "Now I won't be so bored."
She brightened up considerably, ran downstairs, and immediately lost
her way. She came to a red drawing-room in which there were about forty
pieces of furniture. It was walnut furniture with curved legs. There was no
exit from the drawing-room, so she had to run back through a circular room
with windows at the top, apparently furnished with nothing but flowered
cushions.
She hurried past Renaissance brocade chairs, Dutch dressers, a large
Gothic bed with a canopy resting on four twisted columns. In a bed like that
a person would have looked no larger than a nut.
At length Liza heard the drone of a batch of tourists as they listened
inattentively to the guide unmasking the imperialistic designs of Catherine
II in connection with the deceased empress's love of Louis Quinze furniture.
This was in fact the large columned hall with the two rows of large
windows. Liza made towards the far end, where her acquaintance, Comrade
Bender, was talking heatedly to his shaven-headed companion.
As she approached, she could hear a sonorous voice saying:
"The furniture is chic moderne, but not apparently what we want."
"No, but there are other rooms as well. We must examine everything
systematically."
"Hello!" said Liza.
They both turned around and immediately frowned.
"Hello, Comrade Bender. I'm glad I've found you. It's boring by myself.
Let's look at everything together."
The concessionaires exchanged glances. Ippolit Matveyevich assumed a
dignified air, although the idea that Liza might delay their important
search for the chair with the jewels was not a pleasant one.
"We are typical provincials," said Bender impatiently. "But how did you
get here, Miss Moscow?"
"Quite by accident. I had a row with Nicky."
"Really?" Ippolit Matveyevich observed.
"Well, let's leave this room," said Ostap.
"But I haven't looked at it yet. It's so nice."
"That's done it!" Ostap whispered to Vorobyaninov. And, turning to
Liza, he added: "There's absolutely nothing to see here. The style is
decadent. The Kerensky period."
"I'm told there's some Hambs furniture somewhere here," Ippolit
Matveyevich declared. "Maybe we should see that."
Liza agreed and, taking Vorobyaninov's arm (she thought him a
remarkably nice representative of science), went towards the exit. Despite
the seriousness of the situation, at this decisive moment in the treasure
hunt, Bender laughed good-humouredly as he walked behind the couple. He was
amused at the chief of the Comanche in the role of a cavalier.
Liza was a great hindrance to the concessionaires. Whereas they could
determine at a glance whether or not the room contained the furniture they
were after, and if not, automatically make for the next, Liza browsed at
length in each section. She read all the printed tags, made cutting remarks
about the other visitors, and dallied at each exhibit. Completely without
realizing it, she was mentally adapting all the furniture she saw to her own
room and requirements. She did not like the Gothic bed at all. It was too
big. Even if Nicky in some miraculous way acquired a room six yards square,
the mediaeval couch would still not fit into it. Liza walked round and round
the bed, measuring its true area in paces. She was very happy. She did not
notice the sour faces of her companions, whose chivalrous natures prevented
them from heading for the Hambs room at full pelt.
"Let's be patient," Ostap whispered. "The furniture won't run away. And
don't squeeze the girl, Marshal, I'm jealous!" Vorobyaninov laughed smugly.
The rooms went on and on. There was no end to them. The furniture of
the Alexander period was displayed in batches. Its relatively small size
delighted Liza.
"Look, look!" she cried, seizing Ippolit Matveyevich by the sleeve.
"You see that bureau? That would suit our room wonderfully, wouldn't it?"
"Charming furniture," said Ostap testily. "But decadent." "I've been in
here already," said Liza as she entered the red drawing-room. "I don't think
it's worth stopping here."
To her astonishment, the indifferent companions were standing
stock-still by the door like sentries.
"Why have you stopped? Let's go on. I'm tired."
"Wait," said Ippolit Matveyevich, freeing his arm. "One moment."
The large room was crammed with furniture. Hambs chairs were arranged
along the wall and around a table. The couch in the corner was also
encircled by chairs. Their curved legs and comfortable backs were excitingly
familiar to Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap looked at him questioningly.
Vorobyaninov was flushed.
"You're tired, young lady," he said to Liza. "Sit down here a moment to
rest while he and I walk around a bit. This seems to be an interesting
room."
They sat Liza down. Then the concessionaires went over to the window.
"Are they the ones?" Ostap asked.
"It looks like it. I must have a closer look."
"Are they all here?"
"I'll just count them. Wait a moment." Vorobyaninov began shifting his
eyes from one chair to another. "Just a second," he said at length. "Twenty
chairs! That can't be right. There are only supposed to be twelve."
"Take a good look. They may not be the right ones."
They began walking among the chairs.
"Well?" Ostap asked impatiently.
"The back doesn't seem to be the same as in mine."
"So they aren't the ones?"
"No, they're not."
"What a waste of time it was taking up with you!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was completely crushed.
"All right," said Ostap, "the hearing is continued. A chair isn't a
needle in a haystack. We'll find it. Give me the orders. We will have to
establish unpleasant contact with the museum curators. Sit down beside the
girl and wait. I'll be back soon."
"Why are you so depressed?" asked Liza, "Are you tired?"
Ippolit Matveyevich tried not to answer.
"Does your head ache?"
"Yes, slightly. I have worries, you know. Lack of a woman's affection
has an effect on one's tenor of life."
Liza was at first surprised, and then, looking at her bald-headed
companion, felt truly sorry for him. Vorobyaninov's eyes were full of
suffering. His pince-nez could not hide the sharply outlined bags underneath
them. The rapid change from the quiet life of a clerk in a district registry
office to the uncomfortable, irksome existence of a diamond hunter and
adventurer had left its mark. Ippolit Matveyevich had become extremely thin
and his liver had started paining him. Under the strict supervision of
Bender he was losing his own personality and rapidly being absorbed by the
powerful intellect of the son of a Turkish citizen. Now that he was left
alone for a minute with the charming Liza, he felt an urge to tell her about
his trials and tribulations, but did not dare to do so.
"Yes," he said, gazing tenderly at his companion, "that's how it is.
How are you, Elizabeth. . ."
"Petrovna. And what's your name?"
They exchanged names and patronymics. "A tale of true love," thought
Ippolit Matveyevich, peering into Liza's simple face. So passionately and so
irresistibly did the old marshal want a woman's affection that he
immediately seized Liza's tiny hand in his own wrinkled hands and began
talking enthusiastically of Paris. He wanted to be rich, extravagant and
irresistible. He wanted to captivate a beauty from the all-women orchestra
and drink champagne with her in a private dining-room to the sound of music.
What was the use of talking to a girl who knew absolutely nothing about
women's orchestras or wine, and who by nature would not appreciate the
delights of that kind of life? But he so much wanted to be attractive!
Ippolit Matveyevich enchanted Liza with his account of Paris. "Are you a
scientist?" asked Liza.
"Yes, to a certain extent,", replied Ippolit Matveyevich, feeling that
since first meeting Bender he had regained some of the nerve that he had
lost in recent years.
"And how old are you, if it's not an indiscreet question?"
"That has nothing to do with the science which I am at present
representing."
Liza was squashed by the prompt and apt reply. "But, anyway-thirty,
forty, fifty?"
"Almost. Thirty-seven."
"Oh! You look much younger."
Ippolit Matveyevich felt happy. "When will you give me the pleasure of
seeing you again? " he asked through his nose.
Liza was very ashamed. She wriggled about on her seat and felt
miserable. "Where has Comrade Bender got to?" she asked in a thin voice.
"So when, then?" asked Vorobyaninov impatiently. "When and where shall
we meet?"
"Well, I don't know. Whenever you like."
"Is today all right?"
"Today?"
"Please!"
"Well, all right. Today, if you like. Come and see us."
"No, let's meet outside. The weather's so wonderful at present. Do you
know the poem 'It's mischievous May, it's magical May, who is waving his fan
of freshness'?"
"Is that Zharov?"
"Mmm . . . I think so. Today, then? And where?"
"How strange you are. Anywhere you like. By the cabinet if you want. Do
you know it? As soon as it's dark."
Hardly had Ippolit Matveyevich time to kiss Liza's hand, which he did
solemnly and in three instalments, when Ostap returned. He was very
businesslike.
"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he said quickly, "but my friend and I cannot
see you home. A small but important matter has arisen. We have to go
somewhere urgently."
Ippolit Matveyevich caught his breath. "Good-bye, Elizabeth Petrovna,"
he said hastily. "I'm very, very sorry, but we're in a terrible hurry."
The partners ran off, leaving the astonished Liza in the room so
abundantly furnished with Hambs chairs.
"If it weren't for me," said Ostap as they went downstairs, "not a damn
thing would get done. Take your hat off to me! Go on! Don't be afraid! Your
head won't fall off! Listen! The museum has no use for your furniture. The
right place for it is not a museum, but the barracks of a punishment
battalion. Are you satisfied with the situation?"
"What nerve!" exclaimed Vorobyaninov, who had begun to free himself
from the other's powerful intellect.
"Silence!" said Ostap coldly. "You don't know what's happening. If we
don't get hold of your furniture, everything's lost. We'll never see it. I
have just had a depressing conversation with the curator of this historical
refuse-dump."
"Well, and what did he say," cried Ippolit Matveyevich, "this curator
of yours? "
"He said all he needed to. Don't worry. Tell me,' I said to him, 'how
do you explain the fact that the furniture requisitioned in Stargorod and
sent to your museum isn't here?" I asked him politely, of course, as a
comrade. 'Which furniture?' he asks. 'Such things do not occur in my
museum.' I immediately shoved the orders under his nose. He began rummaging
in the files. He searched for about half an hour and finally came back.
Well, guess what happened to the furniture!" "Not lost? " squeaked
Vorobyaninov.
"No, just imagine! Just imagine, it remained safe and sound through all
the confusion. As I told you, it has no museum value. It was dumped in a
storehouse and only yesterday, mind you, only yesterday, after seven
years-it had been in the storehouse seven years-it was sent to be auctioned.
The auction is being held by the chief scientific administration. And
provided no one bought it either yesterday or this morning, it's ours."
"Quick!" Ippolit Matveyevich shouted. "Taxi! "Ostap yelled.
They got in without even arguing about the price. "Take your hat off to
me! Don't be afraid, Hofmarshal! Wine, women and cards will be provided.
Then we'll settle for the light-blue waistcoat as well."
As friskily as foals, the concessionaires tripped into the Petrovka
arcade where the auction rooms were located.
In the first auction room they caught sight of what they had long been
chasing. All ten chairs were lined along the wall. The upholstery had not
even become darker, nor had it faded or been in any way spoiled. The chairs
were as fresh and clean as when they had first been removed from the
supervision of the zealous Claudia Ivanovna. "Are those the ones?" asked
Ostap.
"My God, my God," Vorobyaninov kept repeating. "They're the ones. The
very ones. There's no doubt this time."
"Let's make certain, just in case," said Ostap, trying to remain calm.
They went up to an auctioneer.
"These chairs are from the furniture museum, aren't they? "
"These? Yes, they are."
"And they're for sale?"
"Yes."
"At what price?"
"No price yet. They're up for auction."
"Aha! Today?"
"No. The auction has finished for today. Tomorrow at five."
"And they're not for sale at the moment? "
"No. Tomorrow at five."
They could not leave the chairs at once, just like that.
"Do you mind if we have a look at them?" Ippolit Matveyevich stammered.
The concessionaires examined the chairs at great length, sat on them,
and, for the sake of appearances, looked at the other lots. Vorobyaninov was
breathing hard and kept nudging Ostap.
"Take your hat off to me, Marshal!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was not only prepared to take his hat off to Ostap;
he was even ready to kiss the soles of his crimson boots.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow," he kept saying.
He felt an urge to sing.
While the friends were leading a cultured and edifying way of life,
visiting museums and making passes at girls, the double-widow Gritsatsuyev,
a fat and feeble woman, was consulting and conspiring with her neighbours in
Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.
They examined the note left by Bender in groups, and even held it up to
the light. But it had no watermark, and even if it had, the mysterious
squiggles of the splendid Ostap would not have been any clearer.
Three days passed. The horizon remained clear. Neither Bender, the tea
strainer, the imitation-gold bracelet, nor the chair returned. These animate
and inanimate objects had all disappeared in the most puzzling way.
The widow then decided to take drastic measures. She went to the office
of the Stargorod Truth, where they briskly concocted for her the following
notice:
MISSING FROM HOME. I implore anyone knowing the whereabouts of Com.
Bender to inform me. Aged 25-30, brown hair, last seen dressed in a green
suit, yellow boots and a blue waistcoat. Information on the above person
will be adequately rewarded. Gritsatsuyev, 15 Plekhanov St.
"Is he your son?" they asked sympathetically in the office.
"Husband!" replied the martyr, covering her face with a handkerchief.
"Your husband!"
"Why not? He's legal."
"Nothing. You ought really to go to the militia."
The widow was alarmed. She was terrified of the militia. She left,
accompanied by curious glances.
Three times did the columns of the Stargorod Truth send out their
summons, but the great land was silent. No one came forward who knew the
whereabouts of a brown-haired man in yellow boots. No one came forward to
collect the adequate reward. The neighbours continued to gossip.
People became used to the Stargorod tramway and rode on it without
trepidation. The conductors shouted "Full up" in fresh voices and everything
proceeded as though the trams had been going since the time of St. Vladimir
the Red Sun. Disabled persons of all categories, women and children and
Victor Polesov sat at the front of the cars. To the cry of "Fares please"
Polesov used to answer "Season" and remain next to the driver. He did not
have a season ticket, nor could he have had one.
The sojourn of Vorobyaninov and the smooth operator left a deep imprint
on the town.
The conspirators carefully kept the secret entrusted to them. Even
Polesov kept it, despite the fact that he was dying to blurt out the
exciting secret to the first person he met. But then, remembering Ostap's
powerful shoulders, he stood firm. He only poured out his heart in
conversations with the fortune-teller.
"What do you think, Elena Stanislavovna?" he would ask. "How do you
explain the absence of our leaders? "
Elena Stanislavovna was also very intrigued, but she had no
information.
"Don't you think, Elena Stanislavovna," continued the indefatigable
mechanic, "that they're on a special mission at present?"
The fortune-teller was convinced that this was the case. Their opinion
was apparently shared by the parrot in the red underpants as well. It looked
at Polesov with a round, knowing eye as if to say: "Give me some seeds and
I'll tell you all about it. You'll be governor, Victor. All the mechanics
will be in your charge. And the yard-keeper from no. 5 will remain as
before- a conceited bum."
"Don't you think we ought to carry on without them, Elena
Stanislavovna? Whatever happens, we can't sit around doing nothing."
The fortune-teller agreed and remarked: "He's a hero, our Ippolit
Matveyevich."
"He is a hero, Elena Stanislavovna, that's clear. But what about the
officer with him? A go-getting fellow. Say what you like, Elena
Stanislavovna, but things can't go on like this. They definitely can't."
And Polesov began to act. He made regular visits to all the members of
the secret society "Sword and Ploughshare", pestering Kislarsky, the canny
owner of the Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun artel, in particular. At
the sight of Polesov, Kislarsky's face darkened. And his talk of the need to
act drove the timid bun-maker to distraction.
Towards the week-end they all met at Elena Stanislavovna's in the room
with the parrot. Polesov was bursting with energy.
"Stop blathering, Victor," said the clear-thinking Dyadyev. "What have
you been careering round the town for days on end for?"
"We must act!" cried Polesov.
"Act yes, but certainly not shout. This is how I see the situation,
gentlemen. Once Ippolit Matveyevich has spoken, his words are sacred. And we
must assume we haven't long to wait. How it will all take place, we don't
need to know; there are military people to take care of that. We are the
civilian contingent- representatives of the town intelligentsia and
merchants. What's important for us? To be ready. Do we have anything? Do we
have a centre? No. Who will be governor of the town? There's no one. But
that's the main thing, gentlemen. I don't think the British will stand on
ceremony with the Bolsheviks. That's our first sign. It will all change very
rapidly, gentlemen, I assure you."
"Well, we don't doubt that in the least," said Charushnikov, puffing
out his cheeks.
"And a very good thing you don't. What do you think, Mr. Kislarsky? And
you, young men?"
Nikesha and Vladya both looked absolutely certain of a rapid change,
while Kislarsky happily nodded assent, having gathered from what the head of
Fastpack had said that he would not be required to participate directly in
any armed clashes. "What are we to do?" asked Polesov impatiently. "Wait,"
said Dyadyev. "Follow the example of Mr. Vorobyaninov's companion. How
smart! How shrewd! Did you notice how quickly he got around to assistance to
waifs and strays? That's how we should all act. We're only helping the
children. So, gentlemen, let's nominate our candidates."
"We propose Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov as marshal of the
nobility," exclaimed the young Nikesha and Vladya.
Charushnikov coughed condescendingly. "What do you mean! Nothing less
than a minister for him. Higher, if you like. Make him a dictator."
"Come, come, gentlemen," said Dyadyev, "a marshal is the last thing to
think about. We need a governor. I think. . ."
"You, Mr. Dyadyev," cried Polesov ecstatically. "Who else is there to
take the reins in our province."
"I am most flattered by your confidence .. ." Dyadyev began, but at
this point Charushnikov, who had suddenly turned pink, began to speak.
"The question, gentlemen," he said in a strained voice, "ought to have
been aired."
He tried not to look at Dyadyev.
The owner of Fastpack also looked at his boots, which had wood shavings
sticking to them.
"I don't object," he said. "Let's put it to the vote. Secret ballot or
a show of hands? "
"We don't need to do it in the Soviet style," said Charushnikov in a
hurt voice. "Let's vote in an honest European way, by secret ballot."
They voted on pieces of paper. Dyadyev received four votes and
Charushnikov two. Someone had abstained. It was clear from Kislarsky's face
that he was the one. He did not wish to spoil his relations with the future
governor, whoever he might be.
When Polesov excitedly announced the results of the-honest European
ballot, there was silence in the room. They tried not to look at
Charushnikov. The unsuccessful candidate for governor sat in humiliation.
Elena Stanislavovna felt very sorry for him, as she had voted in his
favour. Charushnikov obtained his second vote by voting for himself; he was,
after all, well versed in electoral procedure.
"Anyway, I propose Monsieur Charushnikov as mayor," said the kindly
Elena Stanislavovna immediately.
"Why 'anyway'?" asked the magnanimous governor. "Not anyway, but him
and no one else. Mr. Charushnikov's public activity is well known to us
all."
"Hear, hear I" they all cried.
"Then we can consider the election accepted?"
The humiliated Charushnikov livened up and even tried to protest. "No,
no, gentlemen, I request a vote. It's even more necessary to vote for a
mayor than for a governor. If you wish to show me your confidence,
gentlemen, I ask you to hold a ballot." Pieces of paper poured into the
empty sugar-bowl. "Six votes in favour and one abstention."
"Congratulations, Mr. Mayor," said Kislarsky, whose face gave away that he
had abstained this time, too. "Congratulations !'
Charushnikov swelled with pride.
"And now it only remains to take some refreshment, Your Excellency," he
said to Dyadyev. "Polesov, nip down to the October beer-hall. Do you have
any money?"
Polesov made a mysterious gesture with his hand and ran off. The
elections were temporarily adjourned and resumed after supper.
As ward of the educational region they appointed Raspopov, former
headmaster of a private school, and now a second-hand book dealer. He was
greatly praised. R was only Vladya who protested suddenly, after his third
glass of vodka.
"We mustn't elect him. He gave me bad marks in logic at the
school-leaving exams." They all went for Vladya.
"At such a decisive hour, you must not think of your own good. Think of
the fatherland."
They brainwashed Vladya so quickly that he even voted in favour of his
tormentor. Raspopov was elected by six votes with one abstention.
Kislarsky was offered the post of chairman of the stock-exchange
committee. He did not object, but abstained during the voting just in case.
Drawing from among friends and relations, they elected a chief of
police, a head of the assay office, and a customs and excise inspector; they
filled the vacancies of regional public prosecutor, judge, clerk of the
court, and other law court officials; they appointed chairmen for the
Zemstvo and merchants' council, the children's welfare committee, and,
finally, the shop-owners' council. Elena Stanislavovna was elected ward of
the Drop-of-Milk and White-Flower societies. On account of their youth,
Nikesha and Vladya were appointed special-duty clerks attached to the
governor.
"Wait a minute," exclaimed Charushnikov suddenly. "The governor has two
clerks, and what about me?" "A mayor is not entitled to special-duty
clerks." "Then give me a secretary."
Dyadyev consented. Elena Stanislavovna also had something to say.
"Would it be possible," she said, faltering, "I know a young man, a
nice and well-brought-up boy. Madame Cherkesov's son. He's a very, very nice
and clever boy. He hasn't a job at present and has to keep going to the
employment office. He's even a trade-union member. They promised to find
work for him in the union. Couldn't you take him? His mother would be very
grateful."
"It might be possible," said Charushnikov graciously. "What do you
think, gentlemen? All right. I think that could be arranged."
"Right, then-that seems to be about all," Dyadyev observed.
"What about me?" a high-pitched, nervous voice suddenly said.
They all turned around. A very upset Victor Polesov was standing in the
corner next to the parrot. Tears were bubbling on his black eyelids. The
guests all felt very ashamed, remembering that they had been drinking
Polesov's vodka and that he was basically one of the organizers of the
Stargorod branch of the Sword and Ploughshare.
Elena Stanislavovna seized her head and gave a horrified screech.
"Victor Mikhailovich!" they all gasped. "Pal! Shame on you! What are
you doing in the corner? Come out at once."
Polesov came near. He was suffering. He had not expected such
callousness from his fellow-members of the Sword and Ploughshare.
Elena Stanislavovna was unable to restrain herself. "Gentlemen," she
said, "this is awful. How could you forget Victor Mikhailovich, so dear to
us all?" She got up and kissed the mechanic-aristocrat on his sooty
forehead. "Surely Victor Mikhailovich is worthy of being a ward or a police
chief."
"Well, Victor Mikhailovich," asked the governor, "do you want to be a
ward?"
"Well of course, he would make a splendid, humane ward," put in the
mayor, swallowing a mushroom and frowning.
"But what about Raspopov? You've already nominated Raspopov."
"Yes, indeed, what shall we do with Raspopov?"
"Make him a fire chief, eh?"
"A fire chief!" exclaimed Polesov, suddenly becoming excited.
A vision of fire-engines, the glare of lights, the sound of the siren
and the drumming of hoofs suddenly flashed through his mind. Axes glimmered,
torches wavered, the ground heaved, and black dragons carried him to a fire
at the town theatre.
"A fire chief! I want to be a fire chief!"
"Well, that's fine. Congratulations! You're now the fire chief."
"Let's drink to the prosperity of the fire brigade," said the chairman
of the stock-exchange committee sarcastically.
They all went for him.
"You were always left-wing! We know you!"
"What do you mean, gentlemen, left-wing?"
"We know, we know I"
"Left-wing!"
"All Jews are left-wing I"
"Honestly, gentlemen, I don't understand such jokes."
"You're left-wing, don't try to hide it!"
"He dreams about Milyukov at night."
"Cadet! You're a Cadet."
"The Cadets sold Finland," cried Charushnikov suddenly.
"And took money from the Japanese. They split the Armenians."
Kislarsky could not endure the stream of groundless accusations. Pale,
his eyes blazing, the chairman of the stock-exchange committee grasped hold
of his chair and said in a ringing voice:
"I was always a supporter of the Tsar's October manifesto and still
am."
They began to sort out who belonged to which party.
"Democracy above all, gentlemen," said Charushnikov. "Our town
government must be democratic."
"But without Cadets! They did the dirty on us in 1917."
"I hope,' said the governor acidly, "that there aren't any so-called
Social Democrats among us."
There was nobody present more left-wing than the Octobrists,
represented at the meeting by Kislarsky. Charushnikov declared himself to be
the "centre". The extreme right-wing was the fire chief. He was so
right-wing that he did not know which party he belonged to.
They talked about war.
"Any day now," said Dyadyev.
"There'll be a war, yes, there will."
"I advise stocking up with a few things before it's too late."
"Do you think so?" asked Kislarsky in alarm.
"Well, what do you think? Do you suppose you can get anything in
wartime? Flour would disappear from the market right away. Silver coins will
vanish completely. There'll be all sorts of paper currency, and stamps will
have the same value as banknotes, and all that sort of thing."
"War, that's for sure."
"You may think differently, but I'm spending all my spare cash on
buying up essential commodities," said Dyadyev.
"And what about your textile business? "
"Textiles can look out for themselves, but the flour and sugar are
important."
"That's what I advise you. I urge you, even."
Polesov laughed derisively. "How can the Bolsheviks fight? What with?
What will they fight with? Old-fashioned rifles. And the Air Force? A
prominent communist told me that they only have . . . well, how many planes
do you think they have?"
"About two hundred."
"Two hundred? Not two hundred, but thirty-two. And France has eighty
thousand fighters."
It was past midnight when they all went home.
"Yes, indeed. They've got the Bolsheviks worried."
The governor took the mayor home. They both walked with an
exaggeratedly even pace.
"Governor!" Charushnikov was saying. "How can you be a governor when
you aren't even a general!"
"I shall be a civilian governor. Why, are you jealous? I'll jail you
whenever I want. You'll have your fill of jail from me."
"You can't jail me. I've been elected and entrusted with authority."
"They prefer elected people in jail."
"Kindly don't try to be funny," shouted Charushnikov for all the
streets to hear.
"What are you shouting for, you fool?" said the governor. "Do you want
to spend the night in the police station?"
"I can't spend the night in the police station," retorted the mayor.
"I'm a government employee."
A star twinkled. The night was enchanting. The argument between the
governor and the mayor continued down Second Soviet Street.
Wait a minute now, where is Father Theodore? Where is the shorn priest
from the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence? Was he not about to go to see
citizen Bruns at 34 Vineyard Street? Where is that treasure-seeker in
angel's clothing and sworn enemy of Ippolit Vorobyaninov, at present cooling
his heels in the dark corridor by the safe.
Gone is Father Theodore. He has been spirited away. They say he was
seen at Popasnaya station on the Donets railway, hurrying along the platform
with a teapot full of hot water.
Greedy is Father Theodore. He wants to be rich. He is chasing round
Russia in search of the furniture belonging to General Popov's wife, which
does not contain a darn thing, to tell the truth.
He is on his way through Russia. And all he does is write letters to
his wife:
Letter -from Father Theodore
written from Kharkov Station to his wife
in the district centre of N.
My Darling Catherine Alexandrovna,
I owe you an apology. I have left you alone, poor thing, at a time like
this. I must tell you everything. You will understand and, I hope, agree.
It was not, of course, to join the new church movement that I went. I
had no intention of doing so, God forbid!
Now read this carefully. We shall soon begin to live differently. You
remember I told you about the candle factory. It will be ours, and perhaps
one or two other things as well. And you won't have to cook your own meals
or have boarders any more. We'll go to Samara and hire servants.
I'm on to something, but you must keep it absolutely secret: don't even
tell Marya Ivanovna. I'm looking for treasure. Do you remember the deceased
Claudia Ivanovna, Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law? Just before her death,
Claudia Ivanovna disclosed to me that her jewels were hidden in one of the
drawing-room chairs (there are twelve of them) at her house in Stargorod,
Don't think, Katey, that I'm just a common thief. She bequeathed them
to me and instructed me not to let Ippolit Matveyevich, her lifelong
tormentor, get them. That's why I left so suddenly, you poor thing.
Don't condemn me.
I went to Stargorod, and what do you think-that old woman-chaser turned
up as well. He had found out. He must have tortured the old woman before she
died. Horrible man! And there was some criminal travelling with him: he had
hired himself a thug. They fell upon me and tried to get rid of me. But I'm
not one to be trifled with: I didn't give in.
At first I went off on a false track. I only found one chair in
Vorobyaninov's house (it's now a home for pensioners); I was carrying the
chair to my room in the Sorbonne Hotel when suddenly a man came around the
corner roaring like a lion and rushed at me, seizing the chair. We almost
had a fight. He wanted to shame me. Then I looked closely and who was it but
Vorobyaninov. Just imagine, he had cut off his moustache and shaved his
head, the crook. Shameful at his age.
We broke open the chair, but there was nothing there. It was not until
later that I realized I was on the wrong track. But at that moment I was
very distressed.
I felt outraged and I told that old libertine the truth to his face.
What a disgrace, I said, at your age. What mad things are going on in
Russia nowadays when a marshal of the nobility pounces on a minister of the
church like a lion and rebukes him for not being in the Communist Party.
You're a low fellow, I said, you tormented Claudia Ivanovna and you want
someone else's property-which is now state-owned and no longer his.
He was ashamed and went away-to the brothel, I imagine.
So I went back to my room in the Sorbonne and started to make plans. I
thought of something that bald-headed fool would never have dreamed of. I
decided to find the person who had distributed the requisitioned furniture.
So you see, Katey, I did well to study law at college: it has served me
well. I found the person in question the next day. Bartholomeich, a very
decent old man. He lives quietly with his grandmother and works hard to earn
his living. He gave me all the documents. It's true I had to reward him for
the service. I'm now out of money (I'll come to that). It turned out that
all twelve chairs from Vorobyaninov's house went to engineer Bruns at 34
Vineyard Street. Note that all the chairs went to one person, which I had
not expected (I was afraid the chairs might have gone to different places).
I was very pleased at this. Then I met that wretch Vorobyaninov in the
Sorbonne again. I gave him a good talking to and didn't spare his friend,
the thug, either. I was very afraid they might find out my secret, so I hid
in the hotel until they left.
Bruns turned out to have moved from Stargorod to Kharkov in 1922 to
take up an appointment. I learned from the caretaker that he had taken all
his furniture and was looking after it very carefully. He's said to be a
shrewd person.
I'm now sitting in the station at Kharkov and writing for this reason:
first, I love you very much and keep thinking of you, and, second, Bruns is
no longer here. But don't despair. Bruns is now working in Rostov at the
New-Ros-Cement plant. I have just enough money for the fare. I'm leaving in
an hour's time on a mixed passenger-goods train. Please stop by your
brother-in-law's, my sweet, and get fifty roubles from him (he owes it to me
and promised to pay) and send it to: Theodore Ivanovich Vostrikov, Central
Post Office, Rostov, to await collection. Send a money order by post to
economize. It will cost thirty kopeks.
What's the news in the town?
Has Kondratyevna been to see you? Tell Father Cyril that I'll be back
soon and that I've gone to see my dying aunt in Voronezh. Be economical. Is
Evstigneyev still having meals? Give him my regards. Say I've gone to my
aunt.
How's the weather? It's already summer here in Kharkov. A noisy city,
the centre of the Ukrainian Republic. After the provinces it's like being
abroad.
Please do the following:
(1) Send my summer cassock to the cleaner (it's better to spend Rs. 3
on cleaning than waste money on buying a new one); (2) look after yourself;
and (3) when you write to Gulka, mention casually that I've gone to Voronezh
to see my aunt.
Give everyone my regards. Say I'll be back soon.
With tender kisses and blessings, Your husband,
Theo.
P.S. Where can Vorobyaninov be roving about at the moment?
Love dries a man up. The bull lows with desire. The rooster cannot keep
still. The marshal of the nobility loses his appetite.
Leaving Ostap and the student Ivanopulo in a bar, Ippolit Matveyevich
made his way to the little pink house and took up his stand by the cabinet.
He could hear the sound of trains leaving for Castille and the splash of
departing steamers.
As in far-off Alpujarras
The golden mountains fade
His heart was fluttering like a pendulum. There was a ticking in his
ears.
And guitars strum out their summons
Come forth, my pretty maid.
Uneasiness spread along the corridor. Nothing could thaw the cold of
the cabinet.
From Seville to Granada
Through the stillness of the night-
Gramophones droned in the pencil boxes. Primuses hummed like bees.
Comes the sound of serenading
Comes the ring of swords in fight.
In short, Ippolit Matveyevich was head over heels in love with Liza
Kalachov.
Many people passed Ippolit Matveyevich in the corridor, but they all
smelled of either tobacco, vodka, disinfectant, or stale soup. In the
obscurity of the corridor it was possible to distinguish people only by
their smell or the heaviness of their tread. Liza had not come by. Ippolit
Matveyevich was sure of that. She did not smoke, drink vodka, or wear boots
with iron studs. She could not have smelled of iodine or cod's-head. She
could only exude the tender fragrance of rice pudding or tastily prepared
hay, on which Mrs. Nordman-Severov fed the famous painter Repin for such a
long time.
And then he heard light, uncertain footsteps. Someone was coming down
the corridor, bumping into its elastic walls and murmuring sweetly.
"Is that you, Elizabeth Petrovna? " asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Can you tell me where the Pfefferkorns live?" a deep voice replied. "I
can't see a damn thing in the dark!"
Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing in his alarm. The Pfefferkorn-seeker
waited for an answer but, not getting one, moved on, puzzled.
It was nine o'clock before Liza came. They went out into the street
under a caramel-green evening sky.
"Where shall we go?" asked Liza.
Ippolit Matveyevich looked at her pale, shining face and, instead of
saying "I am here, Inezilla, beneath thy window," began to talk
long-windedly and tediously about the fact that he had not been in Moscow
for a long time and that Paris was infinitely better than the Russian
capital, which was always a large, badly planned village, whichever way you
turned it.
"This isn't the Moscow I remember, Elizabeth Petrovna. Now there's a
stinginess everywhere. In my day we spent money like water. 'We only live
once.' There's a song called that."
They walked the length of Prechistenka Boulevard and came out on to the
embankment by the Church of Christ the Saviour.
A line of black-brown fox tails stretched along the far side of
Moskvoretsk Bridge. The power stations were smoking like a squadron of
ships. Trams rattled across the bridge and boats moved up and down the
river. An accordion was sadly telling its tale.
Taking hold of Ippolit Matveyevich's hand, Liza told him about her
troubles: the quarrel with her husband, the difficulty of living with
eavesdropping neighbours, the ex-chemists, and the monotony of a vegetarian
diet.
Ippolit Matveyevich listened and began thinking. Devils were aroused in
him. He visualized a wonderful supper. He decided he must in some way or
other make an overwhelming impression on the girl.
"Let's go to the theatre," he suggested.
"The cinema would be better," said Liza, "it's cheaper."
"Why think of money? A night like this and you worry about the cost!"
The devils in him threw prudence to the wind, set the couple in a cab,
without haggling about the fare, and took them to the Ars cinema. Ippolit
Matveyevich was splendid. He bought the most expensive seats. They did not
wait for the show to finish, however. Liza was used to cheaper seats nearer
the screen and could not see so well from the thirty-fourth row.
In his pocket Ippolit Matveyevich had half the sum obtained by the
concessionaires from the Stargorod conspirators. It was a lot of money for
Vorobyaninov, so unaccustomed to luxury. Excited by the possibility of an
easy conquest, he was ready to dazzle Liza with the scale of his
entertaining. He considered himself admirably equipped for this, and proudly
remembered how easily he had once won the heart of Elena Bour. It was part
of his nature to spend money extravagantly and showily. He had been famous
in Stargorod for his good manners and ability to converse with any woman. He
thought it would be amusing to use his pre-revolutionary polish on
conquering a little Soviet girl, who had never seen anything or known
anything.
With little persuasion Ippolit Matveyevich took Liza to the Prague
Restaurant, the showpiece of the Moscow union of consumer societies; the
best place in Moscow, as Bender used to say.
The Prague awed Liza by the copious mirrors, lights and flower-pots.
This was excusable; she had never before been in a restaurant of this kind.
But the mirrored room unexpectedly awed Ippolit Matveyevich, too. He was out
of touch and had forgotten about the world of restaurants. Now he felt
ashamed of his baronial boots with square toes, pre-revolutionary trousers,
and yellow, star-spangled waistcoat.
They were both embarrassed and stopped suddenly at the sight of the
rather motley public.
"Let's go over there in the corner," suggested Vorobyaninov, although
there were tables free just by the stage, where the orchestra was scraping
away at the stock potpourri from the "Bayadere".
Liza quickly agreed, feeling that all eyes were upon her. The social
lion and lady-killer, Vorobyaninov, followed her awkwardly. The social
lion's shabby trousers drooped baggily from his thin behind. The lady-killer
hunched his shoulders and began polishing his pince-nez in an attempt to
cover up his embarrassment.
No one took their order. Ippolit Matveyevich had not expected this.
Instead of gallantly conversing with his lady, he remained silent, sighed,
tapped the table timidly with an ashtray, and coughed incessantly. Liza
looked around her with curiosity; the silence became unnatural. But Ippolit
Matveyevich could not think of anything to say. He had forgotten what he
usually said in such cases.
"We'd like to order," he called to waiters as they flew past.
"Just coming, sir," cried the waiters without stopping.
A menu was eventually brought, and Ippolit Matveyevich buried himself
in it with relief.
"But veal cutlets are two twenty-five, a fillet is two twenty-five, and
vodka is five roubles," he mumbled.
"For five roubles you get a large decanter, sir," said the waiter,
looking around impatiently.
"What's the matter with me?" Ippolit Matveyevich-asked himself in
horror. "I'm making myself ridiculous."
"Here you are," he said to Liza with belated courtesy, "you choose
something. What would you like? "
Liza felt ashamed. She saw how haughtily the waiter was looking at her
escort, and realized he was doing something wrong.
