Public Domain Tales: The Twelve Chairs: Book Two

Public Domain Tales: The Twelve Chairs: Book Two is the one-hundred-and-sixty-third book in the Public Domain Tales series.
 The next day the partners saw that it was no longer convenient to live
in the caretaker's room. Tikhon kept muttering away to himself and had
become completely stupid, having seen his master first with a black
moustache, then with a green one, and finally with no moustache at all.
There was nothing to sleep on. The room stank of rotting manure, brought in
on Tikhon's new felt boots. His old ones stood in the corner and did not
help to purify the air, either.
 "I declare the old boys' reunion over," said Ostap. "We must move to a
hotel."
 Ippolit Matveyevich trembled. "I can't."
 "Why not?"
 "I shall have to register."
 "Aren't your papers in order?"
 "My papers are in order, but my name is well known in the town. Rumours
will spread."
 The concessionaires reflected for, a while in silence.
 "How do you like the name Michelson?" suddenly asked the splendid
Ostap.
 "Which Michelson? The Senator?"
 "No. The member of the shop assistants' trade union."
 "I don't get you."
 "That's because you lack technical experience. Don't be naive!"
 Bender took a union card out of his green jacket and handed it to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Konrad Karlovich Michelson, aged forty-eight, non-party member,
bachelor; union member since 1921 and a person of excellent character; a
good friend of mine and seems to be a friend of children. . . . But you
needn't be friendly to children. The militia doesn't require that of you."
 Ippolit Matveyevich turned red. "But is it right? "
 "Compared with our" concession, this misdeed, though it does come under
the penal code, is as innocent as a children's game."
 Vorobyaninov nevertheless balked at the idea.
 "You're an idealist, Konrad Karlovich. You're lucky, otherwise you
might have to become a Papa Christosopulo or Zlovunov."
 There followed immediate consent, and without saying goodbye to Tikhon,
the concessionaires went out into the street.
 They stopped at the Sorbonne Furnished Rooms. Ostap threw the whole of
the small hotel staff into confusion. First he looked at the seven-rouble
rooms, but disliked the furnishings. The cleanliness of the five-rouble
rooms pleased him more, but the carpets were shabby and there was an
objectionable smell. In the three-rouble rooms everything was satisfactory
except for the pictures.
 "I can't live in a room with landscapes," said Ostap.
 They had to take a room for one rouble, eighty. It had no landscapes,
no carpets, and the furniture was very conservative -two beds and a night
table.
 "Stone-age style," observed Ostap with approval. "I hope there aren't
any prehistoric monsters in the mattresses."
 "Depends on the season," replied the cunning room-cleaner. "If there's
a provincial convention of some kind, then of course there aren't any,
because we have many visitors and we clean the place thoroughly before they
arrive. But at other times you may find some. They come across from the
Livadia Rooms next door."
 That day the concessionaires visited the Stargorod communal services,
where they obtained the information they required. It turned out that the
housing division had been disbanded in 1921 and that its voluminous records
had been merged with those of the communal services.
 The smooth operator got down to business. By evening the partners had
found out the address of the head of the records department, Bartholomew
Korobeinikov, a former clerk in the Tsarist town administration and now an
office-employment official.
 Ostap attired himself in his worsted waistcoat, dusted his jacket
against the back of a chair, demanded a rouble, twenty kopeks from Ippolit
Matveyevich, and set off to visit the record-keeper. Ippolit Matveyevich
remained at the Sorbonne Hotel and paced up and down the narrow gap between
the two beds in agitation. The fate of the whole enterprise was in the
balance that cold, green evening. If they could get hold of copies of the
orders for the distribution of the furniture requisitioned from
Vorobyaninov's house, half the battle had been won. There would still be
tremendous difficulties facing them, but at least they would be on the right
track.
 "If only we can get the orders," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich to
himself, lying on the bed, "if only we can get them."
 The springs of the battered mattress nipped him like fleas, but he did
not feel them. He still only had a vague idea of what would follow once the
orders had been obtained, but felt sure everything would then go swimmingly.
 Engrossed in his rosy dream, Ippolit Matveyevich tossed about on the
bed. The springs bleated underneath him.
 Ostap had to go right across town. Korobeinikov lived in Gusishe, on
the outskirts.
 It was an area populated largely by railway workers. From time to time
a snuffling locomotive would back its way along the walled-off embankment,
above the houses. For a second the roof-tops were lit by the blaze from the
firebox. Now and then empty goods trains went by, and from time to time
detonators could be heard exploding. Amid the huts and temporary wooden
barracks stretched the long brick walls of still damp blocks of flats.
 Ostap passed an island of lights-the railway workers' club- checked the
address from a piece of paper, and halted in front of the record-keeper's
house. He rang a bell marked "Please Ring" in embossed letters.
 After prolonged questioning as to "Who do you want?" and "What is it
about?" the door was opened, and he found himself in a dark,
cupboard-cluttered hallway. Someone breathed on him in the darkness, but did
not speak.
 "Is Citizen Korobeinikov here?" asked Ostap.
 The person who had been breathing took Ostap by the arm and led him
into a dining-room lit by a hanging kerosene lamp. Ostap saw in front of him
a prissy little old man with an unusually flexible spine. There was no doubt
that this was Citizen Korobeinikov himself. Without waiting for an
invitation, Ostap moved up a chair and sat down.
 The old man looked fearlessly at the high-handed stranger and remained
silent. Ostap amiably began the conversation.
 "I've come on business. You work at the communal-services records
office, don't you? "
 The old man's back started moving and arched affirmatively.
 "And you worked before that in the housing division?"
 "I have worked everywhere," he answered gaily.
 "Even in the Tsarist town administration?"
 Here Ostap smiled graciously. The old man's back contorted for some
time and finally ended up in a position implying that his employment in the
Tsarist town administration was something long passed and that it was not
possible to remember everything for sure.'
 "And may I ask what I can do for you?" said the host, regarding his
visitor with interest.
 "You may," answered the visitor. "I am Vorobyaninov's son."
 "Whose? The marshal's?"
 "Yes." . "Is he still alive?"
 "He's dead, Citizen Korobeinikov. He's gone to his rest."
 "Yes," said the old man without any particular grief, "a sad event. But
I didn't think he had any children."
 "He didn't," said Ostap amiably in confirmation.
 "What do you mean?"
 "I'm from a morganatic marriage."
 "Not by any chance Elena Stanislavovna's son? "
 "Right!"
 "How is she?"
 "Mum's been in her grave some time."
 "I see. I see. How sad."
 And the old man gazed at Ostap with tears of sympathy in his eyes,
although that very day he had seen Elena Stanislavovna at the meat stalls in
the market.
 "We all pass away," he said, "but please tell me on what business
you're here, my dear . . . I don't know your name."
 "Voldemar," promptly replied Ostap.
 "Vladimir Ippolitovich, very good."
 The old man sat down at the table covered with patterned oilcloth and
peered into Ostap's eyes.
 In carefully chosen words, Ostap expressed his grief at the loss of his
parents. He much regretted that he had invaded the privacy of the respected
record-keeper so late at night and disturbed him by the visit, but hoped
that the respected record-keeper would forgive him when he knew what had
brought him.
 "I would like to have some of my dad's furniture," concluded Ostap with
inexpressible filial love, "as a keepsake. Can you tell me who was given the
furniture from dad's house?"
 "That's difficult," said the old man after a moment's thought. "Only a
well-to-do person could manage that. What's your profession, may I ask? "
 "I have my own refrigeration plant in Samara, run on artel lines."
 The old man looked dubiously at young Vorobyaninov's green suit, but
made no comment.
 "A smart young man," he thought.
 "A typical old bastard," decided Ostap, who had by then completed his
observation of Korobeinikov.
 "So there you are," said Ostap.
 "So there you are," said the record-keeper. "It's difficult, but
possible."
 "And it involves expense," suggested the refrigeration-plant owner
helpfully.
 "A small sum . . ."
 " 'Is nearer one's heart', as Maupassant used to say. The information
will be paid for."
 "All right then, seventy roubles."
 "Why so much? Are oats expensive nowadays?"
 The old man quivered slightly, wriggling his spine.
 "Joke if you will. . ."
 "I accept, dad. Cash on delivery. When shall I come?"
 "Have you the money on you? "
 Ostap eagerly slapped his pocket.
 "Then now, if you like," said Korobeinikov triumphantly.
 He lit a candle and led Ostap into the next room. Besides a bed,
obviously slept in by the owner of the house himself, the room contained a
desk piled with account books and a wide office cupboard with open shelves.
The printed letters A, B, C down to the rearguard letter Z were glued to the
edges of the shelves. Bundles of orders bound with new string lay on the
shelves.
 "Oho!" exclaimed the delighted Ostap. "A full set of records at home."
 "A complete set," said the record-keeper modestly. "Just in case, you
know. The communal services don't need them and they might be useful to me
in my old age. We're living on top of a volcano, you know. Anything can
happen. Then people will rush off to find their furniture, and where will it
be? It will be here. This is where it will be. In the cupboard. And who will
have preserved it? Who will have looked after it? Korobeinikov! So the
gentlemen will say thank you to the old man and help him in his old age. And
I don't need very much; ten roubles an order will do me. Otherwise, they
might as well look for the wind in the field. They won't find the furniture
without me."
 Ostap looked at the old man in rapture.
 "A marvellous office," he said. "Complete mechanization. You're an
absolute hero of labour!"
 The flattered record-keeper began explaining the details of his
pastime. He opened the thick registers.
 "It's all here," he said, "the whole of Stargorod. All the furniture.
Who it was taken from and who it was given to. And here's the alphabetical
index-the mirror of life! Whose furniture do you want to know about?
Angelov, first-guild merchant? Certainly. Look under A. A, Ak, Am, Am,
Angelov. The number? Here it is-82742. Now give me the stock book. Page 142.
Where's Angelov? Here he is. Taken from Angelov on December 18, 1918:
Baecker grand piano, one, no. 97012; piano stools, one, soft; bureaux, two;
wardrobes, four (two mahogany); bookcases, one . . . and so on. And who was
it all given to? Let's look at the distribution register. The same number.
Issued to. The bookcase to the town military committee, three wardrobes to
the Skylark boarding school, another wardrobe for the personal use of the
Stargorod province food office. And where did the piano go? The piano went
to the old-age pensioners' home, and it's there to this day."
 "I don't think I saw a piano there," thought Ostap, remembering
Alchen's shy little face.
 "Or for instance, Murin, head of the town council. So we look under M.
It's all here. The whole town. Pianos, settees, pier glasses, chairs,
divans, pouffes, chandeliers . . . even dinner services."
 "Well," said Ostap, "they ought to erect a monument to you. But let's
get to the point. The letter V, for example."
 "The letter V it is," responded Korobeinikov willingly. "In one moment.
Vm, Vn. Vorotsky, no. 48238, Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich, your father,
God rest his soul, was a man with a big heart. . . A Baecker piano, no.
54809. Chinese vases, marked, four, from Sevres in France; Aubusson carpets,
eight, different sizes; a tapestry, "The Shepherd Boy'; a tapestry, 'The
Shepherd Girl'; Tekke carpets, two; Khorassan carpets, one; stuffed bears
with dish, one; a bedroom suite to seat twelve; a dining-room suite to seat
sixteen; a drawing-room suite to seat twelve, walnut, made by Hambs."
 "And who was given it?" asked Ostap impatiently. "We're just coming to
that. The stuffed bear with dish went to the police station No. 2. The
Shepherd Boy tapestry went to the art treasure collection; the Shepherd Girl
tapestry to the water-transport club; the Aubusson, Tekke and Khorassan
carpets to the Ministry of Foreign Trade. The bedroom suite went to the
hunters' trade-union; the dining-room suite to the Stargorod branch of the
chief tea administration. The walnut suite was divided up. The round table
and one chair went to the pensioners' home, a curved-back settee was given
to the housing division (it's still in the hall, and the bastards spilled
grease all over the covering); one chair went to Comrade Gritsatsuyev as an
imperialist war invalid, at his own request, granted by Comrade Burkin, head
of the housing division. Ten chairs went to Moscow to the furniture museum,
in accordance with a circular sent round by the Ministry of Education . . .
Chinese vases, marked .. ."
 "Well done!" said Ostap jubilantly. "That's more like it! Now it would
be nice to see the actual orders."
 "In a moment. We'll come to the orders in a moment. Letter V, No.
48238."
 The old man went up to the cupboard and, standing on tiptoe, took down
the appropriate bundle.
 "Here you are. All your father's furniture. Do you want all the
orders?"
 "What would I do with all of them? Just something to remind me of my
childhood. The drawing-room suite . . . I remember how I used to play on the
Khorassan carpet in the drawing-room, looking at the Shepherd Boy tapestry .
. . I had a fine time, a wonderful childhood. So let's stick to the
drawing-room suite, dad."
 Lovingly the old man began to open up the bundle of green counterfoils
and searched for the orders in question. He took out five of them. One was
for ten chairs, two for one chair each, one for the round table, and one for
tapestry.
 "lust see. They're all in order. You know where each item is. All the
counterfoils have the addresses on them and also the receiver's own
signature. So no one can back out if anything happens. Perhaps you'd like
Madame Popov's furniture? It's very good and also made by Hambs."
 But Ostap was motivated solely by love for his parents; he grabbed the
orders, stuffed them in the depths of his pocket and declined the furniture
belonging to General Popov's wife.
 "May I make out a receipt?" inquired the record-keeper, adroitly
arching himself.
 "You may," said Ostap amiably. "Make it out, champion of an idea!"
 "I will then."
 "Do that!"
 They went back into the first room. Korobeinikov made out a receipt in
neat handwriting and handed it smilingly to his visitor. The chief
concessionaire took the piece of paper with two fingers of his right hand in
a singularly courteous manner and put it in the same pocket as the precious
orders.
 "Well, so long for now," he said, squinting. "I think I've given you a
lot of trouble. I won't burden you any more with my presence. Good-bye, king
of the office!"
 The dumb-founded record-keeper limply took the offered hand.
 "Good-bye!" repeated Ostap.
 He moved towards the door.
 Korobeinikov was at a loss to understand. He even looked on the table
to see if the visitor had left any money there. Then he asked very quietly:
 "What about the money?"
 "What money?" said Ostap, opening the door. "Did I hear you say
something about money? "
 "Of course! For the furniture; for the orders!"
 "Honestly, chum," crooned Ostap, "I swear by my late father, I'd be
glad to, but I haven't any; I forgot to draw any from my current account."
 The old man began to tremble and put out a puny hand to restrain his
nocturnal visitor.
 "Don't be a fool," said Ostap menacingly. "I'm telling you in plain
Russian-tomorrow means tomorrow. So long! Write to me!"
 The door slammed. Korobeinikov opened it and ran into the street, but
Ostap had gone. He was soon on his way past the bridge. A locomotive passing
overhead illuminated him with its lights and covered him with smoke.
 "Things are moving," cried Ostap to the driver, "things are moving,
gentlemen of the jury!"
 The driver could not hear; he waved his hand, and the wheels of the
locomotive began pulling the steel elbows of the cranks with still greater
force. The locomotive raced away.
 Korobeinikov stood for a few moments in the icy wind and then went back
into his hovel, cursing like a trooper. He stopped in the middle of the room
and kicked the table with rage. The clog-shaped ash-tray with the word
"Triangle" on it jumped up and down, and the glass clinked against the
decanter.
 Never before had Bartholomew Korobeinikov been so wretchedly deceived.
He could deceive anyone he liked, but this time he had been fooled with such
brilliant simplicity that all he could do was stand for some time, lashing
out at the thick legs of the table.
 In Gusishe, Korobeinikov was known as Bartholomeich. People only turned
to him in cases of extreme need. He acted as a pawnbroker and charged
cannibalistic rates of interest. He had been doing this for several years
and had never once been caught. But now he had been cheated at his own game,
a business from which he expected great profits and a secure old age.
 "A fine thing!" he cried, remembering the lost orders. "From now on
money in advance. How could I have bungled it like that? I gave him the
walnut suite with my own hands. The Shepherd Boy alone is priceless. Done by
hand. . . ."
 An uncertain hand had been ringing the bell marked "Please Ring" for
some time and Korobeinikov hardly had time to remember that the outside door
was still open, when there was a heavy thud, and' the voice of a man
entangled in a maze of cupboards called out:
 "How do I get in?"
 Korobeinikov went into the hallway, took hold of somebody's coat (it
felt like coarse cloth), and pulled Father Theodore into the dining-room.
 "I humbly apologize," said Father Theodore.
 After ten minutes of innuendoes and sly remarks on both sides, it came
to light that Citizen Korobeinikov definitely had some information regarding
Vorobyaninov's furniture and that Father Theodore was not averse to paying
for it. Furthermore, to the record-keeper's great amusement, the visitor
turned out to be the late marshal's own brother, and passionately desired to
keep something in memory of him, for example, a walnut drawing-room suite.
The suite had very happy boyhood associations for Vorobyaninov's brother.
 Korobeinikov asked a hundred roubles. The visitor rated his brother's
memory considerably lower than that, say thirty roubles. They agreed on
fifty.
 "I'd like the money first," said the record-keeper. "It's a rule of
mine."
 "Does it matter if I give it to you in ten-rouble gold pieces?" asked
Father Theodore, hurriedly, tearing open the lining of his coat.
 "I'll take them at the official rate of exchange. Today's rate is nine
and a half."
 Vostrikov took five yellow coins from the sausage, added two and a half
in silver, and pushed the pile over to the record-keeper. The latter counted
the coins twice, scooped them up into one hand and, requesting his visitor
to wait, went to fetch the orders. Bartholomeich did not need to reflect for
long; he opened the Mirror-of-Life index at the letter P, quickly found the
right number and took down the bundle of orders belonging to General Popov's
wife. Disembowelling the bundle, he selected the order for twelve walnut
chairs from the Hambs factory, issued to Comrade Bruns, resident of 34
Vineyard Street. Marvelling at his own artfulness and dexterity, he chuckled
to himself and took the order to the purchaser.
 "Are they all in one place?" asked the purchaser.
 "All there together. It's a splendid suite. It'll make you drool.
Anyway, I don't need to tell you, you know yourself!"
 Father Theodore rapturously gave the record-keeper a prolonged
handshake and, colliding innumerable times with the cupboards in the hall,
fled into the darkness of the night.
 For quite a while longer Bartholomeich chuckled to himself at the
customer he had cheated. He spread the gold coins out in a row on the table
and sat there for a long time, gazing dreamily at the bright yellow discs.
 "What is it about Vorobyaninov's furniture that attracts them?" he
wondered. "They're out of their minds."
 He undressed, said his prayers without much attention, lay down on the
narrow cot, and fell into a troubled sleep.
