Public Domain Tales: The Twelve Chairs: Book Four

Public Domain Tales: The Twelve Chairs: Book Four is the one-hundred-and-sixty-fifth book in the Public Domain Tales series.
 Ippolit Matveyevich was slowly becoming a boot-licker. Whenever he
looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge.
 It was so hot in Ivanopulo's room that Vorobyaninov's chairs creaked
like logs in the fireplace. The smooth operator was having a nap with the
light-blue waistcoat under his head.
 Ippolit Matveyevich looked out of the window. A carriage emblazoned
with a coat of arms was moving along the curved side street, past the tiny
Moscow gardens. The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after another,
a horseguard in a brass helmet, society ladies, and fluffy white clouds.
Drumming the roadway with their hooves, the horses drew the carriage past
Ippolit Matveyevich. He winced with disappointment.
 The carriage bore the initials of the Moscow communal services and was
being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all.
 In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking old man with a fluffy white
beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was none other than Count
Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would probably have hailed the
old man and chatted with him about the good old days.
 Count Bulanov was deeply troubled. As he whipped up the horses, he
mused about the red tape that was strangling the sub-department of
sanitation, and on account of which he had not received for six months the
apron he was entitled to under his contract.
 "Listen," said the smooth operator suddenly. "What did they call you as
a boy?"
 "What do you want to know for?"
 "I just want to know what to call you. I'm sick of calling you
Vorobyaninov, and Ippolit Matveyevich is too stuffy. What were you called?
Ippy?"
 "Pussy," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker.
 "That's more like it. So look, Pussy, see what's wrong with my back. It
hurts between the shoulder-blades."
 Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over his head. Before Pussy Vorobyaninov
was revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous; a back of enchanting
shape, but rather dirty.
 "Aha! I see some redness."
 Between the smooth operator's shoulders were some strangely shaped
mauve bruises which reflected colours like a rainbow in oil.
 "Honestly, it's the number eight," exclaimed Vorobyaninov. "First time
I've ever seen a bruise like that."
 "Any other number?" asked Ostap.
 "There seems to be a letter P."
 "I have no more questions. It's quite clear. That damned pen! You see
how I suffer, Pussy, and what risks I run for your chairs. These
arithmetical figures were branded on me by the huge self-falling pen with a
No. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back at
the very moment I inserted my hands inside the chief editor's chair. But
you! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair so
that I had to go and do your work for you? I won't even mention the auction.
A fine time to go woman-chasing. It's simply bad for you at your age to do
that. Look after your health. Take me, on the other hand. I got the widow's
chair. I got the two Shukin chairs. It was me who finally got Iznurenkov's
chair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to Lapis's. There was
only one chair that you managed to run down, and that was with the help of
your holy enemy, the archbishop."
 Silently walking up and down in his bare feet, the technical adviser
reasoned with the submissive Pussy.
 The chair which had vanished into the goods yard of October Station was
still a blot on the glossy schedule of the concession. The four chairs in
the Columbus Theatre were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make a
trip down the Volga aboard the lottery ship, S.S. Scriabin, and was
presenting the premiere of The Marriage that day as the last production of
the season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in Moscow and look
for the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or go on tour with the
troupe. Ostap was in favour of the latter.
 "Or perhaps we should split up?" he suggested. "I'll go off with the
theatre and you stay and find out about the chair in the goods yard."
 Pussy's grey eyelashes flickered so fearfully, however, that Ostap did
not bother to continue.
 "Of the two birds," said Ostap, "the meatier should be chosen. Let's go
together. But the expenses will be considerable. We shall need money. I have
sixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh, I forgot. At your age a maiden's
love is so expensive! I decree that we go together to the premiere of The
Marriage. Don't forget to wear tails. If the chairs are still there and
haven't been sold to pay social-security debts, we can leave tomorrow.
Remember, Vorobyaninov, we've now reached the final act of the comedy My
Mother-in-Low's Treasure. The Finita la Comedia is fast approaching,
Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights! Oh, my
younger days! Oh, the smell of the wings! So many memories! So many
intrigues and affairs I How talented I was in my time in the role of Hamlet!
In short, the hearing is continued."
 For the sake of economy they went to the theatre on foot. It was still
quite light, but the street lamps were already casting their lemon light.