"I'm not at all hungry," she said in a shaky voice. "Or wait, have you
anything vegetarian?"
"We don't serve vegetarian dishes. Maybe a ham omelette? "
"All right, then," said Ippolit Matveyevich, having made up his mind,
"bring us some sausages. You'll eat sausages, won't you, Elizabeth
Petrovna?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Sausages, then. These at a rouble twenty-five each. And a bottle of
vodka."
"It's served by the decanter."
"Then a large one."
The public-catering employee gave the defenceless Liza a knowing look.
"What will you have with the vodka? Fresh caviar? Smoked salmon?"
The registry-office employee continued to rage in Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Nothing," he said rudely. "How much are the salted gherkins? All right, let
me have two."
The waiter hurried away and silence reigned once more at the table.
Liza was the first to speak.
"I've never been here before. It's very nice."
"Ye-es," said Vorobyaninov slowly, working out the cost of what they
had ordered. "Never mind," he thought, "I'll drink some vodka and loosen up
a bit. I feel so awkward at the moment."
But when he had drunk the vodka and accompanied it with a gherkin, he
did not loosen up, but rather became more gloomy. Liza did not drink
anything. The tension continued. Then someone else approached the table and,
looking tenderly at Liza, tried to sell them flowers.
Ippolit Matveyevich pretended not to notice the bewhiskered flower
seller, but he kept hovering near the table. It was quite impossible to say
nice things with him there.
They were saved for a while by the cabaret. A well-fed man in a morning
coat and patent-leather shoes came on to the stage.
"Well, here we are again," he said breezily, addressing the public.
"Next on our programme we have the well-known Russian folk-singer Barbara
Godlevsky."
Ippolit Matveyevich drank his vodka and said nothing. Since Liza did
not drink and kept wanting to go home, he had to hurry to finish the whole
decanter.
By the time the singer had been replaced by an entertainer in a ribbed
velvet shirt, who came on to the stage and began to sing:
Roaming,
You're always roaming
As though with all the life outside
Your appendix will be satisfied,
Roaming,
Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
Ippolit Matveyevich was already well in his cups and, together with all
the other customers in the restaurant, whom half an hour earlier he had
considered rude and niggardly Soviet thugs, was clapping in time to the
music and joining in the chorus:
Roaming,
Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
He kept jumping up and going to the gentlemen's without excusing
himself. The nearby tables had already begun calling him "daddy", and
invited him over for a glass of beer. But he did not go. He suddenly became
proud and suspicious. Liza stood up determinedly.
"I'm going. You stay. I can go home by myself." "Certainly not I As a
member of the upper class I cannot allow that.
"Carport! The bill! Bums!"
Ippolit Matveyevich stared at the bill for some time, swaying in his
chair.
"Nine roubles, twenty kopeks," he muttered. "Perhaps you'd also like
the key of the apartment where the money is."
He ended up by being marched downstairs by the arm. Liza could not
escape, since the social lion had the cloakroom ticket.
In the first side street Ippolit Matveyevich leaned against Liza and
began to paw her. Liza fought him off.
"Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it! Stop it!"
"Let's go to a hotel," Vorobyaninov urged.
Liza freed herself with difficulty and, without taking aim, punched the
lady-killer on the nose. The pince-nez with the gold nose-piece fell to the
ground and, getting in the way of one of the square-toed baronial boots
broke with a crunch.
The evening breeze
Sighs through the trees
Choking back her tears, Liza ran home down Silver Lane.
Loud and fast
Flows the
Gualdalquivir.
The blinded Ippolit Matveyevich trotted off in the opposite direction,
shouting "Stop! Thief!"
Then he cried for a long time and, still weeping, bought a full basket
of bagels from an old woman. Reaching the Smolensk market, now empty and
dark, he walked up and down for some time, throwing the bagels all over the
place like a sower sowing seed. As he went, he shouted in a tuneless voice:
Roaming,
You're always roaming,
Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
Later on he befriended a taxi-driver, poured out his heart to him, and
told him in a muddled way about the jewels.
"A gay old gentleman," exclaimed the taxi-driver.
Ippolit Matveyevich was really in a gay mood, but the gaiety was
clearly of a rather reprehensible nature, because he woke up at about eleven
the next day in the local police-station. Of the two hundred roubles with
which he had shamefully begun his night of enjoyment and debauchery, only
twelve remained.
He felt like death. His spine ached, his liver hurt, and his head felt
as if he had a lead pot on top of it. But the most awful thing was that he
could not remember how and where he could have spent so much money. On the
way home he had to stop at the optician's to have new lenses fitted in his
pince-nez.
Ostap looked in surprise at the bedraggled figure of Ippolit
Matveyevich for some time but said nothing. He was cold and ready for
battle.
The auction was due to begin at five o'clock. Citizens were allowed in
to inspect the lots at four. The friends arrived at three o'clock and spent
a whole hour looking at a machine-building exhibition next door.
"It looks as though by tomorrow," said Ostap, "given good will on both
sides, we ought to be able to buy that little locomotive. A pity there's no
price tag on it. It's nice to own your own locomotive."
Ippolit Matveyevich was in a highly nervous state. The chairs alone
could console him.
He did not leave them until the moment the auctioneer, in check
trousers and a beard reaching to his Russian covert-coat tunic, mounted the
stand.
The concessionaires took their places in the fourth row on the right.
Ippolit Matveyevich began to get very excited. He thought the chairs would
be sold at once, but they were actually the third item on the list, and
first came the usual auction junk: odd pieces of dinner services embellished
with coats of arms; a sauce dish; a silver glass-holder; a Petunin
landscape; a bead handbag; a brand-new primus burner; a small bust of
Napoleon; linen brassieres; a tapestry "Hunter shooting wild duck", and
other trash.
They had to be patient and wait. It was hard to wait when the chairs
were all there; their goal was within reach.
"What a rumpus there'd be," thought Ostap, "if they knew what little
goodies were being sold here today in the form of those chairs."
"A figure depicting Justice!" announced the auctioneer. "Made of
bronze. In perfect condition. Five roubles. Who'll bid more? Six and a half
on the right. Seven at the end. Eight roubles in front in the first row.
Going for eight roubles. Going. Gone to the first row in front."
A girl with a receipt book immediately hurried over to the citizen in
the first row.
The auctioneer's hammer rose and fell. He sold an ash-tray, some
crystal glass and a porcelain powder bowl.
Time dragged painfully.
"A bronze bust of Alexander the Third. Would make a good paperweight.
No use for anything else. Going at the marked price, one bust of Alexander
the Third."
There was laughter among the audience.
"Buy it, Marshal," said Ostap sarcastically. "You like that sort of
thing."
Ippolit Matveyevich made no reply; he could not take his eyes off the
chairs.
"No offers? The bust of Alexander the Third is removed from sale. A
figure depicting Justice. Apparently the twin of the one just sold. Basil,
hold up the Justice. Five roubles. Who'll give me more?"
There was a snuffling sound from the first row. The citizen evidently
wanted a complete set of Justices.
"Five roubles for the bronze Justice."
"Six!" sang out the citizen.
"Six roubles in front. Seven. Nine roubles on the right at the end."
"Nine and a half," said the lover of Justice quietly, raising his hand.
"Nine and a half in front. Going for nine and a half. Going. Gone!"
The hammer came down and the girl hastened over to the citizen in the
first row. He paid up and wandered off into the next room to receive his
bronze.
"Ten chairs from a palace," said the auctioneer suddenly.
"Why from a palace? " gasped Ippolit Matveyevich quietly.
Ostap became angry. "To hell with you! Listen and stop fooling!"
"Ten chairs from a palace, Walnut. Period of Alexander the Second. In
perfect condition. Made by the cabinet-maker Hambs. Basil, hold one of the
chairs under the light."
Basil seized the chair so roughly that Ippolit Matveyevich half stood
up.
"Sit down, you damned idiot," hissed Ostap. "Sit down, I tell you. You
make me sick!"
Ippolit Matveyevich's jaw had dropped. Ostap was pointing like a
setter. His eyes shone.
"Ten walnut chairs. Eighty roubles."
There was a stir in the room. Something of use in the house was being
sold. One after another the hands flew up. Ostap remained calm.
146
"Why don't you bid?" snapped Vorobyaninov.
"Get out!" retorted Ostap, clenching his teeth.
"A hundred and twenty roubles at the back. A hundred and twenty-five in
the next seat. A hundred and forty."
Ostap calmly turned his back on the stand and surveyed his competitors.
The auction was at its height. Every seat was taken. The lady sitting
directly behind Ostap was tempted by the chairs and, after a few words with
her husband ("Beautiful chairs! heavenly workmanship, Sanya. And from a
palace!"), put up her hand.
"A hundred and forty-five, fifth row on the right. Going!"
The stir died down. Too expensive.
"A hundred and forty-five, going for the second time."
Ostap was nonchalantly examining the stucco cornice. Ippolit
Matveyevich was sitting with his head down, trembling.
"One hundred and forty-five. Gone!"
But before the shiny black hammer could strike the plyboard stand,
Ostap had turned around, thrown up his hand, and called out, quite quietly:
"Two hundred."
All the heads turned towards the concessionaires. Peaked caps, cloth
caps, yachting caps and hats were set in action. The auctioneer raised his
bored face and looked at Ostap.
"Two hundred," he said. "Two hundred in the fourth row on the right.
Any more bids? Two hundred roubles for a palace suite of walnut furniture
consisting of ten pieces. Going at two hundred roubles to the fourth row on
the right. Going!"
The hand with the hammer was poised above the stand.
"Mama!" said Ippolit Matveyevich loudly.
Ostap, pink and calm, smiled. The hammer came down making a heavenly
sound.
"Gone," said the auctioneer. "Young lady, fourth row on the right."
"Well, chairman, was that effective?" asked Ostap. "What would you do
without a technical adviser, I'd like to know? "
Ippolit Matveyevich grunted happily. The young lady trotted over to
them.
"Was it you who bought the chairs?"
"Yes, us!" Ippolit Matveyevich burst out. "Us! Us! When can we have
them?"
"Whenever you please. Now if you like."
The tune "Roaming, you're always roaming" went madly round and round in
Ippolit Matveyevich's head. "The chairs are ours! Ours! Ours!" His whole
body was shouting it. "Ours!" cried his liver. "Ours!" endorsed his
appendix.
He was so overjoyed that he suddenly felt twitches in the most
unexpected places. Everything vibrated, rocked, and crackled under the
pressure of unheard-of bliss. He saw the train approaching the St. Gotthard.
On the open platform of the last car stood Ippolit Matveyevich in white
trousers, smoking a cigar. Edelweiss fell gently on to his head, which was
again covered with shining, aluminium-grey hair. He was on his way to the
Garden of Eden. "Why two hundred and thirty and not two hundred?" said a
voice next to him.
It was Ostap speaking; he was fiddling with the receipt.
"Fifteen per cent commission is included," answered the girl.
"Well, I suppose that's all right. Here you are."
Ostap took out his wallet, counted out two hundred roubles, and turned
to the director-in-chief of the enterprise.
"Let me have thirty roubles, pal, and make it snappy. Can't you see the
young lady's waiting?"
Ippolit Matveyevich made no attempt at all to get the money.
"Well? Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? Are you
crazy with joy or something?"
"I don't have the money," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich at length.
"Who doesn't?" asked Ostap very quietly.
"I don't."
"And the two hundred roubles? "
"I. . . I. . . lost it."
Ostap looked at Vorobyaninov and quickly grasped the meaning of the
flabbiness of his face, the green pallor of the cheeks, and the bags under
the swollen eyes.
"Give me the money," he whispered with loathing, "you old bastard!"
"Well, are you going to pay?" asked the girl. "One moment," said Ostap
with a charming smile, "there's been a slight hitch."
There was still a faint hope that they might persuade her to wait for
the money. Here Ippolit Matveyevich, who had now recovered his senses, broke
into the conversation.
"Just a moment," he spluttered. "Why is there commission? We don't know
anything about that. You should have warned us. I refuse to pay the thirty
roubles."
"Very well," said the girl curtly. "I'll see to that."
Taking the receipt, she hurried back to the auctioneer and had a few
words with him.
The auctioneer immediately stood up. His beard glistened in the strong
light of the electric lamps.
"In accordance with auctioneering regulations," he stated, "persons
refusing to pay the full sum of money for items purchased must leave the
hall. The sale of the chairs is revoked."
The dazed friends sat motionless.
The effect was terrific. There was rude guffawing from the onlookers.
Ostap remained seated, however. He had not suffered such a blow for a long
time.
"You're asked to leave."
The auctioneer's singsong voice was firm.
The laughter in the room grew louder.
So they left. Few people have ever left an auction room with more
bitterness.
Vorobyaninov went first. With his bony shoulders hunched up, and in his
shrunken jacket and silly baronial boots, he walked like a crane; he felt
the warm and friendly glance of the smooth operator behind.
The concessionaires stopped in the room next to the auction hall. They
could now only watch the proceedings through a glass door. The path back was
barred. Ostap maintained a friendly silence.
"An outrageous system," murmured Ippolit Matveyevich timidly.
"Downright disgraceful! We should complain to the militia."
Ostap said nothing.
"No, but really, it's the hell of a thing." Ippolit Matveyevich
continued ranting. "Making the working people pay through the nose.
Honestly! Two hundred and thirty roubles for ten old chairs. It's mad!"
"Yes," said Ostap woodenly.
"Isn't it? " said Vorobyaninov again. "It's mad!"
"Yes."
Ostap went up close to Vorobyaninov and, having looked around, hit the
marshal a quick, hard, and unobserved blow in the side. "That's for the
militia. That's for the high price of chairs for working people of all
countries. That's for going after girls at night. That's for being a dirty
old man."
Ippolit Matveyevich took his punishment without a sound.
From the side it looked as though a respectful son was conversing with
his father, except that the father was shaking his head a little too
vigorously.
"Now get out of here!"
Ostap turned his back on the director of the enterprise and began
watching the auction hall. A moment later he looked around.
Ippolit Matveyevich was still standing there, with his hands by his
sides.
"Oh! You're still here, life and soul of the party! Go on, get out!"
"Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov implored, "Comrade Bender!"
"Go on, go! And don't come back to Ivanopulo's because I'll throw you
out."
Ostap did not turn around again. Something was going on in the hall
which interested him so much that he opened the glass door slightly and
began listening.
"That's done it," he muttered.
"What has?" asked Vorobyaninov obsequiously.
"They're selling the chairs separately, that's what. Maybe you'd like
to buy one? Go ahead, I'm not stopping you. I doubt, though whether they'll
let you in. And you haven't much money, I gather."
In the meantime, in the auction hall, the auctioneer, feeling that he
would be unable to make any member of the public cough up two hundred
roubles all at once (too large a sum for the small fry left), decided to
obtain his price in bits and pieces. The chairs came up for auction again,
but this time in lots.
"Four chairs from a palace. Made of walnut. Upholstered. Made by Hambs.
Thirty roubles. Who'll give me more?"
Ostap had soon regained his former power of decision and sang-froid.
"You stay here, you ladies' favourite, and don't go away. I'll be back
in five minutes. You stay here and see who buys the chairs. Don't miss a
single one."
Ostap had thought of a plan-the only one possible under the difficult
circumstances facing them.
He hurried out into the Petrovka, made for the nearest asphalt vat, and
had a businesslike conversation with some waifs.
Five minutes later he was back as promised with the waifs waiting ready
at the entrance to the auction rooms.
"They're being sold," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Four and then two
have already gone."
"See what you've done!" said Ostap. "Admire your handiwork! We had them
in our hands . . . in our hands, don't you realize!"
From the hall came a squeaky voice of the kind endowed only to
auctioneers, croupiers and glaziers.
". . . and a half on my left. Three. One more chair from the palace.
Walnut. In perfect condition. And a half on the right. Going for three and a
half in front."
Three chairs were sold separately. The auctioneer announced the sale of
the last chair. Ostap choked with fury. He let fly at Vorobyaninov again.
His abusive remarks were full of bitterness. Who knows how far Ostap might
not have gone in this satirical exercise had he not been interrupted by the
approach of a man in a brown Lodz suit. The man waved his plump hands,
bowed, and jumped up and down and backwards and forwards, as though playing
tennis.
"Tell me, is there really an auction here?" he asked Ostap hurriedly.
"Yes? An auction. And are they really selling things here? Wonderful."
The stranger jumped backwards, his face wreathed with smiles. "So
they're really selling things here? And one can buy cheaply? First-rate.
Very, very much so. Ah!"
Swinging his hips, the stranger rushed past the bewildered
concessionaires into the hall and bought the last chair so quickly that
Vorobyaninov could only croak. With the receipt in his hand the stranger ran
up to the collection counter.
"Tell me, do I get the chair now? Wonderful! Ah! Ah!"
Bleating endlessly and skipping about the whole time, the stranger
loaded the chair on to a cab and drove off. A waif ran behind, hot on his
trail.
The new chair owners gradually dispersed by cab and on foot. Ostap's
junior agents hared after them. Ostap himself left and Vorobyaninov timidly
followed him. The day had been like a nightmare. Everything had happened so
quickly and not at all as anticipated.
On Sivtsev Vrazhek, pianos, mandolins and accordions were celebrating
the spring. Windows were wide open. Flower pots lined the windowsills.
Displaying his hairy chest, a fat man stood by a window in his braces and
sang. A cat slowly made its way along a wall. Kerosene lamps blazed above
the food stalls.
Nicky was strolling about outside the little pink house. Seeing Ostap,
who was walking in front, he greeted him politely and then went up to
Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich greeted him cordially. Nicky, however, was
not going to waste time.
"Good evening," he said and, unable to control himself, boxed Ippolit
Matveyevich's ears. As he did so he uttered a phrase, which in the opinion
of Ostap, who was witnessing the scene, was a rather vulgar one.
"That's what everyone will get," said Nicky in a childish voice, "who
tries . . ."
Who tries exactly what, Nicky did not specify. He stood on tiptoe and,
closing his eyes, slapped Vorobyaninov's face.
Ippolit Matveyevich raised his elbow slightly but did not dare utter a
sound.
"That's right," said Ostap, "and now on the neck. Twice.
That's it. Can't be helped. Sometimes the eggs have to teach a lesson
to a chicken who gets out of hand. Once more, that's it. Don't be shy. Don't
hit him any more on the head, it's his weakest point."
If the Stargorod conspirators had seen the master-mind and father of
Russian democracy at that crucial moment, it can be taken for certain that
the secret alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare would have ended its
existence.
"That's enough, I think," said Nicky, hiding his hand in his pocket.
"Just once more," implored Ostap.
"To hell with him. He'll know next time."
Nicky went away. Ostap went upstairs to Ivanopulo's and looked down.
Ippolit Matveyevich stood sideways to the house, leaning against the iron
railing of the embassy.
"Citizen Michelson," he called. "Konrad Karlovich. Come inside. I
permit you."
Ippolit Matveyevich entered the room in slightly better spirits.
"Unheard-of impudence," he exclaimed angrily. "I could hardly control
myself."
"Dear, dear," sympathized Ostap. "What has the modern youth come to?
Terrible young people! Chase after other people's wives. Spend other
people's money. Complete decadence. But tell me, does it really hurt when
they hit you on the head? "
"I'll challenge him to a duel!"
"Fine! I can recommend a good friend of mine. He knows the duelling
code by heart and has two brooms quite suitable for a struggle to the death.
You can have Ivanopulo and his neighbour on the right as seconds. He's an
ex-honorary citizen of the city of Kologriv and still even brags about the
title. Or you can have a duel with mincing-machines-it's more elegant. Each
wound is definitely fatal. The wounded adversary is automatically turned
into a meat ball. How do you like the idea, Marshal?"
At that moment there was a whistle from the street and Ostap went down
to receive the* reports from his young agents.
The waifs had coped splendidly with their mission. Four chairs had gone
to the Columbus Theatre. The waif explained in detail how the chairs were
transported in a wheelbarrow, unloaded and carted into the building through
the stage-door. Ostap already knew the location of the theatre.
Another young pathfinder said that two chairs had been taken away in a
taxi. The boy did not seem to be very bright. He knew the street where the
chairs had been taken and even remembered the number of the apartment was
17, but could not remember the number of the house.
152
"I ran too quick," said the waif. "It flew out me head."
"You won't get any money," declared the boss.
"But, mister! I'll show you the place."
"All right, stay here. We'll go there together."
The citizen with the bleat turned out to live on Sadovaya Spasskaya.
Ostap jotted down the exact address in a notebook.
The eighth chair had been taken to the House of the Peoples. The boy
who had followed this chair proved to have initiative. Overcoming barriers
in the form of the commandant's office and numerous messengers, he had found
his way into the building and discovered the chair had been bought by the
editor of the Lathe newspaper.
Two boys had not yet come back. They arrived almost simultaneously,
panting and tired.
"Barrack Street in the Clear Lakes district."
"Number?"
"Nine. And the apartment is nine. There were Tatars living in the yard
next door. I carried the chair the last part of the way. We went on foot."
The final messenger brought sad tidings. At first everything had been
all right, but then everything had gone all wrong. The purchaser had taken
his chair into the goods yard of October Station and it had not been
possible to slip in after him, as there were armed guards from the Ministry
of Transport standing at the gates.
"He left by train, most likely," said the waif, concluding his report.
This greatly disconcerted Ostap. Rewarding the waifs royally, one
rouble each (except for the herald from Varsonofefsky Street, who had
forgotten the number and was told to come back the next day), the technical
adviser went back inside and, ignoring the many questions put to him by the
disgraced chairman of the board, began to scheme.
"Nothing's lost yet. We have the addresses and there are many old and
reliable tricks for getting the chairs: simple friendship; a love affair;
friendship plus housebreaking; barter; and money. The last is the most
reliable. But we haven't much money."
Ostap glanced ironically at Ippolit Matveyevich. The smooth operator
had regained his usual clarity of thought and mental balance. It would, of
course, be possible to get the money. Their reserve included the picture
"Chamberlain Answers the Bolsheviks", the tea-strainer, and full opportunity
for continuing a career of polygamy.
The only trouble was the tenth chair. There was a trail to follow, but
only a diffuse and vague one.
"Well, anyway," Ostap decided aloud, "we can easily bet on those odds.
I'll stake nine to one. The hearing is continued. Do you hear? Hey you,
member of the jury? "
William Shakespeare's vocabulary has been estimated by the experts at
twelve thousand words. The vocabulary of a Negro from the Mumbo Jumbo tribe
amounts to three hundred words.
Ellochka Shukin managed easily and fluently on thirty.
Here are the words, phrases and interjections which she fastidiously
picked from the great, rich and expressive Russian language:
1. You're being vulgar.
2. Ho-ho (expresses irony, surprise, delight, loathing, joy, contempt
and satisfaction, according to the circumstances).
3. Great!
4. Dismal (applied to everything-for example: "dismal Pete has
arrived", "dismal weather", or a "dismal cat").
5. Gloom.
6. Ghastly (for example: when meeting a close female acquaintance, "a
ghastly meeting").
7. Kid (applied to all male acquaintances, regardless of age or social
position).
8. Don't tell me how to live!
9. Like a babe ("I whacked him like a babe" when playing cards, or "I
brought him down like a babe," evidently when talking to a legal tenant).
10.Ter-r-rific!
11. Fat and good-looking (used to describe both animate and inanimate
objects).
12. Let's go by horse-cab (said to her husband).
13. Let's go by taxi (said to male acquaintances).
14. You're all white at the back! (joke).
15. Just imagine!
16. Ula (added to a name to denote affection-for example: Mishula,
Zinula).
17. Oho! (irony, surprise, delight, loathing, joy, contempt and
satisfaction).
The extraordinary small number of words remaining were used as
connecting links between Ellochka and department-store assistants.
If you looked at the photographs of Ellochka Shukin which her husband,
engineer Ernest Pavlovich Shukin, had hanging over his bed (one profile and
the other full-face), you would easily see her pleasantly high and curved
forehead, big liquid eyes, the cutest little nose in the whole of the
province of Moscow, and a chin with a small beauty spot.
Men found Ellochka's height nattering. She was petite, and even the
puniest little men looked hefty he-men beside her.
She had no particular distinguishing features; she did not need them.
She was pretty.
The two hundred roubles which her husband earned each month at the
Electrolustre works was an insult to Ellochka. It was of no help at all in
the tremendous battle which she had been waging for the past four years,
from the moment she acquired the social status of housewife and Shukin's
spouse. The battle was waged at full pressure. It absorbed all her
resources. Ernest Pavlovich took home work to do in the evening, refused to
have servants, lit the primus himself, put out the refuse, and even cooked
meat balls.
But it was all useless. A dangerous enemy was ruining the household
more and more every year. Four years earlier Ellochka had noticed she had a
rival across the ocean. The misfortune had come upon Ellochka one happy
evening while she was trying on a very pretty crepe de Chine blouse. It made
her look almost a goddess.
"Ho-ho!" she exclaimed, summing up by that cannibal cry the amazingly
complex emotions which had overcome her.
More simply, the emotions could have been expressed by the following:
men will become excited when they see me like this. They will tremble. They
will follow me to the edge of the world, hiccupping with love. But I shall
be cold. Are you really worthy of me? I am still the prettiest girl of all.
No one in the world has such an elegant blouse as this.
But there were only thirty words, so Ellochka selected the most
expressive one-"Ho-ho!"
It was at this hour of greatness that Fimka Sobak came to see her. She
brought with her the icy breath of January and a French fashion magazine.
Ellochka got no further than the first page. A glossy photograph showed the
daughter of the American billionaire, Vanderbilt, in an evening dress. It
showed furs and plumes, silks and pearls, an unusually simple cut and a
stunning hair-do. That settled everything. "Oho!" said Ellochka to herself.
That meant "she or me". The next morning found Ellochka at the
hairdresser's, where she relinquished her beautiful black plait and had her
hair dyed red. Then she was able to climb another step up the ladder leading
her to the glittering paradise frequented by billionaires' daughters, who
were no match for housewife Shukin. A dog skin made to look like muskrat was
bought with a loan and added the finishing touch to the evening dress.
Mister Shukin, who had long cherished the dream of buying a new
drawing-board, became rather depressed.
The dog-trimmed dress was the first well-aimed blow at Miss Vanderbilt.
The snooty American girl was then dealt three more in succession. Ellochka
bought a chinchilla tippet (Russian rabbit caught in Tula Province) from
Fimka Sobak, a private furrier, acquired a hat made of dove-grey Argentine
felt, and converted her husband's new jacket into a stylish tunic. The
billionaire's daughter was shaken, but the affectionate Daddy Vanderbilt
evidently came to the rescue.
The latest number of the magazine contained a portrait of the cursed
rival in four different styles: (1) in black-brown fox; (2) with a diamond
star on her forehead; (3) in a flying suit (high boots, a very thin green
coat and gauntlets, the tops of which were encrusted with medium-size
emeralds); and (4) in a ball gown (cascades of jewellery and a little silk).
Ellochka mustered her forces. Daddy Shukin obtained a loan from the
mutual-assistance fund, but they would only give him thirty roubles. This
desperate new effort radically undermined the household economy, but the
battle had to be waged on all fronts. Not long before some snapshots of the
Miss in her new castle in Florida had been received. Ellochka, too, had to
acquire new furniture. She bought two upholstered chairs at an auction.
(Successful buy! Wouldn't have missed it for the world.) Without asking her
husband, Ellochka took the money from the dinner fund. There were ten days
and four roubles left to the fifteenth.
Ellochka transported the chairs down Varsonofefsky Street in style. Her
husband was not at home, but arrived soon after, carrying a brief-case.
"The dismal husband has arrived," said Ellochka clearly and distinctly.
All her words were pronounced distinctly and popped out as smartly as
peas from a pod.
"Hello, Ellochka, what's all this? Where did the chairs come from?"
"Ho-ho!"
"No, really?"
"Ter-r-rific!"
"Yes, they're nice chairs."
"Great!"
"A present from someone?"
"Oho!"
"What? Do you mean you bought them? Where did the money come from? The
housekeeping money? But I've told you a thousand times . . ."
"Ernestula, you're being vulgar!"
"How could you do a thing like that? We won't have anything to eat!"
"Just imagine!"
"But it's outrageous! You're living beyond your means."
"You're kidding."
"No, no. You're living beyond your means."
"Don't tell me how to live!"
"No, let's have a serious talk. I get two hundred roubles. . ."
"Gloom!"
"I don't take bribes, don't steal money, and don't know how to
counterfeit it. . . ."
"Ghastly!"
Ernest Pavlovich dried up.
"The point is this," he said after a while; "we can't go on this way."
"Ho-ho!" said Ellochka, sitting down on the new chair.
"We will have to get a divorce."
"Just imagine!"
"We're not compatible. I. . ."
"You're a fat and good-looking kid."
"How many times have I told you not to call me a kid."
"You're kidding!"
"And where did you get that idiotic jargon from?"
"Don't tell me how to live!"
"Oh, hell!" cried the engineer.
"You're being vulgar, Ernestula!"
"Let's get divorced peaceably."
"Oho!"
"You won't prove anything to me. This argument. . ."
"I'll whack you like a babe."
"No, this is absolutely intolerable. Your arguments cannot prevent me
from taking the step forced upon me. I'm going to get the removal van."
"You're kidding!"
"We'll divide up the furniture equally."
"Ghastly!"
"You'll get a hundred roubles a month. Even a hundred and twenty. The
room will be yours. Live how you like, I can't go on this way."
"Great!" said Ellochka with contempt.
"I'll move in with Ivan Alexeyvich."
"Oho!"
"He's gone to the country and left me his apartment for the summer. I
have the key. . . . Only there's no furniture."
"Ter-r-rific!"
Five minutes later Ernest Pavlovich came back with the caretaker.
"I'll leave the wardrobe. You need it more. But I'll have the desk, if
you don't mind. And take this chair, caretaker. I'll take one of the chairs.
I think I have the right to, don't I?"
Ernest Pavlovich gathered his things into a large bundle, wrapped his
boots up in paper, and turned towards the door.
"You're all white at the back," said Ellochka in a phonographic voice.
"Good-bye, Ella."
He hoped that this time at least his wife would refrain from her usual
metallic vocables. Ellochka also felt the seriousness of the occasion. She
strained herself, searching for suitable words for the parting. They soon
came to mind.
"Going by taxi? Ter-r-rific!"
The engineer hurtled downstairs like an avalanche.
Ellochka spent the evening with Fimka Sobak. They discussed a
singularly important event which threatened to upset world economy.
"It seems they will be worn long and wide," said Fimka, sinking her
head into her shoulders like a hen.
"Gloom!"
Ellochka looked admiringly at Fimka Sobak. Mile Sobak was reputed to be
a cultured girl and her vocabulary contained about a hundred and eighty
words. One of the words was one that Ellochka would not even have dreamed
of. It was the meaningful word "homosexuality".
Fimka Sobak was undoubtedly a cultured girl.
Their animated conversation lasted well into the night.
At ten the next morning the smooth operator arrived at Varsonofefsky
Street. In front of him ran the waif from the day before. He pointed out the
house.
"You're not telling stories?"
"Of course not, mister. In there, through the front door."
Bender gave the boy an honestly earned rouble.
"That's not enough," said the boy, like a taxi-driver.
"The ears of a dead donkey. Get them from Pushkin. On your way,
defective one!"
Ostap knocked at the door without the least idea what excuse he would
use for his visit. In conversations with young ladies he preferred
inspiration.
"Oho?" asked a voice behind the door.
"On business," replied Ostap.
The door opened and Ostap went into a room that could only have been
furnished by someone with the imagination of a woodpecker. The walls were
covered with picture postcards of film stars, dolls and Tambov tapestries.
Against this dazzling background it was difficult to make out the little
occupant of the room. She was wearing a gown made from one of Ernest
Pavlovich's shirts, trimmed with some mysterious fur.
Ostap knew at once how he should behave in such high society. He closed
his eyes and took a step backwards. "A beautiful fur!" he exclaimed.
"You're kidding," said Ellochka tenderly. "It's Mexican jerboa."
"It can't be. They made a mistake. You were given a much better fur.
It's Shanghai leopard. Yes, leopard. I recognize it by the shade. You see
how it reflects the sun. Just like emerald!"
Ellochka had dyed the Mexican jerboa with green water-colour herself,
so the morning visitor's praise was particularly pleasing.
Without giving her time to recover, the smooth operator poured out
everything he had ever heard about furs. After that they discussed silk, and
Ostap promised to make his charming hostess a present of several thousand
silkworms which he claimed the Chairman of the Central Executive Committee
of Uzbekistan had brought him.
"You're the right kind of kid," observed Ellochka as a result of the
first few minutes of friendship.
"You're surprised, of course, by this early visit from a stranger."
"Ho-ho!"
"But I've come on a delicate matter."
"You're kidding."
"You were at the auction yesterday and made a remarkable impression on
me."
"You're being vulgar!"
"Heavens! To be vulgar to such a charming woman would be inhuman."
"Ghastly!" .
The conversation continued along these lines, now and then producing
splendid results.
But all the time Ostap's compliments became briefer and more watery. He
had noticed that the second chair was not there. It was up to him to find a
clue. Interspersing his questions with flowery Eastern flattery, he found
out all about the events of the day before in Ellochka's life.
"Something new," he thought, "the chairs are crawling all over the
place, like cockroaches."
"Sell me the chair, dear lady," said Ostap unexpectedly. "I like it
very much. Only with your female intuition could you have chosen such an
artistic object. Sell it to me, young lady, and I'll give you seven
roubles."
"You're being vulgar, kid," said Ellochka slyly.
"Ho-ho!" said Ostap, trying to make her understand. I must approach her
differently, he decided. Let's suggest an exchange.
"You know that in Europe now and in the best homes in Philadelphia
they've reintroduced the ancient custom of pouring tea through a strainer?
It's remarkably effective and elegant."
Ellochka pricked up her ears.
"A diplomat I know has just arrived back from Vienna and brought me one
as a present. It's an amusing thing."
"It must be great," said Ellochka with interest.
"Oho! Ho-ho! Let's make an exchange. You give me the chair and I'll
give you the tea-strainer. Would you like that? "
The sun rolled about in the strainer like an egg. Spots of light danced
on the ceiling. A dark corner of the room was suddenly lit up. The strainer
made the same overwhelming impression on Ellochka as an old tin can makes on
a Mumbo Jumbo cannibal. In such circumstances the cannibal shouts at the top
of his voice. Ellochka, however, merely uttered a quiet "Ho-ho."
Without giving her time to recover, Ostap put the strainer down on the
table, took the chair, and having found out the address of the charming
lady's husband, courteously bowed his way out.
ABSALOM VLADIMIROVICH IZNURENKOV
There followed a busy time for the concessionaires. Ostap contended
that the chairs should be struck while the iron was hot. Ippolit Matveyevich
was granted an amnesty, although Ostap, from time to time, would ask him
such questions as:
"Why the hell did I ever take up with you? What do I need you for,
anyway? You ought to go home to your registry office where the corpses and
newborn babes are waiting for you. Don't make the infants suffer. Go back
there!"
But in his heart the smooth operator had become very much attached to
the wild marshal. "Life wouldn't be such fun without him," he thought. And
he would glance now and then at Ippolit Matveyevich, whose head was just
beginning to sprout a new crop of silvery hair.
Ippolit Matveyevich's initiative was allotted a fair share of the work
schedule. As soon as the placid Ivanopulo had gone out, Bender would try to
drum into his partner's head the surest way to get the treasure.
"Act boldly. Don't ask too many questions. Be more cynical- people like
it. Don't do anything through a third party. People are smart. No one's
going to hand you the jewels on a plate. But don't do anything criminal.
We've got to keep on the right side of the law."
Their search progressed, however, without much success. The criminal
code plus a large number of bourgeois prejudices retained by the citizens of
the capital made things difficult. People just would not tolerate nocturnal
visits through their windows, for instance. The work could only be done
legally.
The same day that Ostap visited Ellochka Shukin a new piece of
furniture appeared in Ivanopulo's room. It was the chair bartered for the
tea-strainer-their third trophy of the expedition. The partners had long
since passed the stage where the hunt for the jewels aroused strong feelings
in them, where they clawed open the chairs and gnawed the springs.
"Even if there's nothing inside," Ostap said, "you must realize we've
gained at least ten thousand roubles. Every chair opened increases our
chances. What does it matter if there's nothing in the little lady's chair?
We don't have to break it to pieces. Let Ivanopulo furnish his room with it.
It will be pleasanter for us too."
That day the concessionaires trooped out of the little pink house and
went off in different directions. Ippolit Matveyevich was entrusted with the
stranger with the bleat from Sadovaya Spasskaya Street; he was given
twenty-five roubles to cover expenses, ordered to keep out of beer-halls and
not to come back without the chair. For himself the smooth operator chose
Ellochka's husband.
Ippolit Matveyevich crossed the city in a no. 6 bus. As he bounced up
and down on the leather seat, almost hitting his head against the roof, he
wondered how he would find out the bleating stranger's name, what excuse to
make for visiting him, what his first words should be, and how to get to the
point.
Alighting at Red Gates, he found the right house from the address Ostap
had written down, and began walking up and down outside. He could not bring
himself to go in. It was an old, dirty Moscow hotel, which had been
converted into a housing co-operative, and was resided in, to judge from the
shabby frontage, by tenants who persistently avoided their payments.