 A PASSIONATE WOMAN IS A POET'S DREAM
 During the night the cold was completely consumed. It became so warm
that the feet of early passers-by began to ache. The sparrows chirped
various nonsense. Even the hen that emerged from the kitchen into the hotel
yard felt a surge of strength and tried to take off. The sky was covered
with small dumpling-like clouds and the dustbin reeked of violets and soupe
paysanne. The wind lazed under the eaves. Tomcats lounged on the rooftops
and, half closing their eyes, condescendingly watched the yard, across which
the room-cleaner, Alexander, was hurrying with a bundle of dirty washing.
 Things began stirring in the corridors of the Sorbonne. Delegates were
arriving from other regions for the opening of the tramway. A whole crowd of
them got down from a wagon bearing the name of the Sorbonne Hotel.
 The sun was warming to its fullest extent. Up flew the corrugated iron
shutters of the shops, and workers in Soviet government offices on their way
to work in padded coats breathed heavily and unbuttoned themselves, feeling
the heaviness of spring.
 On Co-operative Street an overloaded truck belonging to the
grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration broke a spring, and Victor
Polesov arrived at the scene to give advice.
 From one of the rooms furnished with down-to-earth luxury (two beds and
a night table) came a horse-like snorting and neighing. Ippolit Matveyevich
was happily washing himself and blowing his nose. The smooth operator lay in
bed inspecting the damage to his boots.
 "By the way," he said, "kindly settle your debt."
 Ippolit Matveyevich surfaced from under his towel and looked at his
partner with bulging, pince-nezless eyes.
 "Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? What are you
surprised about? The debt? Yes! You owe me some money. I forgot to tell you
yesterday that I had to pay, with your authority, seventy roubles for the
orders. Herewith the receipt. Sling over thirty-five roubles.
Concessionaires, I hope, share the expenses on an equal footing?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich put on his pince-nez, read the receipt and,
sighing, passed over the money. But even that could not dampen his spirits.
The riches were in their hands. The thirty-rouble speck of dust vanished in
the glitter of a. diamond mountain.
 Smiling radiantly, Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the corridor and
began strolling up and down. His plans for a new life built on a foundation
of precious stones brought him great comfort. "And the holy father," he
gloated, "has been taken for a ride. He'll see as much of the chairs as his
beard."
 Reaching the end of the corridor, Vorobyaninov turned round. The
cracked white door of room no. 13 opened wide, and out towards him came
Father Theodore in a blue tunic encircled by a shabby black cord with a
fluffy tassel. His kindly face was beaming with happiness. He had also come
into the corridor to stretch his legs. The rivals approached one another
several times, looking at each other triumphantly as they passed. At the two
ends of the corridor they both turned simultaneously and approached again. .
. . Ippolit Matveyevich's heart was bursting with joy. Father Theodore was
experiencing a similar feeling. Each was sorry for his defeated enemy. By
the time they reached the fifth lap, Ippolit Matveyevich could restrain
himself no longer.
 "Good morning, Father," he said with inexpressible sweetness.
 Father Theodore mustered all the sarcasm with which God had endowed him
and replied with:
 "Good morning, Ippolit Matveyevich."
 The enemies parted. When their paths next crossed, Vorobyaninov said
casually:
 "I hope I didn't hurt you at our last meeting."
 "Not at all, it was very pleasant to see you," replied the other
jubilantly..
 They moved apart again. Father Theodore's physiognomy began to disgust
Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "I don't suppose you're saying Mass any more?" he remarked at the next
encounter.
 "There's nowhere to say it. The parishioners have all run off in search
of treasure."
 "Their own treasure, mark you. Their own!"
 "I don't know whose it is, but only that they're looking for it."
 Ippolit Matveyevich wanted to say something nasty and even opened his
mouth to do so, but was unable to think of anything and angrily returned to
his room. At that moment, the son of a Turkish citizen, Ostap Bender,
emerged from the room in a light-blue waistcoat, and, treading on his own
laces, went towards Vostrikov. The roses on Father Theodore's cheeks
withered and turned to ash.
 "Do you buy rags and bones?" he asked menacingly. "Chairs, entrails,
tins of boot polish?"
 "What do you want?" whispered Father Theodore.
 "I want to sell you an old pair of trousers."
 The priest stiffened and moved away.
 "Why are you silent, like an archbishop at a party?"
 Father Theodore slowly walked towards his room.
 "We buy old stuff and steal new stuff!" called Ostap after him.
 Vostrikov lowered his head and stopped by the door. Ostap continued
taunting him.
 "What about my pants, my dear cleric? Will you take them? There's also
the sleeves of a waistcoat, the middle of a doughnut, and the ears of a dead
donkey. The whole lot is going wholesale-it's cheaper. And they're not
hidden in chairs, so you won't need to look for them."
 The door shut behind the cleric.
 Ostap sauntered back satisfied, his laces flopping against the carpet.
 As soon as his massive figure was sufficiently far away, Father
Theodore quickly poked his head round the door and, with long pent-up
indignation, squeaked:
 "Silly old fool!"
 "What's that?" cried Ostap, promptly turning back but the door was
already shut and the only sound was the click of the lock.
 Ostap bent down to the keyhole, cupped his hand to his mouth, and said
clearly:
 "How much is opium for the people?"
 There was silence behind the door:
 "Dad, you're a nasty old man," said Ostap loudly.
 That very moment the point of Father Theodore's pencil shot out of the
keyhole and wiggled in the air in an attempt to sting his enemy. The
concessionaire jumped back in time and grasped hold of it. Separated by the
door, the adversaries began a tug-of-war. Youth was victorious, and the
pencil, clinging like a splinter, slowly crept out of the keyhole. Ostap
returned with the trophy to his room, where the partners were still more
elated.
 "And the enemy's in flight, flight, flight," he crooned.
 He carved a rude word on the edge of the pencil with a pocket-knife,
ran into the corridor, pushed the pencil through the priest's keyhole, and
hurried back.
 The friends got out the green counterfoils and began a careful
examination of them.
 "This one's for the Shepherd Girl tapestry," said Ippolit Matveyevich
dreamily. "I bought it from a St. Petersburg antique dealer."
 "To hell with the Shepherd Girl," said Ostap, tearing the order to
ribbons.
 "A round table . . . probably from the suite. . ."
 "Give me the table. To hell with the table!"
 Two orders were left: one for ten chairs transferred to the furniture
museum in Moscow, and the other for the chair given to Comrade Gritsatsuyev
in Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.
 "Have your money ready," said Ostap. "We may have to go to Moscow."
 "But there's a chair here!"
 "One chance in ten. Pure mathematics. Anyway, citizen Gritsatsuyev may
have lit the stove with it."
 "Don't joke like that!"
 "Don't worry, lieber Vater Konrad Karlovich Michelson, we'll find them.
It's a sacred cause!"
 "We'll be wearing cambric footcloths and eating Margo cream."
 "I have a hunch the jewels are in that very chair."
 "Oh, you have a hunch, do you. What other hunches do you have? None?
All right. Let's work the Marxist way. We'll leave the sky to the birds and
deal with the chairs ourselves. I can't wait to meet the imperialist war
invalid, citizen Gritsatsuyev, at 15 Plekhanov Street. Don't lag behind,
Konrad Karlovich. We'll plan as we go."
 As they passed Father Theodore's door the vengeful son of a Turkish
citizen gave it a kick. There was a low snarling from the harassed rival
inside.
 "Don't let him follow us!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in alarm.
 "After today's meeting of the foreign ministers aboard the yacht no
rapprochement is possible. He's afraid of me."
 The friends did not return till evening. Ippolit Matveyevich looked
worried. Ostap was beaming. He was wearing new raspberry-coloured shoes with
round rubber heel taps, green-and-black check socks, a cream cap, and a
silk-mixture scarf of a brightly coloured Rumanian shade.
 "It's there all right," said Vorobyaninov, reflecting on his visit to
Widow Gritsatsuyev, "but how are we going to get hold of it? By buying it?"
 "Certainly not!" said Ostap. "Besides being a totally unproductive
expense, that would start rumours. Why one chair, and why that chair in
particular?"
 "What shall we do?"
 Ostap lovingly inspected the heels of his new shoes.
 "Chic moderne" he said. "What shall we do? Don't worry, Judge, I'll
take on the operation myself. No chair can withstand these shoes."
 Ippolit Matveyevich brightened up.
 "You know, while you were talking to Mrs. Gritsatsuyev about the flood,
I sat down on our chair and I honestly felt something hard underneath me.
They're there, I'll swear to it. They're there, I know it."
 "Don't get excited, citizen Michelson."
 "We must steal it during the night; honestly, we must steal it!"
 "For a marshal of the nobility your methods are too crude. Anyway, do
you know the technique? Maybe you have a travelling kit with a set of
skeleton keys. Get rid of the idea. It's a scummy trick to rob a poor
widow."
 Ippolit Matveyevich pulled himself together.
 "It's just that we must act quickly," he said imploringly.
 "Only cats are born quickly," said Ostap instructively. "I'll marry
her."
 "Who?"
 "Madame Gritsatsuyev."
 "Why?"
 "So that we can rummage inside the chair quietly and without any fuss."
 "But you'll tie yourself down for life!"
 "The things we do for the concession!"
 "For life!" said Ippolit Matveyevich in a whisper.
 He threw up his hands in amazement. His pastor-like face was bristly
and his bluish teeth showed they had not been cleaned since the day he left
the town of N.
 "It's a great sacrifice," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Life!" said Ostap. "Sacrifice! What do you know about life and
sacrifices? Do you think that just because you were evicted from your own
house you've tasted life? And just because they requisitioned one of your
imitation Chinese vases, it's a sacrifice? Life, gentlemen of the jury, is a
complex affair, but, gentlemen of the jury, a complex affair which can be
managed as simply as opening a box. All you have to do is to know how to
open it. Those who don't-have had it."
 Ostap polished his crimson shoes with the sleeve of his jacket, played
a flourish with his lips and went off.
 Towards morning he rolled into the room, took off his shoes, put them
on the bedside table and, stroking the shiny leather, murmured tenderly:
 "My little friends."
 "Where were you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, half asleep.
 "At the widow's," replied Ostap in a dull voice.
 Ippolit Matveyevich raised himself on one elbow.
 "And are you going to marry her? "
 Ostap's eyes sparkled.
 "I'll have to make an honest woman of her now."
 Ippolit Matveyevich gave a croak of embarrassment.
 "A passionate woman," said Ostap, "is a poet's dream. Provincial
straightforwardness. Such tropical women have long vanished from the capital
of the country, but they can still be found in outlying areas."
 "When's the wedding?"
 "The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow's impossible. It's May Day, and
everything's shut."
 "But what about our own business? You're getting married . . . but we
may have to go to Moscow."
 "What are you worried about? The hearing is continued."
 "And the wife?"
 "Wife? The little diamond widow? She's our last concern. A sudden
summons to the capital. A short report to be given to the Junior Council of
Ministers. A wet-eyed farewell and a roast chicken for the journey. We'll
travel in comfort. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we have a holiday."
 BREATHE DEEPER: YOU'RE EXCITED!
 On the morning of May Day, Victor Polesov, consumed by his usual thirst
for activity, hurried out into the street and headed for the centre. At
first he was unable to find any suitable outlet for his talents, since there
were still few people about and the reviewing stands, guarded by mounted
militiamen, were empty. By nine o'clock, however, bands had begun purring,
wheezing, and whistling in various parts of the town. Housewives came
running out of their gates.
 A column of musicians'-union officials in soft collars somehow strayed
into the middle of the railway workers' contingent, getting in their way and
upsetting everyone.
 A lorry disguised as a green plywood locomotive with the serial letter
"S" kept running into the musicians from behind, eliciting shouts from the
bowels of the locomotive in the direction of the toilers of the oboe and
flute:
 "Where's your supervisor? You're not supposed to be on Red Army Street!
Can't you see you're causing a traffic jam?"
 At this point, to the misfortune of the musicians, Victor Polesov
intervened.
 "That's right! You're supposed to turn into the blind alley here. They
can't even organize a parade! Scandalous!"
 The children were riding in lorries belonging to the Stargorod communal
services and the grain-mill-and-lift-construction administration. The
youngest ones stood at the sides of the lorry and the bigger ones in the
middle. The junior army waved paper flags and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
It was crowded, noisy, and hot. Every minute there were bottlenecks, and
every other minute they were cleared. To pass the time during the
bottlenecks the crowd tossed old men and activists in the air. The old men
wailed in squeaky voices, while the activists sailed up and down with
serious faces in silence. One merry column of people mistook Polesov for a
supervisor as he was trying to squeeze through them and began tossing him.
Polesov thrashed about like Punchinello.
 Then came an effigy of Neville Chamberlain, being beaten on his top-hat
with a cardboard hammer by a worker possessing a model anatomical physique.
This was followed by a truck carrying three members of the Communist Youth
in tails and white gloves. They kept looking at the crowd with
embarrassment.
 "Basil!" shouted someone from the pavement, "you bourgeois ! Give back
those braces!"
 Girls were singing. Alchen was marching along in a group of
social-security workers with a large red bow on his chest. As he went he
crooned in a nasal voice:
 From the forests of Siberia
 To the British Sea,
 There's no one superior
 To the Red Army. . . .
 At a given command, gymnasts disjointedly shouted out something
unintelligible. Everything walked, rode and marched to the new tram depot
from where at exactly one o'clock the first electric tram in Stargorod was
due to move off.
 No one knew exactly when the construction of the tramline had been
begun. Some time back in 1920, when voluntary Saturday work was introduced,
railway workers and ropemakers had marched to Gusishe to the accompaniment
of music and spent the whole day digging holes. They dug a great number of
large, deep holes. A comrade in an engineer's cap had run about among the
diggers, followed by a foreman carrying coloured poles. Work had continued
at the same spot the next Saturday. Two holes dug in the wrong place had to
be filled in again. The comrade descended on the foreman and demanded an
explanation. Then fresh holes had been dug that were even bigger and deeper.
Next, the bricks were delivered and the real builders arrived. They set
about laying the foundations, but then everything quieted down. The comrade
in the engineer's cap still appeared now and then at the deserted building
site and wandered round and round the brick-lined pit, muttering:
 "Cost accounting!"
 He tapped the foundations with a stick and then hurried home, covering
his frozen ears with his hands. The engineer's name was Treukhov.
 The idea of the tram depot, the construction of which ceased abruptly
at the foundation stage, was conceived by Treukhov in 1912, but the Tsarist
town council had rejected the project. Two years later Treukhov stormed the
town council again, but the war prevented any headway. Then the Revolution
interfered, and now the New Economic Plan, cost accounting, and capital
recovery were the obstacles. The foundations were overgrown with flowers in
the summer, and in the winter children turned them into a snow-slide.
 Treukhov dreamed of great things. He was sick and tired of working in
the town-improvement department of the Stargorod communal services, tired of
mending the kerbs, and tired of estimating the cost of hoardings. But the
great things did not pan out. The tramline project, re-submitted for
consideration, became bogged down at the higher instances of the provincial
administration; it was approved by one and rejected by another, passed on to
the capital, regardless of approval or rejection, became covered in dust,
and no money was forthcoming.
 "It's barbarous!" Treukhov shouted at his wife. "No money, indeed! But
they have enough money to pay for cab drivers and for carting merchandise to
the station! The Stargorod's cab-drivers would rob their own grandmothers!
It's a pillagers' monopoly, of course. Just try carrying your own stuff to
the station! A tramline would pay for itself in six years."
 His withered moustache drooped angrily, and his snub-nosed face worked
convulsively. He took some blueprints out of the desk and showed them to his
wife for the thousandth time. They were plans for a terminus, depot and
twelve tramcar routes.
 "To hell with twelve routes! They can wait. But three! Three! Stargorod
will choke without them!"
 Treukhov snorted and went into the kitchen to chop wood. He did all the
household chores himself. He designed and built a cradle for the baby and
also constructed a washing-machine. For a while he washed the clothes in it
himself, explaining to his wife how to work the machine. At least a fifth of
Treukhov's salary went on subscriptions to foreign technical literature. To
make ends meet he gave up smoking.
 He took his project to Gavrilin, the new chief of the Stargorod
communal services who had been transferred from Samarkand. The new chief,
deeply tanned by the Tunisian sun, listened to Treukhov for some time,
though without particular attention, and finally said:
 "In Samarkand, you know, we don't need trams. Everyone rides donkeys. A
donkey costs three roubles-dirt cheap-and it can carry about three hundred
pounds. Just a little donkey; it's amazing!"
 "But that's Asia," said Treukhov angrily. "A donkey costs three
roubles, but you need thirty roubles a year to feed it."
 "And how many times do you think you can travel on your trams for
thirty roubles? Three hundred. And that's not even every day for a year."
 "Then you'd better send for some of your donkeys," shouted Treukhov and
rushed out of the office, slamming the door. Whenever he met Treukhov from
that time on, the new chief would ask derisively: "Well, then, shall we send
for donkeys or build a tramway?"
 Gavrilin's face was like a smoothly-peeled turnip. His eyes were filled
with cunning. About two months later he sent for the engineer and said to
him earnestly:
 "I have a little plan. One thing is clear, though; there's no money,
and a tramline is not like a donkey-it can't be bought for three roubles.
We'll have to get some funds. What practical solution is there? A
shareholding company? What else? A loan repayable with interest! How long
will it take for a tramline to pay for itself? "
 "Six years from the opening of the first three routes."
 "Well, let's say ten years then. Now, the shareholding company. Who
will buy the shares? The food co-operatives and the-central union of dairy
co-operatives. Do the ropemakers need trams? Yes, they do. We will be
dispatching freight cars to the railway station. So that's the ropemakers.
The Ministry of Transport may contribute something, and also the province
executive committee. That's definite. And once we've got things going, the
State Bank and the Commercial Bank will give us loans. So that's my little
plan. It is going to be discussed at the executive committee meeting on
Friday, and if they agree, the rest is up to you."
 Treukhov stayed up till the early hours, excitedly washing clothes and
explaining to his wife the advantages of trams over horse-drawn
transportation.
 The decision taken on the Friday was favourable. But that was when the
trouble started. It proved very difficult to form a shareholding company.
The Ministry of Transport kept changing its mind about becoming a
shareholder. The food co-operatives tried their best to avoid taking fifteen
per cent of the shares and only wanted to take ten per cent. The shares were
finally distributed, though not without a few skirmishes. Gavrilin was sent,
for by the province control commission and reprimanded for using his
position to exert pressure. But everything came out all right, and then it
was only a question of beginning.
 "Well, Comrade Treukhov," said Gavrilin, "get cracking! Do you think
you'll manage? Well and good. It's not like buying a donkey."