Spring was dying before everyone's eyes. Dust chased it from the squares,
and a warm breeze drove it from the side streets. Old women fondled the
beauty and drank tea with it at little round tables in the yards. But
spring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it so
much wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where the young men were already
strolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bow
ties, and boots.
 Mauve-powdered girls circulated between the holy of holies of the
Moscow Consumers' Union and the 'Commune' cooperative. The girls were
swearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace,
though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses were
no better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much on
the edges of the roadway. Cyclists rode noiselessly by from their first
large international match at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream man
trundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squinted
timorously at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by the
flashing signal with which he regulated the traffic, and was not dangerous.
 The two friends made their way through the hustle and bustle.
Temptation lay in wait for them at every step. Different types of meat on
skewers were being roasted in full view of the street in the tiny eating
plates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of string
music was wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great Silent
Film' cinema. A loud-speaker raved away at a tram-stop.
 It was time to put a spurt on. The friends reached the foyer of the
Columbus Theatre.
 Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the list of seat prices.
"Rather expensive, I'm afraid," he said. "Three roubles for the sixteenth
row."
 "How I dislike these provincial philistines," Ostap observed. "Where
are you going? Can't you see that's the box office?"
 "Where else? We won't get in without tickets."
 "Pussy, you're vulgar. In every well-built theatre there are two
windows. Only courting couples and wealthy heirs go to the box-office
window. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you may observe) go
straight to the manager's window."
 And, indeed, at the box-office window were only about five modestly
dressed people. They may have been wealthy heirs or courting couples. At the
manager's window, however, there was great activity. A colourful line had
formed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which a
provincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notes
from friendly directors, actors, editors, theatrical costumiers, the
district militia chief, and other persons closely connected with the
theatre, such as members of the theatre and film critics' association, the
'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental Circus
Workshop, and some extraordinary name, like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. About
eight people had notes from Espere Eclairovich.
 Ostap barged into the line, jostled aside the Fortinbrasites, and, with
a cry of "I only want some information: can't you see I haven't taken my
galoshes off!" pushed his way to the window and peered inside.
 The manager was working like a slave. Bright diamonds of __
perspiration irrigated his fat face. The telephone interrupted him all the
time and rang with the obstinacy of a tram trying to pass through the
Smolensk market.
 "Hurry up and give me the note!" he shouted at Ostap.
 "Two seats," said Ostap quietly, "in the stalls."
 "Who for?"
 "Me."
 "And who might you be?"
 "Now surely you know me?"
 "No, I don't."
 But the stranger's gaze was so innocent and open that the manager's
hand by itself gave Ostap two seats in the eleventh row,
 "All kinds come here," said the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "Who
knows who they are? They may be from the Ministry of Education. I seem to
have seen him at the Ministry. Where else could it have been? "
 And mechanically issuing passes to the lucky film and theatre critics,
the manager went on quietly trying to remember where he had seen those clear
eyes before.
 When all the passes had been issued and the lights went down in the
foyer, he remembered he had seen them in the Taganka prison in 1922, while
he was doing time for some trivial matter.
 Laughter echoed from the eleventh row where the concessionaires were
sitting. Ostap liked the musical introduction performed by the orchestra on
bottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistled
and the curtain went up, wafting a breath of cool air.
 To the surprise of Vorobyaninov, who was used to a classical
interpretation of The Marriage, Podkolesin was not on the stage. Searching
around with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard triangles hanging from the
ceiling and painted the primary colours of the spectrum. There "were no
doors or blue muslin windows. Beneath the multicoloured triangles danced
young ladies in large hats from black cardboard. The clinking of bottles
brought forth Podkolesin, who charged into the crowd riding on Stepan's
back. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed the young
ladies with words which were not in the play, he bawled out :
 "Stepan!"
 At the same time he leaped to one side and froze in a difficult pose.
The Esmarch douches began to clatter.
 "Stepan!" repeated Podkolesin, taking another leap.
 But since Stepan, who was standing right there in a leopard skin, did
not respond, Podkolesin asked tragically:
 "Why are you silent, like the League of Nations?"
 "I'm obviously afraid of Chamberlain," replied Stepan, scratching his
skin.
 There was a general feeling that Stepan would oust Podkolesin and
become the chief character in this modernized version of the play.
