m 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. CHAPTER FOURTEEN 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." PART II IN MOSCOW CHAPTER FIFTEEN A SEA OF CHAIRS 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. CHAPTER SIXTEEN 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. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 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. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE FURNITURE MUSEUM 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. CHAPTER NINETEEN VOTING THE EUROPEAN WAY 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 e