 Treukhov immersed himself in his work. The great things which he had
dreamed of for years had finally arrived. Estimates were made, a
construction programme drawn up, and the materials ordered. But difficulties
arose where they were least expected. It was found that there were no cement
experts in Stargorod, so they had to be brought in from Leningrad. Gavrilin
tried to force the pace, but the plants could not deliver the machinery for
eighteen months, even though it was actually needed within a year, at the
latest. A threat to order the machinery from abroad, however, brought about
the required effect. Then there were minor difficulties. First it was
impossible to find shaped iron of the right size, then unseasoned sleepers
were received instead of seasoned ones. The right ones were finally
delivered, but Treukhov, who had gone personally to the seasoning plant,
rejected sixty per cent of the sleepers. There were defects in the cast-iron
parts, and the timber was damp. Gavrilin made frequent visits to the
building sites in his ancient, wheezing Fiat and had rows with Treukhov.
 While the terminus and depot were being erected, the citizens of
Stargorod merely made jokes.
 In the Stargorod Truth the tram story was reported by the "Prince of
Denmark", writer of humorous pieces, known to the whole town under the pen
name of "Flywheel". Not less than three times a week, in a long account,
Flywheel expressed his irritation at the slowness of the construction. The
newspaper's third column -which used to bound with such sceptical headlines
as "No sign of a club", "Around the weak points", "Inspections are needed,
but what is the point of shine and long tails?" "Good and . . . bad", "What
we like and what we don't", "Deal with the saboteurs of education", and
"It's time to put an end to red tape"-began to present readers with such
sunny and encouraging headings at the top of Flywheel's reports as "How we
are living and how we are building", "Giant will soon start work", "Modest
builder", and so on, in that vein.
 Treukhov used to open the newspaper with a shudder and, feeling disgust
for the brotherhood of writers, read such cheerful lines about himself as:
 . . . I'm climbing over the rafters with the wind whistling in my ears.
 Above me is the invisible builder of our powerful tramway, that thin,
pug-nosed man in a shabby cap with crossed hammers.
 It brings to mind Pushkin's poem: "There he stood, full of great
thoughts, on the bank. . . ."
 I approach him. Not a breath of air. The rafters do not stir.
 I ask him: How is the work progressing? Engineer Treukhov's ugly face
brightens up. . . .
 He shakes my hand and says: "Seventy per cent of the target has been
reached." [The article ended like this]:
 He shakes my hand in farewell. The rafters creak behind me. Builders
scurry to and fro. Who could forget the feverish activity of the building
site or the homely face of our builder?
 FLYWHEEL
 The only thing that saved Treukhov was that he had no time to read the
papers and usually managed to miss Comrade Flywheel's jottings.
 On one occasion Treukhov could not restrain himself, and he wrote a
carefully worded and malicious reply.
 "Of course [he wrote], you can call a bolt a transmission, but people
who do so know nothing about building. And I would like to point out to
Comrade Flywheel that the only time rafters creak is when the building is
about to fall down. To speak of rafters in this way is much the same as
claiming that a 'cello can give birth to children.
 "Yours, [etc.]"
 After that the indefatigable prince stopped visiting the building site,
but his reports continued to grace the third column, standing out sharply
against a background of such prosaic headlines as "15,000 Roubles Growing
Rusty", "Housing Hitches", "Materials Are Weeping", and "Curiosities and
Tears".
 The construction was nearing its end. Rails were welded by the thermite
method, and they stretched, without gaps, from the station to the
slaughterhouse, and from the market to the cemetery.
 In the beginning it was intended to time the opening of the tramway for
the Ninth Anniversary of the October Revolution, but the car-building plant
was unable to supply the cars by the promised date and made some excuse
about "fittings". The opening had to be postponed until May Day. By this
date everything was definitely ready.
 Wandering about, the concessionaires reached Gusishe at the same time
as the processions. The whole of Stargorod was there. The new depot was
decorated with garlands of evergreen; the flags flapped, and the wind
rippled the banners. A mounted militiaman galloped after an ice-cream seller
who had somehow got into the circular space cordoned off by railway workers.
A rickety platform, as yet empty, with a public-address system, towered
between the two gates of the depot. Delegates began mounting the platform. A
combined band of communal-service workers and ropemakers was trying out its
lungs. The drum lay on the ground.
 A Moscow correspondent in a shaggy cap wandered around inside the
depot, which contained ten light-green trams numbered 701 to 710. He was
looking for the chief engineer in order to ask him a few questions on the
subject of tramlines. Although the correspondent had already prepared in his
mind the report on the opening, with a summary of the speeches, he
conscientiously continued his search, his only complaint being the absence
of a bar. The crowds sang, yelled, and chewed sunflower seeds while waiting
for the railway to be opened.
 The presidium of the province executive committee mounted the platform.
The Prince of Denmark stammered out a few phrases to his fellow writer.
Newsreel cameramen from Moscow were expected any moment.
 "Comrades," said Gavrilin, "I declare the official meeting to celebrate
the opening of the Stargorod tramway open."
 The brass trumpets sprang into action, sighed, and played the
International right through three times.
 "Comrade Gavrilin will now give a report," cried Comrade Gavrilin.
 The Prince of Denmark (Flywheel) and the visitor from Moscow both wrote
in their notebooks, without collusion:
 "The ceremony opened with a report by Comrade Gavrilin, Chairman of the
Stargorod Communal Services. The crowd listened attentively."
 The two correspondents were people of completely different types. The
Muscovite was young and single, while Flywheel was burdened with a large
family and had passed his forties some time ago. One had lived in Moscow all
his life, while the other had never been there. The Muscovite liked beer,
while Flywheel never let anything but vodka pass his lips. Despite this
difference in character, age, habits and upbringing, however, the
impressions of both the journalists were cast in the same hackneyed,
second-hand, dust-covered phrases. Their pencils began scratching and
another observation was recorded in the notebooks: "On this day of festivity
it is as though the streets of Stargorod have grown wider. . . ."
 Gavrilin began his speech in a good and simple fashion. "Building a
tramway is not like buying a donkey."
 A loud guffaw was suddenly heard from Ostap Bender in the crowd; he had
appreciated the remark. Heartened by the response, Gavrilin, without knowing
why himself, suddenly switched to the international situation. Several times
he attempted to bring his speech back on to the rails, but, to his horror,
found he was unable to. The international words just flowed out by
themselves, against the speaker's will. After Chamberlain, to whom Gavrilin
devoted half an hour, the international arena was taken by the American
Senator Borah; the crowd began to wilt. Both correspondents wrote: "The
speaker described the international situation in vivid language. . . ."
Gavrilin, now worked up, made some nasty comments about the Rumanian
nobility and then turned to Mussolini. It was only towards the end of his
speech that he was able to suppress his second international nature and say
in a good, businesslike way:
 "And so, Comrades, I think that the tram about to leave the depot . . .
is leaving on whose account? Yours, of course, Comrades-and that of all
workers who have really worked, not from fear, Comrades, but from
conscience. It is also due, Comrades, to that honest Soviet specialist,
Chief Engineer Treukhov. We must thank him as well."
 A search for Treukhov was made, but he was not to be found. The
representative of the dairy co-operatives, who had been itching to have his
say, squeezed through to the front of the platform, waved his hand, and
began speaking loudly of the international situation. At the end of the
speech, both correspondents promptly jotted down, and they listened to the
feeble applause: "Loud applause turning into an ovation." They both wondered
whether "turning into an ovation" wasn't too strong. The Muscovite made up
his mind to cross it out. Flywheel sighed and left it.
 The sun rapidly rolled down an inclined plane. Slogans resounded from
the platform, and the band played a flourish. The sky became a vivid dark
blue and the meeting went on and on. Both the speakers and the listeners had
felt for some time that something was wrong, that the meeting had gone on
much too long and that the tramway should be started up as soon as possible.
But they had all become so used to talking that they could not stop.
 Treukhov was finally found. He was covered with dirt and took a long
time to wash his face and hands before going on to the platform.
 "Comrade Treukhov, chief engineer, will now say a few words," announced
Gavrilin jubilantly. "Well, say something-I said all the wrong things," he
added in a whisper.
 Treukhov wanted to say a number of things. About voluntary Saturdays,
the difficulties of his work, and about everything that had been done and
remained to do. And there was a lot to be done: the town ought to do away
with the horrible market; there were covered glass buildings to be
constructed; a permanent bridge could be built instead of the present
temporary one, which was swept away each year by the ice drifts, and finally
there was the plan for a very large meat-refrigeration plant.
 Treukhov opened his mouth and, stuttering, began. "Comrades ! The
international position of our country . . ." And then he went on to burble
such boring truisms that the crowd, now listening to its sixth international
speech, lost interest.
 It was only when he had finished that Treukhov realized he had not said
a word about the tramway. "It's a shame," he said to himself, "we have
absolutely no idea how to make speeches."
 He remembered hearing a speech by a French Communist at a meeting in
Moscow. The Frenchman was talking about the bourgeois press. "Those acrobats
of the pen, those virtuosos of farce, those jackals of the rotary press," he
exclaimed. The first part of his speech had been delivered in the key of A,
the second in C, and the final part, the pathetique, had been in the key of
E. His gestures were moderate and elegant.
 "But we only make a mess of things," decided Treukhov. "It would be
better if we didn't talk at all."
 It was completely dark when the chairman of the province executive
committee snipped the red tape sealing off the depot. Workers and
representatives of public organizations noisily began taking their seats in
the trams. There was a tinkling of bells and the first tram, driven by
Treukhov himself, sailed out of the depot to the accompaniment of deafening
shouts from the crowd and groans from the band. The illuminated cars seemed
even more dazzling than in the daytime. They made their way through Gusishe
in a line; passing under the railway bridge, they climbed easily into the
town and turned into Greater Pushkin Street. The band was in the second
tramcar; poking their trumpets out of the windows they played the Budyonny
march.
 Gavrilin, in a conductor's coat and with a bag across his shoulders,
smiled tenderly as he jumped from one car to another, ringing the bell at
the wrong time and handing out invitations to:
 on May 1 at 9 p.m.
 GALA EVENING
 at the COMMUNAL SERVICES WORKERS' CLUB
 Programme
 1. Report by Comrade Mosin.
 2. Award of certificates by the Communal Service Workers' Union.
 3. Informal half: grand concert, family supper and bar.
 On the platform of the last car stood Victor Polesov, who had somehow
or other been included among the guests of honour. He sniffed the motor. To
his extreme surprise, it looked perfectly all right and seemed to be working
normally. The glass in the windows was not rattling, and, looking at the
panes closely, he saw that they were padded with rubber. He had already made
several comments to the driver and was now considered by the public to be an
expert on trams in the West.
 "The pneumatic brake isn't working too well," said Polesov, looking
triumphantly at the passengers. "It's not sucking!"
 "Nobody asked you," replied the driver. "It will no doubt suck all
right,"
 Having made a festive round of the town, the cars returned to the
depot, where a crowd was waiting for them. Treukhov was tossed in the air
beneath the full glare of electric lights. They also tried tossing Gavrilin,
but since he weighed almost 216 pounds and did not soar very high, he was
quickly set down again. Comrade Mosin and various technicians were also
tossed. Victor Polesov was then tossed for the second time that day. This
time he did not kick with his legs, but soared up and down, gazing sternly
and seriously at the starry sky. As he soared up for the last time, Polesov
noticed that the person holding him by the foot and laughing nastily was
none other than the former marshal of the nobility, Ippolit Matveyevich
Vorobyaninov. Polesov politely freed himself and went a short distance away,
still keeping the marshal in sight. Observing that Ippolit Matveyevich and
the young stranger with him, clearly an ex-officer, were leaving, he
cautiously started to follow them.
 As soon as everything was over, and Comrade Gavrilin was sitting in his
lilac Fiat waiting for Treukhov to issue final instructions so that they
could then drive together to the club, a Ford station-wagon containing
newsreel cameramen drove up to the depot gates.
 A man wearing twelve-sided horn-rimmed spectacles and a sleeveless
leather coat was the first to spring nimbly out of the vehicle. A long
pointed beard grew straight out of his Adam's apple. A second man carried
the camera and kept tripping over a long scarf of the kind that Ostap Bender
usually called chic moderne. Next came assistants, lights and girls. The
whole group tore into the depot with loud shouts.
 "Attention!" cried the bearded owner of the leather coat. "Nick, set
the lights up!"
 Treukhov turned crimson and went over to the late arrivals.
 "Are you the newsreel reporters?" he asked. "Why didn't you come during
the day? "
 "When is the tramway going to be opened? "
 "It has already been opened."
 "Yes, yes, we are a little late. We came across some good nature shots.
There was loads of work. A sunset! But, anyway, we'll manage. Nick, lights!
Close-up of a turning wheel. Close-up of the feet of the moving crowd.
Lyuda, Milochka, start walking! Nick, action! Off you go! Keep walking, keep
walking ! That's it, thank you! Now we'll take the builder. Comrade
Treukhov? Would you mind, Comrade Treukhov? No, not like that.
Three-quarters. Like this, it's more original! Against a tram . . . Nick!
Action! Say something! "
 "I. . . I. . . honestly, I feel so awkward!"
 "Splendid! Good! Say something else! Now you're talking to the first
passenger. Lyuda, come into the picture! That's it. Breathe deeper, you're
excited! . . . Nick! A close-up of their legs! Action! That's it. Thanks
very much. Cut! "
 Gavrilin clambered out of the throbbing Fiat and went to fetch his
missing friend. The producer with the hairy Adam's apple came to life.
 "Nick! Over here! A marvellous character type. A worker! A tram
passenger. Breathe deeper, you're excited! You've never been in a tram
before. Breathe! "
 Gavrilin wheezed malevolently.
 "Marvellous! Milochka, come here! Greetings from the Communist Youth!
Breathe deeper, you're excited! That's it! Swell! Nick, cut!"
 "Aren't you going to film the tramway?" asked Treukhov shyly.
 "You see," lowed the leather producer, "the lighting conditions make it
difficult. We'll have to fill in the shots in Moscow. 'Bye-'bye!"
 The newsreel reporters disappeared quicker than lightning.
 "Well, let's go and relax, pal," said Gavrilin. "What's this? You
smoking!"
 "I've begun smoking," confessed Treukhov. "I couldn't stop myself."
 At the family gathering, the hungry Treukhov smoked one cigarette after
another, drank three glasses of vodka, and became hopelessly drunk. He
kissed everyone and they kissed him. He tried to say something nice to his
wife, but only burst into laughter. Then he shook Gavrilin's hand for a long
time and said:
 "You're a strange one! You should learn to build railway bridges. It's
a wonderful science, and the chief thing is that it's so simple. A bridge
across the Hudson . . ."
 Half an hour later he was completely gone and made a Philippic against
the bourgeois press.
 "Those acrobats of the press, those hyenas of the pen! Those virtuosos
of the rotary printing machine!" he cried.
 His wife took him home in a horse-cab.
 "I want to go by tram," he said to his wife. "Can't you understand? If
there's a tramway system, we should use it. Why? First, because it's an
advantage!"
 Polesov followed the concessionaires, spent some time mustering his
courage, and finally, waiting until there was no one about, went up to
Vorobyaninov.
 "Good evening, Mr. Ippolit Matveyevich!" he said respectfully.
 Vorobyaninov turned pale. "I don't think I know you," he mumbled.
 Ostap stuck out his right shoulder and went up to the
mechanic-intellectual. "Come on now, what is it that you want to tell my
friend?"
 "Don't be alarmed," whispered Polesov, "Elena Stanislavovna sent me."
 "What! Is she here?"
 "Yes, and she wants to see you."
 "Why?" asked Ostap. "And who are you?"
 "I . . . Don't you think anything of the sort, Ippolit Matveyevich. You
don't know me, but I remember you very well."
 "I'd like to visit Elena Stanislavovna," said Vorobyaninov
indecisively.
 "She's very anxious to see you."
 "Yes, but how did she find out? "
 "I saw you in the corridor of the communal services building and
thought to myself for a long time: 'I know that face.' Then I remembered.
Don't worry about anything, Ippolit Matveyevich. It will all be absolutely
secret."
 "Do you know the woman?" asked Ostap in a business-like tone.
 "Mm . . . yes. An old friend."
 "Then we might go and have supper with your old friend. I'm famished
and all the shops are shut."
 "We probably can."
 "Let's go, then. Lead the way, mysterious stranger."
 And Victor Mikhailovich, continually looking behind him, led the
partners through the back yards to the fortune-teller's house on
Pereleshinsky Street.
 When a woman grows old, many unpleasant things may happen to her: her
teeth may fall out, her hair may thin out and turn grey, she may become
short-winded, she may unexpectedly develop fat or grow extremely thin, but
her voice never changes. It remains just as it was when she was a
schoolgirl, a bride, or some young rake's mistress.
 That was why Vorobyaninov trembled when Polesov knocked at the door and
Elena Stanislavovna answered: "Who's that?" His mistress's voice was the
same as it had been in 1899 just before the opening of the Paris Fair. But
as soon as he entered the room, squinting from the glare of the light, he
saw that there was not a trace of her former beauty left.
 "How you've changed," he said involuntarily.
 The old woman threw herself on to his neck. "Thank you," she said. "I
know what you risk by coming here to see me. You're the same chivalrous
knight. I'm not going- to ask you why you're here from Paris. I'm not
curious, you see."
 "But I haven't come from Paris at all," said Ippolit Matveyevich in
confusion.
 "My colleague and I have come from Berlin," Ostap corrected her,
nudging Ippolit Matveyevich, "but it's not advisable to talk about it too
loudly."
 "Oh, how pleased I am to see you," shrilled the fortune-teller. "Come
in here, into this room. And I'm sorry, Victor Mikhailovich, but couldn't
you come back in half an hour?"
 "Oh!" Ostap remarked. "The first meeting. Difficult moments! Allow me
to withdraw as well. May I come with you, dear Victor Mikhailovich?"
 The mechanic trembled with joy. They both went off to Polesov's
apartment, where Ostap, sitting on a piece of one of the gates of No. 5
Pereleshinsky Street, outlined his phantasmagoric ideas for the salvation of
the motherland to the dumbstruck artisan. An hour later they returned to
find the old couple lost in reminiscence.
 "And do you remember, Elena Stanislavovna?" Ippolit Matveyevich was
saying.
 "And do you remember, Ippolit Matveyevich?" Elena Stanislavovna was
saying.
 "The psychological moment for supper seems to have arrived," thought
Ostap, and, interrupting Ippolit Matveyevich, who was recalling the
elections to the Tsarist town council, said: "They have a very strange
custom in Berlin. They eat so late that you can't tell whether it's an early
supper or a late lunch."
 Elena Stanislavovna gave a start, took her rabbit's eyes off
Vorobyaninov, and dragged herself into the kitchen.