 "Well, is the tailor making a coat?"
 A leap. A blow on the Esmarch douches. Stepan stood on his hands with
an effort and, still in that position, answered:
 "Yes, he is."
 The orchestra played a potpourri from Madam Butterfly. Stepan stood on
his hands the whole time. His face flooded with colour.
 "And didn't the tailor ask what the master wanted such good cloth for?"
 Stepan, who by this time was pitting in the orchestra cuddling the
conductor, answered: "No, he didn't. He's not a member of the British
Parliament, is he?"
 "And didn't the tailor ask whether the master wished to get married?"
 "The tailor asked whether the master wanted to pay alimony."
 At this point the lights went out and the audience began stamping their
feet. They kept up the stamping until Podkolesin's voice could be heard
saying from the stage:
 The Marriage
 Text. . . N. V. Gogol
 Verse . . . M. Cherchezlafemmov
 Adaptation. . . I. Antiokhiisky
 Musical accompaniment. . . Kh. Ivanov
 Producer . . . Nich. Sestrin
 Scenic effects . . . Simbievich-Sindievich
 Lighting . . . Platon Plashuk. Sound effects . . . Galkin,
 Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.
 Make-up. . . Krult workshops; wigs by Foma Kochur
 Furniture by the Fortinbras woodwork shops attached to the
 Balthazar Umslopogas
 Acrobatics instructress: Georgetta Tiraspolskikh
 Hydraulic press operated by Fitter Mechnikov
 Programme composed, imposed
 and printed by the
 KRULT FACTORY SCHOOL
 "Citizens! Don't be alarmed! The lights went out on purpose, as part of
the act. It's required for the scenic effects."
 The audience gave in. The lights did not go up again until the end of
the act. The drums rolled in complete darkness. A squad of soldiers dressed
as hotel doormen passed by, carrying torches. Then Kochkarev arrived,
apparently on a camel. This could only be judged from the following
dialogue.
 "Ouch, how you frightened me! And you came on a camel, too."
 "Ah, so you noticed, despite the darkness. I wanted to bring you a
fragrant camellia!"
 During the intermission the concessionaires read the programme.
 "Do you like it?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked timidly.
 "Do you?"
 "It's very interesting-only Stepan is rather odd."
 "No, I don't like it," said Ostap. "Particularly the fact that the
furniture is from some Vogopas workshops or other. I hope those aren't our
chairs adapted to the new style."
 Their fears were unjustified. At the beginning of the second act all
four chairs were brought on to the stage by Negroes in top hats.
 The matchmaking scene aroused the greatest interest among the audience.
At the moment Agafya Tikhonovna was coming down a rope stretched across the
entire width of the theatre, the terrifying orchestra let out such a noise
that she nearly fell off into the audience. But on the stage she balanced
perfectly. She was wearing flesh-coloured tights and a bowler. Maintaining
her balance by means of a green parasol on which was written "I want
Podkolesin", she stepped along the wire and everyone below immediately saw
that her feet were dirty. She leaped from the wire straight on to a chair,
whereupon the Negroes, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in a tutu, and the matchmaker
in a bus driver's uniform all turned backward somersaults. Then they had a
five-minute rest, to hide which the lights were turned out again.
 The suitors were also very comic, particularly Omlette. In his place a
huge pan of fried eggs was brought on to the stage. The sailor wore a mast
with a sail.
 In vain did Starikov the merchant cry out that he was being crippled by
taxes. Agafaya Tikhonovna did not like him. She married Stepan. They both
dived into the fried eggs served by Podkolesin, who had turned into a
footman. Kochkarev and Fekla sang ditties about Chamberlain and the
repayment he hoped to extort from Germany. The Esmarch douches played a hymn
for the dying and the curtain came down, wafting a breath of cool air.
 "I'm satisfied with the performance," said Ostap. "The chairs are
intact. But we've no time to lose. If Agafya Tikhonovna is going to land on
those chairs each day, they won't last very long."
 Jostling and laughing, the young men in their fashioned jackets
discussed the finer points of the scenic effects.
 "You need some shut-eye, Pussy," said Ostap. "We have to stand in line
for tickets early tomorrow morning. The theatre is leaving by express for
Nizhni tomorrow evening at seven. So get two seats in a hard coach to Nizhni
on the Kursk Railway. We'll sit it out. It's only one night."