For a long time Ippolit Matveyevich remained by the entrance,
continually approaching and reading the handwritten notice threatening
neglectful tenants until he knew it by heart; then, finally, still unable to
think of anything, he went up the stairs to the second floor. There were
several doors along the corridor. Slowly, as though going up to the
blackboard at school to prove a theorem he had not properly learned, Ippolit
Matveyevich approached Room 41. A visiting card was pinned upside-down to
the door by one drawing-pin.
Absalom Vladimirovich
IZNURENKOV
In a complete daze, Ippolit Matveyevich forgot to knock. He opened the
door, took three zombie-like steps forward and found himself in the middle
of the room.
"Excuse me," he said in a strangled voice, "can I see Comrade
Iznurenkov?"
Absalom Vladimirovich did not reply. Vorobyaninov raised his head and
saw there was no one in the room.
It was not possible to guess the proclivities of the occupant from the
outward appearance of the room. The only thing that was clear was that he
was a bachelor and had no domestic help. On the window-sill lay a piece of
paper containing bits of sausage skin. The low divan by the wall was piled
with newspapers. There were a few dusty books on the small bookshelf.
Photographs of tomcats, little cats, and female cats looked down from the
walls. In the middle of the room, next to a pair of dirty shoes which had
toppled over sideways, was a walnut chair. Crimson wax seals dangled from
all the pieces of furniture, including the chair from the Stargorod mansion.
Ippolit Matveyevich paid no attention to this. He immediately forgot about
the criminal code and Ostap's admonition, and ran towards the chair.
At this moment the papers on the divan began to stir. Ippolit
Matveyevich started back in fright. The papers moved a little way and fell
on to the floor; from beneath them emerged a small, placid tomcat. It looked
uninterestedly at Ippolit Matveyevich and began to wash itself, catching at
its ear, face and whiskers with its paw.
"Bah!" said Ippolit Matveyevich and dragged the chair towards the door.
The door opened for him and there on the threshold stood the occupant of the
room, the stranger with the bleat. He was wearing a coat under which could
be seen a pair of lilac underpants. He was carrying his trousers in Ms hand.
It could be said that there was no one like Absalom Vladimirovich
Iznurenkov in the whole Republic. The Republic valued his services. He was
of great use to it. But, for all that, he remained unknown, though he was
just as skilled in his art as Chaliapin was in singing, Gorky in writing,
Capablanca in chess, Melnikov in ice-skating, and that very large-nosed and
brown Assyrian occupying the best place on the corner of Tverskaya and
Kamerger streets was in cleaning black boots with brown polish.
Chaliapin sang. Gorky wrote great novels. Capablanca prepared for his
match against Alekhine. Melnikov broke records. The Assyrian made citizens'
shoes shine like mirrors. Absalom Iznurenkov made jokes.
He never made them without reason, just for the effect. He made them to
order for humorous journals. On his shoulders he bore the responsibility for
highly important campaigns, and supplied most of the Moscow satirical
journals with subjects for cartoons and humorous anecdotes.
Great men make jokes twice in their lifetime. The jokes boost their
fame and go down in history. Iznurenkov produced no less than sixty
first-rate jokes a month, which everyone retold with a smile, but he
nonetheless remained in obscurity. Whenever one of Iznurenkov's witticisms
was used as a caption for a cartoon, the glory went to the artist. The
artist's name was placed above the cartoon. Iznurenkov's name did not
appear.
"It's terrible," he used to cry. "It's impossible for me to sign my
name. What am I supposed to sign? Two lines?"
And he continued with his virulent campaign against the enemies of
society-dishonest members of co-operatives, embezzlers, Chamberlain and
bureaucrats. He aimed his sting at bootlickers, apartment-block
superintendents, owners of private property, hooligans, citizens reluctant
to lower their prices, and industrial executives who tried to avoid economy
drives.
As soon as the journals came out, the jokes were repeated in the circus
arena, reprinted in the evening press without reference to the source, and
offered to audiences from the variety stage by "entertainers writing their
own words and music".
Iznurenkov managed to be funny about fields of activity in which you
would not have thought it was possible to say anything humorous at all. From
the arid desert of excessive increases in the cost of production Iznurenkov
managed to extract a hundred or so masterpieces of wit. Heine would have
given up in despair had he been asked to say something funny and at the same
time socially useful about the unfair tariff rates on slow-delivery goods
consignments; Mark Twain would have fled from the subject, but Iznurenkov
remained at his post. He chased from one editorial office to another,
bumping into ash-tray stands and bleating. In ten minutes the subject had
been worked out, the cartoon devised, and the caption added.
When he saw a man in his room just about to remove the chair with the
seal, Absalom Iznurenkov waved his trousers, which had just been pressed at
the tailor's, gave a jump, and screeched: "That's ridiculous! I protest! You
have no right. There's a law, after all. It's not intended for fools, but
you may have heard the furniture can stay another two weeks! I shall
complain to the Public Prosecutor. After all, I'm going to pay!"
Ippolit Matveyevich stood motionless, while Iznurenkov threw off his
coat and, without moving away from the door, pulled on the trousers over his
fat, Chichickovian legs. Iznurenkov was portly, but his face was thin.
Vorobyaninov had no doubt in his mind that he was about to be seized
and hauled off to the police. He was therefore very surprised when the
occupant of the room, having adjusted his dress, suddenly became calmer.
"You must understand," he said in a tone of conciliation, "I cannot
agree to it."
Had he been in Iznurenkov's shoes, Ippolit Matveyevich would certainly
not have agreed to his chairs being stolen in broad daylight either. But he
did not know what to say, so he kept silent.
"It's not my fault. It's the fault of the musicians' organization. Yes,
I admit I didn't pay for the hired piano for eight months. But at least I
didn't sell it, although there was plenty of opportunity. I was honest, but
they behaved like crooks. They took away the piano, and then went to court
about it and had an inventory of my furniture made. There's nothing to put
on the inventory. All this furniture constitutes work tools. The chair is a
work tool as well."
Ippolit Matveyevich was beginning to see the light.
"Put that chair down!" screeched Iznurenkov suddenly. "Do you hear, you
bureaucrat?"
Ippolit Matveyevich obediently put down the chair and mumbled: "I'm
sorry, there's been a misunderstanding. It often happens in this kind of
work!"
At this Iznurenkov brightened up tremendously. He began running about
the room singing: "And in the morning she smiled again before her window."
He did not know what to do with his hands. They flew all over the place. He
started tying his tie, then left off without finishing. He took up a
newspaper, then threw it on the floor without reading anything.
"So you aren't going to take away the furniture today? . . .' Good. .
.Ah! Ah!"
Taking advantage of this favourable turn of events, Ippolit Matveyevich
moved towards the door.
"Wait!" called Iznurenkov suddenly. "Have you ever seen such a cat?
Tell me, isn't it really extraordinarily fluffy?"
Ippolit Matveyevich found the cat in his trembling hands.
"First-rate," babbled Absalom Vladimirovich, not knowing what to do
with this excess of energy. "Ah! Ah!"
He rushed to the window, clapped his hands, and began making slight but
frequent bows to two girls who were watching him from a window of the house
opposite. He stamped his feet and gave sighs of longing.
"Girls from the suburbs! The finest fruit! . . . First-rate! . . . Ah!
. . . 'And in the morning she smiled again before her window'."
"I'm leaving now, Citizen," said Ippolit Matveyevich stupidly.
"Wait, wait!" Iznurenkov suddenly became excited. "Just one moment! Ah!
Ah! The cat . . . Isn't it extraordinarily fluffy? Wait. . . I'll be with
you in a moment."
He dug into all his pockets with embarrassment, ran to the side, came
back, looked out of the window, ran aside, and again returned.
"Forgive me, my dear fellow," he said to Vorobyaninov, who stood with
folded arms like a soldier during all these operations. With these words he
handed the marshal a half-rouble piece.
"No, no, please don't refuse. All labour must be rewarded."
"Much obliged," said Ippolit Matveyevich, surprised at his own
resourcefulness,
"Thank you, dear fellow. Thank you, dear friend."
As he went down the corridor, Ippolit Matveyevich could hear bleating,
screeching, and shouts of delight coming from Iznurenkov's room.
Outside in the street, Vorobyaninov remembered Ostap, and trembled with
fear.
Ernest Pavlovich Shukin was wandering about the empty apartment
obligingly loaned to him by a friend for the summer, trying to decide
whether or not to have a bath.
The three-room apartment was at the very top of a nine-storey building.
The only thing in it besides a desk and Vorobyaninov's chair was a pier
glass. It reflected the sun and hurt his eyes. The engineer lay down on the
desk and immediately jumped up again. It was red-hot.
"I'll go and have a wash," he decided.
He undressed, felt cooler, inspected himself in the mirror, and went
into the bathroom. A coolness enveloped him. He climbed into the bath,
doused himself with water from a blue enamel mug, and soaped himself
generously. Covered in lather, he looked like a Christmas-tree decoration.
"Feels good," said Ernest Pavlovich.
Everything was fine. It was cool. His wife was not there. He had
complete freedom ahead of him. The engineer knelt down and turned on the tap
in order to wash off the soap. The tap gave a gasp and began making slow,
undecipherable noises. No water came out. Ernest Pavlovich inserted a
slippery little finger into the hole. Out poured a thin stream of water and
then nothing more. Ernest Pavlovich frowned, stepped out of the bath,
lifting each leg in turn, and went into the kitchen. Nothing was forthcoming
from the tap in there, either.
Ernest Pavlovich shuffled through the rooms and stopped in front of the
mirror. The soap was stinging his eyes, his back itched, and suds were
dripping on to the floor. Listening to make certain there was still no water
running in the bath, he decided to call the caretaker.
He can at least bring up some water, thought the engineer, wiping his
eyes and slowly getting furious, or else I'm in a mess.
He looked out of the window. Down below, at the bottom of the well of
the building, there were some children playing.
"Caretaker!" shouted Ernest Pavlovich. "Caretaker!"
No one answered.
Then Ernest Pavlovich remembered that the caretaker lived at the front
of the building under the stairway. He stepped out on to the cold tiled
floor and, keeping the door open with one arm, leaned over the banister.
There was only one apartment on that landing, so Ernest Pavlovich was not
afraid of being seen in his strange suit of soapsuds.
"Caretaker!" he shouted downstairs.
The word rang out and reverberated noisily down the stairs.
"Hoo-hoo!" they echoed.
"Caretaker! Caretaker!"
"Hum-hum! Hum-hum!"
It was at this point that the engineer, impatiently shifting from one
bare foot to the other, suddenly slipped and, to regain his balance, let go
of the door.
The brass bolt of the Yale lock clicked into place and the door shut
fast. The wall shook. Not appreciating the irrevocable nature of what had
happened, Ernest Pavlovich pulled at the door handle. The door did not
budge.
In dismay the engineer pulled the handle again several times and
listened, his heart beating fast. There was a churchlike evening stillness.
A little light still filtered through the multicoloured glass of the high
window.
A fine thing to happen, thought Shukin. "You son of a bitch," he said
to the door. Downstairs, voices broke through the silence like exploding
squibs. Then came the muffled bark of a dog in one of the rooms. Someone was
pushing a pram upstairs. Ernest Pavlovich walked timidly up and down the
landing. "Enough to drive you crazy!"
It all seemed too outrageous to have actually happened. He went up to
the door and listened again. Suddenly he heard a different sort of noise. At
first he thought it was someone walking about in the apartment.
Somebody may have got in through the back door, he thought, although he
knew that the back door was locked and that no one could have got in.
The monotonous sound continued. The engineer held his breath and
suddenly realized that the sound was that of running water. It was evidently
pouring from all the taps in the apartment. Ernest Pavlovich almost began
howling.
The situation was awful. A full-grown man with a moustache and higher
education was standing on a ninth-floor landing in the centre of Moscow,
naked except for a covering of bursting soapsuds. There was nowhere he could
go. He would rather have gone to jail than show himself in that state. There
was only one thing to do-hide. The bubbles were bursting and making his back
itch. The lather on his face had already dried; it made him look as though
he had the mange and puckered his skin like a hone.
Half an hour passed. The engineer kept rubbing himself against the
whitewashed walls and groaning, and made several unsuccessful attempts to
break in the door. He became dirty and horrible.
Shukin decided to go downstairs to the caretaker at any price. There's
no other way out. None. The only thing to do is hide 10 the caretaker's
room.
Breathing heavily and covering himself with his hand as men do when
they enter the water, Ernest Pavlovich began creeping downstairs close to
the banister. He reached the landing between the eighth and ninth floors.
His body reflected multicoloured rhombuses and squares of light from
the window. He looked like Harlequin secretly listening to a conversation
between Columbine and Pierrot. He had just turned to go down the next flight
when the lock of an apartment door below snapped open and a girl came out
carrying a ballet dancer's attache case. Ernest Pavlovich was back on his
landing before the girl had taken one step. He was practically deafened by
the terrible beating of his heart.
It was half an hour before the engineer recovered sufficiently to make
another sortie. This time he was fully determined to hurtle down at full
speed, ignoring everything, and make it to the promised land of the
caretaker's room.
He started off. Silently taking four stairs at a time, the engineer
raced downstairs. On the landing of the sixth floor he stopped for a moment.
This was his undoing. Someone was coming up.
"Insufferable brat!" said a woman's voice, amplified many times by the
stairway. "How many times do I have to tell him!"
Obeying instinct rather than reason, like a cat pursued by dogs Ernest
Pavlovich tore up to the ninth floor again.
Back on his own land, all covered with wet footmarks, he silently burst
into tears, tearing his hair and swaying convulsively. The hot tears ran
through the coating of soap and formed two wavy furrows.
"Oh, my God!" moaned the engineer. "Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord!"
There was no sign of life. Then he heard the noise of a truck going up
the street. So there was life somewhere! Several times more he tried to
bring himself to go downstairs, but his nerve gave way each time. He might
as well have been in a burial vault.
"Someone's left a trail behind him, the pig!" he heard an old woman's
voice say from the landing below.
The engineer ran to the wall and butted it several times with his head.
The most sensible thing to do, of course, would have been to keep shouting
until someone came, and then put himself at their mercy. But Ernest
Pavlovich had completely lost his ability to reason; breathing heavily he
wandered round and round the landing.
There was no way out.
In the editorial offices of the large daily newspaper Lathe, located on
the second floor of the House of the Peoples, material was hurriedly being
got ready for the typesetters.
News items and articles were selected from the reserve (material which
had been set up but not included in the previous number) and the number of
lines occupied were counted up; then began the daily haggling for space.
The newspaper was able to print forty-four hundred lines in all on its
four pages. This had to include everything: cables, articles, social events,
letters from correspondents, advertisements, one satirical sketch in verse
and two in prose, cartoons, photographs, as well as special sections, such
as theatre, sports, chess, the editorial, second editorial, reports from
Soviet Party and trade-union organizations, serialized novels, features on
life in the capital, subsidiary items under the title of "Snippets",
popular-science articles, radio programmes, and other odds-and-ends. In all,
about ten thousand lines of material from all sections was set up, hence the
distribution of space was usually accompanied by dramatic scenes.
The first person to run to the editor was the chess correspondent,
Maestro Sudeikin. He posed a polite though bitter question. "What? No chess
today?"
"No room," replied the editor. "There's a long special feature. Three
hundred lines."
"But today's Saturday. Readers are expecting the Sunday section. I have
the answers to problems. I have a splendid study by Neunyvako, and I also
have-"
"All right, how much do you want?"
"Not less than a hundred and fifty."
"All right, if it's answers to problems, we'll give you sixty lines."
The maestro tried for another thirty so that at least the Neunyvako
could go in (the wonderful Tartokover vs. Bogolyubov game had been lying
about for a month), but was rebuffed.
Persidsky, the reporter, arrived. "Do you want some impressions of the
Plenum?" he asked softly.
"Of course," cried the editor. "It was held the day before yesterday,
after all!"
"I have the Plenum," said Persidsky even more softly, "and two
sketches, but they won't give me any room."
"Why won't they? Who did you talk to? Have they gone crazy?"
The editor hurried off to have an argument. He was followed by
Persidsky, intriguing as he went; behind them both ran a member of the
advertisement section.
"We have the Sekarov fluid to go in," he cried gloomily.
The office manager trailed along after them, dragging a chair he had
bought at an auction for the editor.
"The fluid can go in on Thursday. Today we're printing our
supplements!"
"You won't make much from free advertisements, and the fluid has been
paid for."
"Very well, we'll clear up the matter in the night editor's office.
Give the advertisements to Pasha. He's just going over there."
The editor sat down to read the editorial. He was immediately
interrupted from that entertaining occupation. Next to arrive was the
artist.
"Aha!" said the editor, "very good! I have a subject for a cartoon in
view of the latest cable from Germany."
"What about this?" said the artist. '"The Steel Helmet and the General
Situation in Germany'?"
"All right, you work something out and then show it to me."
The artist went back to his department. He took a square of
drawing-paper and made a pencil sketch of an emaciated dog. On the dog's
head he drew a German helmet with a spike. Then he turned to the wording. On
the animal's body he printed the word 'Germany', then he printed 'Danzig
Corridor' on its curly tail, 'Dreams of Revenge' on its jaw, 'Dawes Plan' on
its collar, and 'Stresemann' on its protruding tongue. In front of the dog
the artist drew a picture of Poincare holding a piece of meat in his hand.
He thought of something to write on the piece of meat, but the meat was too
small and the word would not fit. Anyone less quick-witted than a cartoonist
would have lost his head, but, without a second thought, the artist drew a
shape like a label of the kind found on necks of bottles near the piece of
meat and wrote 'French Guarantees of Security' in tiny letters inside it. So
that Poincare should not be confused with any other French statesman, he
wrote the word 'Poincare' on his stomach. The drawing was ready.
The desks of the art department were covered with foreign magazines,
large-size pairs of scissors, bottles of India ink and whiting. Bits of
photographs-a shoulder, a pair of legs, and a section of countryside-lay
about on the floor.
There were five artists who scraped the photographs with Gillette razor
blades to brighten them up; they also improved the contrast by touching them
up with India ink and whiting, and wrote their names and the size (3?
squares, 2 columns, and so on) on the reverse side, since these directions
are required in zincography.
There was a foreign delegation sitting in the chief editor's office.
The office interpreter looked into the speaker's face and, turning to the
chief editor, said: "Comrade Arnaud would like to know .. ."
They were discussing the running of a Soviet newspaper. While the
interpreter was explaining to the chief editor what Comrade Arnaud wanted to
know, Arnaud, in velvet plus fours, and all the other foreigners looked
curiously at a red pen with a No. 86 nib which was leaning against the wall
in the corner. The nib almost touched the ceiling and the holder was as wide
as an average man's body at the thickest part. It was quite possible to
write with it; the nib was a real one although it was actually bigger than a
large pike.
"Hohoho! " laughed the foreigners. "Kolossal! " The pen had been
presented to the editorial office by a correspondents' congress.
Sitting on Vorobyaninov's chair, the chief editor smiled and, nodding
first towards the pen and then at his guests, happily explained things to
them.
The clamour in the offices continued. Persidsky brought in an article
by Semashko and the editor promptly deleted the chess section from the third
page. Maestro Sudeikin no longer battled for Neunyvako's wonderful study; he
was only concerned about saving the solutions. After a struggle more tense
than his match with Lasker at the San Sebastian tournament, he won a place
at the expense of Life-and-the-Law.
Semashko was sent to the compositors. The editor buried himself once
more in the editorial. He had decided to read it at all costs, just for the
sporting interest.
He had just reached the bit that said ". . . but the contents of the
pact are such that, if the League of Nations registers it, we will have to
admit that . . ." when Life-and-the-Law, a hairy man, came up to him. The
editor continued reading, avoiding the eyes of Life-and-the-Law, and making
unnecessary notes on the editorial.
Life-and-the-Law went around to the other side of him and said in a
hurt voice: "I don't understand."
"Uhunh," said the editor, trying to play for time. "What's the matter?"
"The matter is that on Wednesday there was no Life-and-the-Law, on
Friday there was no Life-and-the-Law, on Thursday you carried only a case of
alimony which you had in reserve, and on Saturday you're leaving out a trial
which has been written up for some time in all other papers. It's only us
who-"
"Which other papers?" cried the editor. "I haven't seen it."
"It will appear again tomorrow and we'll be too late."
"But when you were asked to report the Chubarov case, what did you
write? It was impossible to get a line out of you. I know. You were
reporting the case for an evening paper."
"How do you know?"
"I know. I was told."
"In that case I know who told you. It was Persidsky. The same Persidsky
who blatantly uses the editorial-office services to send material to
Leningrad."
"Pasha," said the editor quietly, "fetch Persidsky."
Life-and-the-Law sat indifferently on the window ledge. In the garden
behind him birds and young skittle players could be seen busily moving
about. They litigated for some time. The editor ended the hearing with a
smart move: he deleted the chess and replaced it with Life-and-the-Law.
Persidsky was given a warning.
It was five o'clock, the busiest time for the office.
Smoke curled above the over-heated typewriters. The reporters dictated
in voices harshened by haste. The senior typist shouted at the rascals who
slipped in their material unobserved and out of turn.
Down the corridor came the office poet. He was courting a typist, whose
modest hips unleashed his poetic emotions. He used to lead her to the end of
the corridor by the window and murmur words of love to her, to which she
usually replied: "I'm working overtime today and I'm very busy."
That meant she loved another.
The poet got in everyone's way and asked all his friends the same
favour with monotonous regularity. "Let me have ten kopeks for the tram."
He sauntered into the local correspondents' room in search of the sum.
Wandering about between the desks at which the readers were working, and
fingering the piles of despatches, he renewed his efforts. The readers, the
most hardboiled people in the office (they were made that way by the need to
read through a hundred letters a day, scrawled by hands which were more used
to axes, paint-brushes and wheelbarrows than a pen), were silent.
The poet visited the despatch office and finally migrated to the
clerical section. But besides not getting the ten kopeks, he was buttonholed
by Avdotyev, a member of the Young Communist League, who proposed that the
poet should join the Automobile Club. The poet's enamoured soul was
enveloped in a cloud of petrol fumes. He took two paces to the side, changed
into third gear, and disappeared from sight.
Avdotyev was not a bit discouraged. He believed in the triumph of the
car idea. In the editor's room he carried on the struggle, on the sly, which
also prevented the editor from finishing the editorial.
"Listen, Alexander Josifovich, wait a moment, it's a serious matter,"
said Avdotyev, sitting down on the editor's desk. "We've formed an
automobile club. Would the editorial office give us a loan of five hundred
roubles for eight months?"
"Like hell it would."
"Why? Do you think it's a dead duck?"
"I don't think, I know. How many members are there?"
"A large number already."
For the moment the club only consisted of the organizer, but Avdotyev
did not enlarge on this.
"For five hundred roubles we can buy a car at the 'graveyard'. Yegorov
has already picked one out there. He says the repairs won't come to more
than five hundred. That's a thousand altogether. So I thought of recruiting
twenty people, each of whom will give fifty. Anyway, it'll be fun. We'll
learn to drive. Yegorov will be the instructor and in three months' time, by
August, we'll all be able to drive. We'll have a car and each one in turn
can go where he likes."
"What about the five hundred for the purchase?"
"The mutual-assistance fund will provide that on interest. We'll pay it
off. So I'll put you down, shall I?"
But the editor was rather bald, hard-worked, and enslaved by his family
and apartment, liked to have a rest after dinner on the settee, and read
Pravda before going to sleep. He thought for a moment and then declined.
Avdotyev approached each desk in turn and repeated his fiery speech.
His words had a dubious effect on the old men, which meant for him anyone
above the age of twenty. They snapped at him, excusing themselves by saying
they were already friends of children and regularly paid twenty kopeks a
year for the benefit of the poor mites. They would like to join, but. . .
"But what?" cried Avdotyev. "Supposing we had a car today? Yes,
supposing we put down a blue six-cylinder Packard in front of you for
fifteen kopeks a year, with petrol and oil paid for by the government?"
"Go away," said the old men. "It's the last call, you're preventing us
from working." The car idea was fading and beginning to give off fumes when
a champion of the new enterprise was finally found. Persidsky jumped back
from the telephone with a crash and, having listened to Avdotyev, said:
"You're tackling it the wrong way. Give me the sheet. Let's begin at the
beginning."
Accompanied by Avdotyev, Persidsky began a new round.
"You, you old mattress," he said to a blue-eyed boy, "you don't even
have to give any money. You have bonds from '27, don't you? For how much?
For five hundred? All the better. You hand over the bonds to the club. The
capital comes from the bonds. By August we will have cashed all the bonds
and bought the car."
"What happens if my bond wins a prize?" asked the boy defiantly.
"How much do you expect to win?"
"Fifty thousand."
"We'll buy cars with the money. And the same thing if I win. And the
same if Avdotyev wins. In other words, no matter whose bonds win, the money
will be spent on cars. Do you understand now? You crank! You'll drive along
the Georgian Military Highway in your own car. Mountains, you idiot! And
Life-and-the-Law, social events, accidents, and the young lady -you know,
the one who does the films-will all go zooming along behind you in their own
cars as well. Well? Well? You'll be courting!"
In the depths of his heart no bond-holder believes in the possibility
of a win. At the same time he is jealous of his neighbours' and friends'
bonds. He is dead scared that they will win and that he, the eternal loser,
will be left out in the cold. Hence the hope of a win on the part of an
office colleague drew the bond-holders into the new club. The only
disturbing thought was that none of their bonds would win. That seemed
rather unlikely, though, and, furthermore, the Automobile Club had nothing
to lose, since one car from the graveyard was guaranteed by the capital
earned from the bonds.
In five minutes twenty people had been recruited. As soon as it was all
over, the editor arrived, having heard about the club's alluring prospects.
"Well, fellows," he said, "why shouldn't I put my name down on the
list?"
"Why not, old man," replied Avdotyev, "only not on our list. We have a
full complement and no new members are being admitted for the next five
years. You'd do better to enrol yourself as a friend of children. It's cheap
and sure. Twenty kopeks a year and no need to drive anywhere."
The editor looked sheepish, remembered that he was indeed on the old
side, sighed, and went back to finish reading the entertaining editorial.
He was stopped in the corridor by a good-looking man with a Circassian
face.
"Say, Comrade, where's the editorial office of the Lathe!"
It was the smooth operator.
CONVERSATION WITH A NAKED ENGINEER
Ostap's appearance in the editorial offices was preceded by a number of
events of some importance.
Not finding Ernest Pavlovich at home (the apartment was locked and the
owner probably at work), the smooth operator decided to visit him later on,
and in the meantime he wandered about the town. Tortured by a thirst for
action, he crossed streets, stopped in squares, made eyes at militiamen,
helped ladies into buses, and generally gave the impression by his manner
that the whole of Moscow with its monuments, trams, vegetable vendors,
churches, stations and hoardings had gathered at his home for a party. He
walked among the guests, spoke courteously to them, and found something nice
to say to each one. So many guests at one party somewhat tired the smooth
operator. Furthermore, it was after six o'clock and time to visit engineer
Shukin.
But fate had decided that before seeing Ernest Pavlovich, Ostap had to
be delayed a couple of hours in order to sign a statement for the militia.
On Sverdlov Square the smooth operator was knocked down by a horse. A
timid white animal descended on him out of the blue and gave him a shove
with its bony chest. Bender fell down, breaking out in a sweat. It was very
hot. The white horse loudly apologized and Ostap briskly jumped up. His
powerful frame was undamaged. This was all the more reason for a scene.
The hospitable and friendly host of Moscow was unrecognisable. He
waddled up to the embarrassed old man driving the cab and punched him in his
padded back. The old man took his punishment patiently. A militiaman came
running up.
"I insist you report the matter," cried Ostap with emotion.
His voice had the metallic ring of a man whose most sacred feelings had
been hurt. And, standing by the wall of the Maly Theatre, on the very spot
where there was later to be a statue to the Russian dramatist Ostrovsky,
Ostap signed a statement and granted a brief interview to Perdidsky, who had
come hurrying over. Persidsky did not shirk his arduous duties. He carefully
noted down the victim's name and sped on his way.
Ostap majestically set off again. Still feeling the effects of the
clash with the white horse, and experiencing a belated regret for not having
been able to give the cab-driver a belt on the neck as well, Ostap reached
Shukin's house and went up to the seventh floor, taking two stairs at a
time. A heavy drop of liquid struck him on the head. He looked up and a thin
trickle of dirty water caught him right in the eye.
Someone needs his nose punching for tricks like that, decided Ostap.
He hurried upward. A naked man covered with white fungus was sitting by
the door of Shukin's apartment with his back to the stairs. He was sitting
on the tiled floor, holding his head in his hands and rocking from side to
side.
The naked man was surrounded by water oozing from under the apartment
door.
"Oh-oh-oh," groaned the naked man. "Oh-oh-oh."
"Is it you splashing water about?" asked Ostap irritably. "What a place
to take a bath. You must be crazy!"
The naked man looked at Ostap and burst into tears.
"Listen, citizen, instead of crying, you ought to go to the bathroom.
Just look at yourself. You look like a picador."
"The key," moaned the engineer.
"What key?" asked Ostap.
"Of the ap-ap-apartment."
"Where the money is?"
The naked man was hiccupping at an incredible rate.
Nothing could daunt Ostap. He began to see the light. And, finally,
when he realized what had happened, he almost fell over the banister with
laughter.
"So you can't get into the apartment. But it's so simple."
Trying not to dirty himself against the naked engineer, Ostap went up
to the door, slid a long yellow fingernail into the Yale lock, and carefully
began moving it up and down, and left and right.
The door opened noiselessly and the naked man rushed into the flooded
apartment with a howl of delight.
The taps were gushing. In the dining-room the water had formed a
whirlpool. In the bedroom it had made a calm lake, on which a pair of
slippers floated about as serenely as swans. Some cigarette ends had
collected together in a corner like a shoal of sleepy fish.
Vorobyaninov's chair was standing in the dining-room, where the flood
of water was greatest. Small white waves lapped against all four legs. The
chair was rocking slightly and appeared to be about to float away from its
pursuer. Ostap sat down on it and drew up his feet. Ernest Pavlovich, now
himself again, turned off all the taps with a cry of "Pardon me! ! Pardon
me!", rinsed himself, and appeared before Bender stripped to the waist in a
pair of wet slacks rolled up to the knee.
"You absolutely saved my life," he exclaimed with feeling. "I apologize
for not shaking your hand, but I'm all wet. You know, I almost went crazy."
"You seemed to be getting on that way."
"I found myself in a horrible situation."
And Ernest Pavlovich gave the smooth operator full details of the
misfortune which had befallen him, first laughing nervously and then
becoming more sober as he relived the awful experience.
"Had you not come, I would have died," he said in conclusion.
"Yes," said Ostap, "something similar once happened to me, too. Even a
bit worse."
The engineer was now so interested in anything concerned with such
situations that he put down the pail in which he was collecting water, and
began listening attentively.
"It was just like what happened to you," began Bender, "only it was
winter, and not in Moscow, but Mirgorod during one of those merry little
periods of occupation, between Makhno and Tyunuynik in '19. I was living
with a family. Terrible Ukrainians ! Typical property-owners. A one-storey
house and loads of different junk. You should note that with regard to
sewage and other facilities, they have only cesspools in Mirgorod. Well, one
night I nipped out in my underclothes, right into the snow. I wasn't afraid
of catching cold-it was only going to take a moment. I nipped out and
automatically closed the door behind me. It was about twenty degrees below.
I knocked, but got no answer. You can't stand in one spot or you freeze. I
knocked, ran about, knocked, and ran around, but there was no answer. And
the thing is that not one of those devils was asleep. It was a terrible
night; the dogs were howling and there was a sound of shots somewhere
nearby. And there's me running about the snowdrifts in my summer shorts. I
kept knocking for almost an hour. I was nearly done. And why didn't they
open the door- what do you think? They were busy hiding their property and
sewing up their money in cushions. They thought it was a police raid. I
nearly slaughtered them afterwards."
This was all very close to the engineer's heart.
"Yes," said Ostap, "so you are engineer Shukin."
"Yes, but please don't tell anyone about this. It would be awkward."
"Oh, sure! Entre nous and tete a tete, as the French say. But I came to
see you for a reason, Comrade Shukin."
"I'll be extremely pleased to help you."
"Grand merci!. It's a piddling matter. Your wife asked me to stop by
and collect this chair. She said she needed it to make a pair. And she
intends sending you instead an armchair."
"Certainly," exclaimed Ernest Pavlovich. "Only too happy. But why
should you bother yourself? I can take it for you. I can do it today."
"No, no. It's no bother at all for me. I live nearby."
The engineer fussed about and saw the smooth operator as far as the
door, beyond which he was afraid to go, despite the fact that the key had
been carefully placed in the pocket of his wet slacks.
Former student Ivanopulo was presented with another chair. The
upholstery was admittedly somewhat the worse for wear, but it was
nevertheless a splendid chair and exactly like the first one.
Ostap was not worried by the failure of the chair, the fourth in line.
He was familiar with all the tricks of fate.
It was the chair that had vanished into the goods yard of October
Station which cut like a huge dark mass through the well-knit pattern of his
deductions. His thoughts about that chair were depressing and raised grave
doubts.
The smooth operator was in the position of a roulette player who only
bets on numbers; one of that breed of people who want to win thirty-six
times their stake all at once. The situation was even worse than that. The
concessionaires were playing a kind of roulette in which zero could come up
eleven out of twelve times. And, what was more, the twelfth number was out
of sight, heaven knows where, and possibly contained a marvellous win.
The chain of distressing thoughts was interrupted by the advent of the
director-in-chief. His appearance alone aroused forebodings in Ostap.
"Oho!" said the technical adviser. "I see you're making progress. Only
don't joke with me. Why have you left the chair outside? To have a laugh at
my expense? "
"Comrade Bender," muttered the marshal.
"Why are you trying to unnerve me? Bring it here at once. Don't you see
that the new chair that I am sitting on has made your acquisition many times
more valuable? "
Ostap leaned his head to one side and squinted.
"Don't torment the child," he said at length in his deep voice.
"Where's the chair? Why haven't you brought it?"
Ippolit Matveyevich's muddled report was interrupted by shouts from the
floor, sarcastic applause and cunning questions. Vorobyaninov concluded his
report to the unanimous laughter of his audience.
"What about my instructions?" said Ostap menacingly. "How many times
have I told you it's a sin to steal. Even back in Stargorod you wanted to
rob my wife, Madame Gritsatsuyev; even then I realized you had the character
of a petty criminal. The most this propensity will ever get you is six
months inside. For a master-mind, and father of Russian democracy, your
scale of operations isn't very grand. And here are the results. The chair
has slipped through your fingers. Not only that, you've spoiled an easy job.
Just try making another visit there. That Absalom will tear your head off.
It's lucky for you that you were helped by that ridiculous fluke, or else
you'd have been behind bars, misguidedly waiting for me to bring you things.
I shan't bring you anything, so keep that in mind. What's Hecuba to me?
After all, you're not my mother, sister, or lover."
Ippolit Matveyevich stood looking at the ground in acknowledgment of
his worthlessness.
"The point is this, chum. I see the complete uselessness of our working
together. At any rate, working with as uncultured a partner as you for forty
per cent is absurd. Volens, nevolens, I must state new conditions."
Ippolit Matveyevich began breathing. Up to that moment he had been
trying not to breathe.
"Yes, my ancient friend, you are suffering from organizational
impotence and greensickness. Accordingly, your share is decreased. Honestly,
do you want twenty per cent?"
Ippolit Matveyevich shook his head firmly.
"Why not? Too little for you?"
"T-too little."
"But after all, that's thirty thousand roubles. How much do you want?"
"I'll accept forty."
"Daylight robbery!" cried Ostap, imitating the marshal's intonation
during their historic haggling in the caretaker's room. "Is thirty thousand
too little for you? You want the key of the apartment as well?"
"It's you who wants the key of the apartment," babbled Ippolit
Matveyevich.
"Take twenty before it's too late, or I might change my mind. Take
advantage of my good mood."
Vorobyaninov had long since lost the air of smugness with which he had
begun the search for the jewels.
The ice that had started moving in the caretaker's room, the ice that
had crackled, cracked, and smashed against the granite embankment, had
broken up and melted. It was no longer there. Instead there was a wide
stretch of rushing water which bore Ippolit Matveyevich along with it,
'buffeting him from side to side, first knocking him against a beam, then
tossing him against the chairs, then carrying him away from them. He felt
inexpressible fear. Everything frightened him. Along the river floated
refuse, patches of oil, broken hen-coops, dead fish, and a ghastly-looking
cap. Perhaps it belonged to Father Theodore, a duck-bill cap blown off by
the wind in Rostov. Who knows? The end of the path was not in sight. The
former marshal of the nobility was not being washed ashore, nor had he the
strength or wish to swim against the stream.
He was being carried out into the open sea of adventure.
Like an unswaddled babe that clenches and unclenches its waxen fists
without stopping, moves its legs, waggles its cap-covered head, the size of
a large Antonov apple, and blows bubbles, Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov
was eternally in a state of unrest. He moved his plump legs, waggled his
shaven chin, produced sighing noises, and made gestures with his hairy arms
as though doing gymnastics on the end of strings.