 "And now we must act, act, and act," said Ostap, lowering his voice to
a conspiratorial whisper. He took Polesov by the arm. "The old woman is
reliable, isn't she, and won't give us away?"
 Polesov joined his hands as though praying.
 "What's your political credo?"
 "Always!" replied Polesov delightedly.
 "You support Kirillov, I hope?"
 "Yes, indeed." Polesov stood at attention.
 "Russia will not forget you," Ostap rapped out.
 Holding a pastry in his hand, Ippolit Matveyevich listened in dismay to
Ostap, but there was no holding the smooth operator. He was carried away. He
felt inspired and ecstatically pleased at this above-average blackmail. He
paced up and down like a leopard.
 This was the state in which Elena Stanislavovna found him as she carted
in the samovar from the kitchen. Ostap gallantly ran over to her, took the
samovar without stopping, and placed it on the table. The samovar gave a
peep and Ostap decided to act.
 "Madame," he said, "we are happy to see in you . . ."
 He did not know whom he was happy to see in Elena Stanislavovna. He had
to start again. Of all the flowery expressions of the Tsarist regime, only
one kept coming to mind-"has graciously commanded". This was out of place,
so he began in a businesslike way.
 "Strict secrecy. A state secret." He pointed to Vorobyaninov. "Who do
you think this powerful old man is? Don't say you don't know. He's the
master-mind, the father of Russian democracy and a person close to the
emperor."
 Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height and goggled
in confusion. He had no idea of what was happening, but knowing from
experience that Ostap Bender never did anything without good reason, kept
silent. Polesov was thrilled. He stood with his chin tucked in, like someone
about to begin a parade.
 Elena Stanislavovna sat down in a chair and looked at Ostap in fright.
 "Are there many of us in the town?" he asked outright. "What's the
general feeling?"
 "Given the absence . . ." said Polesov, and began a muddled account of
his troubles. These included that conceited bum, the yard-keeper from no. 5,
the three-eighths-inch dies, the tramway, and so on.
 "Good!" snapped Ostap. "Elena Stanislavovna! With your assistance we
want to contact the best people in the town who have been forced underground
by a cruel fate. Who can we ask to come here?"
 "Who can we ask! Maxim Petrovich and his wife."
 "No women," Ostap corrected her. "You will be the only pleasant
exception. Who else?"
 From the discussion, in which Polesov also took an active part, it came
to light that they could ask Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov, a former Tsarist
town councillor, who had now in some miraculous way been raised to the rank
of a Soviet official; Dyadyev, owner of Fastpack; Kislarsky, chairman of the
Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun Artel; and two young men who were
nameless but fully reliable.
 "In that case, please ask them to come here at once for a small
conference. In the greatest secrecy."
 Polesov began speaking. "I'll fetch Maxim Petrovich, Nikesha, and
Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna, be so good as to run down to Fastpack
for Kislarsky."
 Polesov sped off. The fortune-teller looked reverently at Ippolit
Matveyevich and also went off.
 "What does this mean?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "It means," retorted Ostap, "that you're behind the times."
 "Why?"
 "Because! Excuse a vulgar question, but how much money do you have?"
 "What money?"
 "All kinds-including silver and copper."
 "Thirty-five roubles."
 "And I suppose you intended to recover the entire outlay on the
enterprise with that much money? "
 Ippolit Matveyevich was silent.
 "Here's the point, dear boss. I reckon you understand me. You will have
to be the master-mind and person close to the emperor for an hour or so."
 "Why?"
 "Because we need capital. Tomorrow's my wedding. I'm not a beggar. I
want to have a good time on that memorable day."
 "What do T have to do?" groaned Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "You have to keep quiet. Puff out your cheeks now and then to look
important."
 "But that's. . .fraud!"
 "Who are you to talk-Count Tolstoy or Darwin? That comes well from a
man who was only yesterday preparing to break into Gritsatsuyev's apartment
at night and steal her furniture. Don't think too much. Just keep quiet and
don't forget to puff out your cheeks."
 "Why involve ourselves in such a dangerous business. We might be
betrayed."
 "Don't worry about that. I don't bet on poor odds. We'll work it so
that none of them understands anything. Let's have some tea."
 While the concessionaires were eating and drinking, and the parrot was
cracking sunflower seeds, the guests began arriving at the apartment.
 Nikesha and Vladya came with Victor Mikhailovich. He was hesitant to
introduce the young men to the master-mind. They sat down in a corner and
watched the father of Russian democracy eating cold veal. Nikesha and Vladya
were complete and utter gawks. Both were in their late twenties and were
apparently very pleased at being invited to the meeting.
 Charusknikov, the former Tsarist town councillor, was a fat, elderly
man. He gave Ippolit Matveyevich a prolonged handshake and peered into his
face.
 Under the supervision of Ostap, the old-timers began exchanging
reminiscences.
 As soon as the conversation was moving smoothly, Ostap turned to
Charushnikov. "Which regiment were you in?"
 Charushnikov took a deep breath. "I . . . I . . . wasn't, so to speak,
in any, since I was entrusted with the confidence of society and was elected
to office."
 "Are you a member of the upper class?"
 "Yes, I was."
 "I hope you still are. Stand firm! We shall need your help. Has Polesov
told you? We will be helped from abroad. It's only a question of public
opinion. The organization is strictly secret. Be careful!"
 Ostap chased Polesov away from Nikesha and Vladya and asked them with
genuine severity: "Which regiment were you in? You will have to serve your
fatherland. Are you members of the upper class? Very good. The West will
help us. Stand firm! Contributions-I mean the organization-will be strictly
secret. Be careful!"
 Ostap was on form. Things seemed to be going well. Ostap led the owner
of Fastpack into a corner as soon as Elena Stanislavovna had introduced him,
advised him to stand firm, inquired which regiment he had served in, and
promised him assistance from abroad and complete secrecy of the
organization. The first reaction of the owner of Fastpack was a desire to
run away from the conspiratorial apartment as soon as possible. He felt that
his firm was too solvent to engage in such a risky business. But taking a
look at Ostap's athletic figure, he hesitated and began thinking: "Supposing
. . . Anyway, it all depends on what kind of sauce this thing will be served
with."
 The tea-party conversation livened up. Those initiated religiously kept
the secret and chatted about the town.
 Last to arrive was citizen Kislarsky, who, being neither a member of
the upper class nor a former guardsman, quickly sized up the situation after
a brief talk with Ostap.
 "Stand firm!" said Ostap instructively.
 Kislarsky promised he would.
 "As a representative of private enterprise, you cannot ignore the cries
of the people."
 Kislarsky saddened sympathetically.
 "Do you know who that is sitting there?" asked Ostap, pointing to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Of course," said Kislarsky. "It's Mr. Vorobyaninov."
 "That," said Ostap, "is the master-mind, the father of Russian
democracy and a person close to the emperor."
 Two years' solitary confinement at best, thought Kislarsky, beginning
to tremble. Why did I have to come here?
 "The secret Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare," whispered Ostap
ominously.
 Ten years, flashed through Kislarsky's mind.
 "You can leave, by the way, but I warn you, we have a long reach." I'll
show you, you son of a bitch, thought Ostap. You'll not get away from here
for less than a hundred roubles.
 Kislarsky became like marble. That day he had had such a good, quiet
dinner of chicken gizzards and soup with nuts, and knew nothing of the
terrible "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare". He stayed. The words "long
reach" made an unfavourable impression on him.
 "Citizens," said Ostap, opening the meeting, "life dictates its own
laws, its own cruel laws. I am not going to talk about the aim of our
gathering-you all know it. Our aim is sacred. From everywhere we hear cries.
From every corner of our huge country people are calling for help. We must
extend a helping hand and we will do so. Some of you have work and eat bread
and butter; others earn on the side and eat caviar sandwiches. All of you
sleep in your own beds and wrap yourselves in warm blankets. It is only the
young children, the waifs and strays, who are not looked after. These
flowers of the street, or, as the white-collar proletarians call them,
'flowers in asphalt', deserve a better lot. We must help them, gentlemen of
the jury, and, gentlemen of the jury, we will do so."
 The smooth operator's speech caused different reactions among the
audience.
 Polesov could not understand his young friend, the guards officer.
"What children?" he wondered. "Why children?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich did not even try to understand. He was utterly sick
and tired with the whole business and sat there in silence, puffing out his
cheeks.
 Elena Stanislavovna became melancholy. Nikesha and Vladya gazed in
devotion at Ostap's sky-blue waistcoat.
 The owner of Fastpack was extremely pleased. Nicely put, he decided.
With that sauce I might even contribute some money. If it's successful, I
get the credit. If it's not, I don't know anything about it. I just helped
the children, and that's all.
 Charushnikov exchanged a significant look with Dyadyev and, giving the
speaker his due for conspiratorial ability, continued rolling pellets of
bread across the table.
 Kislarsky was in seventh heaven. What a brain, he thought. He felt he
had never loved waifs and strays as much as that evening.
 "Comrades," Ostap continued, "immediate help is required. We must tear
these children from the clutches of the street, and we will do so. We will
help these children. Let us remember that they are the flowers of life. I
now invite you to make your contributions and help the children-the children
alone and no one else. Do you understand me? "
 Ostap took a receipt book from his side pocket.
 "Please make your contributions. Ippolit Matveyevich will vouch for my
authority."
 Ippolit Matveyevich puffed out his cheeks and bowed his head. At this,
even the dopey Nikesha and Vladya, and the fidgety mechanic, too, realized
the point of Ostap's allusions.
 "In order of seniority, gentlemen," said Ostap. "We'll begin with dear
Maxim Petrovich."
 Maxim Petrovich fidgeted and forced himself to give thirty roubles. "In
better times I'd give more," he declared.
 "Better times will soon be coming," said Ostap. "Anyway, that has
nothing to do with the children who I am at present representing."
 Nikesha and Vladya gave eight roubles. "That's not much, young men."
 The young men reddened. Polesov ran home and brought back fifty. "Well
done, hussar," said Ostap. "For a car-owning hussar working by himself
that's enough for the first time. What say the merchants?"
 Dyadyev and Kislarsky haggled for some time and complained about taxes.
 Ostap was unmoved. "I consider such talk out of place in the presence
of Ippolit Matveyevich."
 Ippolit Matveyevich bowed his head. The merchants contributed two
hundred roubles each for the benefit of the children.
 "Four hundred and eighty-five roubles in all," announced Ostap. "Hm . .
. twelve roubles short of a round figure."
 Elena Stanislavovna, who had been trying to stand firm for some time,
went into the bedroom and brought back the necessary twelve roubles in a
bag.
 The remaining part of the meeting was more subdued and less festive in
nature. Ostap began to get frisky. Elena Stanislavovna drooped completely.
The guests gradually dispersed, respectfully taking leave of the organizers.
 "You will be given special notice of the date of our next meeting,"
said Ostap as they left. "It's strictly secret. The cause must be kept
secret. It's also in your own interests, by the way."
 At these words, Kislarsky felt the urge to give another fifty roubles
and not to come to any more meetings. He only just restrained himself.
 "Right," said Ostap, "let's get moving. Ippolit Matveyevich, you, I
hope, will take advantage of Elena Stanislavovna's hospitality and spend the
night here. It will be a good thing for the conspiracy if we separate for a
time, anyway, as a blind. I'm off."
 Ippolit Matveyevich was winking broadly, but Ostap pretended he had not
noticed and went out into the street. Having gone a block, he remembered the
five hundred honestly earned roubles in his pocket.
 "Cabby! " he cried. "Take me to the Phoenix."
 The cabby leisurely drove Ostap to a closed restaurant.
 "What's this! Shut?"
 "On account of May Day."
 "Damn them! All the money in the world and nowhere to have a good time.
All right, then, take me to Plekhanov Street. Do you know it?"
 "What was the street called before? " asked the cabby.
 "I don't know."
 "How can I get there? I don't know it, either."
 Ostap nevertheless ordered him to drive on and find it.
 For an hour and a half they cruised around the dark and empty town,
asking watchmen and militiamen the way. One militiaman racked his brains and
at length informed them that Plekhanov Street was none other than the former
Governor Street.
 "Governor Street! I've been taking people to Governor Street for
twenty-five years."
 "Then drive there!"
 They arrived at Governor Street, but it turned out to be Karl Marx and
not Plekhanov Street.
 The frustrated Ostap renewed his search for the lost street, but was
not able to find it. Dawn cast a pale light on the face of the moneyed
martyr who had been prevented from disporting himself.
 "Take me to the Sorbonne Hotel!" he shouted. "A fine driver you are!
You don't even know Plekhanov! "
 Widow Gritsatsuyev's palace glittered. At the head of the banquet table
sat the King of Clubs-the son of a Turkish citizen. He was elegant and
drunk. All the guests were talking loudly.
 The young bride was no longer young. She was at least thirty-five.
Nature had endowed her generously. She had everything: breasts like
watermelons, a bulging nose, brightly coloured cheeks and a powerful neck.
She adored her new husband and was afraid of him. She did not therefore call
him by his first name, or by his patronymic, which she had not managed to
find out, anyway, but by his surname-Comrade Bender.
 Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting on his cherished chair. All through the
wedding feast he bounced up and down, trying to feel something hard. From
time to time he did. Whenever this happened, the people present pleased him,
and he began shouting "Kiss the bride" furiously.
 Ostap kept making speeches and proposing toasts. They drank to public
education and the irrigation of Uzbekistan. Later on the guests began to
depart. Ippolit Matveyevich lingered in the hall and whispered to Bender:
 "Don't waste time, they're there."
 "You're a moneygrubber," replied the drunken Ostap. "Wait for me at the
hotel. Don't go anywhere. I may come at any moment. Settle the hotel bill
and have everything ready. Adieu, Field Marshal! Wish me good night!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich did so and went back to the Sorbonne to worry.
 Ostap turned up at five in the morning carrying the chair. Vorobyaninov
was speechless. Ostap put down the chair in the middle of the room and sat
on it.
 "How did you manage it? " Vorobyaninov finally got out.
 "Very simple. Family style. The widow was asleep and dreaming. It was a
pity to wake her. 'Don't wake her at dawn!' Too bad! I had to leave a note.
'Going to Novokhopersk to make a report. Won't be back to dinner. Your own
Bunny.' And I took the chair from the dining-room. There aren't any trams
running at this time of the morning, so I rested on the chair on the way."
 Ippolit Matveyevich flung himself towards the chair with a burbling
sound.
 "Go easy," said Ostap, "we must avoid making a noise." He took a pair
of pliers out of his pocket, and work soon began to hum. "Did you lock the
door?" he asked.
 Pushing aside the impatient Vorobyaninov, he neatly laid open the
chair, trying not to damage the flowered chintz.
 "This kind of cloth isn't to be had any more; it should be preserved.
There's a dearth of consumer goods and nothing can be done about it."
 Ippolit Matveyevich was driven to a state of extreme irritation.
 "There," said Ostap quietly. He raised the covering and groped among
the springs with both his hands. The veins stood out like a "V" on his
forehead.
 "Well?" Ippolit Matveyevich kept repeating in various keys. "Well?
Well?"
 "Well and well," said Ostap irritably. "One chance in eleven . . ." He
thoroughly examined the inside of the chair and concluded: "And this chance
isn't ours."
 He stood up straight and dusted his knees. Ippolit Matveyevich flung
himself on the chair. The jewels were not there. Vorobyaninov's hands
dropped, but Ostap was in good spirits as before.
 "Our chances have now increased."
 He began walking up and down the room.
 "It doesn't matter. The chair cost the widow twice as much as it did
us."
 He took out of his side pocket a gold brooch set with coloured stones,
a hollow bracelet of imitation gold, half-a-dozen gold teaspoons, and a
tea-strainer.
 In his grief Ippolit Matveyevich did not even realize that he had
become an accomplice in common or garden theft.
 "A shabby trick," said Ostap, "but you must agree I couldn't leave my
beloved without something to remember her by. However, we haven't any time
to lose. This is only the beginning. The end will be in Moscow. And a
furniture museum is not like a widow-it'll be a bit more difficult."
 The partners stuffed the pieces of the chair under the bed and, having
counted their money (together with the contributions for the children's
benefit, they had five hundred and thirty-five roubles), drove to the
station to catch the Moscow train.
 They had to drive right across the town.
 On Co-operative Street they caught sight of Polesov running along the
pavement like a startled antelope. He was being pursued by the yard-keeper
from No. 5 Pereleshinsky Street. Turning the corner, the concessionaires
just had time to see the yard-keeper catch him up and begin bashing him.
Polesov was shouting "Help!" and "Bum!"
 Until the train departed they sat in the gentlemen's to avoid meeting
the beloved.
 The train whisked the friends towards the noisy capital. They pressed
against the window. The cars were speeding over Gusishe.
 Suddenly Ostap let out a roar and seized Vorobyaninov by the biceps.
"Look, look!" he cried. "Quick! It's Alchen, that son of a bitch!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich looked downward. At the bottom of the embankment a
tough-looking young man with a moustache was pulling a wheelbarrow loaded
with a light-brown harmonium and five window frames. A shamefaced citizen in
a mouse-grey shirt was pushing the barrow from behind.
 The sun forced its way through the dark clouds, and on the churches the
crosses glittered.
 "Pashka! Going to market?"
 Pasha Emilevich raised his head but only saw the buffers of the last
coach; he began working even harder with his legs.
 "Did you see that?" asked Ostap delightedly. "Terrific! That's the way
to work! "
 Ostap slapped the mournful Vorobyaninov on the back.
 "Don't worry, dad! Never say die! The hearing is continued. Tomorrow
evening we'll be in Moscow."
 Statistics know everything.
 It has been calculated with precision how much ploughland there is in
the USSR, with subdivision into black earth, loam and loess. All citizens of
both sexes have been recorded in those neat, thick registers-so familiar to
Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov-the registry office ledgers. It is known
how much of a certain food is consumed yearly by the average citizen in the
Republic. It is known how much vodka is imbibed as an average by this
average citizen, with a rough indication of the titbits consumed with it. It
is known how many hunters, ballerinas, revolving lathes, dogs of all breeds,
bicycles, monuments, girls, lighthouses and sewing machines there are in the
country.
 How much life, full of fervour, emotion and thought, there is in those
statistical tables!
 Who is this rosy-cheeked individual sitting at a table with a napkin
tucked into his collar and putting away the steaming victuals with such
relish? He is surrounded with herds of miniature bulls. Fattened pigs have
congregated in one corner of the statistical table. Countless numbers of
sturgeon, burbot and chekhon fish splash about in a special statistical
pool. There are hens sitting on the individual's head, hands and shoulders.