 The next day the Columbus Theatre was sitting in the buffet at Kursk
Station. Having taken steps to see that the scenic effects went by the same
train, Simbievich-Sindievich was having a snack at one of the tables.
Dipping his moustache into the beer, he asked the fitter nervously:
 "The hydraulic press won't get broken on the way, will it?"
 "It's not the press that's the trouble," said fitter Mechnikov.
 "It's that it only works for five minutes and we have to cart it around
the whole summer."
 "Was it any easier with the 'time projector' from the Ideology Powder!"
 "Of course it was. The projector was big, but not so fragile."
 At the next table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a youngish woman with hard
shiny legs, like skittles. The sound effects -Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,
Chalkin and Zalkind-fussed around her.
 "You didn't keep in time with me yesterday," she complained. "I might
have fallen off."
 "What can we do?" clamoured the sound effects. "Two douches broke."
 "You think it's easy to get an Esmarch douche from abroad nowadays? "
cried Galkin.
 "Just try going to the State Medical Supply Office. It's impossible to
buy a thermometer, let alone an Esmarch douche," added Palkin.
 "Do you play thermometers as well?" asked the girl, horrified.
 "It's not that we play thermometers," observed Zalkind, "but that the
damned douches are enough to drive you out of your mind and we have to take
our own temperatures."
 Nich. Sestrin, stage manager and producer, was strolling along the
platform with his wife. Podkolesin and Kochkarev had downed three vodkas and
were wooing Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, each trying to outdo the other.
 The concessionaires had arrived two hours before the train was due to
depart and were now on their sixth round of the garden laid out in front of
the station.
 Ippolit Matveyevich's head was whirling. The hunt for the chairs was
entering the last lap. Long shadows fell on the scorching roadway. Dust
settled on their wet, sweaty faces. Cabs rattled past them and there was a
smell of petrol. Hired vehicles set down their passengers. Porters ran up to
them and carried off the bags, while their badges glittered in the sun. The
Muse of Travel had people by the throat.
 "Let's get going as well," said Ostap.
 Ippolit Matveyevich meekly consented. All of a sudden he came face to
face with Bezenchuk, the undertaker.
 "Bezenchuk!" he exclaimed in amazement. "How did you get here?"
 Bezenchuk doffed his cap and was speechless with joy. "Mr.
Vorobyaninov," he cried. "Greetin's to an honoured guest."
 "Well, how are things?"
 "Bad," answered the undertaker.
 "Why is that?"
 "I'm lookin' for clients. There ain't none about."
 "Is the Nymph doing better than you?"
 "Likely! Could they do better than me? No chance. Since your
mother-in-law, only Tierre and Constantine' has croaked."
 "You don't say! Did he really die?"
 "He croaked, Ippolit Matveyevich. He croaked at his post. He was
shavin' Leopold the chemist when he croaked. People said it was his insides
that bust, but I think it was the smell of medicine from the chemist that he
couldn't take."
 "Dear me, dear me," muttered Ippolit Matveyevich. "So you buried him,
did you?"
 "I buried him. Who else could? Does the Nymph, damn 'em, give tassels?"
 "You got in ahead of them, then? "
 "Yes, I did, but they beat me up afterwards. Almost beat the guts out
of me. The militia took me away. I was in bed for two days. I cured myself
with spirits."
 "You massaged yourself?"
 "No, I don't do that with spirits."
 "But what made you come here? "
 "I've brought my stock."
 "What stock?"
 "My own. A guard I know helped me bring it here free in the guard's
van. Did it as a friend."
 It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed a neat pile of
coffins on the ground a little way from Bezenchuk. Some had tassels, others
did not. One of them Ippolit Matveyevich recognized immediately. It was the
large, dusty oak coffin from Bezenchuk's shop window.
 "Eight of them," said Bezenchuk smugly. "Like gherkins."
 "But who needs your coffins here? They have plenty of their own
undertakers."
 "What about the flu?"
 "What flu?"
 "The epidemic. Prusis told me flu was ragin' in Moscow and there was
nothin' to bury people in. All the coffins were used up. So I decided to put
thin's right."
 Ostap, who had been listening to the conversation with curiosity,
intervened. "Listen, dad, the flu epidemic is in Paris."