He led a very busy life, appeared everywhere, and made suggestions
while tearing down the street like a frightened chicken; he talked to
himself very rapidly as if working out the premium on a stone, iron-roofed
building. The whole secret of his life and activity was that he was
organically incapable of concerning himself with any one matter, subject, or
thought for longer than a minute.
If his joke was not successful and did not cause instant mirth,
Iznurenkov, unlike others, did not attempt to persuade the chief editor that
the joke was good and required reflection for complete appreciation; he
immediately suggested another one.
"What's bad is bad," he used to say, "and that's the end of it."
When in shops, Iznurenkov caused a commotion by appearing and
disappearing so rapidly in front of the sales people, and buying boxes of
chocolates so grandly, that the cashier expected to receive at least thirty
roubles. But Iznurenkov, dancing up and down by the cash desk and pulling at
his tie as though it choked him, would throw down a crumpled three-rouble
note on to the glass plate and make off, bleating gracefully.
If this man had been able to stay still for even as little as two
hours, the most unexpected things might have happened.
He might have sat down at a desk and written a marvellous novel, or
perhaps an application to the mutual-assistance fund for a permanent loan,
or a new clause in the law on the utilization of housing space, or a book
entitled How to Dress Well and Behave in Society.
But he was unable to do so. His madly working legs carried him off, the
pencil flew out of his gesticulating hands, and his thoughts jumped from one
thing to another.
Iznurenkov ran about the room, and the seals on the furniture shook
like the earrings on a gypsy dancer. A giggling girl from the suburbs sat on
the chair.
"Ah! Ah!" cried Absalom Vladimirovich, "divine! Ah! Ah! First rate! You
are Queen Margot."
The queen from the suburbs laughed respectfully, though she understood
nothing.
"Have some chocolate, do! Ah! Ah! Charming."
He kept kissing her hands, admiring her modest attire, pushing the cat
into her lap, and asking, fawningly: "He's just like a parrot, isn't he? A
lion. A real lion. Tell me, isn't he extraordinarily fluffy? And his tail.
It really is a huge tail, isn't it?"
The cat then went flying into the corner, and, pressing his hands to
his milk-white chest, Absalom Vladimirovich began bowing to someone outside
the window. Suddenly a valve popped open in his madcap mind and he began to
be witty about his visitor's physical and spiritual attributes.
"Is that brooch really made of glass? Ah! Ah! What brilliance.
Honestly, you dazzle me. And tell me, is Paris really a big city? Is there
really an Eiffel Tower there? Ah! What hands! What a nose!"
He did not kiss the girl. It was enough for him to pay her compliments.
And he talked without end. The flow of compliments was interrupted by the
unexpected appearance of Ostap.
The smooth operator fiddled with a piece of paper and asked sternly:
"Does Iznurenkov live here? Is that you? "
Absalom Vladimirovich peered uneasily into the stranger s stony face.
He tried to read in his eyes exactly what demands were forthcoming; whether
it was a fine for breaking a tram window during a conversation, a summons
for not paying his rent, or a contribution to a magazine for the blind.
"Come on, Comrade," said Ostap harshly, "that's not the way to do
things-kicking out a bailiff."
"What bailiff? " Iznurenkov was horrified.
"You know very well. I'm now going to remove the furniture. Kindly
remove yourself from that chair, citizeness," said Ostap sternly.
The young citizeness, who only a moment before had been listening to
verse by the most lyrical of poets, rose from her seat.
"No, don't move," cried Iznurenkov, sheltering the chair with his body.
"They have no right."
"You'd better not talk about rights, citizen. You should be more
conscientious. Let go of the furniture! The law must be obeyed."
With these words, Ostap seized the chair and shook it in the air.
"I'm removing the furniture," said Ostap resolutely.
"No, you're not."
"What do you mean, I'm not, when I am?" Ostap chuckled, carrying the
chair into the corridor.
Absalom kissed his lady's hand and, inclining his head, ran after the
severe judge. The latter was already on his way downstairs.
"And I say you have no right. By law the furniture can stay another two
weeks, and it's only three days so far. I may pay!"
Iznurenkov buzzed around Ostap like a bee, and in this manner they
reached the street. Absalom Vladimirovich chased the chair right up to the
end of the street. There he caught sight of some sparrows hopping about by a
pile of manure. He looked at them with twinkling eyes, began muttering to
himself, clapped his hands, and, bubbling with laughter, said:
"First rate! Ah! Ah! What a subject!"
Engrossed in working out the subject, he gaily turned around and rushed
home, bouncing as he went. He only remembered the chair when he arrived back
and found the girl from the suburbs standing up in the middle of the room.
Ostap took the chair away by cab.
"Take note," he said to Ippolit Matveyevich, "the chair was obtained
with my bare hands. For nothing. Do you understand?"
When they had opened the chair, Ippolit Matveyevich's spirits were low.
"The chances are continually improving," said Ostap, "but we haven't a
kopek. Tell me, was your late mother-in-law fond of practical jokes by any
chance? "
"Why?"
"Maybe there aren't any jewels at all."
Ippolit Matveyevich waved his hands about so violently that his jacket
rode up.
"In that case everything's fine. Let's hope that Ivanopulo's estate
need only be increased by one more chair."
"There was something in the paper about you today, Comrade Bender,"
said Ippolit Matveyevich obsequiously.
Ostap frowned. He did not like the idea of being front-page news. "What
are you blathering about? Which newspaper?"
Ippolit Matveyevich triumphantly opened the Lathe. "Here it is. In the
section 'What Happened Today'."
Ostap became a little calmer; he was only worried about public
denouncements in the sections "Our Caustic Comments" and "Take the
Malefactors to Court".
Sure enough, there in nonpareil type in the section "What Happened
Today" was the item:
CITIZEN O. BENDER WAS KNOCKED DOWN YESTERDAY ON SVERDLOV SQUARE BY
HORSE-CAB NO. 8974. THE VICTIM WAS UNHURT EXCEPT FOR SLIGHT SHOCK.
"It was the cab-driver who suffered slight shock, not me," grumbled O.
Bender. "The idiots! They write and write, and don't know what they're
writing about. Aha! So that's the Lathe. Very, very pleasant. Do you
realize, Vorobyaninov, that this report might have been written by someone
sitting on our chair? A fine thing that is!"
The smooth operator lapsed into thought. He had found an excuse to
visit the newspaper office.
Having found out from the editor that all the rooms on both sides of
the corridor were occupied by the editorial offices, Ostap assumed a naive
air and made a round of the premises. He had to find out which room
contained the chair.
He strode into the union committee room, where a meeting of the young
motorists was in progress, but saw at once there was no chair there and
moved on to the next room. In the clerical office he pretended to be waiting
for a resolution; in the reporters' room he asked where it was they were
selling the wastepaper, as advertised; in the editor's office he asked about
subscriptions, and in the humorous-sketch section he wanted to know where
they accepted notices concerning lost documents.
By this method he eventually arrived at the chief editor's office,
where the chief editor was sitting on the concessionaires' chair bawling
into a telephone.
Ostap needed time to reconnoitre the terrain.
"Comrade editor, you have published a downright libellous statement
about me."
"What libellous statement?"
Taking his time, Ostap unfolded a copy of the Lathe. Glancing round at
the door, he saw it had a Yale lock. By removing a small piece of glass in
the door it would be possible to slip a hand through and unlock it from the
inside.
The chief editor read the item which Ostap pointed out to him.
"Where do you see a libellous statement there?"
"Of course, this bit:
The victim was unhurt except
for slight shock.'"
"I don't understand."
Ostap looked tenderly at the chief editor and the chair.
"Am I likely to be shocked by some cab-driver? You have disgraced me in
the eyes of the world. You must publish an apology."
"Listen, citizen," said the chief editor, "no one has disgraced you.
And we don't publish apologies for such minor points."
"Well, I shall not let the matter rest, at any rate," replied Ostap as
he left the room.
He had seen all he wanted.
THE MARVELLOUS PRISON BASKET
The Stargorod branch of the ephemeral Sword and Ploughshare and the
young toughs from Fastpack formed a queue outside the Grainproducts meal
shop.
Passers-by kept stopping.
"What's the queue for?" asked the citizens.
In a tiresome queue outside a shop there is always one person whose
readiness to chatter increases with his distance from the shop doorway. And
furthest of all stood Polesov.
"Things have reached a pretty pitch," said the fire chief. "We'll soon
be eating oilcake. Even 1919 was better than this. There's only enough flour
in the town for four days."
The citizens twirled their moustaches disbelievingly and argued with
Polesov, quoting the Stargorod Truth.
Having proved to him as easily as pie that there was as much flour
available as they required and that there was no need to panic, the citizens
ran home, collected all their ready cash, and joined the flour queue.
When they had bought up all the flour in the shop, the toughs from
Fastpack switched to groceries and formed a queue for tea and sugar.
In three days Stargorod was in the grip of an acute food and commodity
shortage. Representatives from the co-operatives and state-owned trading
organizations proposed that until the arrival of food supplies, already on
their way, the sale of comestibles should be restricted to a pound of sugar
and five pounds of flour a head.
The next day an antidote to this was found.
At the head of the sugar queue stood Alchen. Behind him was his wife,
Sashchen, Pasha Emilevich, four Yakovleviches and all fifteen old-women
pensioners in their woollen dresses. As soon as he had bled the shop of
twenty-two pounds of sugar, Alchen led his queue across to the other
co-operatives, cursing Pasha Emilevich as he went for gobbling up his ration
of one pound of granulated sugar. Pasha was pouring the sugar into his palm
and transferring it to his enormous mouth. Alchen fussed about all day. To
avoid such unforeseen losses, he took Pasha from the queue and put him on to
carrying the goods purchased to the local market. There Alchen slyly sold
the booty of sugar, tea and marquisette to the privately-owned stalls.
Polesov stood in the queue chiefly for reasons of principle. He had no
money, so he could not buy anything. He wandered from queue to queue,
listening to the conversations, made nasty remarks, raised his eyebrows
knowingly, and complained about conditions. The result of his insinuations
was that rumours began to go around that some sort of underground
organization had arrived with a supply of swords and ploughshares.
Governor Dyadyev made ten thousand roubles in one day. What the
chairman of the stock-exchange committee made, even his wife did not know.
The idea that he belonged to a secret society gave Kislarsky no rest.
The rumours in the town were the last straw. After a sleepless night, the
chairman of the stock-exchange committee made up his mind that the only
thing that could shorten ms term of imprisonment was to make a clean breast
of it.
"Listen, Henrietta," he said to his wife, "it's time to transfer the
textiles to your brother-in-law."
"Why, will the secret police really come for you?" asked Henrietta
Kislarsky.
"They might. Since there isn't any freedom of trade in the country,
I'll have to go to jail some time or other,"
"Shall I prepare your underwear? What misery for me to have to keep
taking you things. But why don't you become a Soviet employee? After all, my
brother-in-law is a trade-union member and he doesn't do too badly."
Henrietta did not know that fate had promoted her husband to the rank
of chairman of the stock-exchange committee. She was therefore calm.
"I may not come back tonight," said Kislarsky, "in which case bring me
some things tomorrow to the jail. But please don't bring any cream puffs.
What kind of fun is it eating cold tarts?"
"Perhaps you ought to take the primus?"
"Do you think I would be allowed a primus in my cell? Give me my
basket."
Kislarsky had a special prison basket. Made to order, it was fully
adapted for all purposes. When opened out, it acted as a bed, and when half
open it could be used as a table. Moreover, it could be substituted for a
cupboard; it had shelves, hooks and drawers. His wife put some cold supper
and fresh underwear into the all-purpose basket.
"You don't need to see me off," said her experienced husband. "If
Rubens comes for the money, tell him there isn't any. Goodbye! Rubens can
wait."
And Kislarsky walked sedately out into the street, carrying the prison
basket by the handle.
"Where are you going, citizen Kislarsky? " Polesov hailed him.
He was standing by a telegraph pole and shouting encouragement to a
post-office worker who was clambering up towards the insulators, gripping
the pole with iron claws.
"I'm going to confess," answered Kislarsky.
"What about?"
"The Sword and Ploughshare."
Victor Mikhailovich was speechless. Kislarsky sauntered towards the
province public prosecutor's office, sticking out his little egg-shaped
belly, which was encircled by a wide belt with an outside pocket.
Victor Mikhailovich napped his wings and flew off to see Dyadyev.
"Kislarsky's a stooge," cried Polesov. "He's just gone to squeal on us.
He's even still in sight."
"What? And with his basket?" said the horrified governor of Stargorod.
"Yes."
Dyadyev kissed his wife, shouted to her that if Rubens came he was not
to get any money, and raced out into the street. Victor Mikhailovich turned
a circle, clucked like a hen that had just laid an egg, and rushed to find
Nikesha and Vladya.
In the meantime, Kislarsky sauntered slowly along in the direction of
the prosecutor's office. On the way he met Rubens and had a long talk with
him. "And what about the money?" asked Rubens. "My wife will give it to
you."
"And why are you carrying that basket?" Rubens inquired suspiciously.
"I'm going to the steam baths." "Well, have a good steam!"
Kislarsky then called in at the state-owned sweetshop, formerly the
Bonbons de Varsovie, drank a cup of coffee, and ate a piece of layer cake.
It was time to repent. The chairman of the stock-exchange committee went
into the reception room of the prosecutor's office. It was empty. Kislarsky
went up to a door marked "Province Public Prosecutor" and knocked politely.
"Come in," said a familiar voice.
Kislarsky went inside and halted in amazement. His egg-shaped belly
immediately collapsed and wrinkled like a date. What he saw was totally
unexpected.
The desk behind which the prosecutor was sitting was surrounded by
members of the powerful Sword and Ploughshare organization. Judging from
their gestures and plaintive voices, they had confessed to everything.
"Here he is," said Dyadyev, "the ringleader and Octobrist." "First of
all," said Kislarsky, putting down the basket on the floor and approaching
the desk, "I am not an Octobrist; next, I have always been sympathetic
towards the Soviet regime, and third, the ringleader is not me, but Comrade
Charushnikov, whose address is-"
"Red Army Street!" shouted Dyadyev. "Number three!" chorused Nikesha
and Vladya. "Inside the yard on the right!" added Polesov. "I can show you."
Twenty minutes later they brought in Charushnikov, who promptly denied
ever having seen any of the persons present in the room before in his life,
and then, without pausing, went on to denounce Elena Stanislavovna. It was
only when he was in his cell, wearing clean underwear and stretched out on
his prison basket, that the chairman of the stock-exchange committee felt
happy and at ease.
During the crisis Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender managed to stock up with
enough provisions and commodities for her shop to last at least four months.
Regaining her calm, she began pining once more for her young husband, who
was languishing at meetings of the Junior Council of Ministers. A visit to
the fortune-teller brought no reassurance.
Alarmed by the disappearance of the Stargorod Areopagus, Elena
Stanislavovna dealt the cards with outrageous negligence. The cards first
predicted the end of the world, then a meeting with her husband in a
government institution in the presence of an enemy-the King of Spades.
What is more, the actual fortune-telling ended up rather oddly, too.
Police agents arrived (Kings of Spades) and took away the prophetess to a
government institution (the public prosecutor's office).
Left alone with the parrot, the widow was about to leave in confusion
when the parrot struck the bars of its cage with its beak and spoke for the
first time in its life.
"The times we live in!" it said sardonically, covering its head with
one wing and pulling a feather from underneath.
Madame Gritsatsuyev-Bender made for the door in fright.
A stream of heated, muddled words followed her. The ancient bird was so
upset by the visit of the police and the removal of its owner that it began
shrieking out all the words it knew. A prominent place in its repertoire was
occupied by Victor Polesov.
"Given the absence . . ." said the parrot testily.
And, turning upside-down on its perch, it winked at the widow, who had
stopped motionless by the door, as much as to say: "Well, how do you like
it, widow?"
"Mother!" gasped Gritsatsuyev.
"Which regiment were you in?" asked the parrot in Bender's voice.
"Cr-r-r-rash! Europe will help us."
As soon as the widow had fled, the parrot straightened its shirt front
and uttered the words which people had been trying unsuccessfully for years
to make it say:
"Pretty Polly!"
The widow fled howling down the street. At her house an agile old man
was waiting for her. It was Bartholomeich.
"It's about the advertisement," said Bartholomeich. "I've been here for
two hours."
The heavy hoof of presentiment struck the widow a blow in the heart.
"Oh," she intoned, "it's been a gruelling experience."
"Citizen Bender left you, didn't he? It was you who put the
advertisement in, wasn't it?"
The widow sank on to the sacks of flour.
"How weak your constitution is," said Bartholomeich sweetly. "I'd first
like to find out about the reward. . . ."
"Oh, take everything. I need nothing any more . . ." burbled the
sensitive widow.
"Right, then. I know the whereabouts of your sonny boy, O. Bender. How
much is the reward?"
"Take everything," repeated the widow.
"Twenty roubles," said Bartholomeich dryly.
The widow rose from the sacks. She was covered with flour. Her
flour-dusted eyelashes flapped frenziedly. "How much?" she asked.
"Fifteen roubles." Bartholomeich lowered his price. He sensed it would
be difficult making the wretched woman cough up as much as three roubles.
Trampling the sacks underfoot, the widow advanced on the old man,
called upon the heavenly powers to bear witness, and with their assistance
drove a hard bargain.
"Well, all right, make it five roubles. Only I want the money in
advance, please: it's a rule of mine."
Bartholomeich took two newspaper clippings from his notebook, and,
without letting go of them, began reading.
"Take a look at these in order. You wrote 'Missing from home . . . I
implore, etc.' That's right, isn't it? That's the Stargorod Truth. And this
is what they wrote about your little boy in the Moscow newspapers. Here . .
. 'Knocked down by a horse.' No, don't smile, Madame, just listen . . .
'Knocked down by a horse.' But alive. Alive, I tell you. Would I ask money
for a corpse? So that's it . . . 'Knocked down by a horse. Citizen O. Bender
was knocked down yesterday on Sverdlov Square by horse-cab number 8974. The
victim was unhurt except for slight shock.' So I'll give you these documents
and you give me the money in advance. It's a rule of mine."
Sobbing, the widow handed over the money. Her husband, her dear husband
in yellow boots lay on distant Moscow soil and a cab-horse, breathing
flames, was kicking his blue worsted chest.
Bartholomeich's sensitive nature was satisfied with the adequate
reward. He went away, having explained to the widow that further clues to
her husband's whereabouts could be found for sure at the offices of the
Lathe, where, naturally, everything was known.
Letter from Father Theodore written in Rostov at the Milky Way
hot-water stall to his wife in the regional centre of N.
My darling Kate,
A fresh disaster has befallen me, but I'll come to that. I received the
money in good time, for which sincere thanks. On arrival in Rostov I went at
once to the address. New-Ros-Cement is an enormous establishment; no one
there had ever heard of Engineer Bruns. I was about to despair completely
when they gave me an idea. Try the personnel office, they said. I did. Yes,
they told me, we did have someone of that name; he was doing responsible
work, but left us last year to go to Baku to work for As-Oil as an
accident-prevention specialist.
Well, my dear, my journey will not be as brief as I expected. You write
that the money is running out. It can't be helped, Catherine. It won't be
long now. Have patience, pray to God, and sell my diagonal-cloth student's
uniform. And there'll soon be other expenses to be borne of another nature.
Be ready for everything.
The cost of living in Rostov is awful. I paid Rs. 2.25 for a hotel
room. I haven't enough to get to Baku. I'll cable you from there if I'm
successful.
The weather here is very hot. I carry my coat around with me. I'm
afraid to leave anything in my room-they'd steal it before you had time to
turn around. The people here are sharp.
I don't like Rostov. It is considerably inferior to Kharkov in
population and geographical position. But don't worry, Mother. God willing,
we'll take a trip to Moscow together. Then you'll see it's a completely West
European city. And then we will go to live in Samara near our factory.
Has Vorobyaninov come back? Where can he be? Is Estigneyev still having
meals? How's my cassock since it was cleaned? Make all our friends believe
I'm at my aunt's deathbed. Write the same thing to Gulenka.
Yes! I forgot to tell you about a terrible thing that happened to me
today.
I was gazing at the quiet Don, standing by the bridge and thinking
about our future possessions. Suddenly a wind came up and blew my cap into
the river. It was your brother's, the baker's, I was the only one to see it.
I had to make a new outlay and buy an English cap for Rs. 2.50. Don't tell
your brother anything about what happened. Tell him I'm in Voronezh.
I'm having trouble with my underwear. I wash it in the evening and if
it hasn't dried by the morning, I put it on damp. It's even pleasant in the
present heat.
With love and kisses,
Your husband eternally,
Theo.
THE HEN AND THE PACIFIC ROOSTER
Persidsky the reporter was busily preparing for the two-hundredth
anniversary of the great mathematician Isaac Newton.
While the work was in full swing, Steve came in from Science and Life.
A plump citizeness trailed after him.
"Listen, Persidsky," said Steve, "this citizeness has come to see you
about something. This way, please, lady. The comrade will explain to you."
Chuckling to himself, Steve left.
"Well?" asked Persidsky. "What can I do for you?"
Madame Gritsatsuyev (it was she) fixed her yearning eyes on the
reporter and silently handed him a piece of paper.
"So," said Persidsky, "knocked down by a horse . . . What about it?"
"The address," beseeched the widow, "wouldn't it be possible to have
the address?"
"Whose address?"
"O. Bender's."
"How should I know it? "
"But the comrade said you would."
"I have no idea of it. Ask the receptionist."
"Couldn't you remember, Comrade? He was wearing yellow boots."
"I'm wearing yellow boots myself. In Moscow there are two hundred
thousand people wearing yellow boots. Perhaps you'd like all their
addresses? By all means. I'll leave what I'm doing and do it for you. In six
months' time you'll know them all. I'm busy, citizeness."
But the widow felt great respect for Persidsky and followed him down
the corridor, rustling her starched petticoat and repeating her requests.
That son of a bitch, Steve, thought Persidsky. All right, then, I'll
set the inventor of perpetual motion on him. That will make him jump.
"What can I do about it?" said Persidsky irritably, halting in front of
the widow. "How do I know the address of Citizen O. Bender? Who am I, the
horse that knocked him down? Or the cab-driver he punched in the back-in my
presence?"
The widow answered with a vague rumbling from which it was only
possible to decipher the words "Comrade" and "Please".
Activities in the House of the Peoples had already finished. The
offices and corridors had emptied. Somewhere a typewriter was polishing off
a final page.
"Sorry, madam, can't you see I'm busy?"
With these words Persidsky hid in the lavatory. Ten minutes later he
gaily emerged. Widow Gritsatsuyev was patiently rustling her petticoat at
the corner of two corridors. As Persidsky approached, she began talking
again.
The reporter grew furious.
"All right, auntie," he said, "I'll tell you where your Bender is. Go
straight down the corridor, turn right, and then continue straight. You'll
see a door. Ask Cherepennikov. He ought to know."
And, satisfied with his fabrication, Persidsky disappeared so quickly
that the starched widow had no time to ask for further information.
Straightening her petticoat, Madame Gritsatsuyev went down the corridor.
The corridors of the House of the Peoples were so long and | narrow
that people walking down them inevitably quickened their pace. You could
tell from anyone who passed how far they had come. If they walked slightly
faster than normal, it meant the marathon had only just begun. Those who had
already completed two or three corridors developed a fairly fast trot. And
from time to time it was possible to see someone running along at full
speed; he had reached the five-corridor stage. A citizen who had gone eight
corridors could easily compete with a bird, racehorse or Nurmi, the world
champion runner.
Turning to the right, the widow Gritsatsuyev began running. The floor
creaked.
Coming towards her at a rapid pace was a brown-haired man in a
light-blue waistcoat and crimson boots. From Ostap's face it was clear his
visit to the House of the Peoples at so late an hour I was necessitated by
the urgent affairs of the concession. The | technical adviser's plans had
evidently not envisaged an encounter with his loved one.
At the sight of the widow, Ostap about-faced and, without looking
around, went back, keeping close to the wall.
"Comrade Bender," cried the widow in delight. "Where are you going? "
The smooth operator increased his speed. So did the widow.
"Listen to me," she called.
But her words did not reach Ostap's ears. He heard the sighing and
whistling of the wind. He tore down the fourth corridor and hurtled down
flights of iron stairs. All he left for his loved one was an echo which
repeated the starcase noises for some time.
"Thanks," muttered Ostap, sitting down on the ground on the fifth
floor. "A fine time for a rendezvous. Who invited the passionate lady here?
It's time to liquidate the Moscow branch of the concession, or else I might
find that self-employed mechanic here as well."
At that moment, Widow Gritsatsuyev, separated from Ostap by three
storeys, thousands of doors and dozens of corridors, wiped her hot face with
the edge of her petticoat and set off again. She intended to find her
husband as quickly as possible and have it out with him. The corridors were
lit with dim lights. All the lights, corridors and doors were the same. But
soon she began to feel terrified and only wanted to get away.
Conforming to the corridor progression, she hurried along at an
ever-increasing rate. Half an hour later it was impossible to stop her. The
doors of presidiums, secretariats, union committee rooms, administration
sections and editorial offices flew open with a crash on either side of her
bulky body. She upset ash-trays as she went with her iron skirts. The trays
rolled after her with the clatter of saucepans. Whirlwinds and whirlpools
formed at the ends of the corridors. Ventilation windows flapped. Pointing
fingers stencilled on the walls dug into the poor widow.
She finally found herself on a stairway landing. It was dark, but the
widow overcame her fear, ran down, and pulled at a glass door. The door was
locked. The widow hurried back, but the door through which she had just come
had just been locked by someone's thoughtful hand.
In Moscow they like to lock doors.
Thousands of front entrances are boarded up from the inside, and
thousands of citizens find their way into their apartments through the back
door. The year 1918 has long since passed; the concept of a "raid on the
apartment" has long since become something vague; the apartment-house guard,
organized for purposes of security, has long since vanished; traffic
problems are being solved; enormous power stations are being built and very
great scientific discoveries are being made, but there is no one to devote
his life to studying the problem of the closed door.
Where is the man who will solve the enigma of the cinemas, theatres,
and circuses?
Three thousand members of the public have ten minutes in which to enter
the circus through one single doorway, half of which is closed. The
remaining ten doors designed to accommodate large crowds of people are shut.
Who knows why they are shut? It may be that twenty years ago a performing
donkey was stolen from the circus stable and ever since the management has
been walling up convenient entrances and exits in fear. Or perhaps at some
time a famous queen of the air felt a draught and the closed doors are
merely a repercussion of the scene she caused.
The public is allowed into theatres and cinemas in small batches,
supposedly to avoid bottlenecks. It is quite easy to avoid bottlenecks; all
you have to do is open the numerous exits. But instead of that the
management uses force; the attendants link arms and form a living barrier,
and in this way keep the public at bay for at least half an hour. While the
doors, the cherished doors, closed as far back as Peter the Great, are still
shut.
Fifteen thousand football fans elated by the superb play of a crack
Moscow team are forced to squeeze their way to the tram through a crack so
narrow that one lightly armed warrior could hold off forty thousand
barbarians supported by two battering rams.
A sports stadium does not have a roof, but it does have several exits.
All that is open is a wicket gate. You can get out only by breaking through
the main gates. They are always broken after every great sporting event. But
so great is the desire to keep up the sacred tradition, they are carefully
repaired each time and firmly shut again.
If there is no chance of hanging a door (which happens when there is
nothing on which to hang it), hidden doors of all kinds come into play:
1. Rails
2. Barriers
3. Upturned benches
4. Warning signs
5. Rope
Rails are very common in government offices.
They prevent access to the official you want to see.
The visitor walks up and down the rail like a tiger, trying to attract
attention by making signs. This does not always work. The visitor may have
brought a useful invention! He might only want to pay his income tax. But
the rail is in the way. The unknown invention is left outside; and the tax
is left unpaid.
Barriers are used on the street.
They are set up in spring on a noisy main street, supposedly to fence
off the part of the pavement being repaired. And the noisy street instantly
becomes deserted. Pedestrians filter through to their destinations along
other streets. Each day they have to go an extra half-mile, but hope springs
eternal. The summer passes. The leaves wither. And the barrier is still
there. The repairs have not been done. And the street is deserted.
Upturned benches are used to block the entrances to gardens in the
centre of the Moscow squares, which on account of the disgraceful negligence
of the builders have not been fitted with strong gateways.
A whole book could be written about warning signs, but that is not the
intention of the authors at present.
The signs are of two types-direct and indirect:
NO ADMITTANCE TO OUTSIDERS
These notices are sometimes hung on the doors of government offices
visited by the public in particularly great numbers.
The indirect signs are more insidious. They do not prohibit entry; but
rare is the adventurer who will risk exercising his rights. Here they are,
those shameful signs:
NO ENTRY EXCEPT ON BUSINESS
BY YOUR VISIT YOU ARE DISTURBING A BUSY MAN
Wherever it is impossible to place rails or barriers, to overturn
benches or hang up warning signs, ropes are used. They are stretched across
your path according to mood, and in the most unexpected places. If they are
stretched at chest level they cause no more than slight shock and nervous
laughter. But when stretched at ankle level they can cripple you for life.
To hell with doors! To hell with queues outside theatres. Allow us to
go in without business. We implore you to remove the barrier set up by the
thoughtless apartment superintendent on the pavement by his door. There are
the upturned benches! Put them the right side up! It is precisely at
night-time that it is so nice to sit in the gardens in the squares. The air
is clear and clever thoughts come to mind.
Sitting on the landing by the locked glass door in the very centre of
the House of the Peoples, Mrs. Gritsatsuyev contemplated her widow's lot,
dozed off from time to time, and waited for morning.
The yellow light of the ceiling lamps poured on to the widow through
the glass door from the illuminated corridor. The ashen morn made its way in
through the window of the stairway.
It was that quiet hour when the morning is fresh and young. It was at
this hour that the widow heard footsteps in the corridor. The widow jumped
up and pressed against the glass. She caught a glimpse of a blue waistcoat
at the end of the corridor. The crimson boots were dusty with plaster. The
flighty son of a Turkish citizen approached the glass door, brushing a speck
of dust from the sleeve of his jacket.
"Bunny!" called the widow. "Bun-ny!"
She breathed on the glass with unspeakable tenderness. The glass misted
over and made rainbow circles. Beyond the mistiness and rainbows glimmered
blue and raspberry-coloured spectres.
Ostap did not hear the widow's cooing. He scratched his back and turned
his head anxiously. Another second and he would have been around the corner.
With a groan of "Comrade Bender", the poor wife began drumming on the
window. The smooth operator turned around.
"Oh," he said, seeing he was separated from the widow by a glass door,
"are you here, too?"
"Yes, here, here," uttered the widow joyfully.
"Kiss me, honey," the technical adviser invited. "We haven't seen each
other for such a long time!"
The widow was in a frenzy. She hopped up and down behind the door like
a finch in a cage. The petticoat which had been silent for the night began
to rustle loudly. Ostap spread his arms.
"Why don't you come to me, my little hen? Your Pacific rooster is so
tired after the meeting of the Junior Council of Ministers."
The widow had no imagination.
"Bunny," she called for the fifth time, "open the door, Comrade
Bender."
"Hush, girl! Modesty becomes a woman. What's all the jumping about
for?"
The widow was in agony.
"Why are you torturing yourself?" asked Ostap. "Who's preventing you
from living? "
The widow burst into tears.
"Wipe your eyes, Citizeness. Every one of your tears is a molecule in
the cosmos."
"But I've been waiting and waiting. I closed down the shop. I've come
for you, Comrade Bender."
"And how does it feel on the stairs? Not draughty, I hope?"
The widow slowly began to seethe like a huge monastery samovar. ,
"Traitor!" she spat out with a shudder.
Ostap had a little time left. He clicked his fingers and, swaying
rhythmically, crooned:
"We all go through times
When the devil's beside us,
When a young woman's charms
Arouse passion inside us."
"Drop dead!" advised the widow at the end of the dance. "You stole my
bracelet, a present from my husband. And why did you take the chair? "
"Now you're getting personal," Ostap observed coldly.
"You stole, you stole!" repeated the widow.
"Listen, girl. Just remember for future reference that Ostap Bender
never stole anything in his life."
"Then who took the tea-strainer?"
"Ah, the tea-strainer! From your non-liquid fund. And you consider that
theft? In that case our views on life are diametrically opposed."
"You took it," clucked the widow.
"So if a young and healthy man borrows from a provincial grandmother a
kitchen utensil for which she has no need on account of poor health, he's a
thief, is he? Is that what you mean?"
"Thief! Thief!"
The widow threw herself against the door. The glass rattled. Ostap
realized it was time to go.
"I've no time to kiss you," he said. "Good-bye, beloved. We've parted
like ships at sea."
"Help!" screeched the widow.
But Ostap was already at the end of the corridor. He climbed on to the
windowsill and dropped heavily to the ground, moist after the night rain,
and hid in the glistening playgrounds.
The widow's cries brought the night watchman. He let her out,
threatening to have her fined.
THE AUTHOR OF THE "GAVRILIAD"
As Madame Gritsatsuyev was leaving the block of offices, the more
modest ranks of employees were beginning to arrive at the House of the
Peoples: there were messengers, in-and-out girls, duty telephonists, young
assistant accountants, and state-sponsored apprentices.
Among them was Nikifor Lapis, a very young man with a sheep's-head
haircut and a cheeky face.
The ignorant, the stubborn, and those making their first visit to the
House of the Peoples entered through the front entrance. Nikifor Lapis made
his way into the building through the dispensary. At the House of the
Peoples he was completely at home and knew the quickest ways to the oases
where, under the leafy shade of departmental journals, royalties gushed from
clear springs.
First of all, Nikifor went to the snack-bar. The nickel-plated register
made a musical sound and ejected three checks. Nikifor consumed some
yoghurt, having opened the paper-covered jar, then a cream puff which looked
like a miniature flower-bed. He washed it all down with tea. Then Lapis
leisurely began making the round of his possessions.
His first visit was to the editorial office of the monthly sporting
magazine Gerasim and Mumu. Comrade Napernikov had not yet arrived, so
Nikifor moved on to the Hygroscopic Herald, the weekly mouthpiece by which
pharmaceutical workers communicated with the outside world.
"Good morning!" said Nikifor. "I've written a marvellous poem."
"What about?" asked the editor of the literary page. "On what subject?
You know, Trubetskoi, our magazine . . ."
To give a more subtle definition of the essence of the Hygroscopic
Herald, the editor gestured with his fingers.
Trubetskoi-Lapis looked at his white sailcloth trousers, leaned
backward, and said in a singsong voice: "The Ballad of the Gangrene".
'.'That's interesting," said the hygroscopic individual. "It's about
time we introduced prophylaxis in popular form."
Lapis immediately began declaiming:
"Gavrila took to bed with gangrene.
The gangrene made Gavrila sick . . ."
The poem went on in the same heroic iambic tetrameter to relate how,
through ignorance, Gavrila failed to go to the chemist's in time and died
because he had not put iodine on a scratch.
"You're making progress, Trubetskoi," said the editor in approval. "But
we'd like something a bit longer. Do you understand?"
He began moving his fingers, but nevertheless took the terrifying
ballad, promising to pay on Tuesday.
In the magazine Telegraphist's Week Lapis was greeted hospitably.
"A good thing you've come, Trubetskoi. We need some verse right away.
But it must be about life, life, and life. No lyrical stuff. Do you hear,
Trubetskoi? Something about the everyday life of post-office workers, but at
the same time . . . Do you get me?"
"Only yesterday I was thinking about the everyday life of post-office
workers, and I concocted the following poem. It's called 'The Last Letter'.
Here it is:
"Gavrila had a job as postman.
Gavrila took the letters round . . ."
The story of Gavrila was contained in seventy-two lines. At the end of
the poem, Gavrila, although wounded by a fascist bullet, managed to deliver
the letter to the right address.
"Where does it take place? " they asked Lapis.
It was a good question. There were no fascists in the USSR, and no
Gavrilas or members of the post-office union abroad.
"What's wrong?" asked Lapis. "It takes place here, of course, and the
fascist is disguised."
"You know, Trubetskoi, you'd do better to write about a radio station."
"Why don't you want the postman? "
"Let's wait a bit. We'll take it conditionally.
The crestfallen Nikifor Trubetskoi-Lapis went back to Gerasim and Mumu.
Napernikov was already at his desk. On the wall hung a greatly enlarged
picture of Turgenev with a pince-nez, waders, and a double-barrel shotgun
across his shoulders. Beside Napernikov stood Lapis's rival, a poet from the
suburbs.
The same old story of Gavrila was begun again, but this time with a
hunting twist to it. The work went under the title of "The Poacher's
Prayer".
Gavrila lay in wait for rabbits.
Gavrila shot and winged a doe . . .
"Very good!" said the kindly Napernikov. "You have surpassed Entich
himself in this poem, Trubetskoi. Only there are one or two things to be
changed. The first thing is to get rid of the word 'prayer'."
"And 'rabbit'," said the rival.
"Why 'rabbit'?" asked Nikifor in surprise.
"It's the wrong season."
"You hear that, Trubetskoi! Change the word 'rabbit' as well."
After transformation the poem bore the title "The Poacher's Lesson" and
the rabbits were changed to snipe. It then turned out that snipe were not
game birds in the summer, either. In its final form the poem read:
Gavrila lay in wait for sparrows.