Tame geese, ducks and turkeys fly through cirrus clouds. Two rabbits are
hiding under the table. Pyramids and Towers of Babel made of bread rise
above the horizon. A small fortress of jam is washed by a river of milk. A
pickle the size of the leaning tower of Pisa appears on the horizon.
Platoons of wines, spirits and liqueurs march behind ramparts of salt and
pepper. Tottering along in the rear in a miserable bunch come the soft
drinks: the non-combatant soda waters, lemonades and wire-encased syphons.
 Who is this rosy-cheeked individual-a gourmand and a tosspot-with a
sweet tooth? Gargantua, King of the Dipsodes? Silaf Voss? The legendary
soldier, Jacob Redshirt? Lucullus?
 It is not Lucullus. It is Ivan Ivanovich Sidorov or Sidor Sidorovich
Ivanov-an average citizen who consumes all the victuals described in the
statistical table as an average throughout his life. He is a normal consumer
of calories and vitamins, a quiet forty-year-old bachelor, who works in a
haberdashery and knitwear shop.
 You can never hide from statistics. They have exact information not
only on the number of dentists, sausage shops, syringes, caretakers, film
directors, prostitutes, thatched roofs, widows, cab-drivers and bells; they
even know how many statisticians there are in the country.
 But there is one thing that they do not know.
 They do not know how many chairs there are in the USSR.
 There are many chairs.
 The census calculated the population of the Union Republics at a
hundred and forty-three million people. If we leave aside ninety million
peasants who prefer benches, boards and earthen seats, and in the east of
the country, shabby carpets and rugs, we still have fifty million people for
whom chairs are objects of prime necessity in their everyday lives. If we
take into account possible errors in calculation and the habit of certain
citizens in the Soviet Union of sitting on the fence, and then halve the
figure just in case, we find that there cannot be less than twenty-six and a
half million chairs in the country. To make the figure truer we will take
off another six and a half million. The twenty million left is the minimum
possible number.
 Amid this sea of chairs made of walnut, oak, ash, rosewood, mahogany
and Karelian birch, amid chairs made of fir and pine-wood, the heroes of
this novel are to find one Hambs walnut chair with curved legs, containing
Madame Petukhov's treasure inside its chintz-upholstered belly.
 The concessionaires lay on the upper berths still asleep as the train
cautiously crossed the Oka river and, increasing its speed, began nearing
Moscow.
 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.
 "Liza, let's go and have dinner!"
 "I don't feel like it. I had dinner yesterday."
 "I don't get you."
 "I'm not going to eat mock rabbit."
 "Oh, don't be silly!"
 "I can't exist on vegetarian sausages."
 "Today you can have apple pie."
 "I just don't feel like it."
 "Not so loud. Everything can be heard."
 The young couple changed voices to a stage whisper.
 Two minutes later Nicky realized for the first time in three months of
married life that his beloved liked sausages of carrots, potatoes, and peas
less than he did.
 "So you prefer dog meat to a vegetarian diet," cried Nicky,
disregarding the eavesdropping neighbours in his burst of anger.
 "Not so loud, I say!" shouted Liza. "And then you're nasty to me! Yes,
I do like meat. At times. What's so bad about that?"
 Nicky said nothing in his amazement. This was an unexpected turn of
events. Meat would make an enormous, unfillable hole in his budget. The
young husband strolled up and down beside the mattress on which the
red-faced Liza was sitting curled up into a ball, and made some desperate
calculations.
 His job of tracing blueprints at the Technopower design office brought
Nicky Kalachov no more than forty roubles, even in the best months. He did
not pay any rent for the apartment for there was no housing authority in
that jungle settlement and rent was an abstract concept. Ten roubles went on
Liza's dressmaking lessons. Dinner for the two of them (one first course of
monastery beet soup and a second course of phoney rabbit or genuine noodles)
consumed in two honestly halved portions in the Thou-Shalt-Not-Steal
vegetarian canteen took thirteen roubles each month from the married
couple's budget. The rest of their money dwindled away heavens knows where.
This disturbed Nicky most of all. "Where does the money go?" he used to
wonder, drawing a thin line with a special pen on sky-blue tracing paper. A
change to meat-eating under these circumstances would mean ruin. That was
why Nicky had spoken so heatedly.
 "Just think of eating the bodies of dead animals. Cannibalism in the
guise of culture. All diseases stern from meat."
 "Of course they do," said Liza with modest irony, "angina, for
instance."
 "Yes, they do-including angina. Don't you believe me? The organism is
weakened by the continual consumption of meat and is unable to resist
infection."
 "How stupid!"
 "It's not stupid. It's the stupid person who tries to stuff his stomach
full without bothering about the quantity of vitamins."
 Nicky suddenly became quiet. An enormous pork chop had loomed up before
his inner eye, driving the insipid, uninteresting baked noodles, porridge
and potato nonsense further and further into the background. It seemed to
have just come out of the pan. It was sizzling, bubbling, and giving off
spicy fumes. The bone stuck out like the barrel of a duelling pistol.
 "Try to understand," said Nicky, "a pork chop reduces a man's life by a
week."
 "Let it," said Liza. "Mock rabbit reduces it by six months. Yesterday
when we were eating that carrot entree I felt I was going to die. Only I
didn't want to tell you."
 "Why didn't you want to tell me?"
 "I hadn't the strength. I was afraid of crying."
 "And aren't you afraid now?"
 "Now I don't care." Liza began sobbing.
 "Leo Tolstoy," said Nicky in a quavering voice, "didn't eat meat
either."
 "No," retorted Liza, hiccupping through her tears, "the count ate
asparagus."
 "Asparagus isn't meat."
 "But when he was writing War and Peace he did eat meat. He did! He did!
And when he was writing Anna Karenina he stuffed himself and stuffed
himself."
 "Do shut up!"
 "Stuffed himself! Stuffed himself!"
 "And I suppose while he was writing The Kreutzer Sonata he also stuffed
himself?" asked Nicky venomously.
 "The Kreutzer Sonata is short. Just imagine him trying to write War and
Peace on vegetarian sausages! "
 "Anyway, why do you keep nagging me about your Tolstoy?"
 "Me nag you about Tolstoy! I like that. Me nag you!"
 There was loud merriment in the pencil boxes. Liza hurriedly pulled a
blue knitted hat on to her head.
 "Where are you going?"
 "Leave me alone. I have something to do."
 And she fled.
 "Where can she have gone?" Nicky wondered. He listened hard.
 "Women like you have a lot of freedom under the Soviet regime," said a
voice in the last pencil box on the left. "She's gone to drown herself,"
decided the third pencil box. The fifth pencil box lit the primus and got
down to the routine kissing. Liza ran from street to street in agitation.
 It was that Sunday hour when lucky people carry mattresses along the
Arbat and from the market.
 Newly-married couples and Soviet farmers are the principal purchasers
of spring mattresses. They carry them upright, clasping them with both arms.
Indeed, how can they help clasping those blue, shiny-flowered foundations of
their happiness!
 Citizens! have respect for a blue-flowered spring mattress. It's a
family hearth. The be-all and the end-all of furnishings and the essence of
domestic comfort; a base for love-making; the father of the primus. How
sweet it is to sleep to the democratic hum of its springs. What marvellous
dreams a man may have when he falls asleep on its blue hessian. How great is
the respect enjoyed by a mattress owner.
 A man without a mattress is pitiful. He does not exist. He does not pay
taxes; he has no wife; friends will not lend him money "until Wednesday";
cab-drivers shout rude words after him and girls laugh at him. They do not
like idealists.
 People without mattresses largely write such verse as:
 It's nice to rest in a rocking-chair
 To the quiet tick of a Bouret clock.
 When snow flakes swirling fill the air
 And the daws pass, like dreams, In a flock.
 They compose the verse at high desks in the post office, delaying the
efficient mattress owners who come to send telegrams.
 A mattress changes a man's life. There is a certain attractive,
unfathomed force hidden in its covering and springs. People and things come
together to the alluring ring of its springs. It summons the income-tax
collector and girls. They both want to be friends with the1 mattress owner.
The tax collector does so for fiscal reasons and for the benefit of the
state, and the girls do so unselfishly, obeying the laws of nature.
 Youth begins to bloom. Having collected his tax like a bumblebee
gathering spring honey, the tax collector flies away with a joyful hum to
his district hive. And the fast-retking girls are replaced by a wife and a
Jewel No. 1 primus.
 A mattress is insatiable. It demands sacrifices. At night it makes the
sound of a bouncing ball. It needs a bookcase. It needs a table with thick
stupid legs. Creaking its springs, it demands drapes, a door curtain, and
pots and pans for the kitchen. It shoves people and says to them:
 "Goon! Buy a washboard and rolling-pin!"
 "I'm ashamed of you, man. You haven't yet got a carpet."
 "Work! I'll soon give you children. You need money for nappies and a
pram."
 A mattress remembers and does everything in its own way.
 Not even a poet can escape the common lot. Here he comes, carrying one
from the market, hugging it to his soft belly with horror.
 "I'll break down your resistance, poet," says the mattress. "You no
longer need to run to the post office to write poetry. And, anyway, is it
worth writing? Work and the balance will always be in your favour. Think
about your wife and children!"
 "I haven't a wife," cries the poet, staggering back from his sprung
teacher.
 "You will have! But I don't guarantee she will be the loveliest girl on
earth. I don't even know whether she will be kind. Be prepared for anything.
You will have children."
 "I don't like children."
 "You will."
 "You frighten me, citizen mattress."
 "Shut up, you fool. You don't know everything. You'll also obtain
credit from the Moscow woodworking factory."
 "I'll kill you, mattress!"
 "Puppy! If you dare to, the neighbours will denounce you to the housing
authority."
 So every Sunday lucky people cruise around Moscow to the joyful sound
of mattresses. But that is not the only thing, of course, which makes a
Moscow Sunday. Sunday is museum day.
 There is a special group of people in Moscow who know nothing about
art, are not interested in architecture, and do not like historical
monuments. These people visit museums solely because they are housed in
splendid buildings. These people stroll through the dazzling rooms, look
enviously at the frescoes, touch the things they are requested not to touch,
and mutter continually:
 "My, how they used to live!"
 They are not concerned with the fact that the murals were painted by
the Frenchman Puvis de Chavannes. They are only concerned with how much they
cost the former owner of the house. They go up staircases with marble
statues on the landings and try to imagine how many footmen used to stand
there, what wages were paid to them, and how much they received in tips.
There is china on the mantelpiece, but they disregard it and decide that a
fireplace is not such a good thing, as it uses up a lot of wood. In the
oak-panelled dining-room they do not examine the wonderful carving. They are
troubled by one thought: what used the former merchant-owner to eat there
and how much would it cost at present prices.
 People like this can be found in any museum. While the conducted tours
are cheerfully moving from one work of art to another, this kind of person
stands in the middle of the room and, looking in front of him, sadly moans:
 "My, how they used to live!"
 Liza ran along the street, stifling her tears. Her thoughts spurred her
on. She was thinking about her poor, unhappy life.
 "If we just had a table and two more chairs, it would be fine. And
we'll have a primus in the long run. We must get organized."
 She slowed down, suddenly remembering her quarrel with Nicky.
Furthermore, she felt hungry. Hatred for her husband suddenly welled up in
her.
 "It's simply disgraceful," she said aloud.
 She felt even more hungry.
 "Very well, then, I know what I'll do."
 And Liz blushingly bought a slice of bread and sausage from a vendor.
Hungry as she was, it was awkward eating in the street. She was, after all,
a mattress-owner and understood the subtleties of life. Looking around, she
turned into the entrance to a large two-storeyed house. Inside, she attacked
the slice of bread and sausage with great avidity. The sausage was
delicious. A large group of tourists entered the doorway. They looked at
Liza by the wall as they passed.
 Let them look! decided the infuriated girl.
 Liza wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and brushed the crumbs off her
blouse. She felt happier. She was standing in front of a notice that read:
 To return home would be awkward. She had no one she could go and see.
There were twenty kopeks in her pocket. So Liza decided to begin her life of
independence with a visit to the museum. Checking her cash in hand, she went
into the lobby.
 Inside she immediately bumped into a man with a shabby beard who was
staring at a malachite column with a grieved expression and muttering
through his moustache:
 "People certainly lived well!"
 Liza looked respectfully at the column and went upstairs.
 For ten minutes or so she sauntered through small square rooms with
ceilings so low that people entering them looked like giants.
 The rooms were furnished in the style of the period of Emperor Paul
with mahogany and Karelian birch furniture that was austere, magnificent,
and militant. Two square dressers, the doors of which were crisscrossed with
spears, stood opposite a writing desk. The desk was vast. Sitting at it
would have been like sitting at the Theatre Square with the Bolshoi Theatre
with its colonnade and four bronze horses drawing Apollo to the first night
of "The Red Poppy" as an inkwell. At least, that is how it seemed to Liza,
who was being reared on carrots like a rabbit. There were high-backed chairs
in the corners of the room with tops twisted to resemble the horns of a ram.
The sunshine lay on their peach-coloured covers.
 The chairs looked very inviting, but it was forbidden to sit on them.
 Liza made a mental comparison to see how a priceless Empire chair would
look beside her red-striped mattress. The result was not too bad. She read
the plate on the wall which gave a scientific and ideological justification
of the period, and, regretting that she and Nicky did not have a room in
this palatial building, went out, unexpectedly finding herself in a
corridor.
 Along the left-hand-side, at floor level, was a line of semicircular
windows. Through them Liza could see below her a huge columned hall with two
rows of large windows. The hall was also full of furniture, and visitors
strolled about inspecting it. Liza stood still. Never before had she seen a
room under her feet.
 Marvelling and thrilling at the sight, she stood for some time gazing
downward. Suddenly she noticed the friends she had made that day, Bender and
his travelling companion, the distinguished-looking old man with the shaven
head; they were moving from the chairs towards the desks.
 "Good," said Liza. "Now I won't be so bored."
 She brightened up considerably, ran downstairs, and immediately lost
her way. She came to a red drawing-room in which there were about forty
pieces of furniture. It was walnut furniture with curved legs. There was no
exit from the drawing-room, so she had to run back through a circular room
with windows at the top, apparently furnished with nothing but flowered
cushions.
 She hurried past Renaissance brocade chairs, Dutch dressers, a large
Gothic bed with a canopy resting on four twisted columns. In a bed like that
a person would have looked no larger than a nut.
 At length Liza heard the drone of a batch of tourists as they listened
inattentively to the guide unmasking the imperialistic designs of Catherine
II in connection with the deceased empress's love of Louis Quinze furniture.
 This was in fact the large columned hall with the two rows of large
windows. Liza made towards the far end, where her acquaintance, Comrade
Bender, was talking heatedly to his shaven-headed companion.
 As she approached, she could hear a sonorous voice saying:
 "The furniture is chic moderne, but not apparently what we want."
 "No, but there are other rooms as well. We must examine everything
systematically."
 "Hello!" said Liza.
 They both turned around and immediately frowned.
 "Hello, Comrade Bender. I'm glad I've found you. It's boring by myself.
Let's look at everything together."
 The concessionaires exchanged glances. Ippolit Matveyevich assumed a
dignified air, although the idea that Liza might delay their important
search for the chair with the jewels was not a pleasant one.
 "We are typical provincials," said Bender impatiently. "But how did you
get here, Miss Moscow?"
 "Quite by accident. I had a row with Nicky."
 "Really?" Ippolit Matveyevich observed.
 "Well, let's leave this room," said Ostap.
 "But I haven't looked at it yet. It's so nice."
 "That's done it!" Ostap whispered to Vorobyaninov. And, turning to
Liza, he added: "There's absolutely nothing to see here. The style is
decadent. The Kerensky period."
 "I'm told there's some Hambs furniture somewhere here," Ippolit
Matveyevich declared. "Maybe we should see that."
 Liza agreed and, taking Vorobyaninov's arm (she thought him a
remarkably nice representative of science), went towards the exit. Despite
the seriousness of the situation, at this decisive moment in the treasure
hunt, Bender laughed good-humouredly as he walked behind the couple. He was
amused at the chief of the Comanche in the role of a cavalier.
 Liza was a great hindrance to the concessionaires. Whereas they could
determine at a glance whether or not the room contained the furniture they
were after, and if not, automatically make for the next, Liza browsed at
length in each section. She read all the printed tags, made cutting remarks
about the other visitors, and dallied at each exhibit. Completely without
realizing it, she was mentally adapting all the furniture she saw to her own
room and requirements. She did not like the Gothic bed at all. It was too
big. Even if Nicky in some miraculous way acquired a room six yards square,
the mediaeval couch would still not fit into it. Liza walked round and round
the bed, measuring its true area in paces. She was very happy. She did not
notice the sour faces of her companions, whose chivalrous natures prevented
them from heading for the Hambs room at full pelt.
 "Let's be patient," Ostap whispered. "The furniture won't run away. And
don't squeeze the girl, Marshal, I'm jealous!" Vorobyaninov laughed smugly.
 The rooms went on and on. There was no end to them. The furniture of
the Alexander period was displayed in batches. Its relatively small size
delighted Liza.
 "Look, look!" she cried, seizing Ippolit Matveyevich by the sleeve.
"You see that bureau? That would suit our room wonderfully, wouldn't it?"
 "Charming furniture," said Ostap testily. "But decadent." "I've been in
here already," said Liza as she entered the red drawing-room. "I don't think
it's worth stopping here."
 To her astonishment, the indifferent companions were standing
stock-still by the door like sentries.
 "Why have you stopped? Let's go on. I'm tired."
 "Wait," said Ippolit Matveyevich, freeing his arm. "One moment."
 The large room was crammed with furniture. Hambs chairs were arranged
along the wall and around a table. The couch in the corner was also
encircled by chairs. Their curved legs and comfortable backs were excitingly
familiar to Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap looked at him questioningly.
Vorobyaninov was flushed.
 "You're tired, young lady," he said to Liza. "Sit down here a moment to
rest while he and I walk around a bit. This seems to be an interesting
room."
 They sat Liza down. Then the concessionaires went over to the window.
 "Are they the ones?" Ostap asked.
 "It looks like it. I must have a closer look."
 "Are they all here?"
 "I'll just count them. Wait a moment." Vorobyaninov began shifting his
eyes from one chair to another. "Just a second," he said at length. "Twenty
chairs! That can't be right. There are only supposed to be twelve."
 "Take a good look. They may not be the right ones."
 They began walking among the chairs.
 "Well?" Ostap asked impatiently.
 "The back doesn't seem to be the same as in mine."
 "So they aren't the ones?"
 "No, they're not."
 "What a waste of time it was taking up with you!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich was completely crushed.
 "All right," said Ostap, "the hearing is continued. A chair isn't a
needle in a haystack. We'll find it. Give me the orders. We will have to
establish unpleasant contact with the museum curators. Sit down beside the
girl and wait. I'll be back soon."