 "In Paris?"
 "Yes, go to Paris. You'll make money. Admittedly, there may be some
trouble with the visa, but don't give up. If Briand likes you, you'll do
pretty well. They'll set you up as undertaker-royal to the Paris
municipality. Here they have enough of their own undertakers."
 Bezenchuk looked around him wildly. Despite the assurances of Prusis,
there were certainly no bodies lying about; people were cheerfully moving
about on their feet, and some were even laughing.
 Long after the train had carried off the concessionaires, the Columbus
Theatre, and various other people, Bezenchuk was still standing in a daze by
his coffins. His eyes shone in the approaching darkness with an unfading
light.
 MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE
 The smooth operator stood with his friend and closest associate, Pussy
Vorobyaninov, on the left of the passenger landing-stage of the state-owned
Volga River Transport System under a sign which said: "Use the rings for
mooring, mind the grating, and keep clear of the wall".
 Flags fluttered above the quay. Smoke as curly as a cauliflower poured
from the funnels. The S.S. Anton Rubinstein was being loaded at pier No. 2.
Dock workers dug their iron claws into bales of cotton; iron pots were
stacked in a square on the quayside, which was littered with treated hides,
bundles of wire, crates of sheet glass, rolls of cord for binding sheaves,
mill-stones, two-colour bony agricultural implements, wooden forks,
sack-lined baskets of early cherries, and casks of herrings.
 The Scriabin was not in, which greatly disturbed Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Why worry about it?" asked Ostap. "Suppose the Scriabin were here. How
would you get aboard? Even if you had the money to buy a ticket, it still
wouldn't be any use. The boat doesn't take passengers."
 While still on the train, Ostap had already had a chance to talk to
Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press, and had found out
everything. The S.S. Scriabin had been chartered by the Ministry of Finance
and was due to sail from Nizhni to Tsaritsin, calling at every river port,
and holding a government-bond lottery. A complete government department had
left Moscow for the trip, including a lottery committee, an office staff, a
brass band, a cameraman, reporters from the central press and the Columbus
Theatre. The theatre was there to perform plays which popularised the idea
of government loans. Up to Stalingrad the Columbus Theatre was on the
establishment of the lottery committee, after which the theatre had decided
to tour the Caucasus and the Crimea with The Marriage at its own risk.
 The Scriabin was late. A promise was given that she would leave the
backwater, where last-minute preparations were being made, by evening. So
the whole department from Moscow set up camp on the quayside and waited to
go aboard.
 Tender creatures with attache1 cases and hold-alls sat on the bundles
of wire, guarding their Underwoods, and glancing apprehensively at the
stevedores. A citizen with a violet imperial positioned himself on a
mill-stone. On his knees was a pile of enamel plates. A curious person could
have read the uppermost one:
 Mutual Settlement Department
 Desks with ornamental legs and other, more modest, desks stood on top
of one another. A guard sauntered up and down by a sealed safe. Persidsky,
who was representing the Lathe, gazed at the fairground through Zeiss
binoculars with eightfold magnification.
 The S.S. Scriabin approached, turning against the stream. Her sides
were decked with plyboard sheets showing brightly coloured pictures of
giant-sized bonds. The ship gave a roar, imitating the sound of a mammoth,
or possibly some other animal used in prehistoric times, as a substitute for
the sound of a ship's hooter.
 The finance-and-theatre camp came to life. Down the slopes to the quay
came the lottery employees. Platon Plashuk, a fat little man, toddled down
to the ship in a cloud of dust. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind
flew out of the Raft beer-hall. Dockers were already loading the safe.
Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, the acrobatics instructress, hurried up the gangway
with a springy walk, while Simbievich-Sindievich, still worried about the
scenic effects, raised his hands, at one moment to the Kremlin heights, and
at another towards the captain standing on the bridge. The cameraman carried
his camera high above the heads of the crowd, and as he went he demanded a
separate cabin in which to set up a darkroom.
 Amid the general confusion, Ippolit Matveyevich made his way over to
the chairs and was about to drag one away to one side.
 "Leave the chair alone!" snarled Bender. "Are you crazy? Even if we
take one, the others will disappear for good. You'd do better to think of a
way to get aboard the ship."