Gavrila shot and winged a bird . . .
After lunch in the canteen, Lapis set to work again. His white trousers
flashed up and down the corridor. He entered various editorial offices and
sold the many-faced Gavrila.
In the Co-operative Flute Gavrila was submitted under the title of "The
Eolean Recorder".
Gavrila worked behind the counter. Gavrila did a trade in flutes . . .
The simpletons in the voluminous magazine The Forest as It Is bought a
short poem by Lapis entitled "On the Verge". It began like this:
Gavrila passed through virgin forest,
Hacking at the thick bamboo . . .
The last Gavrila for that day worked in a bakery. He was found a place
in the editorial office of The Cake Worker. The poem had the long and sad
title of "Bread, Standards of Output, and One's Sweetheart". The poem was
dedicated to a mysterious Hina Chlek. The beginning was as epic as before:
Gavrila had a job as baker.
Gavrila baked the cakes and bread . . .
After a delicate argument, the dedication was deleted.
The saddest thing of all was that no one gave Lapis any money. Some
promised to pay him on Tuesday, others said Thursday, or Friday in two
weeks' time. He was forced to go and borrow money from the enemy camp-the
place where he was never published.
Lapis went down to the second floor and entered the office of the
Lathe. To his misfortune he immediately bumped into Persidsky, the slogger.
"Ah!" exclaimed Persidsky, "Lapsus!"
"Listen," said Nikifor Lapis, lowering his voice. "Let me have three
roubles. Gerasim and Mumu owes me a pile of cash."
"I'll give you half a rouble. Wait a moment. I'm just coming."
And Persidsky returned with a dozen employees of the Lathe. Everyone
joined in the conversation.
"Well, how have you been making out?" asked Persidsky.
"I've written a marvellous poem!"
"About Gavrila? Something peasanty? 'Gavrila ploughed the fields early.
Gavrila just adored his plough'?"
"Not about Gavrila. That's a pot-boiler," said Lapis defensively. "I've
written about the Caucasus."
"Have you ever been to the Caucasus?"
"I'm going in two weeks."
"Aren't you afraid, Lapis? There are jackals there."
"Takes more than that to frighten me. Anyway, the ones in the Caucasus
aren't poisonous."
They all pricked up their ears at this reply.
"Tell me, Lapis," said Persidsky, "what do you think jackals are?"
"I know what they are. Leave me alone."
"All right, tell us then if you know."
"Well, they're sort of . . . like . . . snakes."
"Yes, of course, right as usual. You think a wild-goat's saddle is
served at table together with the spurs."
"I never said that," cried Trubetskoi. . .
"You didn't say it, you wrote it. Napernikov told me you tried to palm
off some doggerel on Gerasim and Mumu, supposed to be about the everyday
life of hunters. Honestly, Lapis, why do you write about things you've never
seen and haven't the first idea about? Why is the peignoir in your poem
'Canton' an evening dress? Why?"
"You philistine!" said Lapis boastfully.
"Why is it that in your poem 'The Budyonny Stakes' the jockey tightens
the hame strap and then gets into the coach box? Have you ever seen a hame
strap?"
"Yes."
"What's it like?"
"Leave me alone. You're nuts!" ,
"Have you ever seen a coach box or been to the races?"
"You don't have to go everywhere!" cried Lapis. "Pushkin wrote poems
about Turkey without ever having been there."
"Oh, yes. Erzerum is in Tula province, of course."
Lapis did not appreciate the sarcasm. He continued heatedly. "Pushkin
wrote from material he read. He read the history of the Pugachov revolt and
then wrote about it. It was Entich who told me about the races."
After this masterly defence, Persidsky dragged the resisting Lapis into
the next room. The onlookers followed. On the wall hung a large newspaper
clipping edged in black like an obituary notice.
"Did you write this piece for the Captain's Bridge!"
"Yes, I did."
"I believe it was your first attempt at prose. Congratulations! 'The
waves rolled across the pier and fell headlong below like a jack.' A lot of
help to the Captain's Bridge you are!' The Bridge won't forget you for some
time!"
"What's the matter?"
"The matter is . . . do you know what a jack is?"
"Of course I know. Leave me alone."
"How do you envisage a jack? Describe it in your own words."
"It. . . sort of. . . falls."
"A jack falls. Note that, everyone. A jack falls headlong. Just a
moment, Lapis, I'll bring you half a rouble. Don't let him go."
But this time, too, there was no half-rouble forthcoming. Persidsky
brought back the twenty-first volume of the Brockhaus encyclopaedia.
"Listen! 'Jack: a machine for lifting heavy weights. A simple jack used
for lifting carriages, etc., consists of a mobile toothed bar gripped by a
rod which is turned by means of a lever' . . . And here . . . 'In 1879 John
Dixon set up the obelisk known as Cleopatra's Needle by means of four
workers operating four hydraulic jacks.' And this instrument, in your
opinion, can fall headlong? So Brockhaus has deceived humanity for fifty
years? Why do you write such rubbish instead of learning? Answer!" "I need
the money."
"But you never have any. You're always trying to cadge half-roubles."
"I bought some furniture and went through my budget." "And how much
furniture did you buy? You get paid for your pot-boilers as much as they're
worth-a kopek." "A kopek be damned. I bought a chair at an auction which-"
"Is sort of like a snake? "
"No, from a palace. But I had some bad luck. Yesterday when I arrived
back from-"
"Hina Chlek's," cried everyone present in one voice. "Hina! I haven't
lived with Hina for years. I was returning from a discussion on Mayakovsky.
I went in. The window was open. I felt at once something had happened."
"Dear, dear," said Persidsky, covering his face with his hands. "I
feel, Comrades, that Lapis's greatest masterpiece has been stolen. 'Gavrila
had a job as doorman; Gavrila used to open doors.'"
"Let me finish. Absolute vandalism! Some wretches had got into the
apartment and ripped open the entire chair covering. Could anyone lend me
five roubles for the repairs?"
"Compose a new Gavrila for the repairs. I'll even give you the
beginning. Wait a moment. Yes, I know. 'Gavrila hastened to the market,
Gavrila bought a rotten chair.' Write it down quickly. You can make some
money on that in the Chest-of-Drawers Gazette. Oh, Trubetskoi, Trubetskoi!
Anyway, why are you called Trubetskoi? Why don't you choose a better name?
Niki for Dolgoruky. Or Nikifor Valois. Or, still better, Citizen Niki-for
Sumarokov-Elston. If ever you manage to get some easy job, then you can
write three lines for Gerasim right away and you have a marvellous way to
save yourself. One piece of rubbish is signed Sumarokov, the second Elston,
and the third Yusupov. God, you hack!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was slowly becoming a boot-licker. Whenever he
looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge.
It was so hot in Ivanopulo's room that Vorobyaninov's chairs creaked
like logs in the fireplace. The smooth operator was having a nap with the
light-blue waistcoat under his head.
Ippolit Matveyevich looked out of the window. A carriage emblazoned
with a coat of arms was moving along the curved side street, past the tiny
Moscow gardens. The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after another,
a horseguard in a brass helmet, society ladies, and fluffy white clouds.
Drumming the roadway with their hooves, the horses drew the carriage past
Ippolit Matveyevich. He winced with disappointment.
The carriage bore the initials of the Moscow communal services and was
being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all.
In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking old man with a fluffy white
beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was none other than Count
Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would probably have hailed the
old man and chatted with him about the good old days.
Count Bulanov was deeply troubled. As he whipped up the horses, he
mused about the red tape that was strangling the sub-department of
sanitation, and on account of which he had not received for six months the
apron he was entitled to under his contract.
"Listen," said the smooth operator suddenly. "What did they call you as
a boy?"
"What do you want to know for?"
"I just want to know what to call you. I'm sick of calling you
Vorobyaninov, and Ippolit Matveyevich is too stuffy. What were you called?
Ippy?"
"Pussy," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker.
"That's more like it. So look, Pussy, see what's wrong with my back. It
hurts between the shoulder-blades."
Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over his head. Before Pussy Vorobyaninov
was revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous; a back of enchanting
shape, but rather dirty.
"Aha! I see some redness."
Between the smooth operator's shoulders were some strangely shaped
mauve bruises which reflected colours like a rainbow in oil.
"Honestly, it's the number eight," exclaimed Vorobyaninov. "First time
I've ever seen a bruise like that."
"Any other number?" asked Ostap.
"There seems to be a letter P."
"I have no more questions. It's quite clear. That damned pen! You see
how I suffer, Pussy, and what risks I run for your chairs. These
arithmetical figures were branded on me by the huge self-falling pen with a
No. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back at
the very moment I inserted my hands inside the chief editor's chair. But
you! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair so
that I had to go and do your work for you? I won't even mention the auction.
A fine time to go woman-chasing. It's simply bad for you at your age to do
that. Look after your health. Take me, on the other hand. I got the widow's
chair. I got the two Shukin chairs. It was me who finally got Iznurenkov's
chair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to Lapis's. There was
only one chair that you managed to run down, and that was with the help of
your holy enemy, the archbishop."
Silently walking up and down in his bare feet, the technical adviser
reasoned with the submissive Pussy.
The chair which had vanished into the goods yard of October Station was
still a blot on the glossy schedule of the concession. The four chairs in
the Columbus Theatre were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make a
trip down the Volga aboard the lottery ship, S.S. Scriabin, and was
presenting the premiere of The Marriage that day as the last production of
the season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in Moscow and look
for the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or go on tour with the
troupe. Ostap was in favour of the latter.
"Or perhaps we should split up?" he suggested. "I'll go off with the
theatre and you stay and find out about the chair in the goods yard."
Pussy's grey eyelashes flickered so fearfully, however, that Ostap did
not bother to continue.
"Of the two birds," said Ostap, "the meatier should be chosen. Let's go
together. But the expenses will be considerable. We shall need money. I have
sixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh, I forgot. At your age a maiden's
love is so expensive! I decree that we go together to the premiere of The
Marriage. Don't forget to wear tails. If the chairs are still there and
haven't been sold to pay social-security debts, we can leave tomorrow.
Remember, Vorobyaninov, we've now reached the final act of the comedy My
Mother-in-Low's Treasure. The Finita la Comedia is fast approaching,
Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights! Oh, my
younger days! Oh, the smell of the wings! So many memories! So many
intrigues and affairs I How talented I was in my time in the role of Hamlet!
In short, the hearing is continued."
For the sake of economy they went to the theatre on foot. It was still
quite light, but the street lamps were already casting their lemon light.
Spring was dying before everyone's eyes. Dust chased it from the squares,
and a warm breeze drove it from the side streets. Old women fondled the
beauty and drank tea with it at little round tables in the yards. But
spring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it so
much wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where the young men were already
strolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bow
ties, and boots.
Mauve-powdered girls circulated between the holy of holies of the
Moscow Consumers' Union and the 'Commune' cooperative. The girls were
swearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace,
though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses were
no better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much on
the edges of the roadway. Cyclists rode noiselessly by from their first
large international match at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream man
trundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squinted
timorously at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by the
flashing signal with which he regulated the traffic, and was not dangerous.
The two friends made their way through the hustle and bustle.
Temptation lay in wait for them at every step. Different types of meat on
skewers were being roasted in full view of the street in the tiny eating
plates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of string
music was wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great Silent
Film' cinema. A loud-speaker raved away at a tram-stop.
It was time to put a spurt on. The friends reached the foyer of the
Columbus Theatre.
Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the list of seat prices.
"Rather expensive, I'm afraid," he said. "Three roubles for the sixteenth
row."
"How I dislike these provincial philistines," Ostap observed. "Where
are you going? Can't you see that's the box office?"
"Where else? We won't get in without tickets."
"Pussy, you're vulgar. In every well-built theatre there are two
windows. Only courting couples and wealthy heirs go to the box-office
window. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you may observe) go
straight to the manager's window."
And, indeed, at the box-office window were only about five modestly
dressed people. They may have been wealthy heirs or courting couples. At the
manager's window, however, there was great activity. A colourful line had
formed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which a
provincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notes
from friendly directors, actors, editors, theatrical costumiers, the
district militia chief, and other persons closely connected with the
theatre, such as members of the theatre and film critics' association, the
'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental Circus
Workshop, and some extraordinary name, like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. About
eight people had notes from Espere Eclairovich.
Ostap barged into the line, jostled aside the Fortinbrasites, and, with
a cry of "I only want some information: can't you see I haven't taken my
galoshes off!" pushed his way to the window and peered inside.
The manager was working like a slave. Bright diamonds of __
perspiration irrigated his fat face. The telephone interrupted him all the
time and rang with the obstinacy of a tram trying to pass through the
Smolensk market.
"Hurry up and give me the note!" he shouted at Ostap.
"Two seats," said Ostap quietly, "in the stalls."
"Who for?"
"Me."
"And who might you be?"
"Now surely you know me?"
"No, I don't."
But the stranger's gaze was so innocent and open that the manager's
hand by itself gave Ostap two seats in the eleventh row,
"All kinds come here," said the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "Who
knows who they are? They may be from the Ministry of Education. I seem to
have seen him at the Ministry. Where else could it have been? "
And mechanically issuing passes to the lucky film and theatre critics,
the manager went on quietly trying to remember where he had seen those clear
eyes before.
When all the passes had been issued and the lights went down in the
foyer, he remembered he had seen them in the Taganka prison in 1922, while
he was doing time for some trivial matter.
Laughter echoed from the eleventh row where the concessionaires were
sitting. Ostap liked the musical introduction performed by the orchestra on
bottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistled
and the curtain went up, wafting a breath of cool air.
To the surprise of Vorobyaninov, who was used to a classical
interpretation of The Marriage, Podkolesin was not on the stage. Searching
around with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard triangles hanging from the
ceiling and painted the primary colours of the spectrum. There "were no
doors or blue muslin windows. Beneath the multicoloured triangles danced
young ladies in large hats from black cardboard. The clinking of bottles
brought forth Podkolesin, who charged into the crowd riding on Stepan's
back. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed the young
ladies with words which were not in the play, he bawled out :
"Stepan!"
At the same time he leaped to one side and froze in a difficult pose.
The Esmarch douches began to clatter.
"Stepan!" repeated Podkolesin, taking another leap.
But since Stepan, who was standing right there in a leopard skin, did
not respond, Podkolesin asked tragically:
"Why are you silent, like the League of Nations?"
"I'm obviously afraid of Chamberlain," replied Stepan, scratching his
skin.
There was a general feeling that Stepan would oust Podkolesin and
become the chief character in this modernized version of the play.
"Well, is the tailor making a coat?"
A leap. A blow on the Esmarch douches. Stepan stood on his hands with
an effort and, still in that position, answered:
"Yes, he is."
The orchestra played a potpourri from Madam Butterfly. Stepan stood on
his hands the whole time. His face flooded with colour.
"And didn't the tailor ask what the master wanted such good cloth for?"
Stepan, who by this time was pitting in the orchestra cuddling the
conductor, answered: "No, he didn't. He's not a member of the British
Parliament, is he?"
"And didn't the tailor ask whether the master wished to get married?"
"The tailor asked whether the master wanted to pay alimony."
At this point the lights went out and the audience began stamping their
feet. They kept up the stamping until Podkolesin's voice could be heard
saying from the stage:
The Marriage
Text. . . N. V. Gogol
Verse . . . M. Cherchezlafemmov
Adaptation. . . I. Antiokhiisky
Musical accompaniment. . . Kh. Ivanov
Producer . . . Nich. Sestrin
Scenic effects . . . Simbievich-Sindievich
Lighting . . . Platon Plashuk. Sound effects . . . Galkin,
Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.
Make-up. . . Krult workshops; wigs by Foma Kochur
Furniture by the Fortinbras woodwork shops attached to the
Balthazar Umslopogas
Acrobatics instructress: Georgetta Tiraspolskikh
Hydraulic press operated by Fitter Mechnikov
Programme composed, imposed
and printed by the
KRULT FACTORY SCHOOL
"Citizens! Don't be alarmed! The lights went out on purpose, as part of
the act. It's required for the scenic effects."
The audience gave in. The lights did not go up again until the end of
the act. The drums rolled in complete darkness. A squad of soldiers dressed
as hotel doormen passed by, carrying torches. Then Kochkarev arrived,
apparently on a camel. This could only be judged from the following
dialogue.
"Ouch, how you frightened me! And you came on a camel, too."
"Ah, so you noticed, despite the darkness. I wanted to bring you a
fragrant camellia!"
During the intermission the concessionaires read the programme.
"Do you like it?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked timidly.
"Do you?"
"It's very interesting-only Stepan is rather odd."
"No, I don't like it," said Ostap. "Particularly the fact that the
furniture is from some Vogopas workshops or other. I hope those aren't our
chairs adapted to the new style."
Their fears were unjustified. At the beginning of the second act all
four chairs were brought on to the stage by Negroes in top hats.
The matchmaking scene aroused the greatest interest among the audience.
At the moment Agafya Tikhonovna was coming down a rope stretched across the
entire width of the theatre, the terrifying orchestra let out such a noise
that she nearly fell off into the audience. But on the stage she balanced
perfectly. She was wearing flesh-coloured tights and a bowler. Maintaining
her balance by means of a green parasol on which was written "I want
Podkolesin", she stepped along the wire and everyone below immediately saw
that her feet were dirty. She leaped from the wire straight on to a chair,
whereupon the Negroes, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in a tutu, and the matchmaker
in a bus driver's uniform all turned backward somersaults. Then they had a
five-minute rest, to hide which the lights were turned out again.
The suitors were also very comic, particularly Omlette. In his place a
huge pan of fried eggs was brought on to the stage. The sailor wore a mast
with a sail.
In vain did Starikov the merchant cry out that he was being crippled by
taxes. Agafaya Tikhonovna did not like him. She married Stepan. They both
dived into the fried eggs served by Podkolesin, who had turned into a
footman. Kochkarev and Fekla sang ditties about Chamberlain and the
repayment he hoped to extort from Germany. The Esmarch douches played a hymn
for the dying and the curtain came down, wafting a breath of cool air.
"I'm satisfied with the performance," said Ostap. "The chairs are
intact. But we've no time to lose. If Agafya Tikhonovna is going to land on
those chairs each day, they won't last very long."
Jostling and laughing, the young men in their fashioned jackets
discussed the finer points of the scenic effects.
"You need some shut-eye, Pussy," said Ostap. "We have to stand in line
for tickets early tomorrow morning. The theatre is leaving by express for
Nizhni tomorrow evening at seven. So get two seats in a hard coach to Nizhni
on the Kursk Railway. We'll sit it out. It's only one night."
The next day the Columbus Theatre was sitting in the buffet at Kursk
Station. Having taken steps to see that the scenic effects went by the same
train, Simbievich-Sindievich was having a snack at one of the tables.
Dipping his moustache into the beer, he asked the fitter nervously:
"The hydraulic press won't get broken on the way, will it?"
"It's not the press that's the trouble," said fitter Mechnikov.
"It's that it only works for five minutes and we have to cart it around
the whole summer."
"Was it any easier with the 'time projector' from the Ideology Powder!"
"Of course it was. The projector was big, but not so fragile."
At the next table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a youngish woman with hard
shiny legs, like skittles. The sound effects -Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,
Chalkin and Zalkind-fussed around her.
"You didn't keep in time with me yesterday," she complained. "I might
have fallen off."
"What can we do?" clamoured the sound effects. "Two douches broke."
"You think it's easy to get an Esmarch douche from abroad nowadays? "
cried Galkin.
"Just try going to the State Medical Supply Office. It's impossible to
buy a thermometer, let alone an Esmarch douche," added Palkin.
"Do you play thermometers as well?" asked the girl, horrified.
"It's not that we play thermometers," observed Zalkind, "but that the
damned douches are enough to drive you out of your mind and we have to take
our own temperatures."
Nich. Sestrin, stage manager and producer, was strolling along the
platform with his wife. Podkolesin and Kochkarev had downed three vodkas and
were wooing Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, each trying to outdo the other.
The concessionaires had arrived two hours before the train was due to
depart and were now on their sixth round of the garden laid out in front of
the station.
Ippolit Matveyevich's head was whirling. The hunt for the chairs was
entering the last lap. Long shadows fell on the scorching roadway. Dust
settled on their wet, sweaty faces. Cabs rattled past them and there was a
smell of petrol. Hired vehicles set down their passengers. Porters ran up to
them and carried off the bags, while their badges glittered in the sun. The
Muse of Travel had people by the throat.
"Let's get going as well," said Ostap.
Ippolit Matveyevich meekly consented. All of a sudden he came face to
face with Bezenchuk, the undertaker.
"Bezenchuk!" he exclaimed in amazement. "How did you get here?"
Bezenchuk doffed his cap and was speechless with joy. "Mr.
Vorobyaninov," he cried. "Greetin's to an honoured guest."
"Well, how are things?"
"Bad," answered the undertaker.
"Why is that?"
"I'm lookin' for clients. There ain't none about."
"Is the Nymph doing better than you?"
"Likely! Could they do better than me? No chance. Since your
mother-in-law, only Tierre and Constantine' has croaked."
"You don't say! Did he really die?"
"He croaked, Ippolit Matveyevich. He croaked at his post. He was
shavin' Leopold the chemist when he croaked. People said it was his insides
that bust, but I think it was the smell of medicine from the chemist that he
couldn't take."
"Dear me, dear me," muttered Ippolit Matveyevich. "So you buried him,
did you?"
"I buried him. Who else could? Does the Nymph, damn 'em, give tassels?"
"You got in ahead of them, then? "
"Yes, I did, but they beat me up afterwards. Almost beat the guts out
of me. The militia took me away. I was in bed for two days. I cured myself
with spirits."
"You massaged yourself?"
"No, I don't do that with spirits."
"But what made you come here? "
"I've brought my stock."
"What stock?"
"My own. A guard I know helped me bring it here free in the guard's
van. Did it as a friend."
It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed a neat pile of
coffins on the ground a little way from Bezenchuk. Some had tassels, others
did not. One of them Ippolit Matveyevich recognized immediately. It was the
large, dusty oak coffin from Bezenchuk's shop window.
"Eight of them," said Bezenchuk smugly. "Like gherkins."
"But who needs your coffins here? They have plenty of their own
undertakers."
"What about the flu?"
"What flu?"
"The epidemic. Prusis told me flu was ragin' in Moscow and there was
nothin' to bury people in. All the coffins were used up. So I decided to put
thin's right."
Ostap, who had been listening to the conversation with curiosity,
intervened. "Listen, dad, the flu epidemic is in Paris."
"In Paris?"
"Yes, go to Paris. You'll make money. Admittedly, there may be some
trouble with the visa, but don't give up. If Briand likes you, you'll do
pretty well. They'll set you up as undertaker-royal to the Paris
municipality. Here they have enough of their own undertakers."
Bezenchuk looked around him wildly. Despite the assurances of Prusis,
there were certainly no bodies lying about; people were cheerfully moving
about on their feet, and some were even laughing.
Long after the train had carried off the concessionaires, the Columbus
Theatre, and various other people, Bezenchuk was still standing in a daze by
his coffins. His eyes shone in the approaching darkness with an unfading
light.
MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE
A MAGIC NIGHT ON THE VOLGA
The smooth operator stood with his friend and closest associate, Pussy
Vorobyaninov, on the left of the passenger landing-stage of the state-owned
Volga River Transport System under a sign which said: "Use the rings for
mooring, mind the grating, and keep clear of the wall".
Flags fluttered above the quay. Smoke as curly as a cauliflower poured
from the funnels. The S.S. Anton Rubinstein was being loaded at pier No. 2.
Dock workers dug their iron claws into bales of cotton; iron pots were
stacked in a square on the quayside, which was littered with treated hides,
bundles of wire, crates of sheet glass, rolls of cord for binding sheaves,
mill-stones, two-colour bony agricultural implements, wooden forks,
sack-lined baskets of early cherries, and casks of herrings.
The Scriabin was not in, which greatly disturbed Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Why worry about it?" asked Ostap. "Suppose the Scriabin were here. How
would you get aboard? Even if you had the money to buy a ticket, it still
wouldn't be any use. The boat doesn't take passengers."
While still on the train, Ostap had already had a chance to talk to
Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press, and had found out
everything. The S.S. Scriabin had been chartered by the Ministry of Finance
and was due to sail from Nizhni to Tsaritsin, calling at every river port,
and holding a government-bond lottery. A complete government department had
left Moscow for the trip, including a lottery committee, an office staff, a
brass band, a cameraman, reporters from the central press and the Columbus
Theatre. The theatre was there to perform plays which popularised the idea
of government loans. Up to Stalingrad the Columbus Theatre was on the
establishment of the lottery committee, after which the theatre had decided
to tour the Caucasus and the Crimea with The Marriage at its own risk.
The Scriabin was late. A promise was given that she would leave the
backwater, where last-minute preparations were being made, by evening. So
the whole department from Moscow set up camp on the quayside and waited to
go aboard.
Tender creatures with attache1 cases and hold-alls sat on the bundles
of wire, guarding their Underwoods, and glancing apprehensively at the
stevedores. A citizen with a violet imperial positioned himself on a
mill-stone. On his knees was a pile of enamel plates. A curious person could
have read the uppermost one:
Mutual Settlement Department
Desks with ornamental legs and other, more modest, desks stood on top
of one another. A guard sauntered up and down by a sealed safe. Persidsky,
who was representing the Lathe, gazed at the fairground through Zeiss
binoculars with eightfold magnification.
The S.S. Scriabin approached, turning against the stream. Her sides
were decked with plyboard sheets showing brightly coloured pictures of
giant-sized bonds. The ship gave a roar, imitating the sound of a mammoth,
or possibly some other animal used in prehistoric times, as a substitute for
the sound of a ship's hooter.
The finance-and-theatre camp came to life. Down the slopes to the quay
came the lottery employees. Platon Plashuk, a fat little man, toddled down
to the ship in a cloud of dust. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind
flew out of the Raft beer-hall. Dockers were already loading the safe.
Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, the acrobatics instructress, hurried up the gangway
with a springy walk, while Simbievich-Sindievich, still worried about the
scenic effects, raised his hands, at one moment to the Kremlin heights, and
at another towards the captain standing on the bridge. The cameraman carried
his camera high above the heads of the crowd, and as he went he demanded a
separate cabin in which to set up a darkroom.
Amid the general confusion, Ippolit Matveyevich made his way over to
the chairs and was about to drag one away to one side.
"Leave the chair alone!" snarled Bender. "Are you crazy? Even if we
take one, the others will disappear for good. You'd do better to think of a
way to get aboard the ship."
Belted with brass tubes, the band passed along the landing-stage. The
musicians looked with distaste at the saxophones, flexotones, beer bottles
and Esmarch douches, with which the sound effects were armed.
The lottery wheels arrived in a Ford station wagon. They were built
into a complicated device composed of six rotating cylinders with shining
brass and glass. It took some time to set them up on the lower deck. The
stamping about and exchange of abuse continued until late evening.
In the lottery hall people were erecting a stage, fixing notices and
slogans to the walls, arranging benches for the visitors, and joining
electric cables to the lottery wheels. The desks were in the stern, and the
tapping of typewriters, interspersed with laughter, could be heard from the
typists' cabin. The pale man in the violet imperial walked the length of the
ship, hanging his enamel plates on the relevant doors.
Mutual Settlement Department
Personnel Department
Office
Engine Room
To the larger plates the man with the imperial added smaller plates.
No entry except on business
No consultations
No admittance to outsiders
All inquiries at the registry
The first-class saloon had been fitted up for an exhibition of bank
notes and bonds. This aroused a wave of indignation from Galkin, Palkin,
Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.
"Where are we going to eat?" they fretted. "And what happens if it
rains?"
"This is too much," said Nich. Sestrin to his assistant. "What do you
think, Seryozha? Can we do without the sound effects?"
"Lord, no, Nicholas Constantinovich. The actors are used to the rhythm
by now."
A fresh racket broke out. The "Five" had found that the stage manager
had taken all four chairs to his cabin.
"So that's it," said the "Five" ironically. "We're supposed to rehearse
sitting on our berths, while Sestrin and his wife, Gusta, who has nothing to
do with our group, sit on the four chairs. Perhaps we should have brought
our own wives with us on this trip."
The lottery ship was watched malevolently from the bank by the smooth
operator. A fresh outbreak of shouting reached the concessionaires' ears.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" cried a committee member.
"How was I to know he would fall ill."
"A hell of a mess we're in! Then go to the artists'-union office and
insist that an artist be sent here immediately."
"How can I? It's now six o'clock. The union office closed long ago.
Anyway, the ship is leaving in half an hour."
"Then you can do the painting yourself. Since you're responsible for
the decorations on the ship, get out of the mess any way you like!"
Ostap was already running up the gangplank, elbowing his way through
the dockers, young ladies, and idle onlookers. He was stopped at the top.
"Your pass?'
"Comrade!" roared Bender. "You! You! The little fat man! The one who
needs an artist!"
Five minutes later the smooth operator was sitting in the white cabin
occupied by the fat little assistant manager of the floating lottery, and
discussing terms.
"So we want you to do the following, Comrade," said fatty. "Paint
notices, inscriptions, and complete the transparent. Our artist began the
work, but is now ill. We've left him at the hospital. And, of course,
general supervision of the art department.
Can you take that on? I warn you, incidentally, there's a great deal of
work."
"Yes, I can undertake that. I've had occasion to do that kind of work
before."
"And you can come along with us now?"
"That will be difficult, but I'll try."
A large and heavy burden fell from the shoulders of the assistant
manager. With a feeling of relief, the fat man looked at the new artist with
shining eyes.
"Your terms?" asked Ostap sharply. "Remember, I'm not from a funeral
home."
"It's piecework. At union rates."
Ostap frowned, which was very hard for him.
"But free meals as well," added the tubby man hastily. "And a separate
cabin."
"All right," said Ostap, "I accept. But I have a boy, an assistant,
with me."
"I don't know about the boy. There are no funds for a boy. But at your
own expense by all means. He can live in your cabin."
"As you like. The kid is smart. He's used to Spartan conditions."
Ostap was given a pass for himself and for the smart boy; he put the
key of the cabin in his pocket and went out onto the hot deck. He felt great
satisfaction as he fingered the key. For the first time in his stormy life
he had both a key and an apartment. It was only the money he lacked. But
there was some right next to him in the chairs. The smooth operator walked
up and down the deck with his hands in his pockets, ignoring Vorobyaninov on
the quayside.
At first Ippolit Matveyevich made signs; then he was even daring enough
to whistle. But Bender paid no heed. Turning his back on the president of
the concession, he watched with interest as the hydraulic press was lowered
into the hold.
Final preparations for casting off were being made. Agafya Tikhonovna,
alias Mura, ran with clattering feet from her cabin to the stern, looked at
the water, loudly shared her delight with the balalaika virtuoso, and
generally caused confusion among the honoured officials of the lottery
enterprise.
The ship gave a second hoot. At the terrifying sound the clouds moved
aside. The sun turned crimson and sank below the horizon. Lamps and street
lights came on in the town above. From the market in Pochayevsky Ravine
there came the hoarse voices of gramophones competing for the last
customers. Dismayed and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich kept shouting something,
but no one heard him. The clanking of winches drowned all other sounds.
Ostap Bender liked effects. It was only just before the third hoot,
when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he had been abandoned to the
mercy of fate, that Ostap noticed him.
"What are you standing there like a coy suitor for? I thought you were
aboard long ago. They're just going to raise the gangplank. Hurry up! Let
this citizen board. Here's his pass."
Ippolit Matveyevich hurried aboard almost in tears.
"Is this your boy?" asked the boss suspiciously.
"That's the one," said Ostap. "If anyone says he's a girl, I'm a
Dutchman!"
The fat man glumly went away.
"Well, Pussy," declared Ostap, "we'll have to get down to work in the
morning. I hope you can mix paints. And, incidentally, I'm an artist, a
graduate of the Higher Art and Technical Workshops, and you're my assistant.
If you don't like the idea, go back ashore at once."
Black-green foam surged up from under the stern. The ship shuddered;
cymbals clashed together, flutes, cornets, trombones and tubas thundered out
a wonderful march, and the town, swinging around and trying to balance,
shifted to the left bank. Continuing to throb, the ship moved into midstream
and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. A minute later it was so far away
that the lights of the town looked like sparks from a rocket that had frozen
in space.
The murmuring of typewriters could still be heard, but nature and the
Volga were gaining the upper hand. A cosiness enveloped all those aboard the
S.S. Scriabin. The members of the lottery committee drowsily sipped their
tea. The first meeting of the union committee, held in the prow, was marked
by tenderness. The warm wind breathed so heavily, the water lapped against
the sides of the ship so gently, and the dark outline of the shore sped past
the ship so rapidly that when the chairman of the union committee, a very
positive man, opened his mouth to speak about working conditions in the
unusual situation, he unexpectedly for himself, and for everyone else, began
singing:
"A ship sailed down the Volga,
Mother Volga, River Volga. . ."
And the other, stern-faced members taking part in the meeting rumbled
the chorus:
"The lilac bloo-ooms. . ."
The resolution on the chairman's report was just not recorded. A piano
began to play. Kh. Ivanov, head of the musical accompaniment, drew the most
lyrical notes from the instrument. The balalaika virtuoso trailed after
Murochka and, not finding any words of his own to express his love, murmured
the words of a love song.
"Don't go away! Your kisses still fire me, your passionate embraces
never tire me. The clouds have not awakened in the mountain passes, the
distant sky has not yet faded as a pearly star."
Grasping the rail, Simbievich-Sindievich contemplated the infinite
heavens. Compared with them, his scenic effects appeared a piece of
disgusting vulgarity. He looked with revulsion at his hands, which had taken
such an eager part in arranging the scenic effects for the classical comedy.
At the moment the languor was greatest, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin
and Zalkind, who were in the stern of the ship, began banging away at their
surgical and brewery appliances. They were rehearsing. Instantly the mirage
was dispelled. Agafya Tikhonovna yawned and, ignoring the balalaika
virtuoso, went to bed. The minds of the trade unionists were again full of
working conditions, and they dealt with the resolution. After careful
consideration, Simbievich-Sindievich came to the conclusion that the
production of The Marriage was not really so bad. An irate voice from the
darkness called Georgetta Tiraspolskikh to a producer's conference. Dogs
began barking in the villages and it became chilly.
Ostap lay in a first-class cabin on a leather divan, thoughtfully
staring at a green canvas work belt and questioning Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Can you draw? That's a pity. Unfortunately, I can't, either."
He thought for a while and then continued.
"What about lettering? Can't do that either? Too bad. We're supposed to
be artists. Well, we'll manage for a day or so before they kick us out. In
the time we're here we can do everything we need to. The situation has
become a bit more complicated. I've found out that the chairs are in the
producer's cabin. But that's not so bad in the long run. The important thing
is that we're aboard. All the chairs must be examined before they throw us
off. It's too late for today. The producer's already asleep in his cabin."
People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime.
Rafts floated up and down-huge fields of logs with little wooden houses on
them. A small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve
over the paddle cover towed along three oil barges in a line. The Red
Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin overtook a convoy
of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making
a circle, turning against the stream.
Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on
to the Bramino quayside. With this line the shoremen hauled over the thick
end of the mooring rope. The screws began turning the opposite way and half
the river was covered with seething foam. The Scriabin shook from the
cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for
the lottery, which did not start until ten.
Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would have done on land-at
nine sharp. No one changed his habits. Those who were late for work on land
were late here, too, although they slept on the very premises. The field
staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very
quickly. Office-boys swept out their cabins with the same lack of interest
as they swept out the offices in Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and
hurried with notes from the registry to the personnel department, not a bit
surprised that the latter was in the stern and the registry in the prow. In
the mutual settlement cabin the abacuses clicked like castanets and the
adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was
being hauled over the coals.
Scorching his bare feet on the hot deck, the smooth operator walked
round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he
kept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every worker
should have government bonds in his pocket."
The smooth operator was doing his best, but his lack of talent was
painfully obvious. The words slanted downward and, at one stage, it looked
as though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then, with the boy Pussy's
help, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was now
more careful. Before daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lines
with string and chalk, and was now painting in the letters, cursing the
innocent Vorobyaninov.
Vorobyaninov carried out his duties as boy conscientiously. He ran
below for hot water, melted the glue, sneezing as he did so, poured the
paints into a bucket, and looked fawningly into the exacting artist's eyes.
When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed it on
the side.
The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see what the new
artist's work looked like from there. The letters of the words were of
different sizes and slightly cockeyed, but nothing could be done about it.
He had to be content.
The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches.
The sound of the music brought children running from the whole of Bramino
and, after them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band went
on blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. A
meeting began. From the porch steps of Korobkov's tea-house came the first
sounds of a report on the international situation.
From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see
the white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little way
from the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker,
and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands. Then the music
began again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playing
as it went. A crowd of people poured after it.
The lottery device mechanically threw up its combination of figures.
Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizens
watched and listened.
Ostap hurried down for a moment, made certain all the inmates of the
ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again.
"Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art
department. Stand by the entrance to the first-class corridor and sing. If
anyone comes, sing louder."
The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? "
"Whatever else, don't make it 'God Save the Tsar'. Something with
feeling. 'The Apple' or 'A Beauty's Heart'. But I warn you, if you don't
come out with your aria in time . . . This isn't the experimental theatre.