 "Why are you so depressed?" asked Liza, "Are you tired?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich tried not to answer.
 "Does your head ache?"
 "Yes, slightly. I have worries, you know. Lack of a woman's affection
has an effect on one's tenor of life."
 Liza was at first surprised, and then, looking at her bald-headed
companion, felt truly sorry for him. Vorobyaninov's eyes were full of
suffering. His pince-nez could not hide the sharply outlined bags underneath
them. The rapid change from the quiet life of a clerk in a district registry
office to the uncomfortable, irksome existence of a diamond hunter and
adventurer had left its mark. Ippolit Matveyevich had become extremely thin
and his liver had started paining him. Under the strict supervision of
Bender he was losing his own personality and rapidly being absorbed by the
powerful intellect of the son of a Turkish citizen. Now that he was left
alone for a minute with the charming Liza, he felt an urge to tell her about
his trials and tribulations, but did not dare to do so.
 "Yes," he said, gazing tenderly at his companion, "that's how it is.
How are you, Elizabeth. . ."
 "Petrovna. And what's your name?"
 They exchanged names and patronymics. "A tale of true love," thought
Ippolit Matveyevich, peering into Liza's simple face. So passionately and so
irresistibly did the old marshal want a woman's affection that he
immediately seized Liza's tiny hand in his own wrinkled hands and began
talking enthusiastically of Paris. He wanted to be rich, extravagant and
irresistible. He wanted to captivate a beauty from the all-women orchestra
and drink champagne with her in a private dining-room to the sound of music.
What was the use of talking to a girl who knew absolutely nothing about
women's orchestras or wine, and who by nature would not appreciate the
delights of that kind of life? But he so much wanted to be attractive!
Ippolit Matveyevich enchanted Liza with his account of Paris. "Are you a
scientist?" asked Liza.
 "Yes, to a certain extent,", replied Ippolit Matveyevich, feeling that
since first meeting Bender he had regained some of the nerve that he had
lost in recent years.
 "And how old are you, if it's not an indiscreet question?"
 "That has nothing to do with the science which I am at present
representing."
 Liza was squashed by the prompt and apt reply. "But, anyway-thirty,
forty, fifty?"
 "Almost. Thirty-seven."
 "Oh! You look much younger."
 Ippolit Matveyevich felt happy. "When will you give me the pleasure of
seeing you again? " he asked through his nose.
 Liza was very ashamed. She wriggled about on her seat and felt
miserable. "Where has Comrade Bender got to?" she asked in a thin voice.
 "So when, then?" asked Vorobyaninov impatiently. "When and where shall
we meet?"
 "Well, I don't know. Whenever you like."
 "Is today all right?"
 "Today?"
 "Please!"
 "Well, all right. Today, if you like. Come and see us."
 "No, let's meet outside. The weather's so wonderful at present. Do you
know the poem 'It's mischievous May, it's magical May, who is waving his fan
of freshness'?"
 "Is that Zharov?"
 "Mmm . . . I think so. Today, then? And where?"
 "How strange you are. Anywhere you like. By the cabinet if you want. Do
you know it? As soon as it's dark."
 Hardly had Ippolit Matveyevich time to kiss Liza's hand, which he did
solemnly and in three instalments, when Ostap returned. He was very
businesslike.
 "I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he said quickly, "but my friend and I cannot
see you home. A small but important matter has arisen. We have to go
somewhere urgently."
 Ippolit Matveyevich caught his breath. "Good-bye, Elizabeth Petrovna,"
he said hastily. "I'm very, very sorry, but we're in a terrible hurry."
 The partners ran off, leaving the astonished Liza in the room so
abundantly furnished with Hambs chairs.
 "If it weren't for me," said Ostap as they went downstairs, "not a damn
thing would get done. Take your hat off to me! Go on! Don't be afraid! Your
head won't fall off! Listen! The museum has no use for your furniture. The
right place for it is not a museum, but the barracks of a punishment
battalion. Are you satisfied with the situation?"
 "What nerve!" exclaimed Vorobyaninov, who had begun to free himself
from the other's powerful intellect.
 "Silence!" said Ostap coldly. "You don't know what's happening. If we
don't get hold of your furniture, everything's lost. We'll never see it. I
have just had a depressing conversation with the curator of this historical
refuse-dump."
 "Well, and what did he say," cried Ippolit Matveyevich, "this curator
of yours? "
 "He said all he needed to. Don't worry. Tell me,' I said to him, 'how
do you explain the fact that the furniture requisitioned in Stargorod and
sent to your museum isn't here?" I asked him politely, of course, as a
comrade. 'Which furniture?' he asks. 'Such things do not occur in my
museum.' I immediately shoved the orders under his nose. He began rummaging
in the files. He searched for about half an hour and finally came back.
Well, guess what happened to the furniture!" "Not lost? " squeaked
Vorobyaninov.
 "No, just imagine! Just imagine, it remained safe and sound through all
the confusion. As I told you, it has no museum value. It was dumped in a
storehouse and only yesterday, mind you, only yesterday, after seven
years-it had been in the storehouse seven years-it was sent to be auctioned.
The auction is being held by the chief scientific administration. And
provided no one bought it either yesterday or this morning, it's ours."
"Quick!" Ippolit Matveyevich shouted. "Taxi! "Ostap yelled.
 They got in without even arguing about the price. "Take your hat off to
me! Don't be afraid, Hofmarshal! Wine, women and cards will be provided.
Then we'll settle for the light-blue waistcoat as well."
 As friskily as foals, the concessionaires tripped into the Petrovka
arcade where the auction rooms were located.
 In the first auction room they caught sight of what they had long been
chasing. All ten chairs were lined along the wall. The upholstery had not
even become darker, nor had it faded or been in any way spoiled. The chairs
were as fresh and clean as when they had first been removed from the
supervision of the zealous Claudia Ivanovna. "Are those the ones?" asked
Ostap.
 "My God, my God," Vorobyaninov kept repeating. "They're the ones. The
very ones. There's no doubt this time."
 "Let's make certain, just in case," said Ostap, trying to remain calm.
 They went up to an auctioneer.
 "These chairs are from the furniture museum, aren't they? "
 "These? Yes, they are."
 "And they're for sale?"
 "Yes."
 "At what price?"
 "No price yet. They're up for auction."
 "Aha! Today?"
 "No. The auction has finished for today. Tomorrow at five."
 "And they're not for sale at the moment? "
 "No. Tomorrow at five."
 They could not leave the chairs at once, just like that.
 "Do you mind if we have a look at them?" Ippolit Matveyevich stammered.
 The concessionaires examined the chairs at great length, sat on them,
and, for the sake of appearances, looked at the other lots. Vorobyaninov was
breathing hard and kept nudging Ostap.
 "Take your hat off to me, Marshal!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich was not only prepared to take his hat off to Ostap;
he was even ready to kiss the soles of his crimson boots.
 "Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow," he kept saying.
 He felt an urge to sing.
 While the friends were leading a cultured and edifying way of life,
visiting museums and making passes at girls, the double-widow Gritsatsuyev,
a fat and feeble woman, was consulting and conspiring with her neighbours in
Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.
 They examined the note left by Bender in groups, and even held it up to
the light. But it had no watermark, and even if it had, the mysterious
squiggles of the splendid Ostap would not have been any clearer.
 Three days passed. The horizon remained clear. Neither Bender, the tea
strainer, the imitation-gold bracelet, nor the chair returned. These animate
and inanimate objects had all disappeared in the most puzzling way.
 The widow then decided to take drastic measures. She went to the office
of the Stargorod Truth, where they briskly concocted for her the following
notice:
 MISSING FROM HOME. I implore anyone knowing the whereabouts of Com.
Bender to inform me. Aged 25-30, brown hair, last seen dressed in a green
suit, yellow boots and a blue waistcoat. Information on the above person
will be adequately rewarded. Gritsatsuyev, 15 Plekhanov St.
 "Is he your son?" they asked sympathetically in the office.
 "Husband!" replied the martyr, covering her face with a handkerchief.
 "Your husband!"
 "Why not? He's legal."
 "Nothing. You ought really to go to the militia."
 The widow was alarmed. She was terrified of the militia. She left,
accompanied by curious glances.
 Three times did the columns of the Stargorod Truth send out their
summons, but the great land was silent. No one came forward who knew the
whereabouts of a brown-haired man in yellow boots. No one came forward to
collect the adequate reward. The neighbours continued to gossip.
 People became used to the Stargorod tramway and rode on it without
trepidation. The conductors shouted "Full up" in fresh voices and everything
proceeded as though the trams had been going since the time of St. Vladimir
the Red Sun. Disabled persons of all categories, women and children and
Victor Polesov sat at the front of the cars. To the cry of "Fares please"
Polesov used to answer "Season" and remain next to the driver. He did not
have a season ticket, nor could he have had one.
 The sojourn of Vorobyaninov and the smooth operator left a deep imprint
on the town.
 The conspirators carefully kept the secret entrusted to them. Even
Polesov kept it, despite the fact that he was dying to blurt out the
exciting secret to the first person he met. But then, remembering Ostap's
powerful shoulders, he stood firm. He only poured out his heart in
conversations with the fortune-teller.
 "What do you think, Elena Stanislavovna?" he would ask. "How do you
explain the absence of our leaders? "
 Elena Stanislavovna was also very intrigued, but she had no
information.
 "Don't you think, Elena Stanislavovna," continued the indefatigable
mechanic, "that they're on a special mission at present?"
 The fortune-teller was convinced that this was the case. Their opinion
was apparently shared by the parrot in the red underpants as well. It looked
at Polesov with a round, knowing eye as if to say: "Give me some seeds and
I'll tell you all about it. You'll be governor, Victor. All the mechanics
will be in your charge. And the yard-keeper from no. 5 will remain as
before- a conceited bum."
 "Don't you think we ought to carry on without them, Elena
Stanislavovna? Whatever happens, we can't sit around doing nothing."
 The fortune-teller agreed and remarked: "He's a hero, our Ippolit
Matveyevich."
 "He is a hero, Elena Stanislavovna, that's clear. But what about the
officer with him? A go-getting fellow. Say what you like, Elena
Stanislavovna, but things can't go on like this. They definitely can't."
 And Polesov began to act. He made regular visits to all the members of
the secret society "Sword and Ploughshare", pestering Kislarsky, the canny
owner of the Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun artel, in particular. At
the sight of Polesov, Kislarsky's face darkened. And his talk of the need to
act drove the timid bun-maker to distraction.
 Towards the week-end they all met at Elena Stanislavovna's in the room
with the parrot. Polesov was bursting with energy.
 "Stop blathering, Victor," said the clear-thinking Dyadyev. "What have
you been careering round the town for days on end for?"
 "We must act!" cried Polesov.
 "Act yes, but certainly not shout. This is how I see the situation,
gentlemen. Once Ippolit Matveyevich has spoken, his words are sacred. And we
must assume we haven't long to wait. How it will all take place, we don't
need to know; there are military people to take care of that. We are the
civilian contingent- representatives of the town intelligentsia and
merchants. What's important for us? To be ready. Do we have anything? Do we
have a centre? No. Who will be governor of the town? There's no one. But
that's the main thing, gentlemen. I don't think the British will stand on
ceremony with the Bolsheviks. That's our first sign. It will all change very
rapidly, gentlemen, I assure you."
 "Well, we don't doubt that in the least," said Charushnikov, puffing
out his cheeks.
 "And a very good thing you don't. What do you think, Mr. Kislarsky? And
you, young men?"
 Nikesha and Vladya both looked absolutely certain of a rapid change,
while Kislarsky happily nodded assent, having gathered from what the head of
Fastpack had said that he would not be required to participate directly in
any armed clashes. "What are we to do?" asked Polesov impatiently. "Wait,"
said Dyadyev. "Follow the example of Mr. Vorobyaninov's companion. How
smart! How shrewd! Did you notice how quickly he got around to assistance to
waifs and strays? That's how we should all act. We're only helping the
children. So, gentlemen, let's nominate our candidates."
 "We propose Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov as marshal of the
nobility," exclaimed the young Nikesha and Vladya.
 Charushnikov coughed condescendingly. "What do you mean! Nothing less
than a minister for him. Higher, if you like. Make him a dictator."
 "Come, come, gentlemen," said Dyadyev, "a marshal is the last thing to
think about. We need a governor. I think. . ."
 "You, Mr. Dyadyev," cried Polesov ecstatically. "Who else is there to
take the reins in our province."
 "I am most flattered by your confidence .. ." Dyadyev began, but at
this point Charushnikov, who had suddenly turned pink, began to speak.
 "The question, gentlemen," he said in a strained voice, "ought to have
been aired."
 He tried not to look at Dyadyev.
 The owner of Fastpack also looked at his boots, which had wood shavings
sticking to them.
 "I don't object," he said. "Let's put it to the vote. Secret ballot or
a show of hands? "
 "We don't need to do it in the Soviet style," said Charushnikov in a
hurt voice. "Let's vote in an honest European way, by secret ballot."
 They voted on pieces of paper. Dyadyev received four votes and
Charushnikov two. Someone had abstained. It was clear from Kislarsky's face
that he was the one. He did not wish to spoil his relations with the future
governor, whoever he might be.
 When Polesov excitedly announced the results of the-honest European
ballot, there was silence in the room. They tried not to look at
Charushnikov. The unsuccessful candidate for governor sat in humiliation.
 Elena Stanislavovna felt very sorry for him, as she had voted in his
favour. Charushnikov obtained his second vote by voting for himself; he was,
after all, well versed in electoral procedure.
 "Anyway, I propose Monsieur Charushnikov as mayor," said the kindly
Elena Stanislavovna immediately.
 "Why 'anyway'?" asked the magnanimous governor. "Not anyway, but him
and no one else. Mr. Charushnikov's public activity is well known to us
all."
 "Hear, hear I" they all cried.
 "Then we can consider the election accepted?"
 The humiliated Charushnikov livened up and even tried to protest. "No,
no, gentlemen, I request a vote. It's even more necessary to vote for a
mayor than for a governor. If you wish to show me your confidence,
gentlemen, I ask you to hold a ballot." Pieces of paper poured into the
empty sugar-bowl. "Six votes in favour and one abstention."
"Congratulations, Mr. Mayor," said Kislarsky, whose face gave away that he
had abstained this time, too. "Congratulations !'
 Charushnikov swelled with pride.
 "And now it only remains to take some refreshment, Your Excellency," he
said to Dyadyev. "Polesov, nip down to the October beer-hall. Do you have
any money?"
 Polesov made a mysterious gesture with his hand and ran off. The
elections were temporarily adjourned and resumed after supper.
 As ward of the educational region they appointed Raspopov, former
headmaster of a private school, and now a second-hand book dealer. He was
greatly praised. R was only Vladya who protested suddenly, after his third
glass of vodka.
 "We mustn't elect him. He gave me bad marks in logic at the
school-leaving exams." They all went for Vladya.
 "At such a decisive hour, you must not think of your own good. Think of
the fatherland."
 They brainwashed Vladya so quickly that he even voted in favour of his
tormentor. Raspopov was elected by six votes with one abstention.
 Kislarsky was offered the post of chairman of the stock-exchange
committee. He did not object, but abstained during the voting just in case.
 Drawing from among friends and relations, they elected a chief of
police, a head of the assay office, and a customs and excise inspector; they
filled the vacancies of regional public prosecutor, judge, clerk of the
court, and other law court officials; they appointed chairmen for the
Zemstvo and merchants' council, the children's welfare committee, and,
finally, the shop-owners' council. Elena Stanislavovna was elected ward of
the Drop-of-Milk and White-Flower societies. On account of their youth,
Nikesha and Vladya were appointed special-duty clerks attached to the
governor.
 "Wait a minute," exclaimed Charushnikov suddenly. "The governor has two
clerks, and what about me?" "A mayor is not entitled to special-duty
clerks." "Then give me a secretary."
 Dyadyev consented. Elena Stanislavovna also had something to say.
 "Would it be possible," she said, faltering, "I know a young man, a
nice and well-brought-up boy. Madame Cherkesov's son. He's a very, very nice
and clever boy. He hasn't a job at present and has to keep going to the
employment office. He's even a trade-union member. They promised to find
work for him in the union. Couldn't you take him? His mother would be very
grateful."
 "It might be possible," said Charushnikov graciously. "What do you
think, gentlemen? All right. I think that could be arranged."
 "Right, then-that seems to be about all," Dyadyev observed.
 "What about me?" a high-pitched, nervous voice suddenly said.
 They all turned around. A very upset Victor Polesov was standing in the
corner next to the parrot. Tears were bubbling on his black eyelids. The
guests all felt very ashamed, remembering that they had been drinking
Polesov's vodka and that he was basically one of the organizers of the
Stargorod branch of the Sword and Ploughshare.
 Elena Stanislavovna seized her head and gave a horrified screech.
 "Victor Mikhailovich!" they all gasped. "Pal! Shame on you! What are
you doing in the corner? Come out at once."
 Polesov came near. He was suffering. He had not expected such
callousness from his fellow-members of the Sword and Ploughshare.
 Elena Stanislavovna was unable to restrain herself. "Gentlemen," she
said, "this is awful. How could you forget Victor Mikhailovich, so dear to
us all?" She got up and kissed the mechanic-aristocrat on his sooty
forehead. "Surely Victor Mikhailovich is worthy of being a ward or a police
chief."
 "Well, Victor Mikhailovich," asked the governor, "do you want to be a
ward?"
 "Well of course, he would make a splendid, humane ward," put in the
mayor, swallowing a mushroom and frowning.
 "But what about Raspopov? You've already nominated Raspopov."
 "Yes, indeed, what shall we do with Raspopov?"
 "Make him a fire chief, eh?"
 "A fire chief!" exclaimed Polesov, suddenly becoming excited.
 A vision of fire-engines, the glare of lights, the sound of the siren
and the drumming of hoofs suddenly flashed through his mind. Axes glimmered,
torches wavered, the ground heaved, and black dragons carried him to a fire
at the town theatre.
 "A fire chief! I want to be a fire chief!"
 "Well, that's fine. Congratulations! You're now the fire chief."
 "Let's drink to the prosperity of the fire brigade," said the chairman
of the stock-exchange committee sarcastically.
 They all went for him.
 "You were always left-wing! We know you!"
 "What do you mean, gentlemen, left-wing?"
 "We know, we know I"
 "Left-wing!"
 "All Jews are left-wing I"
 "Honestly, gentlemen, I don't understand such jokes."
 "You're left-wing, don't try to hide it!"
 "He dreams about Milyukov at night."
 "Cadet! You're a Cadet."
 "The Cadets sold Finland," cried Charushnikov suddenly.
 "And took money from the Japanese. They split the Armenians."