I'll wring your neck."
The smooth operator padded into the cherry-panelled corridor in his
bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected his
figure. He read the plate on the door:
Nich. Sestrin
Producer
Columbus Theatre
The mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying
a chair with curved legs. He sped along the corridor, out on to the deck,
and, glancing at Ippolit Matveyevich, took the chair aloft to the
wheelhouse. There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the chair
to the back and said warningly:
"The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly
anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as soon
as it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents."
A minute later the chair was covered up with sheets of ply-board and
bunting, and was no longer visible.
Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever.
"Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could
open it on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right away
and--"
"And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we
perhaps take it back to Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry we took
your chair, but unfortunately we didn't find anything in it, so here it is
back somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?"
As always, the smooth operator was right. Ippolit Matveyevich only
recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of the overture played on the
Esmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck.
The lottery operations were over for the day. The onlookers spread out
on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negro
minstrels. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind kept looking up
proudly as though to say: 'There, you see! And you said the popular masses
would not understand. But art finds a way!'
After this the Colombus troupe gave a short variety show with singing
and dancing on an improvised stage, the point of which was to demonstrate
how Vavila the peasant boy won fifty thousand roubles and what came of it.
The actors, who had now freed themselves from the chains of Sestrin's
constructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tuneful
voices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied.
Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles.
The balalaika was set in motion. It went flying behind the player's
back and from there came the "If the master has a chain, it means he has no
watch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gave
forth quite a few difficult variations.
It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led out a herd of
girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances.
While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its voyage, while the
captain talked with the engine-room through the speaking-tube, and the
boilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and, to
everyone's delight, began playing dances. Picturesque groups of dancers
formed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down a soft, apricot light.
It was an ideal moment for some newsreel shots. And, indeed, Polkan the
cameraman emerged yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had grown used
to his part as general office boy, followed him, cautiously carrying the
camera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polka
was being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping their feet as though
they wanted to split the planet. The girls sailed around. Onlookers crowded
the terraces and slopes. An avant-garde French cameraman would have found
enough material here to keep him busy for three days. Polkan, however,
having run his piggy eyes along the bank, immediately turned around, ambled
to the committee chairman, stood him against a white wall, pushed a book
into his hand, and, asking him not to move, smoothly turned the handle of
his cine-camera for some minutes. He then led the bashful chairman aft and
took him against the setting sun.
Having completed his shots, Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and
locked himself in.
Once more the hooter sounded and once more the sun hid in terror. The
second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave.
Ostap thought with trepidation of the coming morning. Ahead of him was
the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing bonds. This artistic
ordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with the
lettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower.
"Keep it in mind," warned the fat man, "from Vasyuki onward we are
holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent."
"Don't worry at all," said Ostap, basing his hopes on that evening,
rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent."
It was a starry, windy night. The animals in the lottery arc were
lulled to sleep. The lions from the lottery committee were asleep. So were
the lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the rabbits from mutual
settlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound effects, and the pigeons from
the typistry.
Only the shady couple lay awake. The smooth operator emerged from his
cabin after midnight. He was followed by the noiseless shadow of the
faithful Pussy. They went up on deck and silently approached the chair,
covered with plyboard sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap stood
the chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with a
pair of pliers and inserted his hand.
"Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice.
Letter from Theodore
written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife
In the regional centre of N.
My dear and precious Kate,
Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the
Good-Value Furnished Rooms, having finished all my business. The city of
Baku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you still have
to go by electric train and I haven't any money. This picturesque city is
washed by the Caspian. It really is very large in size. The heat here is
awful. I carry my coat in one hand and my jacket in the other, and it's
still too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practically
no money. But no harm, my dear, we'll soon have plenty. We'll travel
everywhere and settle properly in Samara, near our factory, and we'll have
liqueurs to drink. But to get to the point.
In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is
considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic.
There are many people from other parts here. Especially Armenians and
Persians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar and
saw many Turkish clothes and shawls. I wanted to buy you a present of a
Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when we
are rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedan
blanket.
Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me
here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian;
and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary. Both these happenings
greatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviour
towards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, but
had actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for the
jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it was
covered with kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, my
dearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals?
I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance
to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's not
here just now. He's gone to Batumi on vacation. His family is living
permanently in Batumi. I spoke to some people and they said all his
furniture is there in Batumi. He has a little house there, at the Green
Cape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs.
15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news
from Batumi. Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed in
Voronezh.
Your husband ever,
Theo.
P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your
brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value. I'm very grieved. A good
thing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother.
While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would
wait, and others that it would not, time passed in its usual way. The dusty
Moscow May was followed by a dusty June. In the regional centre of N., the
Gos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan Square and
Comrade Gubernsky Street for two days, now and then enveloping the vicinity
in desperate quantities of smoke. One by one the shamefaced members of the
Sword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison, having signed a
statement that they would not leave the town. Widow Gritsatsuyev (the
passionate woman and poet's dream) returned to her grocery business and was
fined only fifteen roubles for not placing the price list of soap, pepper,
blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in a
big-hearted woman.
"Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!"
Ippolit Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into his quivering hands.
Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness.
A beacon flashed on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river
and swam after the ship.
"Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else."
"There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Then you have a look as well."
Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his arm as far
as he could inside the chair. He could feel the ends of the springs between
his fingers, but nothing else that was hard. There was a dry, stale smell of
disturbed dust from the chair.
"Nothing?"
"No."
Ostap picked up the chair and hurled it far over the side. There was a
heavy splash. Shivering in the damp night air, the concessionaires went back
to their cabin filled with doubts.
"Well, at any rate we found something," said Bender.
Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and looked at it in a
daze.
"Come on, come on! What are you goggling at?"
The box was opened. On the bottom lay a copper plate, green with age,
which said:
CRAFTSMAN
HAMBS
begins a new batch of furniture
St. Petersburg 1865
Ostap read the inscription aloud.
"But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"You're remarkably shrewd, my dear chair-hunter. As you see, there
aren't any."
Vorobyaninov was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting moustache
twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He looked as though he
was about to beat his face with his ears in desperation.
The cold, sober voice of the smooth operator had its usual magic
effect. Vorobyaninov stretched his hands along the seams of his worn
trousers and kept quiet.
"Shut up, sadness. Shut up, Pussy. Some day we'll have the laugh on the
stupid eighth chair in which we found the silly box. Cheer up! There are
three more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred."
During the night a volcanic pimple erupted on the aggrieved Ippolit
Matveyevich's cheek. All his sufferings, all his setbacks, and the whole
ordeal of the jewel hunt seemed to be summed up in the pimple, which was
tinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue.
"Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap.
Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and went to fetch the paints,
his tall figure slightly bent, like a fishing rod. The transparent was
begun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck.
And the third day of the voyage commenced.
It commenced with a brief clash between the brass band and the sound
effects over a place to rehearse.
After breakfast, the toughs with the brass tubes and the slender
knights with the Esmarch douches both made their way to the stern at the
same time. Galkin managed to get to the bench first. A clarinet from the
brass band came second.
"The seat's taken," said Galkin sullenly.
"Who by?" asked the clarinet ominously.
"Me, Galkin."
"Who else?"
"Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind."
"Haven't you got a Yolkin as well? This is our seat."
Reinforcements were brought up on both sides. The most powerful machine
in the band was the helicon, encircled three times by a brass serpent. The
French horn swayed to and fro, looking like a human ear, and the trombones
were in a state of readiness for action. The sun was reflected a thousand
times in their armour. Beside them the sound effects looked dark and small.
Here and there a bottle glinted, the enema douches glimmered faintly, and
the saxophone, that outrageous take-off of a musical instrument, was pitiful
to see.
"The enema battalion," said the bullying clarinet, "lays claim to this
seat."
"You," said Zalkind, trying to find the most cutting expression he
could, "you are the conservatives of music!"
"Don't prevent us rehearsing."
"It's you who're preventing us. The less you rehearse on those
chamber-pots of yours, the nicer it sounds."
"Whether you rehearse on those samovars of yours or not makes no damn
difference."
Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained where they were and
obstinately began playing their own music. Down the river floated sounds
that could only have been made by a tram passing slowly over broken glass.
The brass played the Kexholm Lifeguards' march, while the sound effects
rendered a Negro dance, "An Antelope at the Source of the Zambesi". The
shindy was ended by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lottery
committee.
At eleven o'clock the magnum opus was completed. Walking backwards,
Ostap and Vorobyaninov dragged their transparent up to the bridge. The fat
little man in charge ran in front with his hands in the air. By joint effort
the transparent was tied to the rail. It towered above the passenger deck
like a cinema screen. In half an hour the electrician had laid cables to the
back of the transparent and fitted up three lights inside it. All that
remained was to turn the switch.
Off the starboard bow the lights of Vasyuki could already be made out
through the darkness.
The chief summoned everyone to the ceremonial illumination of the
transparent. Ippolit Matveyevich and the smooth operator watched the
proceedings from above, standing beside the dark screen.
Every event on board was taken seriously by the floating government
department. Typists, messengers, executives, the Columbus Theatre, and
members of the ship's company crowded on to the passenger deck, staring
upward.
"Switch it on!" ordered the fat man.
The transparent lit up.
Ostap looked down at the crowd. Their faces were bathed in pink light.
The onlookers began laughing; then there was silence and a stern voice from
below said:
"Where's the second-in-command?"
The voice was so peremptory that the second-in-command rushed down
without counting the steps.
"Just have a look," said the voice, "and admire your work!"
"We're about to be booted off," whispered Ostap to Ippolit Matveyevich.
And, indeed, the little fat man came flying up to the top deck like a
hawk.
"Well, how's the transparent?" asked Ostap cheekily. "Is it long
enough?"
"Collect your things!" shouted the fat man.
"What's the hurry?"
"Collect your things! You're going to court! Our boss doesn't like to
joke."
"Throw him out!" came the peremptory voice from below.
"But, seriously, don't you like our transparent? Isn't it really any
good?"
There was no point in continuing the game. The Scriabin had already
heaved to, and the faces of the bewildered Vasyuki citizens crowding the
pier could be seen from the ship. Payment was categorically refused. They
were given five minutes to collect their things.
"Incompetent fool," said Simbievich-Sindievich as the partners walked
down on to the pier. "They should have given the transparent to me to do. I
would have done it so that no Meyer-hold would have had a look-in!"
On the quayside the concessionaires stopped and looked up. The
transparent shone bright against the dark sky.
"Hm, yes," said Ostap, "the transparent is rather outlandish. A lousy
job!"
Compared with Ostap's work, any picture drawn with the tail of an
unruly donkey would have been a masterpiece. Instead of a sower sowing
bonds, Ostap's mischievous hand had drawn a stumpy body with a sugar-loaf
head and thin whiplike arms.
Behind the concessionaires the ship blazed with light and resounded
with music, while in front of them, on the high bank, was the darkness of
provincial midnight, the barking of a dog, and a distant accordion.
"I will sum up the situation," said Ostap light-heartedly. "Debit: not
a cent of money; three chairs sailing down the river; nowhere to go; and no
SPCC badge. Credit: a 1926 edition of a guidebook to the Volga (I was forced
to borrow it from Monsieur Simbievich's cabin). To balance that without a
deficit would be very difficult. We'll have to spend the night on the quay."
The concessionaires arranged themselves on the riverside benches. By
the light of a battered kerosene lamp Ostap read the guide-book:
On the right-hand bank is the town of Vasyuki. The commodities
despatched from here are timber, resin, bark and bast; consumer goods are
delivered here for the region, which is fifty miles from the nearest
railway.
The town has a population of 8,000; it has a state-owned cardboard
factory employing 520 workers, a small foundry, a brewery and a tannery.
Besides normal academic establishments, there is also a forestry school.
"The situation is more serious than I thought," observed Ostap. "It
seems out of the question that we'll be able to squeeze any money out of the
citizens of Vasyuki. We nevertheless need thirty roubles. First, we have to
eat, and, second, we have to catch up the lottery ship and meet the Columbus
Theatre in Stalingrad."
Ippolit Matveyevich curled up like an old emaciated tomcat after a
skirmish with a younger rival, an ebullient conqueror of roofs, penthouses
and dormer windows.
Ostap walked up and down the benches, thinking and scheming. By one
o'clock a magnificent plan was ready. Bender lay down by the side of his
partner and went to sleep.
THE INTERPLANETARY CHESS TOURNAMENT
A tall, thin, elderly man in a gold pince-nez and very dirty
paint-splashed boots had been walking about the town of Vasyuki since early
morning, attaching hand-written notices to walls. The notices read:
On June 22,1927,
a lecture entitled
will be given at the Cardboardworker Club
by Grossmeister (Grand Chess Master) O. Bender
after which he will play
A SIMULTANEOUS CHESS MATCH
on 160 boards
Admission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 kopeks
Participation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 kopeks
Commencement at 6 p.m. sharp
Bring your own chessboards
MANAGER : K. Michelson
The Grossmeister had not been wasting his time, either. Having rented
the club for three roubles, he hurried across to the chess section, which
for some reason or other was located in the corridor of the horse-breeding
administration.
In the chess section sat a one-eyed man reading a Panteleyev edition of
one of Spielhagen's novels.
"Grossmeister O. Bender!" announced Bender, sitting down on the table.
"I'm organizing a simultaneous chess match here."
The Vasyuki chess player's one eye opened as wide as its natural limits
would allow.
"One second, Comrade Grossmeister," he cried. "Take a seat, won't you?
I'll be back in a moment."
And the one-eyed man disappeared. Ostap looked around the chess-section
room. The walls were hung with photographs of racehorses; on the table lay a
dusty register marked "Achievements of the Vasyuki Chess Section for 1925".
The one-eyed man returned with a dozen citizens of varying ages. They
all introduced themselves in turn and respectfully shook hands with the
Grossmeister.
"I'm on my way to Kazan," said Ostap abruptly. "Yes, yes, the match is
this evening. Do come along. I'm sorry, I'm not in form at the moment. The
Carlsbad tournament was tiring."
The Vasyuki chess players listened to him with filial love in their
eyes. Ostap was inspired, and felt a flood of new strength and chess ideas.
"You wouldn't believe how far chess thinking has advanced," he said.
"Lasker, you know, has gone as far as trickery. It's impossible to play him
any more. He blows cigar smoke over his opponents and smokes cheap cigars so
that the smoke will be fouler. The chess world is greatly concerned."
The Grossmeister then turned to more local affairs.
"Why aren't there any new ideas about in the province? Take, for
instance, your chess section. That's what it's called-the chess section.
That's boring, girls! Why don't you call it something else, in true chess
style? It would attract the trade-union masses into the section. For
example, you could call it The Four Knights Chess Club', or The Red
End-game', or 'A Decline in the Standard of Play with a Gain in Pace'. That
would be good. It has the right kind of sound."
The idea was successful.
"Indeed," exclaimed the citizens, "why shouldn't we rename our section
The Four Knights Chess Club'?"
Since the chess committee was there on the spot, Ostap organized a
one-minute meeting under his honorary chairmanship, and the chess section
was unanimously renamed The Four Knights Chess Club'. Benefiting from his
lessons aboard the Scriabin, the Grossmeister artistically drew four knights
and the appropriate caption on a sheet of cardboard.
This important step promised the flowering of chess thought in Vasyuki.
"Chess!" said Ostap. "Do you realize what chess is? It promotes the
advance of culture and also the economy. Do you realize that The Four
Knights Chess Club', given the right organization, could completely
transform the town of Vasyuki?"
Ostap had not eaten since the day before, which accounted for his
unusual eloquence.
"Yes," he cried, "chess enriches a country! If you agree to my plan,
you'll soon be descending marble steps to the quay! Vasyuki will become the
centre of ten provinces! What did you ever hear of the town of Semmering
before? Nothing! But now that miserable little town is rich and famous just
because an international tournament was held there. That's why I say you
should organize an international chess tournament in Vasyuki."
"How?" they all cried.
"It's a perfectly practical plan," replied the Grossmeister. "My
connections and your activity are all that are required for an international
tournament in Vasyuki. Just think how fine that would sound-The 1927
International Tournament to be held in Vasyuki!' Such players as Jose-Raoul
Capablanca, Lasker, Alekhine, Reti, Rubinstein, Tarrasch, Widmar and Dr.
Grigoryev are bound to come. What's more, I'll take part myself!"
"But what about the money?" groaned the citizens. "They would all have
to be paid. Many thousands of roubles! Where would we get it?"
"A powerful hurricane takes everything into account," said Ostap. "The
money will come from collections."
"And who do you think is going to pay that kind of money? The people of
Vasyuki?"
"What do you mean, the people of Vasyuki? The people of Vasyuki are not
going to pay money, they're going to receive it. It's all extremely simple.
After all, chess enthusiasts will come from all over the world to attend a
tournament with such great champions. Hundreds of thousands of
people-well-to-do people-will head for Vasyuki. Naturally, the river
transport will not be able to cope with such a large number of passengers.
So the Ministry of Railways will have to build a main line from Moscow to
Vasyuki. That's one thing. Another is hotels and skyscrapers to accommodate
the visitors. The third thing is improvement of the agriculture over a
radius of five hundred miles; the visitors have to be provided with fruit,
vegetables, caviar and chocolate. The building for the actual tournament is
the next thing. Then there's construction of garages to house motor
transport for the visitors. An extra-high power radio station will have to
be built to broadcast the sensational results of the tournament to the rest
of the world. Now about the Vasyuki railway. It most likely won't be able to
carry all the passengers wanting to come to Vasyuki, so we will have to have
a 'Greater Vasyuki' airport with regular nights by mail planes and airships
to all parts of the globe, including Los Angeles and Melbourne."
Dazzling vistas unfolded before the Vasyuki chess enthusiasts. The
walls of the room melted away. The rotting walls of the stud-farm collapsed
and in their place a thirty-storey building towered into the sky. Every
hall, every room, and even the lightning-fast lifts were full of people
thoughtfully playing chess on malachite encrusted boards.
Marble steps led down to the blue Volga. Ocean-going steamers were
moored on the river. Cablecars communicating with the town centre carried up
heavy-faced foreigners, chess-playing ladies, Australian advocates of the
Indian defence, Hindus in turbans, devotees of the Spanish gambit, Germans,
Frenchmen, New Zealanders, inhabitants of the Amazon basin, and finally
Muscovites, citizens of Leningrad and Kiev, Siberians and natives of Odessa,
all envious of the citizens of Vasyuki.
Lines of cars moved in between the marble hotels. Then suddenly
everything stopped. From out of the fashionable Pass Pawn Hotel came the
world champion Capablanca. He was surrounded by women. A militiaman dressed
in special chess uniform (check breeches and bishops in his lapels) saluted
smartly. The one-eyed president of the "Four Knights Club" of Vasyuki
approached the champion in a dignified manner.
The conversation between the two luminaries, conducted in English, was
interrupted by the arrival by air of Dr. Grigoryev and the future world
champion, Alekhine.
Cries of welcome shook the town. Capablanca glowered. At a wave of
one-eye's hand, a set of marble steps was run up to the plane. Dr. Grigoryev
came down, waving his hat and commenting, as he went, on a possible mistake
by Capablanca in his forthcoming match with Alekhine.
Suddenly a black dot was noticed on the horizon. It approached rapidly,
growing larger and larger until it finally turned into a large emerald
parachute. A man with an attache case was hanging from the harness, like a
huge radish.
"Here he is!" shouted one-eye. "Hooray, hooray, I recognize the great
philosopher and chess player Dr. Lasker. He is the only person in the world
who wears those green socks." Capablanca glowered again.
The marble steps were quickly brought up for Lasker to alight on, and
the cheerful ex-champion, blowing from his sleeve a speck of dust which had
settled on him over Silesia f ell into the arms of one-eye. The latter put
his arm around Lasker's waist and walked him over to the champion, saying:
"Make up your quarrel! On behalf of the popular masses of Vasyuki, I
urge you to make up your quarrel."
Capablanca sighed loudly and, shaking hands with the veteran, said: "I
always admired your idea of moving QK5 to QB3 in the Spanish gambit."
"Hooray!" exclaimed one-eye. "Simple and convincing in the style of a
champion."
And the incredible crowd joined in with: "Hooray! Vivat! Banzai! Simple
and convincing in the style of a champion!"
Express trains sped into the twelve Vasyuki stations, depositing ever
greater crowds of chess enthusiasts.
Hardly had the sky begun to glow from the brightly lit advertisements,
when a white horse was led through the streets of the town. It was the only
horse left after the mechanization of the town's transportation. By special
decree it had been renamed a stallion, although it had actually been a mare
the whole of its life. The lovers of chess acclaimed it with palm leaves and
chessboards.
"Don't worry," continued Ostap, "my scheme will guarantee the town an
unprecedented boom in your production forces. Just think what will happen
when the tournament is over and the visitors have left. The citizens of
Moscow, crowded together on account of the housing shortage, will come
flocking to your beautiful town. The capital will be automatically
transferred to Vasyuki. The government will move here. Vasyuki will be
renamed New Moscow, and Moscow will become Old Vasyuki. The people of
Leningrad and Kharkov will gnash their teeth in fury but won't be able to do
a thing about it. New Moscow will soon become the most elegant city in
Europe and, soon afterwards, in the whole world."
"The whole world!! I" gasped the citizens of Vasyuki in a daze.
"Yes, and, later on, in the universe. Chess thinking-which has turned a
regional centre into the capital of the world-will become an applied science
and will invent ways of interplanetary communication. Signals will be sent
from Vasyuki to Mars, Jupiter and Neptune. Communications with Venus will be
as easy as going from Rybinsk to Yaroslavl. And then who knows what may
happen? In maybe eight or so years the first interplanetary chess tournament
in the history of the world will be held in Vasyuki."
Ostap wiped his noble brow. He was so hungry he could have eaten a
roasted knight from the chessboard.
"Ye-es," said the one-eyed man with a sigh, looking around the dusty
room with an insane light in his eye, "but how are we to put the plan into
effect, to lay the basis, so to say?"
They all looked at the Grossmelster tensely.
"As I say, in practice the plan depends entirely on your activity. I
will do all the organizing myself. There will be no actual expense, except
for the cost of the telegrams."
One-eyed nudged his companions. "Well?" he asked, "what do you say?"
"Let's do it, let's do it!" cried the citizens.
"How much money is needed for the . . . er . . . telegrams?"
"A mere bagatelle. A hundred roubles."
"We only have twenty-one roubles in the cash box. We realize, of
course, that it is by no means enough . . ."
But the Grossmeister proved to be accommodating. "All right," he said,
"give me the twenty roubles."
"Will it be enough?" asked one-eye.
"It'll be enough for the initial telegrams. Later on we can start
collecting contributions. Then there'll be so much money we shan't know what
to do with it."
Putting the money away in his green field jacket, the Grossmeister
reminded the gathered citizens of his lecture and simultaneous match on one
hundred and sixty boards, and, taking leave of them until evening, made his
way to the Cardboard-worker Club to find Ippolit Matveyevich.
"I'm starving," said Vorobyaninov in a tremulous voice.
He was already sitting at the window of the box office, but had not
collected one kopek; he could not even buy a hunk of bread. In front of him
lay a green wire basket intended for the money. It was the kind that is used
in middle-class houses to hold the cutlery.
"Listen, Vorobyaninov," said Ostap, "stop your cash transactions for an
hour and come and eat at the caterers' union canteen. I'll describe the
situation as we go. By the way, you need a shave and brush-up. You look like
a tramp. A Grossmeister cannot have such suspicious-looking associates."
"I haven't sold a single ticket," Ippolit Matveyevich informed him.
"Don't worry. People will come flocking in towards evening. The town
has already contributed twenty roubles for the organization of an
international chess tournament."
"Then why bother about the simultaneous match?" whispered his manager.
"You may lose the games anyway. With twenty roubles we can now buy tickets
for the ship-the Karl Liebknecht has just come in-travel quietly to
Stalingrad and wait for the theatre to arrive. We can probably open the
chairs there. Then we'll be rich and the world will belong to us."
"You shouldn't say such silly things on an empty stomach. It has a bad
effect on the brain. We might reach Stalingrad on twenty roubles, but what
are we going to eat with? Vitamins, my dear comrade marshal, are not given
away free. On the other hand, we can get thirty roubles out of the locals
for the lecture and match."
"They'll slaughter us!" said Vorobyaninov.
"It's a risk, certainly. We may be manhandled a bit. But anyway, I have
a nice little plan which will save you, at least. But we can talk about that
later on. Meanwhile, let's go and try the local dishes."
Towards six o'clock the Grossmeister, replete, freshly shaven, and
smelling of eau-de-Cologne, went into the box office of the Cardboardworker
Club.
Vorobyaninov, also freshly shaven, was busily selling tickets.
"How's it going? " asked the Grossmeister quietly.
"Thirty have gone in and twenty have paid to play," answered his
manager.
"Sixteen roubles. That's bad, that's bad!" -
"What do you mean, Bender? Just look at the number of people standing
in line. They're bound to beat us up."
"Don't think about it. When they hit you, you can cry. In the meantime,
don't dally. Learn to do business."
An hour later there were thirty-five roubles in the cash box. The
people in the clubroom were getting restless.
"Close the window and give me the money!" said Bender. "Now listen!
Here's five roubles. Go down to the quay, hire a boat for a couple of hours,
and wait for me by the riverside just below the warehouse. We're going for
an evening boat trip. Don't worry about me. I'm in good form today."
The Grossmeister entered the clubroom. He felt in good spirits and knew
for certain that the first move-pawn to king four-would not cause him any
complications. The remaining moves were, admittedly, rather more obscure,
but that did not disturb the smooth operator in the least. He had worked out
a surprise plan to extract him from the most hopeless game.
The Grossmeister was greeted with applause. The small club-room was
decorated with coloured flags left over from an evening held a week before
by the lifeguard rescue service. This was clear, furthermore, from the
slogan on the wall:
ASSISTANCE TO DROWNING PERSONS IS
IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES
Ostap bowed, stretched out his hands as though restraining the public
from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.
"Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice:
"the subject of my lecture today is one on which I spoke, not without
certain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago. The subject of my
lecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.
"What, Comrades, is an opening? And what, Comrades, is an idea? An
opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia. And what, Comrades, is an idea? An
idea, Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form. Even with
insignificant forces you can master the whole of the chessboard. It all
depends on each separate individual. Take, for example, the fair-haired
young man sitting in the third row. Let's assume he plays well. . . ." The
fair-haired young man turned red.
"And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play
very well."
Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow.
"What do we see, Comrades? We see that the fair-haired fellow plays
well and that the other one plays badly. And no amount of lecturing can
change this correlation of forces unless each separate individual keeps
practising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell you
some instructive stories about our esteemed ultramodernists, Capablanca,
Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."
Ostap told the audience a few antiquated anecdotes, gleaned in
childhood from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first half of the
evening.
The brevity of the lecture caused certain surprise. The one-eyed man
was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.
The beginning of the simultaneous chess match, however, allayed the
one-eyed chess player's growing suspicions. Together with the rest, he set
up the tables along three sides of the room. Thirty enthusiasts in all took
their places to play the Grossmeister. Many of them were in complete
confusion and kept glancing at books on chess to refresh their knowledge of
complicated variations, with the help of which they hoped not to have to
resign before the twenty-second move, at least.
Ostap ran his eyes along the line of black chessmen surrounding him on
three sides, looked at the door, and then began the game. He went up to the
one-eyed man, who was sitting at the first board, and moved the king's pawn
forward two squares.
One-eye immediately seized hold of his ears and began thinking hard.
A whisper passed along the line of players. "The Grossmeister has
played pawn to king four."
Ostap did not pamper his opponents with a variety of openings. On the
remaining twenty-nine boards he made the same move-pawn to king four. One
after another the enthusiasts seized their heads and launched into feverish
discussions. Those who were not playing followed the Grossmeister with their
eyes. The only amateur photographer in the town was about to clamber on to a
chair and light his magnesium flare when Ostap waved his arms angrily and,
breaking off his drift along the boards, shouted loudly:
"Remove the photographer! He is disturbing my chess thought!"
What would be the point of leaving a photograph of myself in this
miserable town, thought Ostap to himself. I don't much like having dealings
with the militia.
Indignant hissing from the enthusiasts forced the photographer to
abandon his attempt. In fact, their annoyance was so great that he was
actually put outside the, door.
At the third move it became clear that in eighteen games the
Grossmeister was playing a Spanish gambit. In the other twelve the blacks
played the old-fashioned, though fairly reliable, Philidor defence. If Ostap
had known he was using such cunning gambits and countering such tested
defences, he would have been most surprised. The truth of the matter was
that he was playing chess for the second time in his life.
At first the enthusiasts, and first and foremost one-eye, were
terrified at the Grossmeister's obvious craftiness.
With singular ease, and no doubt scoffing to himself at the
backwardness of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, the Grossmeister sacrificed pawns
and other pieces left and right. He even sacrificed his queen to the
brown-haired fellow whose skill had been so belittled during the lecture.
The man was horrified and about to resign; it was only by a terrific effort
of will that he was able to continue.
The storm broke about five minutes later. "Mate!" babbled the
brown-haired fellow, terrified out of his wits. "You're checkmate, Comrade
Grossmeister!'
Ostap analysed the situation, shamefully called a rook a "castle" and
pompously congratulated the fellow on his win. A hum broke out among the
enthusiasts.
Time to push off, thought Ostap, serenely wandering up and down the
rows of tables and casually moving pieces about.
"You've moved the knight wrong, Comrade Grossmeister," said one-eye,
cringing. "A knight doesn't go like that."
"So sorry," said the Grossmeister, "I'm rather tired after the
lecture."
During the next ten minutes the Grossmeister lost a further ten games.
Cries of surprise echoed through the Cardboardworker club-room.
Conflict was near. Ostap lost fifteen games in succession, and then another
three.
Only one-eye was left. At the beginning of the game he had made a large
number of mistakes from nervousness and was only now bringing the game to a
victorious conclusion. Unnoticed by those around, Ostap removed the black
rook from the board and hid it in his pocket.
A crowd of people pressed tightly around the players.
"I had a rook on this square a moment ago," cried one-eye, looking
round, "and now it's gone!"
"If it's not there now, it wasn't there at all," said Ostap, rather
rudely.
"Of course it was. I remember it distinctly!"
"Of course it wasn't!"
"Where's it gone, then? Did you take it?"
"Yes, I took it."
"At which move?"
"Don't try to confuse me with your rook. If you want to resign, say
so!"
"Wait a moment, Comrades, I have all the moves written down."
"Written down my foot!"
"This is disgraceful!" yelled one-eye. "Give me back the rook!"
"Come on, resign, and stop this fooling about."
"Give me back my rook!"
At this point the Grossmeister, realizing that procrastination was the
thief of time, seized a handful of chessmen and threw them in his one-eyed
opponent's face.
"Comrades!" shrieked one-eye. "Look, everyone, he's hitting an
amateur!"
The chess players of Vasyuki were aghast.
Without wasting valuable time, Ostap hurled a chessboard at the lamp
and, hitting out at jaws and faces in the ensuing darkness, ran out into the
street. The Vasyuki chess enthusiasts, falling over each other, tore after
him.
It was a moonlit evening. Ostap bounded along the silvery street as
lightly as an angel repelled from the sinful earth. On account of the
interrupted transformation of Vasyuki into the centre of the world, it was
not between palaces that Ostap had to run, but wooden houses with outside
shutters.
The chess enthusiasts raced along behind.
"Catch the Grossmeister!" howled one-eye.
"Twister!" added the others.
"Jerks!" snapped back the Grossmeister, increasing his speed.
"Stop him!" cried the outraged chess players.
Ostap began running down the steps leading down to the quay. He had
four hundred steps to go. Two enthusiasts, who had taken a short cut down
the hillside, were waiting for him at the bottom of the sixth flight. Ostap
looked over his shoulder. The advocates of Philidor's defence were pouring
down the steps like a pack of wolves. There was no way back, so he kept on
going.
"Just wait till I get you, you bastards!" he shouted at the two-man
advance party, hurtling down from the sixth flight.
The frightened troopers gasped, fell over the balustrade, and rolled
down into the darkness of mounds and slopes. The path was clear.
"Stop the Grossmeister !" echoed shouts from above.
The pursuers clattered down the wooden steps with a noise like falling
skittle balls.
Reaching the river bank, Ostap made to the right, searching with his
eyes for the boat containing his faithful manager.
Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting serenely in the boat. Ostap dropped
heavily into a seat and began rowing for all he was worth. A minute later a
shower of stones flew in the direction of the boat, one of them hitting
Ippolit Matveyevich. A yellow bruise appeared on the side of his face just
above the volcanic pimple. Ippolit Matveyevich hunched his shoulders and
began whimpering.
"You are a softie! They practically lynched me, but I'm still happy and
cheerful. And if you take the fifty roubles net profit into account, one
bump on the head isn't such an unreasonable price to pay."
In the meantime, the pursuers, who had only just realized that their
plans to turn Vasyuki into New Moscow had collapsed and that the
Grossmeister was absconding with fifty vital Vasyukian roubles, piled into a
barge and, with loud shouts, rowed out into midstream. Thirty people were
crammed into the boat, all of whom were anxious to take a personal part in
settling the score with the Grossmeister. The expedition was commanded by
one-eye, whose single peeper shone in the night like a lighthouse.
"Stop the Grossmeister!" came shouts from the overloaded barge.
"We must step on it, Pussy!" said Ostap. "If they catch up with us, I
won't be responsible for the state of your pince-nez."
Both boats were moving downstream. The gap between them was narrowing.
Ostap was going all out.
"You won't escape, you rats!" people were shouting from the barge.
Ostap had no time to answer. His oars flashed in and out of the water,
churning it up so that it came down in floods in the boat.
Keep going! whispered Ostap to himself.
Ippolit Matveyevich had given up hope. The larger boat was gaining on
them and its long hull was already flanking them to port in an attempt to
force the Grossmeister over to the bank. A sorry fate awaited the
concessionaires. The jubilance of the chess players in the barge was so
great that they all moved across to the sides to be in a better position to
attack the villainous Grossmeister in superior forces as soon as they drew
alongside the smaller boat.
"Watch out for your pince-nez, Pussy," shouted Ostap in despair,
throwing aside the oars. "The fun is about to begin."
"Gentlemen!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in a croaking voice, "you
wouldn't hit us, would you? "
"You'll see!" roared the enthusiasts, getting ready to leap into the
boat.
But at that moment something happened which will outrage all honest
chess players throughout the world. The barge listed heavily and took in
water on the starboard side.
"Careful!" squealed the one-eyed captain.
But it was too late. There were too many enthusiasts on one side of the
Vasyuki dreadnought. As the centre of gravity shifted, the boat stopped
rocking, and, in full conformity with the laws of physics, capsized.
A concerted wailing disturbed the tranquillity of the river.
"Ooooooh!" groaned the chess players.
All thirty enthusiasts disappeared under the water. They quickly came
up one by one and seized hold of the upturned boat. The last to surface was
one-eye.
"You jerks!" cried Ostap in delight. "Why don't you come and get your
Grossmeister? If I'm not mistaken, you intended to trounce me, didn't you? "
Ostap made a circle around the shipwrecked mariners.
"You realize, individuals of Vasyuki, that I could drown you all one by
one, don't you? But I'm going to spare your lives.
Live on, citizens! Only don't play chess any more, for God's sake.
You're just no good at it, you jerks! Come on, Ippolit Matveyevich, let's
go. Good-bye, you one-eyed amateurs! I'm afraid Vasyuki will never become a
world centre. I doubt whether the masters of chess would ever visit fools
like you, even if I asked them to. Good-bye, lovers of chess thrills! Long
live the 'Four Knights Chess Club'!"
Morning found the concessionaires in sight of Chebokary. Ostap was
dozing at the rudder while Ippolit Matveyevich sleepily moved the oars
through the water. Both were shivering from the chilliness of the night.
Pink buds blossomed in the east. Ippolit Matveyevich's pince-nez was all of
a glitter. The oval lenses caught the light and alternately reflected one
bank and then the other. A signal beacon from the left bank arched in the
biconcave glass. The blue domes of Chebokary sailed past like ships. The
garden in the east grew larger, and the buds changed into volcanoes, pouring
out lava of the best sweetshop colours. Birds on the bank were causing a
noisy scene. The gold nosepiece of the pince-nez flashed and dazzled the
Grossmeister. The sun rose. Ostap opened his eyes and stretched himself,
tilting the boat and cracking his joints.
"Good morning, Pussy," he said, suppressing a yawn. "I come to bring
greetings and to tell you the sun is up and is making something over there
glitter with a bright, burning light. . ." "The pier. . . ." reported
Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap took out the guide-book and consulted it. "From
all accounts it's Chebokary. I see: 'Let us note the pleasantly situated
town of Chebokary.' "Do you really think it's pleasantly situated, Pussy?
'At the present time Chebokary has 7,702 inhabitants' "Pussy! Let's give up
our hunt for the jewels and increase the population to 7,704. What about it?
It would be very effective. We'll open a 'Petits Chevaux' gaming-house and
from the 'Petits Chevaux' we'll have une grande income. Anyway, to continue:
'Founded in 1555, the town has preserved some very interesting
churches. Besides the administrative institutions of the Chuvash Republic,
Chebokary also has a workers' school, a Party school, a teachers' institute,
two middle-grade schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. On
the quayside and in the bazaar it is possible to see Chuvash and Cheremis
nationals, distinguishable by their dress. . . .'"
But before the friends were able to reach the quay, where the Chuvash
and Cheremis nationals were to be seen, their attention was caught by an
object floating downstream ahead of the boat.
"The chair!" cried Ostap. "Manager! It's our chair!"
The partners rowed over to the chair. It bobbed up and down, turned
over, went under, and came up farther away from the boat. Water poured
freely into its slashed belly.
It was the chair opened aboard the Scriabin, and it was now floating
slowly towards the Caspian Sea.
"Hi there, friend!" called Ostap. "Long time no see. You know,
Vorobyaninov, that chair reminds me of our life. We're also floating with
the tide. People push us under and we come up again, although they aren't
too pleased about it. No one likes us, except for the criminal investigation
department, which doesn't like us, either. Nobody has any time for us. If
the chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, the only thing left
of us would have been the coroner's report. 'Both bodies lay with their feet
to the south-east and their heads to the north-west. There were jagged
wounds in the bodies, apparently inflicted by a blunt instrument.' The
enthusiasts would have beaten us with chessboards, I imagine. That's
certainly a blunt instrument. The first body belonged to a man of about
fifty-five, dressed in a torn silk jacket, old trousers, and old boots. In
the jacket pocket was an identification card bearing the name Konrad
Karlovich Michelson . ..' That's what they would have written about you,
Pussy."
"And what would they have written about you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich
irritably.
"Ah! They would have written something quite different about me. It
would have gone like this: 'The second corpse belonged to a man of about
twenty-seven years of age. He loved and suffered. He loved money and
suffered from a lack of it. His head with its high forehead fringed with
raven-black curls was turned towards the sun. His elegant feet, size
forty-two boots, were pointing towards the northern lights. The body was
dressed in immaculate white clothes, and on the breast was a gold harp
encrusted with mother-of-pearl, bearing the words of the song "Farewell, New
Village!" The deceased youth engaged in poker-work, which was clear from the
permit No. 86/1562, issued on 8/23/24 by the Pegasus-and-Parnasus
craftsmen's artel, found in the pocket of his tails.' And they would have
buried me, Pussy, with pomp and circumstance, speeches, a band, and my
grave-stone would have had the inscription 'Here lies the unknown
central-heating engineer and conqueror, Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria Bender
Bey, whose father, a Turkish citizen, died without leaving his son,
Ostap-Suleiman, a cent. The deceased's mother was a countess of independent
means."
Conversing along these lines, the concessionaires nosed their way to
the bank.
That evening, having increased their capital by five roubles from the
sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends went aboard the diesel ship Uritsky
and sailed for Stalingrad, hoping to overtake the slow-moving lottery ship
and meet the Columbus Theatre troupe in Stalingrad.
The Scriabin reached Stalingrad at the beginning of July. The friends
met it, hiding behind crates on the quayside. Before the ship was unloaded,
a lottery was held aboard and some big prizes were won.
They had to wait four hours for the chairs. First to come ashore was
the theatre group and then the lottery employees. Persidsky's shining face
stood out among them. As they lay in wait, the concessionaires could hear
him shouting:
"Yes, I'll come to Moscow immediately. I've already sent a telegram.
And do you know which one? 'Celebrating with you.' Let them guess who it's
from."
Then Persidsky got into a hired car, having first inspected it
thoroughly, and drove off, accompanied for some reason by shouts of
"Hooray!"
As soon as the hydraulic press had been unloaded, the scenic effects
were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen by the time they unloaded
the chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse carts and, gaily shouting,
went straight to the station.
"I don't think they're going to play in Stalingrad," said Ippolit
Matveyevich.
Ostap was in a quandary.
"We'll have to travel with them," he decided. "But where's the money?
Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."
At the station it turned out that the theatre was going to Pyatigorsk
via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.
"Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.
"I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly.
"Damn you! Better not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll
do the bilking."
Ippolit Matveyevich was bought a ticket in an upholstered coach and
with it travelled to the station Mineral Waters on the North Caucasus
Railway. Keeping out of sight of the troupe alighting at the station
(decorated with oleander shrubs in green tubs), the former marshal went to
look for Ostap.
Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line
coaches, Ostap was still not to be seen. He finally arrived in the evening
and found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.
"Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?"
"You were in a state, and you had a ticket in your pocket! And I
wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of the last coach of your
train? Who spent three hours waiting like an idiot for a goods train with
empty mineral-water bottles? You're a swine, citizen marshal! Where's the
theatre? "
"In Pyatigorsk."
"Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is
three roubles. It isn't much, of course, but enough for the first purchase
of mineral water and railway tickets."
Creaking like a cart, the train left for Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes
later, passing Zmeika and Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the foot
of Mashuk.
A VIEW OF THE MALACHITE PUDDLE
It was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and washed. Even Mashuk,
overgrown with shrubbery and small clumps of trees, was carefully combed and
exuded a smell of toilet water.
White trousers of the most varied types flashed up and down the toy
platform: there were trousers made of twill, moleskin, calamanco, duck and
soft flannel. People were walking about in sandals and Apache shirts. In
their heavy, dirty boots, heavy dusty trousers, heated waistcoats and
scorching jackets, the concessionaires felt very out of place. Among the
great variety of gaily coloured cottons in which the girls of the resort
were parading themselves, the brightest and most elegant was the uniform of
the stationmaster.
To the surprise of all newcomers, the stationmaster was a woman. Auburn
curls peeped from under her red peaked cap with its two lines of silver
braid around the band. She wore a white tunic and a white skirt.
As soon as the travellers had had a good look at the station-master,
had read the freshly pasted notices advertising the tour of the Columbus
Theatre and drunk two five-kopek glasses of mineral water, they went into
the town on the Station-Flower Garden tram route. They were charged ten
kopeks to go into the Flower Garden.
In the Flower Garden there was a great deal of music, a large number of
happy people, and very few flowers. A symphony orchestra in a white
shell-like construction was playing the "Dance of the Gnats"; narzan mineral
water was on sale in the Lermontov gallery, and was also obtainable from
kiosks and vendors walking around.
No one had time for the two grimy jewel-hunters.
"My, Pussy," said Ostap, "we're out of place in all this festivity."
The concessionaires spent their first night at the spa by a narzan
spring.
It was only there, in Pyatigorsk, when the Columbus Theatre had
performed their version of The Marriage to an audience of astounded
town-dwellers for the third time, that the partners realized the real
difficulties involved in their treasure hunt. To find their way into the
theatre as they had planned proved impossible. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,
Chalkin and Zalkind slept in the wings, since their modest earnings
prevented them from living in a hotel.
The days passed, and the friends were slowly reaching the end of their
tether, spending their nights 'at the site of Lermontov's duel and
subsisting by carrying the baggage of peasant tourists.
On the sixth day Ostap managed to strike up an acquaintance with
Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press. By this time,
Mechnikov, who had no money and was forced to get rid of his daily hang-over
by drinking mineral water, was in a terrible state and had been observed by
Ostap to sell some of the theatre props at the market. Final agreement was
reached during the morning libation by a spring. The fitter called Ostap
"Palsie" and seemed about to consent.
"That's possible," he said. "That's always possible, palsie. It's my
pleasure, palsie."
Ostap realized at once that the fitter knew his stuff.
The contracting parties looked one another in the eye, embraced,
slapped each other's backs and laughed politely.
"Well," said Ostap, "ten for the whole deal."
"Palsie!" exclaimed the astonished fitter, "don't make me mad. I'm a
man who's suffering from the narzan."
"How much do you want then?"
"Make it fifty. After all, it's government property. I'm a man who's
suffering."
"All right, accept twenty. Agreed? I see from your eyes you agree."
"Agreement is the result of complete non-objection on both sides."
"There are no flies on this one," whispered Ostap to Vorobyaninov.
"Take a lesson."
"When will you bring the chairs?"
"You'll get the chairs when I get the money."
"That's fine," said Ostap without thinking.
"Money in advance," declared the fitter. "The money in the morning, the
chairs in the evening; or, the money in the evening, the chairs the next
morning."
"What about the chairs this morning, the money tomorrow evening," tried
Ostap.
"Palsie, I'm a man who's suffering. Such terms are revolting."
"But the point is, I won't receive my money by telegraph until
tomorrow," said Ostap.
"Then we'll discuss the matter tomorrow," concluded the obstinate
fitter. "And in the meantime, palsie, have a nice time at the spring. I'm
off. Simbievich has me by the throat. I've no strength left. Can you expect
a man to thrive on mineral water?"
And resplendent in the sunlight, Mechnikov went off.
Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich.
"The time we have," he said, "is the money we don't have. Pussy, we
must decide on a career. A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero
kopeks awaits us. We only need twenty roubles for the treasure to be ours.
We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."
Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully.
"OS with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy."
He took the jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov, threw it on the
ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.
"What are you doing?" howled Vorobyaninov. "I've been wearing that
jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."
"Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your hat. Now, sprinkle
your trousers with dust and pour some mineral water over them. Be quick
about it."
In a few moments Ippolit Matveyevich was dirty to the point of
revulsion.
"Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money."
"What am I supposed to do?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully. "You
know French, I hope? "
"Not very well. What I learned at school." "Hm . . . then we'll have to
operate with what you learned at school. Can you say in French, 'Gentleman,
I haven't eaten for six days'?"
"M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . .
je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do you
say 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six. It's: 'Je ne mange pas six
jours' "
"What an accent, Pussy! Anyway, what do you expect from a beggar. Of
course a beggar in European Russia wouldn't speak French as well as
Milerand. Right, pussy, and how much German do you know?"
"Why all this?" exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. "Because," said Ostap
weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're going to stand in
the shade and beg for alms in French, German and Russian, emphasizing the
fact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. The
net profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"
Ippolit Matveyevich was transfigured. His chest swelled up like the
Palace bridge in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire, and his nose seemed to
Ostap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.
"Dear me," said the smooth operator, not in the least alarmed. "Just
look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."
"Never," suddenly said Ippolit Matveyevich, "never has Vorobyaninov
held out his hand."
"Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap.
"So you've never held out your hand?"
"No, I have not."
"Spoken like a true gigolo. You've been living off me for the last
three months. For three months I've been providing you with food and drink
and educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position and
say . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you go right
away to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by nightfall, or else
I'm automatically removing you from the list of shareholders in the
concession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ."
"Yes," mumbled the marshal.
"In that case, repeat the words."
"M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur
ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma."
"Once again. Make it more heart-rending."
Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words.
"All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go.
The rendezvous is at midnight here by the spring. That's not for
romantic reasons, mind you, but simply because people give more in the
evening."
"What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?"
"Don't worry about me. As usual, I shall be where things are most
difficult."
The friends went their ways.
Ostap hurried to a small stationery shop, bought a book of receipts
with his last ten-kopek bit, and sat on a stone block for an hour or so,
numbering the receipts and scribbling something on each one.
"System above all," he muttered to himself. "Every public kopek must be
accounted for."
The smooth operator marched up the mountain road that led round Mashuk
to the site of Lermontov's duel with Martynov, passing sanatoriums and rest
homes.
Constantly overtaken by buses and two-horse carriages, he arrived at
the Drop.
A narrow path cut in the cliff led to a conical drop. At the end of the
path was a parapet from which one could see a puddle of stinking malachite
at the bottom of the Drop. This Drop is considered one of the sights of
Pyatigorsk and is visited by a large number of tourists in the course of a
day.
Ostap had seen at once that for a man without prejudice the Drop could
be a source of income.
"What a remarkable thing," mused Ostap, "that the town has never
thought of charging ten kopeks to see the Drop. It seems to be the only
place where the people of Pyatigorsk allow the sightseers in free. I will
remove that blemish on the town's escutcheon and rectify the regrettable
omission."
And Ostap acted as his reason, instinct, and the situation in hand
prompted.
He stationed himself at the entrance to the Drop and, rustling the
receipt book, called out from time to time:
"Buy your tickets here, citizens. Ten kopeks. Children and servicemen
free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!"
It was a sure bet. The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went to the Drop,
and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no great
difficulty. The non-union members, of whom there were many in Pyatigorsk,
were a great help.
They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked
tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:
"You see, Tanyusha, what did I tell you? And you said there was no
charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?"
"You're absolutely right. It would be quite impossible not to charge
for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members."
Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the
Drop in two wagons. Ostap was alarmed and was about to pretend to be an
innocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded round the smooth operator so
timidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice:
"Union members, ten kopeks; but since representatives of the militia
can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks."
The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what purpose the
money was being collected.
"For general repairs to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't
drop too much."
While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of the malachite
puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame,
stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by, mumbled his
three phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."
People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly. However, by
exploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pulling
at their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of the
Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.
The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra
played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between. Brightly
coloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, and
came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying
matsoni on the verandah of the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne
and sulphur gas.
"Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.
"Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice
right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah!
Ah! First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about
in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He had
changed his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with a
playful spotted pattern. He was in unusual spirits and from time to time
jumped as much as five or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov did not
recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.
"Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald?
Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!"
Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused
marshal's hand and ran off. But for some time afterwards his thick thighs
could be glimpsed in various parts of the Flower Garden, and his voice
seemed to float down from the trees.
"Ah! Ah! 'Don't sing to me, my beauty, of sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They
remind me of another life and a distant shore.' 'And in the morning she
smiled again.' First rate!"
Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he
did so. He missed a lot.
In the enchanting darkness of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shukin
strolled through the park, dragging after her the submissive and newly
reconciled Ernest Pavlovich. The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard
battle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud American girl had recently set
sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.
"Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!"
In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen. Her cheeks
were still adorned with sideburns. Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab,
washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her
sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.
After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had
been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan, "By carefully
masticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have a
holiday and enjoy himself. Fate itself had saved the full-bellied little
crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap
would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.
Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to the spring as the musicians were
folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting
couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.
"How much did you collect?" asked Ostap as soon as the marshal's
hunched figure appeared at the spring.
"Seven roubles, twenty-nine kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest,
copper and silver."
"For the first go-terrific! An executive's rate! You amaze me, Pussy.
But what fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know? You didn't give him
change, I hope?"
"It was Iznurenkov."
"What, really? Absalom! Why, that rolling stone. Where has he rolled
to! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn't recognize you!"
"He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma. And laughed."
"There, you see, marshal, it's not really so bad being a beggar,
particularly with a moderate education and a feeble voice. And you were
stubborn about it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were the Lord
Privy Seal. Well, Pussy my lad, I haven't been wasting my time, either.
Fifteen roubles. Altogether that's enough."
The next morning the fitter received his money and brought them two
chairs in the evening. He claimed it was not possible to get the third chair
as the sound effects were playing cards on it.
For greater security the friends climbed practically to the top of
Mashuk.
Beneath, the lights of Pyatigorsk shone strong and steady. Below
Pyatigorsk more feeble lights marked Goryachevodsk village. On the horizon
Kislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines.
Ostap glanced up at the starry sky and took the familiar pliers from
his pocket.
Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden
house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of which
cast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his white
shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineer
was restlessly awaiting his dinner.
Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a
petulant, chubby little boy:
"Moo-oosie!"
The house was silent.
The tropical flora fawned on the engineer. Cacti stretched out their
spiky mittens towards him. Dracaena shrubs rustled their leaves. Banana
trees and sago palms chased the flies from his face, and the roses with
which the verandah was woven fell at his feet.
But all in vain. Bruns was hungry. He glowered petulantly at the
mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant cape at Batumi, and called out in a
singsong voice:
"Moosie, moosie!"
The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air. There was no
answer. Bruns had visions of a large golden-brown goose with sizzling,
greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out:
"Moosie, where's the goosie?"
"Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on
at me."
The engineer, who was already pouting his lips into the accustomed
shape, promptly answered:
"Moosie, you haven't any pity for your little hubby."
"Get out, you glutton," came the reply from inside.
The engineer did not give in, however. He was just about to continue
his appeals for the goose, which had been going on unsuccessfully for two
hours, when a sudden rustling made him turn round.
From the black-green clumps of bamboo there had emerged a man in torn
blue tunic-shirt-belted with a shabby twisted cord with tassels-and frayed
striped trousers. The stranger's kindly face was covered with ragged
stubble. He was carrying his jacket in his hand.
The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice:
"Where can I find Engineer Bruns?"
"I'm Engineer Bruns," said the goose-charmer in an unexpectedly deep
voice. "What can I do for you?"
The man silently fell to his knees. It was Father Theodore.
"Have you gone crazy? " cried the engineer. "Stand up, please."
"I won't," said Father Theodore, following the engineer with his head
and gazing at him with bright eyes.
"Stand up."
"I won't."
And carefully, so that it would not hurt, the priest began beating his
head against the gravel.
"Moosie, come here!" shouted the frightened engineer. "Look what's
happening! Please get up. I implore you."
"I won't," repeated Father Theodore.
Moosie ran out on to the verandah; she was very good at interpreting
her husband's intonation.
Seeing the lady, Father Theodore promptly crawled over to her and,
bowing to her feet, rattled off:
"On you, Mother, on you, my dear, on you I lay my hopes."
Engineer Bruns thereupon turned red in the face, seized the petitioner
under the arms and, straining hard, tried to lift him to his feet. Father
Theodore was crafty, however, and tucked up his legs. The disgusted Bruns
dragged his extraordinary visitor into a corner and forcibly sat him in a
chair (a Hambs chair, not from Vorobyaninov's house, but one belonging to
General Popov's wife).
"I dare not sit in the presence of high-ranking persons," mumbled
Father Theodore, throwing the baker's jacket, which smelt of kerosene,
across his knees.
And he made another attempt to go down on his knees.
With a pitiful cry the engineer restrained him by the shoulders.
"Moosie," he said, breathing heavily, "talk to this citizen. There's
been some misunderstanding."
Moosie at once assumed a businesslike tone.
"In my house," she said menacingly, "kindly don't go down on anyone's
knees."
"Dear lady," said Father Theodore humbly, "Mother!"
"I'm not your mother. What do you want? "
The priest began burbling something incoherent, but apparently deeply
moving. It was only after lengthy questioning that they were able to gather
that he was asking them to do him a special favour and sell him the suite of
twelve chairs, one of which he was sitting on at that moment.
The engineer let go of Father Theodore with surprise, whereupon the
latter immediately plumped down on his knees again and began creeping after
the engineer like a tortoise.
"But why," cried the engineer, trying to dodge Father Theodore's long
arms, "why should I sell my chairs? It's no use how much you go down on your
knees like that, I just don't understand anything."
"But they're my chairs," groaned the holy father.
"What do you mean, they're yours? How can they be yours? You're crazy.
Moosie, I see it all. This man's a crackpot."
"They're mine," repeated the priest in humiliation.
"Do you think I stole them from you, then?" asked the engineer
furiously. "Did I steal them? Moosie, this is blackmail."
"Oh, Lord," whispered Father Theodore.
"If I stole them from you, then take the matter to court, but don't
cause pandemonium in my house. Did you hear that, Moosie? How impudent can
you get? They don't even let a man have his dinner in peace."
No, Father Theodore did not want to recover "his" chairs by taking the
matter to court. By no means. He knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolen
them from him. Oh, no. That was the last idea he had in his mind. But the
chairs had nevertheless belonged to him before the revolution, and his wife,
who was on her deathbed in Voronezh, was very attached to them. It was to
comply with her wishes and not on his own initiative that he had taken the
liberty of finding out the whereabouts of the chairs and coming to see
Citizen Bruns. Father Theodore was not asking for charity. Oh, no. He was
sufficiently well off (he owned a small candle factory in Samara) to sweeten
his wife's last few minutes by buying the old chairs. He was ready to
splurge and pay twenty roubles for the whole set of chairs.
"What?" cried the engineer, growing purple. "Twenty roubles? For a
splended drawing-room suite? Moosie, did you hear that? He really is a nut.
Honestly he is."
"I'm not a nut, but merely complying with the wishes of my wife who
sent me."
"Oh, hell!" said the engineer. "Moosie, he's at it again. He's crawling
around again."
"Name your price," moaned Father Theodore, cautiously beating his head
against the trunk of an araucaria.
"Don't spoil the tree, you crazy man. Moosie, I don't think he's a nut.
He's simply distraught at his wife's illness. Shall we sell him the chairs
and get rid of him? Otherwise, he'll crack his skull."
"And what are we going to sit on?" asked Moosie.
"We'll buy some more."
"For twenty roubles?"
"Suppose I don't sell them for twenty. Suppose I don't sell them for
two hundred, but supposing I do sell them for two-fifty?"
In response came the sound of a head against a tree.
"Moosie, I'm fed up with this!"
The engineer went over to Father Theodore, with his mind made up and
began issuing an ultimatum.
"First, move back from the palm at least three paces; second, stand up
at once; third, I'll sell you the chairs for two hundred and fifty and not a
kopek less."
"It's not for personal gain," chanted Father Theodore, "but merely in
compliance with my sick wife's wishes."
"Well, old boy, my wife's also sick. That's right, isn't it, Moosie?
Your lungs aren't in too good a state, are they? But on the strength of that
I'm not asking you to . . . er . . . sell me your jacket for thirty kopeks."
"Have it for nothing," exclaimed Father Theodore.
The engineer waved him aside in irritation and then said coldly:
"Stop your tricks. I'm not going to argue with you any more.
I've assessed the worth of the chairs at two hundred and fifty roubles
and I'm not shifting one cent." "Fifty," offered the priest.
"Moosie," said the engineer, "call Bagration. Let him see this citizen
off the premises." "Not for personal gain. . . ." "Bagration!"
Father Theodore fled in terror, while the engineer went into the
dining-room and sat down to the goose. Bruns's favourite bird had a soothing
effect on him. He began to calm down.
Just as the engineer was about to pop a goose leg into his pink mouth,
having first wrapped a piece of cigarette paper around the bone, the face of
the priest appeared appealingly at the window.
"Not for personal gain," said a soft voice. "Fifty-five roubles." The
engineer let out a roar without turning around. Father Theodore disappeared.
The whole of that day Father Theodore's figure kept appearing at
different points near the house. At one moment it was seen coming out of the
shade of the cryptomeria, at another it rose from a mandarin grove; then it
raced across the back yard and, fluttering, dashed towards the botanical
garden.
The whole day the engineer kept calling for Moosie, complaining about
the crackpot and his own headache. From time to time Father Theodore's voice
could be heard echoing through the dusk.
"A hundred and eight," he called from somewhere in the sky. A moment
later his voice came from the direction of Dumbasoc's house.
"A hundred and forty-one. Not for personal gain, Mr. Brans, but merely
. . ."
At length the engineer could stand it no longer; he came out on to the
verandah and, peering into the darkness, began shouting very clearly:
"Damn you! Two hundred roubles then. Only leave us alone." There was a
rustle of disturbed bamboo, the sound of a soft groan and fading footsteps,
then all was quiet.
Stars floundered in the bay. Fireflies chased after Father Theodore and
circled round his head, casting a greenish medicinal glow on his face.
"Now the goose is flown," muttered the engineer, going inside.
Meanwhile, Father Theodore was speeding along the coast in the last bus in
the direction of Batumi. A slight surf washed right up to the side of him;
the wind blew in his face, and the bus hooted in reply to the whining
jackals.
That evening Father Theodore sent a telegram to his wife in the town of
N.
GOODS FOUND STOP WIRE ME TWO HUNDRED THIRTY STOP SELL ANYTHING STOP
THEO
For two days he loafed about elatedly near Bruns's house, bowing to
Moosie in the distance, and even making the tropical distances resound with
shouts of "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes of my wife who
sent me."
Two days later the money was received together with a desperate
telegram:
SOLD EVERYTHING STOP NOT A CENT LEFT STOP KISSES AND AM WAITING STOP
EVSTIGNEYEV STILL HAVING MEALS STOP KATEY
Father Theodore counted the money, crossed himself frenziedly, hired a
cart, and drove to the Green Cape.
The weather was dull. A wind from the Turkish frontier blew across
thunderclouds. The strip of blue sky became narrower and narrower. The wind
was near gale force. It was forbidden to take boats to sea and to bathe.
Thunder rumbled above Batumi. The gale shook the coast.
Reaching Bruns's house, the priest ordered the Adzhar driver to wait
and went to fetch the furniture.
"I've brought the money," said Father Theodore. "You ought to lower
your price a bit."
"Moosie," groaned the engineer, "I can't stand any more of this."
"No, no, I've brought the money," said Father Theodore hastily, "two
hundred, as you said."
"Moosie, take the money and give him the chairs, and let's get it over
with. I've a headache."
His life ambition was achieved. The candle factory in Samara was
falling into his lap. The jewels were pouring into his pocket like seeds.
Twelve chairs were loaded into the cart one after another. They were
very like Vorobyaninov's chairs, except that the covering was not flowered
chintz, but rep with blue and pink stripes.
Father Theodore was overcome with impatience. Under his shirt behind a
twisted cord he had tucked a hatchet. He sat next to the driver and,
constantly looking round at the chairs, drove to Batumi. The spirited horses
carried the holy father and his treasure down along the highway past the
Finale restaurant, where the wind swept across the bamboo tables and
arbours, past a tunnel that was swallowing up the last few tank cars of an
oil train, past the photographer, deprived that overcast day of his usual
clientele, past a sign reading "Batumi Botanical Garden", and carried him,
not too quickly, along the very line of surf. At the point where the road
touched the rocks, Father Theodore was soaked with salty spray. Rebuffed by
the rocks, the waves turned into waterspouts and, rising up to the sky,
slowly fell back again.
The jolting and the spray from the surf whipped Father Theodore's
troubled spirit into a frenzy. Struggling against the wind, the horses
slowly approached Makhinjauri. From every side the turbid green waters
hissed and swelled. Right up to Batumi the white surf swished like the edge
of a petticoat peeking from under the skirt of a slovenly woman.
"Stop!" Father Theodore suddenly ordered the driver. "Stop,
Mohammedan!"
Trembling and stumbling, he started to unload the chairs on to the
deserted shore. The apathetic Adzhar received his five roubles, whipped up
the horses and rode off. Making sure there was no one about, Father Theodore
carried the chairs down from the rocks on to a dry patch of sand and took
out his hatchet.
For a moment he hesitated, not knowing where to start. Then, like a man
walking in his sleep, he went over to the third chair and struck the back a
ferocious blow with the hatchet. The chair toppled over undamaged.
"Aha!" shouted Father Theodore. "I'll show you!"
And he flung himself on the chair as though it had been a live animal.
In a trice the chair had been hacked to ribbons. Father Theodore could not
hear the sound of the hatchet against the wood, cloth covering, and springs.
All sounds were drowned by the powerful roar of the gale.
"Aha! Aha! Aha!" cried the priest, swinging from the shoulder.
One by one the chairs were put out of action. Father Theodore's fury
increased more and more. So did the fury of the gale. Some of the waves came
up to his feet.
From Batumi to Sinop there was a great din. The sea raged and vented
its spite on every little ship. The S.S. Lenin sailed towards Novorossisk
with its two funnels smoking and its stern plunging low in the water. The
gale roared across the Black Sea, hurling thousand-ton breakers on to the
shore of Trebizond, Yalta, Odessa and Konstantsa. Beyond the still in the
Bosporus and the Dardanelles surged the Mediterranean. Beyond the Straits of
Gibraltar, the Atlantic smashed against the shores of Europe. A belt of
angry water encircled the world.
And on the Batumi shore stood Father Theodore, bathed in sweat and
hacking at the final chair. A moment later it was all over. Desperation
seized him. With a dazed look at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs,
he turned back. The water grabbed him by the feet. He lurched forward and
ran soaked to the road. A huge wave broke on the spot where he had been a
moment before and, swirling back, washed away the mutilated furniture.
Father Theodore no longer saw anything. He staggered along the road, hunched
and hugging his fist to his chest.
He went into Batumi, unable to see anything about him. His position was
the most terrible thing of all. Three thousand miles from home and twenty
roubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question.
Father Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he was advised in a
perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contraband
Batumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowd
of porters.
Three days after the concessionaires' deal with Mechnikov the fitter,
the Columbus Theatre left by railway via Makhacha-Kala and Baku. The whole
of these three days the concessionaires, frustrated by the contents of the
two chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to bring them the third of
the Columbus chairs. But the narzan-tortured fitter converted the whole of
the twenty roubles into the purchase of plain vodka and drank himself into
such a state that he was kept locked up in the props room.
"That's Mineral Waters for you!" said Ostap, when he heard about the
theatre's departure. "A useful fool, that fitter. Catch me having dealings
with theatre people after this!"
Ostap became much more nervy than before. The chances of finding the
treasure had increased infinitely.
"We need money to get to Vladikavkaz," said Ostap. "From there we'll
drive by car to Tiflis along the Georgian Military Highway. Glorious
scenery! Magnificent views! Wonderful mountain air! And at the end of it
all-one hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks. There is some
point in continuing the hearing."
But it was not quite so easy to leave Mineral Waters. Vorobyaninov
proved to have absolutely no talent for bilking the railway, and so when all
attempts to get him aboard a train had failed he had to perform again in the
Flower Garden, this time as an educational district ward. This was not at
all a success. Two roubles for twelve hours' hard and degrading work, though
it was a large enough sum for the fare to Vladikavkaz.
At Beslan, Ostap, who was travelling without a ticket, was thrown off
the train, and the smooth operator impudently ran behind it for a mile or
so, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich.
Soon after, Ostap managed to jump on to a train slowly making its way
to the Caucasian ridge. From his position on the steps Ostap surveyed with
great curiosity the panorama of the mountain range that unfolded before him.
It was between three and four in the morning. The mountain-tops were
lit by dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains.
"Too showy," he said. "Weird kind of beauty. An idiot's imagination. No
use at all."
At Vladikavkaz station the passengers were met by a large open bus
belonging to the Transcaucasian car-hire-and-manufacturing society, and
nice, kind people said:
"Those travelling by the Georgian Military Highway will be taken into
the town free."
"Hold on, Pussy," said Ostap. "We want the bus. Let them take us free."
When the bus had given him a lift to the centre of the town, however,
Ostap was in no hurry to put his name down for a seat in a car. Talking
enthusiastically to Ippolit Matveyevich, he gazed admiringly at the view of
the cloud-enveloped Table Mountain, but finding that it really was like a
table, promptly retired.
They had to spend several days in Vladikavkaz. None of their attempts
to obtain money for the road fare met with any success, nor provided them
with enough money to buy food. An attempt to make the citizens pay ten-kopek
bits failed. The mountain ridge was so high and clear that it was not
possible to charge for looking at it. It was visible from practically every
point, and there were no other beauty spots in Vladikavkaz. There was the
Terek, which flowed past the "Trek", but the town charged for entry to that
without Ostap's assistance. The alms collected in two days by Ippolit
Matveyevich only amounted to thirteen kopeks.
"There's only one thing to do," said Ostap. "We'll go to Tiflis on
foot. We can cover the hundred miles in five days. Don't worry, dad, the
mountain view is delightful and the air is bracing . . . We only need money
for bread and salami sausage. You can add a few Italian phrases to your
vocabulary, or not, as you like; but by evening you've got to collect at
least two roubles. We won't have a chance to eat today, dear chum. Alas!
What bad luck!"
Early in the morning the partners crossed the little bridge across the
Terek river, went around the barracks, and disappeared deep into the green
valley along which ran the Georgian Military Highway.
"We're in luck, Pussy," said Ostap. "It rained last night so we won't
have to swallow the dust. Breathe in the fresh air, marshal. Sing something.
Recite some Caucasian poetry and behave as befits the occasion."
But Ippolit Matveyevich did not sing or recite poetry. The road went
uphill. The nights spent in the open made themselves felt by pains in his
side and heaviness in his legs, and the salami sausage made itself felt by a
constant and griping indigestion. He walked along, holding in his hand a
five-pound loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper, his left foot dragging
slightly.
On the move again! But this time towards Tiflis; this time along the
most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich could not have cared
less. He did not look around him as Ostap did. He certainly did not notice
the Terek, which now could just be heard rumbling at the bottom of the
valley. It was only the ice-capped mountain-tops glistening in the sun which
somehow reminded him of a sort of cross between the sparkle of diamonds and
the best brocade coffins of Bezenchuk the undertaker.
After Balta the road entered and continued as a narrow ledge cut in the
dark overhanging cliff. The road spiralled upwards, and by evening the
concessionaires reached the village of Lars, about three thousand feet above
sea level.
They passed the night in a poor native hotel without charge and were
even given a glass of milk each for delighting the owner and his guests with
card tricks.
The morning was so glorious that Ippolit Matveyevich, braced by the
mountain air, began to stride along more cheerfully than the day before.
Just behind Lars rose the impressive rock wall of the Bokovoi ridge. At this
point the Terek valley closed up into a series of narrow gorges. The scenery
became more and more sombre, while the inscriptions on the cliffs grew more
frequent At the point where the cliffs squeezed the Terek's flow between
them to the extent that the span of the bridge was no more than ten feet,
the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions on the side of the gorge that
Ostap forgot the majestic sight of the Daryal gorge and shouted out, trying
to drown the rumble and rushing of the Terek:
"Great people! Look at that, marshal! Do you see it? Just a little
higher than the cloud and slightly lower than the eagle! An inscription
which says, 'Micky and Mike, July 1914'. An unforgettable sight! Notice the
artistry with which it was done. Each letter is three feet high, and they
used oil paints. Where are you now, Nicky and Mike?"
"Pussy," continued Ostap, "let's record ourselves for prosperity, too.
I have some chalk, by the way. Honestly, I'll go up and write 'Pussy and
Ossy were here'."
And without giving it much thought, Ostap put down the supply of
sausage on the wall separating the road from the seething depths of the
Terek and began clambering up the rocks. At first Ippolit Matveyevich
watched the smooth operator's ascent, but then lost interest and began to
survey the base of Tamara's castle, which stood on a rock like a horse's
tooth.
Just at this time, about a mile away from the concessionaires, Father
Theodore entered the Daryal gorge from the direction of Tiflis. He marched
along like a soldier with his eyes, as hard as diamonds, fixed ahead of him,
supporting himself on a large crook.
With his last remaining money Father Theodore had reached Tiflis and
was now walking home, subsisting on charity. While crossing the Cross gap he
had been bitten by an eagle. Father Theodore hit out at the insolent bird
with his crook and continued on his way.
As he went along, intermingling with the clouds, he muttered:
"Not for personal gain, but at the wishes of my wife who sent me."
The distance between the enemies narrowed. Turning a sharp bend, Father
Theodore came across an old man in a gold pince-nez.
The gorge split asunder before Father Theodore's eyes. The Terek
stopped its thousand-year-old roar.
Father Theodore recognized Vorobyaninov. After the terrible fiasco in
Batumi, after all his hopes had been dashed, this new chance of gaining
riches had an extraordinary effect on the priest. He grabbed Ippolit
Matveyevich by his scraggy Adam's apple, squeezed his fingers together, and
shouted hoarsely:
"What have you done with the treasure that you slew your mother-in-law
to obtain?" Ippolit Matveyevich, who had not been expecting anything of this
nature, said nothing, but his eyes bulged so far that they almost touched
the lenses of his pince-nez.
"Speak!" ordered the priest. "Repent, you sinner!"
Vorobyaninov felt himself losing his senses.
Suddenly Father Theodore caught sight of Bender leaping from rock to
rock; the technical adviser was coining down, shouting at the top of his
voice:
"Against the sombre rocks they dash, Those waves, they foam and
splash."
A terrible fear gripped Father Theodore. He continued mechanically
holding the marshal by the throat, but his knees began to knock.
"Well, of all people!" cried Ostap in a friendly tone. "The rival
concern."
Father Theodore did not dally. Obeying his healthy instinct, ' he
grabbed the concessionaires' bread and sausage and fled.
"Hit him, Comrade Bender!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich, who was sitting
on the ground recovering his breath. "Catch him!. Stop him I"
Ostap began whistling and whooping.
"Wooh-wooh," he warbled, starting in pursuit. "The Battle of the
Pyramids or Bender goes hunting. Where are you going, client? I can offer
you a well-gutted chair."
This persecution was too much for Father Theodore and he began climbing
up a perpendicular wall of rock. He was spurred on by his heart, which was
in his mouth, and an itch in his heels known only to cowards. His legs moved
over the granite by themselves, carrying their master aloft.
"Wooooh-woooh!" yelled Ostap from below. "Catch him!"
"He's taken our supplies," screeched Vorobyaninov, running up.
"Stop!" roared Ostap. "Stop, I tell you."
But this only lent new strength to the exhausted priest. He wove about,
making several leaps, and finally ended ten feet above the highest
inscription.
"Give back our sausage!" howled Ostap. "Give back the sausage, you
fool, and we'll forget everything."
Father Theodore no longer heard anything. He found himself on a flat
ledge, on to which no man had ever climbed before. Father Theodore was
seized by a sickening dread. He realized he could never get down again by
himself. The cliff face dropped vertically to the road.
He looked below. Ostap was gesticulating furiously, and the marshal's
gold pince-nez glittered at the bottom of the gorge.
"I'll give back the sausage," cried the holy father, "only get me
down."
He could see all the movements of the concessionaires. They were
running about below and, judging from their gestures, swearing like
troopers.