 Kislarsky could not endure the stream of groundless accusations. Pale,
his eyes blazing, the chairman of the stock-exchange committee grasped hold
of his chair and said in a ringing voice:
 "I was always a supporter of the Tsar's October manifesto and still
am."
 They began to sort out who belonged to which party.
 "Democracy above all, gentlemen," said Charushnikov. "Our town
government must be democratic."
 "But without Cadets! They did the dirty on us in 1917."
 "I hope,' said the governor acidly, "that there aren't any so-called
Social Democrats among us."
 There was nobody present more left-wing than the Octobrists,
represented at the meeting by Kislarsky. Charushnikov declared himself to be
the "centre". The extreme right-wing was the fire chief. He was so
right-wing that he did not know which party he belonged to.
 They talked about war.
 "Any day now," said Dyadyev.
 "There'll be a war, yes, there will."
 "I advise stocking up with a few things before it's too late."
 "Do you think so?" asked Kislarsky in alarm.
 "Well, what do you think? Do you suppose you can get anything in
wartime? Flour would disappear from the market right away. Silver coins will
vanish completely. There'll be all sorts of paper currency, and stamps will
have the same value as banknotes, and all that sort of thing."
 "War, that's for sure."
 "You may think differently, but I'm spending all my spare cash on
buying up essential commodities," said Dyadyev.
 "And what about your textile business? "
 "Textiles can look out for themselves, but the flour and sugar are
important."
 "That's what I advise you. I urge you, even."
 Polesov laughed derisively. "How can the Bolsheviks fight? What with?
What will they fight with? Old-fashioned rifles. And the Air Force? A
prominent communist told me that they only have . . . well, how many planes
do you think they have?"
 "About two hundred."
 "Two hundred? Not two hundred, but thirty-two. And France has eighty
thousand fighters."
 It was past midnight when they all went home.
 "Yes, indeed. They've got the Bolsheviks worried."
 The governor took the mayor home. They both walked with an
exaggeratedly even pace.
 "Governor!" Charushnikov was saying. "How can you be a governor when
you aren't even a general!"
 "I shall be a civilian governor. Why, are you jealous? I'll jail you
whenever I want. You'll have your fill of jail from me."
 "You can't jail me. I've been elected and entrusted with authority."
 "They prefer elected people in jail."
 "Kindly don't try to be funny," shouted Charushnikov for all the
streets to hear.
 "What are you shouting for, you fool?" said the governor. "Do you want
to spend the night in the police station?"
 "I can't spend the night in the police station," retorted the mayor.
"I'm a government employee."
 A star twinkled. The night was enchanting. The argument between the
governor and the mayor continued down Second Soviet Street.
 Wait a minute now, where is Father Theodore? Where is the shorn priest
from the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence? Was he not about to go to see
citizen Bruns at 34 Vineyard Street? Where is that treasure-seeker in
angel's clothing and sworn enemy of Ippolit Vorobyaninov, at present cooling
his heels in the dark corridor by the safe.
 Gone is Father Theodore. He has been spirited away. They say he was
seen at Popasnaya station on the Donets railway, hurrying along the platform
with a teapot full of hot water.
 Greedy is Father Theodore. He wants to be rich. He is chasing round
Russia in search of the furniture belonging to General Popov's wife, which
does not contain a darn thing, to tell the truth.
 He is on his way through Russia. And all he does is write letters to
his wife:
 Letter -from Father Theodore
 written from Kharkov Station to his wife
 in the district centre of N.
 My Darling Catherine Alexandrovna,
 I owe you an apology. I have left you alone, poor thing, at a time like
this. I must tell you everything. You will understand and, I hope, agree.
 It was not, of course, to join the new church movement that I went. I
had no intention of doing so, God forbid!
 Now read this carefully. We shall soon begin to live differently. You
remember I told you about the candle factory. It will be ours, and perhaps
one or two other things as well. And you won't have to cook your own meals
or have boarders any more. We'll go to Samara and hire servants.
 I'm on to something, but you must keep it absolutely secret: don't even
tell Marya Ivanovna. I'm looking for treasure. Do you remember the deceased
Claudia Ivanovna, Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law? Just before her death,
Claudia Ivanovna disclosed to me that her jewels were hidden in one of the
drawing-room chairs (there are twelve of them) at her house in Stargorod,
 Don't think, Katey, that I'm just a common thief. She bequeathed them
to me and instructed me not to let Ippolit Matveyevich, her lifelong
tormentor, get them. That's why I left so suddenly, you poor thing.
 Don't condemn me.
 I went to Stargorod, and what do you think-that old woman-chaser turned
up as well. He had found out. He must have tortured the old woman before she
died. Horrible man! And there was some criminal travelling with him: he had
hired himself a thug. They fell upon me and tried to get rid of me. But I'm
not one to be trifled with: I didn't give in.
 At first I went off on a false track. I only found one chair in
Vorobyaninov's house (it's now a home for pensioners); I was carrying the
chair to my room in the Sorbonne Hotel when suddenly a man came around the
corner roaring like a lion and rushed at me, seizing the chair. We almost
had a fight. He wanted to shame me. Then I looked closely and who was it but
Vorobyaninov. Just imagine, he had cut off his moustache and shaved his
head, the crook. Shameful at his age.
 We broke open the chair, but there was nothing there. It was not until
later that I realized I was on the wrong track. But at that moment I was
very distressed.
 I felt outraged and I told that old libertine the truth to his face.
 What a disgrace, I said, at your age. What mad things are going on in
Russia nowadays when a marshal of the nobility pounces on a minister of the
church like a lion and rebukes him for not being in the Communist Party.
You're a low fellow, I said, you tormented Claudia Ivanovna and you want
someone else's property-which is now state-owned and no longer his.
 He was ashamed and went away-to the brothel, I imagine.
 So I went back to my room in the Sorbonne and started to make plans. I
thought of something that bald-headed fool would never have dreamed of. I
decided to find the person who had distributed the requisitioned furniture.
So you see, Katey, I did well to study law at college: it has served me
well. I found the person in question the next day. Bartholomeich, a very
decent old man. He lives quietly with his grandmother and works hard to earn
his living. He gave me all the documents. It's true I had to reward him for
the service. I'm now out of money (I'll come to that). It turned out that
all twelve chairs from Vorobyaninov's house went to engineer Bruns at 34
Vineyard Street. Note that all the chairs went to one person, which I had
not expected (I was afraid the chairs might have gone to different places).
I was very pleased at this. Then I met that wretch Vorobyaninov in the
Sorbonne again. I gave him a good talking to and didn't spare his friend,
the thug, either. I was very afraid they might find out my secret, so I hid
in the hotel until they left.
 Bruns turned out to have moved from Stargorod to Kharkov in 1922 to
take up an appointment. I learned from the caretaker that he had taken all
his furniture and was looking after it very carefully. He's said to be a
shrewd person.
 I'm now sitting in the station at Kharkov and writing for this reason:
first, I love you very much and keep thinking of you, and, second, Bruns is
no longer here. But don't despair. Bruns is now working in Rostov at the
New-Ros-Cement plant. I have just enough money for the fare. I'm leaving in
an hour's time on a mixed passenger-goods train. Please stop by your
brother-in-law's, my sweet, and get fifty roubles from him (he owes it to me
and promised to pay) and send it to: Theodore Ivanovich Vostrikov, Central
Post Office, Rostov, to await collection. Send a money order by post to
economize. It will cost thirty kopeks.
 What's the news in the town?
 Has Kondratyevna been to see you? Tell Father Cyril that I'll be back
soon and that I've gone to see my dying aunt in Voronezh. Be economical. Is
Evstigneyev still having meals? Give him my regards. Say I've gone to my
aunt.
 How's the weather? It's already summer here in Kharkov. A noisy city,
the centre of the Ukrainian Republic. After the provinces it's like being
abroad.
 Please do the following:
 (1) Send my summer cassock to the cleaner (it's better to spend Rs. 3
on cleaning than waste money on buying a new one); (2) look after yourself;
and (3) when you write to Gulka, mention casually that I've gone to Voronezh
to see my aunt.
 Give everyone my regards. Say I'll be back soon.
 With tender kisses and blessings, Your husband,
 Theo.
 P.S. Where can Vorobyaninov be roving about at the moment?
 Love dries a man up. The bull lows with desire. The rooster cannot keep
still. The marshal of the nobility loses his appetite.
 Leaving Ostap and the student Ivanopulo in a bar, Ippolit Matveyevich
made his way to the little pink house and took up his stand by the cabinet.
He could hear the sound of trains leaving for Castille and the splash of
departing steamers.
 As in far-off Alpujarras
 The golden mountains fade
 His heart was fluttering like a pendulum. There was a ticking in his
ears.
 And guitars strum out their summons
 Come forth, my pretty maid.
 Uneasiness spread along the corridor. Nothing could thaw the cold of
the cabinet.
 From Seville to Granada
 Through the stillness of the night-
 Gramophones droned in the pencil boxes. Primuses hummed like bees.
 Comes the sound of serenading
 Comes the ring of swords in fight.
 In short, Ippolit Matveyevich was head over heels in love with Liza
Kalachov.
 Many people passed Ippolit Matveyevich in the corridor, but they all
smelled of either tobacco, vodka, disinfectant, or stale soup. In the
obscurity of the corridor it was possible to distinguish people only by
their smell or the heaviness of their tread. Liza had not come by. Ippolit
Matveyevich was sure of that. She did not smoke, drink vodka, or wear boots
with iron studs. She could not have smelled of iodine or cod's-head. She
could only exude the tender fragrance of rice pudding or tastily prepared
hay, on which Mrs. Nordman-Severov fed the famous painter Repin for such a
long time.
 And then he heard light, uncertain footsteps. Someone was coming down
the corridor, bumping into its elastic walls and murmuring sweetly.
 "Is that you, Elizabeth Petrovna? " asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Can you tell me where the Pfefferkorns live?" a deep voice replied. "I
can't see a damn thing in the dark!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing in his alarm. The Pfefferkorn-seeker
waited for an answer but, not getting one, moved on, puzzled.
 It was nine o'clock before Liza came. They went out into the street
under a caramel-green evening sky.
 "Where shall we go?" asked Liza.
 Ippolit Matveyevich looked at her pale, shining face and, instead of
saying "I am here, Inezilla, beneath thy window," began to talk
long-windedly and tediously about the fact that he had not been in Moscow
for a long time and that Paris was infinitely better than the Russian
capital, which was always a large, badly planned village, whichever way you
turned it.
 "This isn't the Moscow I remember, Elizabeth Petrovna. Now there's a
stinginess everywhere. In my day we spent money like water. 'We only live
once.' There's a song called that."
 They walked the length of Prechistenka Boulevard and came out on to the
embankment by the Church of Christ the Saviour.
 A line of black-brown fox tails stretched along the far side of
Moskvoretsk Bridge. The power stations were smoking like a squadron of
ships. Trams rattled across the bridge and boats moved up and down the
river. An accordion was sadly telling its tale.
 Taking hold of Ippolit Matveyevich's hand, Liza told him about her
troubles: the quarrel with her husband, the difficulty of living with
eavesdropping neighbours, the ex-chemists, and the monotony of a vegetarian
diet.
 Ippolit Matveyevich listened and began thinking. Devils were aroused in
him. He visualized a wonderful supper. He decided he must in some way or
other make an overwhelming impression on the girl.
 "Let's go to the theatre," he suggested.
 "The cinema would be better," said Liza, "it's cheaper."
 "Why think of money? A night like this and you worry about the cost!"
 The devils in him threw prudence to the wind, set the couple in a cab,
without haggling about the fare, and took them to the Ars cinema. Ippolit
Matveyevich was splendid. He bought the most expensive seats. They did not
wait for the show to finish, however. Liza was used to cheaper seats nearer
the screen and could not see so well from the thirty-fourth row.
 In his pocket Ippolit Matveyevich had half the sum obtained by the
concessionaires from the Stargorod conspirators. It was a lot of money for
Vorobyaninov, so unaccustomed to luxury. Excited by the possibility of an
easy conquest, he was ready to dazzle Liza with the scale of his
entertaining. He considered himself admirably equipped for this, and proudly
remembered how easily he had once won the heart of Elena Bour. It was part
of his nature to spend money extravagantly and showily. He had been famous
in Stargorod for his good manners and ability to converse with any woman. He
thought it would be amusing to use his pre-revolutionary polish on
conquering a little Soviet girl, who had never seen anything or known
anything.
 With little persuasion Ippolit Matveyevich took Liza to the Prague
Restaurant, the showpiece of the Moscow union of consumer societies; the
best place in Moscow, as Bender used to say.
 The Prague awed Liza by the copious mirrors, lights and flower-pots.
This was excusable; she had never before been in a restaurant of this kind.
But the mirrored room unexpectedly awed Ippolit Matveyevich, too. He was out
of touch and had forgotten about the world of restaurants. Now he felt
ashamed of his baronial boots with square toes, pre-revolutionary trousers,
and yellow, star-spangled waistcoat.
 They were both embarrassed and stopped suddenly at the sight of the
rather motley public.
 "Let's go over there in the corner," suggested Vorobyaninov, although
there were tables free just by the stage, where the orchestra was scraping
away at the stock potpourri from the "Bayadere".
 Liza quickly agreed, feeling that all eyes were upon her. The social
lion and lady-killer, Vorobyaninov, followed her awkwardly. The social
lion's shabby trousers drooped baggily from his thin behind. The lady-killer
hunched his shoulders and began polishing his pince-nez in an attempt to
cover up his embarrassment.
 No one took their order. Ippolit Matveyevich had not expected this.
Instead of gallantly conversing with his lady, he remained silent, sighed,
tapped the table timidly with an ashtray, and coughed incessantly. Liza
looked around her with curiosity; the silence became unnatural. But Ippolit
Matveyevich could not think of anything to say. He had forgotten what he
usually said in such cases.
 "We'd like to order," he called to waiters as they flew past.
 "Just coming, sir," cried the waiters without stopping.
 A menu was eventually brought, and Ippolit Matveyevich buried himself
in it with relief.
 "But veal cutlets are two twenty-five, a fillet is two twenty-five, and
vodka is five roubles," he mumbled.
 "For five roubles you get a large decanter, sir," said the waiter,
looking around impatiently.
 "What's the matter with me?" Ippolit Matveyevich-asked himself in
horror. "I'm making myself ridiculous."
 "Here you are," he said to Liza with belated courtesy, "you choose
something. What would you like? "
 Liza felt ashamed. She saw how haughtily the waiter was looking at her
escort, and realized he was doing something wrong.
 "I'm not at all hungry," she said in a shaky voice. "Or wait, have you
anything vegetarian?"
 "We don't serve vegetarian dishes. Maybe a ham omelette? "
 "All right, then," said Ippolit Matveyevich, having made up his mind,
"bring us some sausages. You'll eat sausages, won't you, Elizabeth
Petrovna?"
 "Yes, certainly."
 "Sausages, then. These at a rouble twenty-five each. And a bottle of
vodka."
 "It's served by the decanter."
 "Then a large one."
 The public-catering employee gave the defenceless Liza a knowing look.
 "What will you have with the vodka? Fresh caviar? Smoked salmon?"
 The registry-office employee continued to rage in Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Nothing," he said rudely. "How much are the salted gherkins? All right, let
me have two."
 The waiter hurried away and silence reigned once more at the table.
Liza was the first to speak.
 "I've never been here before. It's very nice."
 "Ye-es," said Vorobyaninov slowly, working out the cost of what they
had ordered. "Never mind," he thought, "I'll drink some vodka and loosen up
a bit. I feel so awkward at the moment."
 But when he had drunk the vodka and accompanied it with a gherkin, he
did not loosen up, but rather became more gloomy. Liza did not drink
anything. The tension continued. Then someone else approached the table and,
looking tenderly at Liza, tried to sell them flowers.
 Ippolit Matveyevich pretended not to notice the bewhiskered flower
seller, but he kept hovering near the table. It was quite impossible to say
nice things with him there.
 They were saved for a while by the cabaret. A well-fed man in a morning
coat and patent-leather shoes came on to the stage.
 "Well, here we are again," he said breezily, addressing the public.
"Next on our programme we have the well-known Russian folk-singer Barbara
Godlevsky."
 Ippolit Matveyevich drank his vodka and said nothing. Since Liza did
not drink and kept wanting to go home, he had to hurry to finish the whole
decanter.
 By the time the singer had been replaced by an entertainer in a ribbed
velvet shirt, who came on to the stage and began to sing:
 Roaming,
 You're always roaming
 As though with all the life outside
 Your appendix will be satisfied,
 Roaming,
 Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
 Ippolit Matveyevich was already well in his cups and, together with all
the other customers in the restaurant, whom half an hour earlier he had
considered rude and siggardly Soviet thugs, was clapping in time to the
music and joining in the chorus:
 Roaming,
 Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
 He kept jumping up and going to the gentlemen's without excusing
himself. The nearby tables had already begun calling him "daddy", and
invited him over for a glass of beer. But he did not go. He suddenly became
proud and suspicious. Liza stood up determinedly.
 "I'm going. You stay. I can go home by myself." "Certainly not I As a
member of the upper class I cannot allow that.
 "Carport! The bill! Bums!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich stared at the bill for some time, swaying in his
chair.
 "Nine roubles, twenty kopeks," he muttered. "Perhaps you'd also like
the key of the apartment where the money is."
 He ended up by being marched downstairs by the arm. Liza could not
escape, since the social lion had the cloakroom ticket.
 In the first side street Ippolit Matveyevich leaned against Liza and
began to paw her. Liza fought him off.
 "Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it! Stop it!"
 "Let's go to a hotel," Vorobyaninov urged.
 Liza freed herself with difficulty and, without taking aim, punched the
lady-killer on the nose. The pince-nez with the gold nose-piece fell to the
ground and, getting in the way of one of the square-toed baronial boots
broke with a crunch.
 The evening breeze
 Sighs through the trees
 Choking back her tears, Liza ran home down Silver Lane.
 Loud and fast
 Flows the
 Gualdalquivir.
 The blinded Ippolit Matveyevich trotted off in the opposite direction,
shouting "Stop! Thief!"
 Then he cried for a long time and, still weeping, bought a full basket
of bagels from an old woman. Reaching the Smolensk market, now empty and
dark, he walked up and down for some time, throwing the bagels all over the
place like a sower sowing seed. As he went, he shouted in a tuneless voice:
 Roaming,
 You're always roaming,
 Ta-ra-ra-ra . . .
 Later on he befriended a taxi-driver, poured out his heart to him, and
told him in a muddled way about the jewels.
 "A gay old gentleman," exclaimed the taxi-driver.