An hour later, lying on his stomach and peering over the edge, Father
Theodore saw Bender and Vorobyaninov going off in the direction of the Cross
gap.
Night fell quickly. Surrounded by pitch darkness and deafened by the
infernal roar, Father Theodore trembled and wept up in the very clouds. He
no longer wanted earthly treasures, he only wanted one thing-to get down on
to the ground.
During the night he howled so loudly that at times the sound of the
Terek was drowned, and when morning came, he fortified himself with sausage
and bread and roared with demoniac laughter at the cars passing underneath.
The rest of the day was spent contemplating the mountains and that heavenly
body, the sun. The next night he saw the Tsaritsa Tamara. She came flying
over to him from her castle and said coquettishly:
"Let's be neighbours! "
"Mother!" said Father Theodore with feeling. "Not for personal gain . .
."
"I know, I know," observed the Tsaritsa, "but merely at the wishes of
your wife who sent you."
"How did you know?" asked the astonished priest.
"I just know. Why don't you stop by, neighbour? We'll play sixty-six.
What about it?"
She gave a laugh and flew off, letting off firecrackers into the night
sky as she went.
The day after, Father Theodore began preaching to the birds. For some
reason he tried to sway them towards Lutheranism.
"Birds," he said in a sonorous voice, "repent your sins publicly."
On the fourth day he was pointed out to tourists from below.
"On the right we have Tamara's castle," explained the experienced
guides, "and on the left is a live human being, but it is not known what he
lives on or how he got there."
"My, what a wild people!" exclaimed the tourists in amazement.
"Children of the mountains!"
Clouds drifted by. Eagles cruised above Father Theodore's head. The
bravest of them stole the remains of the sausage and with its wings swept a
pound and a half of bread into the foaming Terek.
Father Theodore wagged his finger at the eagle and, smiling radiantly,
whispered:
"God's bird does not know Either toil or unrest, He leisurely builds
His long-lasting nest."
The eagle looked sideways at Father Theodore, squawked cockadoodledoo
and flew away.
"Oh, eagle, you eagle, you bitch of a bird!"
Ten days later the Vladikavkaz fire brigade arrived with suitable
equipment and brought Father Theodore down.
As they were lowering him, he clapped his hands and sang in a tuneless
voice:
"And you will be queen of all the world, My lifelo-ong frie-nd!"
And the rugged Caucuses re-echoed Rubinstein's setting of the Lermontov
poem many times.
"Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes . . ." Father Theodore
told the fire chief.
The cackling priest was taken on the end of a fire ladder to the
psychiatric hospital.
"What do you think, marshal," said Ostap as the concessionaires
approached the settlement of Sioni, "how can we earn money in a dried-up
spot like this?"
Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could
have kept himself going was begging, but here in the mountain spirals and
ledges there was no one to beg from.
Anyway, there was begging going on already-alpine begging, a special
kind. Every bus and passenger car passing through the settlement was
besieged by children who performed a few steps of a local folk dance to the
mobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of:
"Give us money! Give money!"
The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and continued on their
way to the Cross gap.
"A noble cause," said Ostap. "No capital outlay needed. The income is
small, but in our case, valuable."
By two o'clock of the second day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich
had performed his first dance for the aerial passengers, under the
supervision of the smooth operator. The dance was rather like a mazurka; the
passengers, drunk with the exotic beauty of the Caucasus, took it for a
native lezginka and rewarded him with three five-kopek bits. The next
vehicle, which was a bus going from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz, was entertained
by the smooth operator himself.
"Give me money! Give money," he shouted angrily.
The amused passengers richly rewarded his capering about, and Ostap
collected thirty kopeks from the dusty road. But the Sioni children showered
their competitors with stones, and, fleeing from the onslaught, the
travellers made off at the double for the next village, where they spent
their earnings on cheese and local flat bread.
The concessionaires passed their days in this way. They spent the
nights in mountain-dwellers' huts. On the fourth day they went down the
hairpin bends of the road and arrived in the Kaishaur valley. The sun was
shining brightly, and the partners, who had been frozen to the marrow in the
Cross gap, soon warmed up their bones again.
The Daryal cliffs, the gloom and the chill of the gap gave way to the
greenery and luxury of a very deep valley. The companions passed above the
Aragva river and went down into the valley, settled by people and teeming
with cattle and food. There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, or
simply steal. It was the Transcaucasus.
The heartened concessionaires increased their pace.
In Passanaur, in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels and
several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushes
opposite the Hotel France, with its garden and two chained-up bear cubs.
They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest.
Their rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car horn,
the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment. The friends
peeped out. Three identical new cars were driving up to the Hotel France in
line. The cars stopped without any noise.
Out of the first one jumped Persidsky; he was followed by
Life-and-the-Law smoothing down his dusty hair. Out of the other cars
tumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club.
"A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!"
The sleepy figures staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the
bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs.
"Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's the reporter
from the Scriabin, one of those who criticized our transparent. They've
certainly arrived in style. What's it all about?"
Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to Persidsky in the most
elegant fashion.
"Bonjour!" said the reporter. "Where have I seen you before, dear
friend? Aha! I remember. The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?"
Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely.
"Wait a moment, wait a moment," continued Persidsky, who had a
reporter's retentive memory. "Wasn't it you who was knocked down by a
carthorse in Sverdlov Square? "
"That's right. And as you so neatly expressed it, I also suffered
slight shock."
"What are you doing here? Working as an artist?"
"No, I'm on a sightseeing trip."
"On foot?"
"Yes, on foot. The experts say a car trip along the Georgian Military
Highway is simply ridiculous."
"Not always ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always. For instance, our
trip isn't exactly ridiculous. We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars,
collectively owned. A direct link between Moscow and Tiflis. Petrol hardly
costs anything. Comfort and speed. Soft springs. Europe!"
"How did you come by it all?" asked Ostap enviously. "Did you win a
hundred thousand? "
"Not a hundred, but we won fifty."
"Gambling?"
"With a bond belonging to the automobile club."
"I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars."
"That's right."
"I see. Maybe you need a manager? I know a young man. He doesn't
drink."
"What sort of manager?"
"Well, you know . . . general management, business advice, instruction
with visual aids by the complex method. . ."
"I see what you mean. No, we don't need a manager."
"You don't?"
"Unfortunately not. Nor an artist."
"In that case let me have ten roubles."
"Avdotyin," said Persidsky, "kindly give this citizen ten roubles on my
account. I don't need a receipt. This person is unaccountable."
"That's extraordinarily little," observed Ostap, "but I'll accept it. I
realize the great difficulty of your position. Naturally, if you had won a
hundred thousand, you might have loaned me a whole five roubles. But you won
only fifty thousand roubles, zero kopeks. In any case, many thanks."
Bender politely raised his hat. Persidsky politely raised his hat.
Bender bowed most courteously. Persidsky replied with a most courteous bow.
Bender waved his hand in farewell. Persidsky, sitting at the wheel, did the
same. Persidsky drove off in his splendid car into the glittering distances
in the company of his gay friends, while the smooth operator was left on the
dusty road with his fool of a partner.
"Did you see that swank? "
"The Transcaucasian car service, or the private 'Motor' company? "
asked Ippolit Matveyevich in a businesslike way; he was now thoroughly
acquainted with all types of transportation on the road. "I was just about
to do a dance for them."
"You'll soon be completely dotty, my poor friend. How could it be the
Transcaucasian car service? Those people have won fifty thousand roubles,
Pussy. You saw yourself how happy they were and how much of that mechanical
junk they had bought. When we find our money, we'll spend it more sensibly,
won't we?"
And imagining what they would buy when they became rich, the friends
left Passanaur. Ippolit Matveyevich vividly saw himself buying some new
socks and travellirig abroad. Ostap's visions were more ambitious. Something
between damming the Blue Nile and opening a gaming-house in Riga with
branches in the other Baltic states.
The travellers reached Mtskhet, the ancient capital of Georgia, on the
third day, before lunch. Here the Kura river turned towards Tiflis.
In the evening they passed the Zerno-Avchal hydro-electric station. The
glass, water and electricity all shone with different-coloured light. It was
reflected and scattered by the fast-flowing Kura.
It was there the concessionaires made friends with a peasant who gave
them a lift into Tiflis in his cart; they arrived at 11 p.m., that very hour
when the cool of the evening summons into the streets the citizens of the
Georgian capital, limp after their sultry day.
"Not a bad little town," remarked Ostap, as they came out into
Rustavelli Boulevard. "You know, Pussy. . ."
Without finishing what he was saying, Ostap suddenly darted after a
citizen, caught him up after ten paces, and began an animated conversation
with him.
Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side.
"Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the
Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's go and see him. However paradoxical it seems,
you are now the master-mind and father of Russian democracy again. Don't
forget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite a
bit, by the way. A hell of a piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fifty
roubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!"
And indeed, a short distance away from the concessionaires stood
Kislarsky in a tussore-silk suit and a boater; he was a milky blue colour
with fright.
"I think you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman
close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don't
pay attention to his suit; that's part of our security measures. Take us
somewhere right away. We've got to have a talk."
Kislarsky, who had come to the Caucasus to recover from his gruelling
experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about a
recession in the roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriage
with silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. They
went up to the top of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowly
disappeared into the depths in a thousand lights. The conspirators were
ascending to the very stars.
At the restaurant the tables were set up on a lawn. A Caucasian band
made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tables
of her own accord, watched happily by her parents.
"Order something," suggested Bender.
The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese.
"And something to eat," said Ostap. "If you only knew, dear Mr.
Kislarsky, the things that Ippolit Matveyevich and I have had to suffer,
you'd be amazed at our courage."
There he goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will
start all over again. Why didn't I go to the Crimea? I definitely wanted to
go to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too.
But he ordered two shishkebabs without a murmur, and turned his
unctuous face towards Ostap.
"Here's the point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice.
"They've been following us for two months and will probably ambush us
tomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out."
Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead.
"Under the circumstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal
patriot."
"Mmm .. . yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich proudly, remembering the
hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni.
"Yes," whispered Ostap, "we're hoping-with your aid-to defeat the
enemy. I'll give you a pistol."
"There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly.
The next moment it was made clear that the chairman of the
stock-exchange committee would not have the opportunity of taking part in
the coming battle. He regretted it very much. He was not familiar with
warfare, and it was just for this reason that he had been elected chairman
of the stock-exchange committee. He was very much disappointed, but was
prepared to offer financial assistance to save the life of the father of
Russian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist).
"You're a true friend of society," said Ostap triumphantly, washing
down the spicy kebab with sweetish Kipiani wine. "Fifty can save the
master-mind."
"Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully.
Ostap could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich under
the table in delight.
"I consider that haggling," said Ippolit Matveyevich, "is somewhat out
of place here."
He immediately received a kick on the thigh which meant- Well done,
Pussy, that's the stuff!
It was the first time in his life that Kislarsky had heard the
master-mind's voice. He was so overcome that he immediately handed over
fifty roubles. Then he paid the bill and, leaving the friends at the table,
departed with the excuse that he had a headache. Half an hour later he
dispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:
GOING TO CRIMEA AS YOU ADVISED STOP PREPARE BASKET JUST IN CASE
The many privations which Ostap had suffered demanded immediate
compensation. That evening the smooth operator drank himself into a stupor
and practically fell out of the cable-car on the way back to the hotel. The
next day he realized a long-cherished dream and bought a heavenly grey
polka-dot suit. It was hot wearing it, but he nevertheless did so, sweating
profusely. In the Tif-Co-Op men's shop, Vorobyaninov was bought a white
pique" suit and a yachting cap with the gold insignia of some unknown yacht
club. In this attire Ippolit Matveyevich looked like an amateur admiral in
the merchant navy. His figure straightened up and his gait became firmer.
"Ah," said Bender, "first rate! If I were a girl, I'd give a handsome
he-man like you an eight per cent reduction off my usual price. My, we can
certainly get around like this. Do you know how to get around, Pussy? "
"Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov kept saying, "what about the chairs?
We've got to find out what happened to the theatre."
"Hoho," retorted Ostap, dancing with a chair in a large Moorish-style
room in the Hotel Orient. "Don't tell me how to live. I'm now evil. I have
money, but I'm magnanimous. I'll give you twenty roubles and three days to
loot the city. I'm like Suvorov. . . . Loot the city, Pussy! Enjoy
yourself!"
And swaying his hips, Ostap sang in quick time:
"The evening bells, the evening bells, How many thoughts they bring. .
. ."
The friends caroused wildly for a whole week. Vorobyaninov's naval
uniform became covered with apple-sized wine spots of different colours; on
Ostap's suit the stains suffused into one large rainbow-like apple.
"Hi!" said Ostap on the eighth morning, so hung-over that he was
reading the newspaper Dawn of the East. "Listen, you drunken sot, to what
clever people are writing in the press! Listen!
The Moscow Columbus Theatre left yesterday, Sept. 3, for a tour of
Yalta, having completed its stay in Tiflis. The theatre is planning to
remain in the Crimea until the opening of the winter season in Moscow.'"
"What did I tell you!" said Vorobyaninov.
"What did you tell me!" snapped back Ostap.
He was nevertheless embarrassed. The careless mistake was very
unpleasant. Instead of ending the treasure hunt in Tiflis, they now had to
move on to the Crimean peninsula. Ostap immediately set to work. Tickets
were bought to Batumi and second-class-berths reserved on the S.S. Pestel
leaving Batumi for Odessa at 11 p.m. Moscow time on September 7.
On the night of September 10, as the Pestel turned out to sea and set
sail for Yalta without calling at Anapa on account of the gale, Ippolit
Matveyevich had a dream.
He dreamed he was standing in his admiral's uniform on the balcony of
his house in Stargorod, while the crowd gathered below waited for him to do
something. A large crane deposited a black-spotted pig at his feet.
Tikhon the caretaker appeared and, grabbing the pig by the hind legs,
said:
"Durn it. Does the Nymph really provide tassels?"
Ippolit Matveyevich found a dagger in his hand. He stuck it into the
pig's side, and jewels came pouring out of the large wound and rolled on to
the cement floor. They jumped about and clattered more and more loudly. The
noise finally became unbearable and terrifying,
Ippolit Matveyevich was wakened by the sound of waves dashing against
the porthole.
They reached Yalta in calm weather on an enervating sunny morning.
Having recovered from his seasickness, the marshal was standing at the prow
near the ship's bell with its embossed Old Slavonic lettering. Gay Yalta had
lined up its tiny stalls and floating restaurants along the shore. On the
quayside there were waiting carriages with velvet-covered seats and linen
awnings, motor-cars and buses belonging to the "Krymkurso" and "Crimean
Driver" societies. Brick-coloured girls twirled parasols and waved
kerchiefs.
The friends were the first to go ashore, on to the scorching
embankment. At the sight of the concessionaires, a citizen in a tussore-silk
suit dived out of the crowd of people meeting the ship and idle onlookers
and began walking quickly towards the exit to the dockyard. But too late.
The smooth operator's eagle eye had quickly recognized the silken citizen.
"Wait a moment, Vorobyaninov," cried Ostap.
And he raced off at such a pace that he caught up the silken citizen
about ten feet from the exit. He returned instantly with a hundred roubles.
"He wouldn't give me any more. Anyway, I didn't insist; otherwise he
won't be able to get home."
And indeed, at that very moment Kislarsky was fleeing in a bus for
Sebastopol, and from there went home to Stargorod by third class.
The concessionaires spent the whole day in the hotel sitting naked on
the floor and every few moments running under the shower in the bathroom.
But the water there was like warm weak tea. They could not escape from the
heat. It felt as though Yalta was just about to melt and flow into the sea.
Towards eight that evening the partners struggled into their red-hot
shoes, cursing all the chairs in the world, and went to the theatre.
The Marriage was being shown. Exhausted by the heat, Stepan almost fell
over while standing on his hands. Agafya ran along the wire, holding the
parasol marked "I want Podkolesin" in her dripping hands. All she really
wanted at that moment was a drink of ice water. The audience was thirsty,
too. For this reason and perhaps also because the sight of Stepan gorging a
pan of hot fried eggs was revolting, the performance did not go over.
The concessionaires were satisfied as soon as they saw that their
chair, together with three new rococo armchairs, was safe.
Hiding in one of the boxes, they patiently waited for the end of the
performance; it dragged on interminably. Then, finally, the audience left
and the actors hurried away to try to cool off. The theatre was empty except
for the shareholders in the concession. Every living thing had hurried out
into the street where fresh rain was, at last, falling fast.
"Follow me, Pussy," ordered Ostap. "Just in case, we're provincials who
couldn't find the exit."
They made their way on to the stage and, striking matches, though they
still collided with the hydraulic press, searched the whole stage.
The smooth operator ran up a staircase into the props room.
"Up here! "he called.
Waving his arms, Vorobyaninov raced upstairs.
"Do you see?" said Ostap, lighting a match.
Through the darkness showed the corner of a Hambs chair and part of the
parasol with the word "want".
"There it is! There is our past, present and future. Light a match,
Pussy, and I'll open it up."
Ostap dug into his pockets for the tools.
"Right," he said, reaching towards the chair. "Another match, marshal."
The match flared up, and then a strange thing happened. The chair gave
a jump and suddenly, before the very eyes of the amazed concessionaires,
disappeared through the floor.
"Mama!" cried Vorobyaninov, and went flying over to the wall, although
he had not the least desire to do so.
The window-panes came out with a crash and the parasol with the words
"I want Podkolesin" flew out of the window, towards the sea. Ostap lay on
the floor, pinned down by sheets of cardboard.
It was fourteen minutes past midnight. This was the first shock of the
great Crimean earthquake of 1927.
A severe earthquake, wreaking untold disaster throughout the peninsula,
had plucked the treasure from the hands of the concessionaires.
"Comrade Bender, what's happening?" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in
terror.
Ostap was beside himself. The earthquake had blocked his path. It was
the only time it had happened in his entire, extensive practice.
"What is it?" screech Vorobyaninov.
Screaming, ringing, and trampling feet could be heard from the street.
"We've got to get outside immediately before the wall caves in on us.
Quick! Give me your hand, softie."
They raced to the door. To their surprise, the Hambs chair was lying on
its back, undamaged, at the exit from the stage to the street. Growling like
a dog, Ippolit Matveyevich seized it in a death-grip.
"Give me the pliers," he shouted to Bender. "Don't be a stupid fool,"
gasped Ostap. "The ceiling is about to collapse, and you stand there going
out of your mind! Let's get out quickly."
"The pliers," snarled the crazed Vorobyaninov. "To hell with you.
Perish here with your chair, then. I value my life, if you don't."
With these words Ostap ran for the door. Ippolit Matveyevich picked up
the chair with a snarl and ran after him.
Hardly had they reached the middle of the street when the ground heaved
sickeningly under their feet; tiles came off the roof of the theatre, and
the spot where the concessionakes had just been standing was strewn with the
remains of the hydraulic press.
"Right, give me the chair now," said Bender coldly. "You're tired of
holding it, I see." "I won't!" screeched Ippolit Matveyevich. "What's this?
Mutiny aboard? Give me the chair, do you hear?"
"It's my chair," clucked Vorobyaninov, drowning the weeping, shouting
and crashing on all sides., "In that case, here's your reward, you old
goat!" And Ostap hit Vorobyaninov on the neck with his bronze fist. At that
moment a fire engine hurtled down the street and in the lights of its
headlamps Ippolit Matveyevich glimpsed such a terrifying expression on
Ostap's face that he instantly obeyed and gave up the chair.
"That's better," said Ostap, regaining his breath. "The mutiny has been
suppressed. Now, take the chair and follow me. You are responsible for the
state of the chair. The chair must be preserved even if there are ten
earthquakes. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
The whole night the concessionaires wandered about with the
panic-stricken crowds, unable to decide, like everyone else, whether or not
to enter the abandoned buildings, and expecting new shocks.
At dawn, when the terror had died down somewhat, Ostap selected a spot
near which there was no wall likely to collapse, or people likely to
interfere, and set about opening the chair.
The results of the autopsy staggered both of them-there was nothing in
the chair. The effect of the ordeal of the night and morning was 'too much
for Ippolit Matveyevich; he burst into a vicious, high-pitched cackle.
Immediately after this came the third shock. The ground heaved and
swallowed up the Hambs chair; its flowered pattern smiled at the sun that
was rising in a dusty sky.
Ippolit Matveyevich went down on all fours and, turning his haggard
face to the dark purple disc of the sun, began howling. The smooth operator
fainted as he listened to him. When he regained consciousness, he saw beside
him Vorobyaninov's lilac-stubble chin. Vorobyaninov was unconscious.
"At last," said Ostap, like a patient recovering from typhus, "we have
a dead certainty. The last chair [at the word "chair", Ippolit Matveyevich
stirred] may have vanished into the goods yard of October Station, but has
by no means been swallowed up by the ground. What's wrong? The hearing is
continued."
Bricks came crashing down nearby. A ship's siren gave a protracted
wail.
On a rainy day in October, Ippolit Matveyevich, in his silver
star-spangled waistcoat and without a jacket, was working busily in
Ivanopulo's room. He was working at the windowsill, since there still was no
table in the room. The smooth operator had been commissioned to paint a
large number of address plates for various housing co-operatives. The
stencilling of the plates had been passed on to Vorobyaninov, while Ostap,
for almost the whole of the month since their return to Moscow, had cruised
round the area of the October Station looking with incredible avidity for
clues to the last chair, which undoubtedly contained Madame Petukhov's
jewels. Wrinkling his brow, Ippolit Matveyevich stencilled away at the iron
plates. During the six months of the jewel race he had lost certain of his
habits.
At night Ippolit Matveyevich dreamed about mountain ridges adorned with
weird transparents, Iznurenkov, who hovered in front of him, shaking his
brown thighs, boats that capsized, people who drowned, bricks falling out of
the sky, and ground that heaved and poured smoke into his eyes.
Ostap had not observed the change in Vorobyaninov, for he was with him
every day. Ippolit Matveyevich, however, had changed in a remarkable way.
Even his gait was different; the expression of his eyes had become wild and
his long moustache was no longer parallel to the earth's surface, but
drooped almost vertically, like that of an aged cat.
He had also altered inwardly. He had developed determination and
cruelty, which were traits of character unknown to him before. Three
episodes had gradually brought out these streaks in him: the miraculous
escape from the hard fists of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, his debut in the
field of begging in the Flower Garden at Pyatigorsk, and, finally, the
earthquake, since which Ippolit Matveyevich had become somewhat unhinged and
harboured a secret loathing for his partner.
Ippolit Matveyevich had recently been seized by the strongest
suspicions. He was afraid that Ostap would open the chair without him and
make off with the treasure, abandoning him to his own fate. He did not dare
voice these suspicions, knowing Ostap's strong arm and iron will. But each
day, as he sat at the window scraping off surplus paint with an old, jagged
razor, Ippolit Matveyevich wondered. Every day he feared that Ostap would
not come back and that he, a former marshal of the nobility, would die of
starvation under some wet Moscow wall.
Ostap nevertheless returned each evening, though he never brought any
good news. His energy and good spirits were inexhaustible. Hope never
deserted him for a moment.
There was a sound of running footsteps in the corridor and someone
crashed into the cabinet; the plywood door flew open with the ease of a page
turned by the wind, and in the doorway stood the smooth operator. His
clothes were soaked, and his cheeks glowed like apples. He was panting.
"Ippolit Matveyevich!" he shouted. "Ippolit Matveyevich!" Vorobyaninov was
startled. Never before had the technical adviser called him by his first two
names. Then he cottoned on. . . .
"It's there?" he gasped.
"You're dead right, it's there, Pussy. Damn you."
"Don't shout. Everyone will hear."
"That's right, they might hear," whispered Ostap. "It's there, Pussy,
and if you want, I can show it to you right away. It's in the
railway-workers' club, a new one. It was opened yesterday. How did I find
it? Was it child's play? It was singularly difficult. A stroke of genius,
brilliantly carried through to the end. An ancient adventure. In a word,
first rate!"
Without waiting for Ippolit Matveyevich to pull on his jacket, Ostap
ran to the corridor. Vorobyaninov joined him on the landing. Excitedly
shooting questions at one another, they both hurried along the wet streets
to Kalanchev Square. They did not even think of taking a tram.
"You're dressed like a navvy," said Ostap jubilantly. "Who goes about
like that, Pussy? You should have starched underwear, silk socks, and, of
course, a top hat. There's something noble about your face. Tell me, were
you really a marshal of the nobility?"
Pointing out the chair, which was standing in the chess-room, and
looked a perfectly normal Hambs chair, although it contained such untold
wealth, Ostap pulled Ippolit Matveyevich into the corridor. There was no one
about. Ostap went up to a window that had not yet been sealed for the winter
and drew back the bolts on both sets of frames.
"Through this window," he said, "we can easily get into the club at any
time of the night. Remember, Pussy, the third window from the front
entrance."
For a while longer the friends wandered about the club, pretending to
be railway-union representatives, and were more and more amazed by the
splendid halls and rooms.
"If I had played the match in Vasyuki," said Ostap, "sitting on a chair
like this, I wouldn't have lost a single game. My enthusiasm would have
prevented it. Anyway, let's go, old man. I have twenty-five roubles. We
ought to have a glass of beer and relax before our nocturnal visitation. The
idea of beer doesn't shock you, does it, marshal? No harm. Tomorrow you can
lap up champagne in unlimited quantities."
By the time they emerged from the beer-hall, Bender was thoroughly
enjoying himself and made taunting remarks at the passers-by. He embraced
the slightly tipsy Ippolit Matveyevich round the shoulders and said
lovingly:
"You're an extremely nice old man, Pussy, but I'm not going to give you
more than ten per cent. Honestly, I'm not. What would you want with all that
money? "
"What do you mean, what would I want?" Ippolit Matveyevich seethed with
rage.
Ostap laughed heartily and rubbed his cheek against his partner's wet
sleeve.
"Well, what would you buy, Pussy? You haven't any imagination.
Honestly, fifteen thousand is more than enough for you. You'll soon die,
you're so old. You don't need any money at all. You know, Pussy, I don't
think I'll give you anything. I don't want to spoil you. I'll take you on as
a secretary, Pussy my lad. What do you say? Forty roubles a month and all
your grub. You get work clothes, tips, and national health. Well, is it a
deal?"
Ippolit Matveyevich tore his arm free and quickly walked ahead. Jokes
like that exasperated him. Ostap caught him up at the entrance to the little
pink house. "Are you really mad at me?" asked Ostap. "I was only joking.
You'll get your three per cent. Honestly, three per cent is all you need,
Pussy."
Ippolit Matveyevich sullenly entered the room. "Well, Pussy, take three
per cent." Ostap was having fun. "Come on, take three. Anyone else would.
You don't have any rooms to rent. It's a blessing Ivanopulo has gone to Tver
for a whole year. Anyway, come and be my valet. . . an easy job."
Seeing that Ippolit Matveyevich could not be baited, Ostap yawned
sweetly, stretched himself, almost touching the ceiling as he filled his
broad chest with air, and said:
"Well, friend, make your pockets ready. We'll go to the club just
before dawn. That's the best time. The watchmen are asleep, having sweet
dreams, for which they get fired without severance pay. In the meantime,
chum, I advise you to have a nap."
Ostap stretched himself out on the three chairs, acquired from
different corners of Moscow, and said, as he dozed off:
"Or my valet . . . a decent salary. No, I was joking. . . . The
hearing's continued. Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury."
Those were the smooth operator's last words. He fell into a deep,
refreshing sleep, untroubled by dreams.
Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the street. He was full of
desperation and cold fury. The moon hopped about among the banks of cloud.
The wet railings of the houses glistened greasily. In the street the
flickering gas lamps were encircled by halos of moisture. A drunk was being
thrown out of the Eagle beer-hall. He began bawling. Ippolit Matveyevich
frowned and went back inside. His one wish was to finish the whole business
as soon as possible.
He went back into the room, looked grimly at the sleeping Ostap, wiped
his pince-nez and took up the razor from the window sill. There were still
some dried scales of oil paint on its jagged edge. He put the razor in his
pocket, walked past Ostap again, without looking at him, but listening to
his breathing, and then went out into the corridor. It was dark and sleepy
out there. Everyone had evidently gone to bed. In the pitch darkness of the
corridor Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly smiled in the most evil way, and felt
the skin creep on his forehead. To test this new sensation he smiled again.
He suddenly remembered a boy at school who had been able to move his ears.
Ippolit Matveyevich went as far as the stairs and listened carefully.
There was no one there. From the street came the drumming of a carthorse's
hooves, intentionally loud and clear as though someone was counting on an
abacus. As stealthily as a cat, the marshal went back into the room, removed
twenty-five roubles and the pair of pliers from Ostap's jacket hanging on
the back of a chair, put on his own yachting cap, and again listened
intently.
Ostap was sleeping quietly. His nose and lungs were working perfectly,
smoothly inhaling and exhaling air. A brawny arm hung down to the floor.
Conscious of the second-long pulses in his temple, Ippolit Matveyevich
slowly rolled up his right sleeve above the elbow and bound a
wafer-patterned towel around his bare arm; he stepped back to the door, took
the razor out of his pocket, and gauging the position of the furniture in
the room turned the switch. The light went out, but the room was still lit
by a bluish aquarium-like light from the street lamps.
"So much the better," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.
He approached the back of the chair and, drawing back his hand with the
razor, plunged the blade slantways into Ostap's throat, pulled it out, and
jumped backward towards the wall. The smooth operator gave a gurgle like a
kitchen sink sucking down the last water. Ippolit Matveyevich managed to
avoid being splashed with blood. Wiping the wall with his jacket, he stole
towards the blue door, and for a brief moment looked back at Ostap. His body
had arched twice and slumped against the backs of the chairs. The light from
the street moved across a black puddle forming on the floor.
What is that puddle? wondered Vorobyaninov. Oh, yes, it's blood.
Comrade Bender is dead.
He unwound the slightly stained towel, threw it aside, carefully put
the razor on the floor, and left, closing the door quietly.
Finding himself in the street, Vorobyaninov scowled and, muttering "The
jewels are all mine, not just six per cent," went off to Kalanchev Square.
He stopped at the third window from the front entrance to the railway
club. The mirrorlike windows of the new club shone pearl-grey in the
approaching dawn. Through the damp air came the muffled voices of goods
trains. Ippolit Matveyevich nimbly scrambled on to the ledge, pushed the
frames, and silently dropped into the corridor.
Finding his way without difficulty through the grey pre-dawn halls of
the club, he reached the chess-room and went over to the chair, bumping his
head on a portrait of Lasker hanging on the wall. He was in no hurry. There
was no point in it. No one was after him. Grossmeister Bender was asleep for
ever in the little pink house.
Ippolit Matveyevich sat down on the floor, gripped the chair between
his sinewy legs, and with the coolness of a dentist, began extracting the
tacks, not missing a single one. His work was complete at the sixty-second
tack. The English chintz and canvas lay loosely on top of the stuffing.
He had only to lift them to see the caskets, boxes, and cases
containing the precious stones.
Straight into a car, thought Ippolit Matveyevich, who had learned the
facts of life from the smooth operator, then to the station, and on to the
Polish frontier. For a small gem they should get me across, then . . .
And desiring to find out as soon as possible what would happen then,
Ippolit Matveyevich pulled away the covering from the chair. Before his eyes
were springs, beautiful English springs, and stuffing, wonderful pre-war
stuffing, the like of which you never see nowadays. But there was nothing
else in the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich mechanically turned the chair inside
out and sat for a whole hour clutching it between his legs and repeating in
a dull voice:
"Why isn't there anything there? It can't be right. It can't be." It
was almost light when Vorobyaninov, leaving everything as it was in the
chess-room and forgetting the pliers and his yachting cap with the gold
insignia of a non-existent yacht club, crawled tired, heavy and unobserved
through the window into the street.
"It can't be right," he kept repeating, having walked a block away. "It
can't be right."
Then he returned to the club and began wandering up and down by the
large windows, mouthing the words: "It can't be right. It can't be."
From time to time he let out a shriek and seized hold of his head, wet
from the morning mist. Remembering the events of that night, he shook his
dishevelled grey hair. The excitement of the jewels was too much for him; he
had withered in five minutes. "There's all kinds come here!" said a voice by
his ear,
He saw in front of him a watchman in canvas work-clothes and poor
quality boots. He was very old and evidently friendly.
"They keep comin'," said the old man politely, tired of his nocturnal
solitude. "And you, comrade, are interested. That's right. Our club's kind
of unusual."
Ippolit Matveyevich looked ruefully at the red-cheeked old man.
"Yes, sir," said the old man, "a very unusual club; there ain't another
like it."
"And what's so unusual about it?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, trying to
gather his wits.
The little old man beamed at Vorobyaninov. The story of the unusual
club seemed to please him, and he liked to retell it.
"Well, it's like this," began the old man, "I've been a watchman here
for more'n ten years, and nothing like that ever happened. Listen, soldier
boy! Well, there used to be a club here, you know the one, for workers in
the first transportation division. I used to be the watchman. A no-good club
it was. They heated and heated and couldn't do anythin'. Then Comrade
Krasilnikov comes to me and asks, 'Where's all that firewood goin'?' Did he
think I was eatin' it or somethin"? Comrade Krasilnikov had a job with that
club, he did. They asked for five years' credit for a new club, but I don't
know what became of it. They didn't allow the credit. Then, in the spring,
Comrade Krasilnikov bought a new chair for the stage, a good soft'n."
With his whole body close to the watchman's, Ippolit Matveyevich
listened. He was only half conscious, as the watchman, cackling with
laughter, told how he had once clambered on to the chair to put in a new
bulb and missed his footing.
"I slipped off the chair and the coverin' was torn off. So I look round
and see bits of glass and beads on a string come pouring out."
"Beads?" repeated Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Beads!" hooted the old man with delight. "And I look, soldier boy, and
there are all sorts of little boxes. I didn't touch 'em. I went straight to
Comrade Krasilnikov and reported it. And that's what I told the committee
afterwards. I didn't touch the boxes, I didn't. And a good thing I didn't,
soldier boy. Because jewellery was found in 'em, hidden by the bourgeois. .
. ."
"Where are the jewels?" cried the marshal.
"Where, where?" the watchman imitated him. "Here they are, soldier boy,
use your imagination! Here they are."
"Where?"
"Here they are!" cried the ruddy-faced old man, enjoying the effect.
"Wipe your eyes. The club was built with them, soldier boy. You see? It's
the club. Central heating, draughts with timing-clocks, a buffet, theatre;
you aren't allowed inside in your galoshes."
Ippolit Matveyevich stiffened and, without moving, ran his eyes over
the ledges.
So that was where it was. Madame Petukhov's treasure. There. All of it.
A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks, as Ostap Suleiman
Bertha Maria Bender used to say.
The jewels had turned into a solid frontage of glass and ferroconcrete
floors. Cool gymnasiums had been made from the pearls. The diamond diadem
had become a theatre-auditorium with a revolving stage; the ruby pendants
had grown into chandeliers; the serpent bracelets had been transformed into
a beautiful library, and the clasp had metamorphosed into a creche, a glider
workshop, a chess and billiards room.
The treasures remained; it had been preserved and had even grown. It
could be touched with the hand, though not taken away. It had gone into the
service of new people. Ippolit Matveyevich felt the granite facing. The
coldness of the stone penetrated deep into his heart.
And he gave a cry.
It was an insane, impassioned wild cry-the cry of a vixen shot through
the body-it flew into the centre of the square, streaked under the bridge,
and, rebuffed everywhere by the sounds of the waking city, began fading and
died away in a moment. A marvellous autumn morning slipped from the wet
roof-tops into the Moscow streets. The city set off on its daily routine.
______________________________________
ILYA ARNOLDOVICH ILF (1897-1937) and YEVGENII PETROVICH KATAYEV
(1903-1942)
The writers who used the pen names "Ilf" and "Petrov" were natives of
Odessa. Ilf, born into a poor Jewish family named Fainzilberg, worked as a
machine-shop assembler, bookkeeper, and stable manager before becoming a
journalist. He began as a humorist in 1919, at the height of the civil war.
Not long afterward he joined the staff of the Train Whistle in Moscow,
forming his partnership with Petrov, another staff member. Still another
member of the Train Whistle was Petrov's brother, the famous novelist
Valeritin Katayev. Subsequently Ilf and Petrov joined Pravda, winning an
audience of millions for their satires " against bureaucratism written under
the pen names of Tolstoyevsky and the Chill Philosopher. They wrote film
scenarios as well as The Little Golden Calf and The Twelve Chairs. In 1936
the two made a 10,000-mile motor tour through the United States collecting
material for their book One-Storey-High America. Ilf died of tuberculosis in
1937 in Moscow, where his body was cremated. Petrov edited several humorous
periodicals, as well as the popular Little Flame, a weekly which contributed
toward making the U.S.A. and Great Britain better understood by the
Russians. During World War II he was a correspondent at the front, and was
killed at his post in 1942 during the defence of Sebastopol. Concerning the
official Soviet attitude toward Ilf and Petrov, Bernard Guilbert Guerney has
said: "The most painstaking research shows no indication that these two
satirists ever received as much as a slap on the wrist throughout their
careers." [See An Anthology of Russian Literature in the Soviet Period,
edited by B. G. Guerney.]
Популярность: 44, Last-modified: Sat, 19 Oct 2002 17:29:56 GmT