 Ippolit Matveyevich was really in a gay mood, but the gaiety was
clearly of a rather reprehensible nature, because he woke up at about eleven
the next day in the local police-station. Of the two hundred roubles with
which he had shamefully begun his night of enjoyment and debauchery, only
twelve remained.
 He felt like death. His spine ached, his liver hurt, and his head felt
as if he had a lead pot on top of it. But the most awful thing was that he
could not remember how and where he could have spent so much money. On the
way home he had to stop at the optician's to have new lenses fitted in his
pince-nez.
 Ostap looked in surprise at the bedraggled figure of Ippolit
Matveyevich for some time but said nothing. He was cold and ready for
battle.
 The auction was due to begin at five o'clock. Citizens were allowed in
to inspect the lots at four. The friends arrived at three o'clock and spent
a whole hour looking at a machine-building exhibition next door.
 "It looks as though by tomorrow," said Ostap, "given good will on both
sides, we ought to be able to buy that little locomotive. A pity there's no
price tag on it. It's nice to own your own locomotive."
 Ippolit Matveyevich was in a highly nervous state. The chairs alone
could console him.
 He did not leave them until the moment the auctioneer, in check
trousers and a beard reaching to his Russian covert-coat tunic, mounted the
stand.
 The concessionaires took their places in the fourth row on the right.
Ippolit Matveyevich began to get very excited. He thought the chairs would
be sold at once, but they were actually the third item on the list, and
first came the usual auction junk: odd pieces of dinner services embellished
with coats of arms; a sauce dish; a silver glass-holder; a Petunin
landscape; a bead handbag; a brand-new primus burner; a small bust of
Napoleon; linen brassieres; a tapestry "Hunter shooting wild duck", and
other trash.
 They had to be patient and wait. It was hard to wait when the chairs
were all there; their goal was within reach.
 "What a rumpus there'd be," thought Ostap, "if they knew what little
goodies were being sold here today in the form of those chairs."
 "A figure depicting Justice!" announced the auctioneer. "Made of
bronze. In perfect condition. Five roubles. Who'll bid more? Six and a half
on the right. Seven at the end. Eight roubles in front in the first row.
Going for eight roubles. Going. Gone to the first row in front."
 A girl with a receipt book immediately hurried over to the citizen in
the first row.
 The auctioneer's hammer rose and fell. He sold an ash-tray, some
crystal glass and a porcelain powder bowl.
 Time dragged painfully.
 "A bronze bust of Alexander the Third. Would make a good paperweight.
No use for anything else. Going at the marked price, one bust of Alexander
the Third."
 There was laughter among the audience.
 "Buy it, Marshal," said Ostap sarcastically. "You like that sort of
thing."
 Ippolit Matveyevich made no reply; he could not take his eyes off the
chairs.
 "No offers? The bust of Alexander the Third is removed from sale. A
figure depicting Justice. Apparently the twin of the one just sold. Basil,
hold up the Justice. Five roubles. Who'll give me more?"
 There was a snuffling sound from the first row. The citizen evidently
wanted a complete set of Justices.
 "Five roubles for the bronze Justice."
 "Six!" sang out the citizen.
 "Six roubles in front. Seven. Nine roubles on the right at the end."
 "Nine and a half," said the lover of Justice quietly, raising his hand.
 "Nine and a half in front. Going for nine and a half. Going. Gone!"
 The hammer came down and the girl hastened over to the citizen in the
first row. He paid up and wandered off into the next room to receive his
bronze.
 "Ten chairs from a palace," said the auctioneer suddenly.
 "Why from a palace? " gasped Ippolit Matveyevich quietly.
 Ostap became angry. "To hell with you! Listen and stop fooling!"
 "Ten chairs from a palace, Walnut. Period of Alexander the Second. In
perfect condition. Made by the cabinet-maker Hambs. Basil, hold one of the
chairs under the light."
 Basil seized the chair so roughly that Ippolit Matveyevich half stood
up.
 "Sit down, you damned idiot," hissed Ostap. "Sit down, I tell you. You
make me sick!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich's jaw had dropped. Ostap was pointing like a
setter. His eyes shone.
 "Ten walnut chairs. Eighty roubles."
 There was a stir in the room. Something of use in the house was being
sold. One after another the hands flew up. Ostap remained calm.
 146
 "Why don't you bid?" snapped Vorobyaninov.
 "Get out!" retorted Ostap, clenching his teeth.
 "A hundred and twenty roubles at the back. A hundred and twenty-five in
the next seat. A hundred and forty."
 Ostap calmly turned his back on the stand and surveyed his competitors.
 The auction was at its height. Every seat was taken. The lady sitting
directly behind Ostap was tempted by the chairs and, after a few words with
her husband ("Beautiful chairs! heavenly workmanship, Sanya. And from a
palace!"), put up her hand.
 "A hundred and forty-five, fifth row on the right. Going!"
 The stir died down. Too expensive.
 "A hundred and forty-five, going for the second time."
 Ostap was nonchalantly examining the stucco cornice. Ippolit
Matveyevich was sitting with his head down, trembling.
 "One hundred and forty-five. Gone!"
 But before the shiny black hammer could strike the plyboard stand,
Ostap had turned around, thrown up his hand, and called out, quite quietly:
"Two hundred."
 All the heads turned towards the concessionaires. Peaked caps, cloth
caps, yachting caps and hats were set in action. The auctioneer raised his
bored face and looked at Ostap.
 "Two hundred," he said. "Two hundred in the fourth row on the right.
Any more bids? Two hundred roubles for a palace suite of walnut furniture
consisting of ten pieces. Going at two hundred roubles to the fourth row on
the right. Going!"
 The hand with the hammer was poised above the stand.
 "Mama!" said Ippolit Matveyevich loudly.
 Ostap, pink and calm, smiled. The hammer came down making a heavenly
sound.
 "Gone," said the auctioneer. "Young lady, fourth row on the right."
 "Well, chairman, was that effective?" asked Ostap. "What would you do
without a technical adviser, I'd like to know? "
 Ippolit Matveyevich grunted happily. The young lady trotted over to
them.
 "Was it you who bought the chairs?"
 "Yes, us!" Ippolit Matveyevich burst out. "Us! Us! When can we have
them?"
 "Whenever you please. Now if you like."
 The tune "Roaming, you're always roaming" went madly round and round in
Ippolit Matveyevich's head. "The chairs are ours! Ours! Ours!" His whole
body was shouting it. "Ours!" cried his liver. "Ours!" endorsed his
appendix.
 He was so overjoyed that he suddenly felt twitches in the most
unexpected places. Everything vibrated, rocked, and crackled under the
pressure of unheard-of bliss. He saw the train approaching the St. Gotthard.
On the open platform of the last car stood Ippolit Matveyevich in white
trousers, smoking a cigar. Edelweiss fell gently on to his head, which was
again covered with shining, aluminium-grey hair. He was on his way to the
Garden of Eden. "Why two hundred and thirty and not two hundred?" said a
voice next to him.
 It was Ostap speaking; he was fiddling with the receipt.
 "Fifteen per cent commission is included," answered the girl.
 "Well, I suppose that's all right. Here you are."
 Ostap took out his wallet, counted out two hundred roubles, and turned
to the director-in-chief of the enterprise.
 "Let me have thirty roubles, pal, and make it snappy. Can't you see the
young lady's waiting?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich made no attempt at all to get the money.
 "Well? Why are you staring at me like a soldier at a louse? Are you
crazy with joy or something?"
 "I don't have the money," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich at length.
 "Who doesn't?" asked Ostap very quietly.
 "I don't."
 "And the two hundred roubles? "
 "I. . . I. . . lost it."
 Ostap looked at Vorobyaninov and quickly grasped the meaning of the
flabbiness of his face, the green pallor of the cheeks, and the bags under
the swollen eyes.
 "Give me the money," he whispered with loathing, "you old bastard!"
 "Well, are you going to pay?" asked the girl. "One moment," said Ostap
with a charming smile, "there's been a slight hitch."
 There was still a faint hope that they might persuade her to wait for
the money. Here Ippolit Matveyevich, who had now recovered his senses, broke
into the conversation.
 "Just a moment," he spluttered. "Why is there commission? We don't know
anything about that. You should have warned us. I refuse to pay the thirty
roubles."
 "Very well," said the girl curtly. "I'll see to that."
 Taking the receipt, she hurried back to the auctioneer and had a few
words with him.
 The auctioneer immediately stood up. His beard glistened in the strong
light of the electric lamps.
 "In accordance with auctioneering regulations," he stated, "persons
refusing to pay the full sum of money for items purchased must leave the
hall. The sale of the chairs is revoked."
 The dazed friends sat motionless.
 The effect was terrific. There was rude guffawing from the onlookers.
Ostap remained seated, however. He had not suffered such a blow for a long
time.
 "You're asked to leave."
 The auctioneer's singsong voice was firm.
 The laughter in the room grew louder.
 So they left. Few people have ever left an auction room with more
bitterness.
 Vorobyaninov went first. With his bony shoulders hunched up, and in his
shrunken jacket and silly baronial boots, he walked like a crane; he felt
the warm and friendly glance of the smooth operator behind.
 The concessionaires stopped in the room next to the auction hall. They
could now only watch the proceedings through a glass door. The path back was
barred. Ostap maintained a friendly silence.
 "An outrageous system," murmured Ippolit Matveyevich timidly.
"Downright disgraceful! We should complain to the militia."
 Ostap said nothing.
 "No, but really, it's the hell of a thing." Ippolit Matveyevich
continued ranting. "Making the working people pay through the nose.
Honestly! Two hundred and thirty roubles for ten old chairs. It's mad!"
 "Yes," said Ostap woodenly.
 "Isn't it? " said Vorobyaninov again. "It's mad!"
 "Yes."
 Ostap went up close to Vorobyaninov and, having looked around, hit the
marshal a quick, hard, and unobserved blow in the side. "That's for the
militia. That's for the high price of chairs for working people of all
countries. That's for going after girls at night. That's for being a dirty
old man."
 Ippolit Matveyevich took his punishment without a sound.
 From the side it looked as though a respectful son was conversing with
his father, except that the father was shaking his head a little too
vigorously.
 "Now get out of here!"
 Ostap turned his back on the director of the enterprise and began
watching the auction hall. A moment later he looked around.
 Ippolit Matveyevich was still standing there, with his hands by his
sides.
 "Oh! You're still here, life and soul of the party! Go on, get out!"
 "Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov implored, "Comrade Bender!"
 "Go on, go! And don't come back to Ivanopulo's because I'll throw you
out."
 Ostap did not turn around again. Something was going on in the hall
which interested him so much that he opened the glass door slightly and
began listening.
 "That's done it," he muttered.
 "What has?" asked Vorobyaninov obsequiously.
 "They're selling the chairs separately, that's what. Maybe you'd like
to buy one? Go ahead, I'm not stopping you. I doubt, though whether they'll
let you in. And you haven't much money, I gather."
 In the meantime, in the auction hall, the auctioneer, feeling that he
would be unable to make any member of the public cough up two hundred
roubles all at once (too large a sum for the small fry left), decided to
obtain his price in bits and pieces. The chairs came up for auction again,
but this time in lots.
 "Four chairs from a palace. Made of walnut. Upholstered. Made by Hambs.
Thirty roubles. Who'll give me more?"
 Ostap had soon regained his former power of decision and sang-froid.
 "You stay here, you ladies' favourite, and don't go away. I'll be back
in five minutes. You stay here and see who buys the chairs. Don't miss a
single one."
 Ostap had thought of a plan-the only one possible under the difficult
circumstances facing them.
 He hurried out into the Petrovka, made for the nearest asphalt vat, and
had a businesslike conversation with some waifs.
 Five minutes later he was back as promised with the waifs waiting ready
at the entrance to the auction rooms.
 "They're being sold," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Four and then two
have already gone."
 "See what you've done!" said Ostap. "Admire your handiwork! We had them
in our hands . . . in our hands, don't you realize!"
 From the hall came a squeaky voice of the kind endowed only to
auctioneers, croupiers and glaziers.
 ". . . and a half on my left. Three. One more chair from the palace.
Walnut. In perfect condition. And a half on the right. Going for three and a
half in front."
 Three chairs were sold separately. The auctioneer announced the sale of
the last chair. Ostap choked with fury. He let fly at Vorobyaninov again.
His abusive remarks were full of bitterness. Who knows how far Ostap might
not have gone in this satirical exercise had he not been interrupted by the
approach of a man in a brown Lodz suit. The man waved his plump hands,
bowed, and jumped up and down and backwards and forwards, as though playing
tennis.
 "Tell me, is there really an auction here?" he asked Ostap hurriedly.
"Yes? An auction. And are they really selling things here? Wonderful."
 The stranger jumped backwards, his face wreathed with smiles. "So
they're really selling things here? And one can buy cheaply? First-rate.
Very, very much so. Ah!"
 Swinging his hips, the stranger rushed past the bewildered
concessionaires into the hall and bought the last chair so quickly that
Vorobyaninov could only croak. With the receipt in his hand the stranger ran
up to the collection counter.
 "Tell me, do I get the chair now? Wonderful! Ah! Ah!"
 Bleating endlessly and skipping about the whole time, the stranger
loaded the chair on to a cab and drove off. A waif ran behind, hot on his
trail.
 The new chair owners gradually dispersed by cab and on foot. Ostap's
junior agents hared after them. Ostap himself left and Vorobyaninov timidly
followed him. The day had been like a nightmare. Everything had happened so
quickly and not at all as anticipated.
 On Sivtsev Vrazhek, pianos, mandolins and accordions were celebrating
the spring. Windows were wide open. Flower pots lined the windowsills.
Displaying his hairy chest, a fat man stood by a window in his braces and
sang. A cat slowly made its way along a wall. Kerosene lamps blazed above
the food stalls.
 Nicky was strolling about outside the little pink house. Seeing Ostap,
who was walking in front, he greeted him politely and then went up to
Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich greeted him cordially. Nicky, however, was
not going to waste time.
 "Good evening," he said and, unable to control himself, boxed Ippolit
Matveyevich's ears. As he did so he uttered a phrase, which in the opinion
of Ostap, who was witnessing the scene, was a rather vulgar one.
 "That's what everyone will get," said Nicky in a childish voice, "who
tries . . ."
 Who tries exactly what, Nicky did not specify. He stood on tiptoe and,
closing his eyes, slapped Vorobyaninov's face.
 Ippolit Matveyevich raised his elbow slightly but did not dare utter a
sound.
 "That's right," said Ostap, "and now on the neck. Twice.
 That's it. Can't be helped. Sometimes the eggs have to teach a lesson
to a chicken who gets out of hand. Once more, that's it. Don't be shy. Don't
hit him any more on the head, it's his weakest point."
 If the Stargorod conspirators had seen the master-mind and father of
Russian democracy at that crucial moment, it can be taken for certain that
the secret alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare would have ended its
existence.
 "That's enough, I think," said Nicky, hiding his hand in his pocket.
 "Just once more," implored Ostap.
 "To hell with him. He'll know next time."
 Nicky went away. Ostap went upstairs to Ivanopulo's and looked down.
Ippolit Matveyevich stood sideways to the house, leaning against the iron
railing of the embassy.
 "Citizen Michelson," he called. "Konrad Karlovich. Come inside. I
permit you."
 Ippolit Matveyevich entered the room in slightly better spirits.
"Unheard-of impudence," he exclaimed angrily. "I could hardly control
myself."
 "Dear, dear," sympathized Ostap. "What has the modern youth come to?
Terrible young people! Chase after other people's wives. Spend other
people's money. Complete decadence. But tell me, does it really hurt when
they hit you on the head? "
 "I'll challenge him to a duel!"
 "Fine! I can recommend a good friend of mine. He knows the duelling
code by heart and has two brooms quite suitable for a struggle to the death.
You can have Ivanopulo and his neighbour on the right as seconds. He's an
ex-honorary citizen of the city of Kologriv and still even brags about the
title. Or you can have a duel with mincing-machines-it's more elegant. Each
wound is definitely fatal. The wounded adversary is automatically turned
into a meat ball. How do you like the idea, Marshal?"
 At that moment there was a whistle from the street and Ostap went down
to receive the* reports from his young agents.
 The waifs had coped splendidly with their mission. Four chairs had gone
to the Columbus Theatre. The waif explained in detail how the chairs were
transported in a wheelbarrow, unloaded and carted into the building through
the stage-door. Ostap already knew the location of the theatre.
 Another young pathfinder said that two chairs had been taken away in a
taxi. The boy did not seem to be very bright. He knew the street where the
chairs had been taken and even remembered the number of the apartment was
17, but could not remember the number of the house.
 152
 "I ran too quick," said the waif. "It flew out me head."
 "You won't get any money," declared the boss.
 "But, mister! I'll show you the place."
 "All right, stay here. We'll go there together."
 The citizen with the bleat turned out to live on Sadovaya Spasskaya.
Ostap jotted down the exact address in a notebook.
 The eighth chair had been taken to the House of the Peoples. The boy
who had followed this chair proved to have initiative. Overcoming barriers
in the form of the commandant's office and numerous messengers, he had found
his way into the building and discovered the chair had been bought by the
editor of the Lathe newspaper.
 Two boys had not yet come back. They arrived almost simultaneously,
panting and tired.
 "Barrack Street in the Clear Lakes district."
 "Number?"
 "Nine. And the apartment is nine. There were Tatars living in the yard
next door. I carried the chair the last part of the way. We went on foot."
 The final messenger brought sad tidings. At first everything had been
all right, but then everything had gone all wrong. The purchaser had taken
his chair into the goods yard of October Station and it had not been
possible to slip in after him, as there were armed guards from the Ministry
of Transport standing at the gates.
 "He left by train, most likely," said the waif, concluding his report.
 This greatly disconcerted Ostap. Rewarding the waifs royally, one
rouble each (except for the herald from Varsonofefsky Street, who had
forgotten the number and was told to come back the next day), the technical
adviser went back inside and, ignoring the many questions put to him by the
disgraced chairman of the board, began to scheme.
 "Nothing's lost yet. We have the addresses and there are many old and
reliable tricks for getting the chairs: simple friendship; a love affair;
friendship plus housebreaking; barter; and money. The last is the most
reliable. But we haven't much money."
 Ostap glanced ironically at Ippolit Matveyevich. The smooth operator
had regained his usual clarity of thought and mental balance. It would, of
course, be possible to get the money. Their reserve included the picture
"Chamberlain Answers the Bolsheviks", the tea-strainer, and full opportunity
for continuing a career of polygamy.
 The only trouble was the tenth chair. There was a trail to follow, but
only a diffuse and vague one.
 "Well, anyway," Ostap decided aloud, "we can easily bet on those odds.
I'll stake nine to one. The hearing is continued. Do you hear? Hey you,
member of the jury? "
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