 Belted with brass tubes, the band passed along the landing-stage. The
musicians looked with distaste at the saxophones, flexotones, beer bottles
and Esmarch douches, with which the sound effects were armed.
 The lottery wheels arrived in a Ford station wagon. They were built
into a complicated device composed of six rotating cylinders with shining
brass and glass. It took some time to set them up on the lower deck. The
stamping about and exchange of abuse continued until late evening.
 In the lottery hall people were erecting a stage, fixing notices and
slogans to the walls, arranging benches for the visitors, and joining
electric cables to the lottery wheels. The desks were in the stern, and the
tapping of typewriters, interspersed with laughter, could be heard from the
typists' cabin. The pale man in the violet imperial walked the length of the
ship, hanging his enamel plates on the relevant doors.
 Mutual Settlement Department
 Personnel Department
 Office
 Engine Room
 To the larger plates the man with the imperial added smaller plates.
 No entry except on business
 No consultations
 No admittance to outsiders
 All inquiries at the registry
 The first-class saloon had been fitted up for an exhibition of bank
notes and bonds. This aroused a wave of indignation from Galkin, Palkin,
Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.
 "Where are we going to eat?" they fretted. "And what happens if it
rains?"
 "This is too much," said Nich. Sestrin to his assistant. "What do you
think, Seryozha? Can we do without the sound effects?"
 "Lord, no, Nicholas Constantinovich. The actors are used to the rhythm
by now."
 A fresh racket broke out. The "Five" had found that the stage manager
had taken all four chairs to his cabin.
 "So that's it," said the "Five" ironically. "We're supposed to rehearse
sitting on our berths, while Sestrin and his wife, Gusta, who has nothing to
do with our group, sit on the four chairs. Perhaps we should have brought
our own wives with us on this trip."
 The lottery ship was watched malevolently from the bank by the smooth
operator. A fresh outbreak of shouting reached the concessionaires' ears.
 "Why didn't you tell me before?" cried a committee member.
 "How was I to know he would fall ill."
 "A hell of a mess we're in! Then go to the artists'-union office and
insist that an artist be sent here immediately."
 "How can I? It's now six o'clock. The union office closed long ago.
Anyway, the ship is leaving in half an hour."
 "Then you can do the painting yourself. Since you're responsible for
the decorations on the ship, get out of the mess any way you like!"
 Ostap was already running up the gangplank, elbowing his way through
the dockers, young ladies, and idle onlookers. He was stopped at the top.
 "Your pass?'
 "Comrade!" roared Bender. "You! You! The little fat man! The one who
needs an artist!"
 Five minutes later the smooth operator was sitting in the white cabin
occupied by the fat little assistant manager of the floating lottery, and
discussing terms.
 "So we want you to do the following, Comrade," said fatty. "Paint
notices, inscriptions, and complete the transparent. Our artist began the
work, but is now ill. We've left him at the hospital. And, of course,
general supervision of the art department.
 Can you take that on? I warn you, incidentally, there's a great deal of
work."
 "Yes, I can undertake that. I've had occasion to do that kind of work
before."
 "And you can come along with us now?"
 "That will be difficult, but I'll try."
 A large and heavy burden fell from the shoulders of the assistant
manager. With a feeling of relief, the fat man looked at the new artist with
shining eyes.
 "Your terms?" asked Ostap sharply. "Remember, I'm not from a funeral
home."
 "It's piecework. At union rates."
 Ostap frowned, which was very hard for him.
 "But free meals as well," added the tubby man hastily. "And a separate
cabin."
 "All right," said Ostap, "I accept. But I have a boy, an assistant,
with me."
 "I don't know about the boy. There are no funds for a boy. But at your
own expense by all means. He can live in your cabin."
 "As you like. The kid is smart. He's used to Spartan conditions."
 Ostap was given a pass for himself and for the smart boy; he put the
key of the cabin in his pocket and went out onto the hot deck. He felt great
satisfaction as he fingered the key. For the first time in his stormy life
he had both a key and an apartment. It was only the money he lacked. But
there was some right next to him in the chairs. The smooth operator walked
up and down the deck with his hands in his pockets, ignoring Vorobyaninov on
the quayside.
 At first Ippolit Matveyevich made signs; then he was even daring enough
to whistle. But Bender paid no heed. Turning his back on the president of
the concession, he watched with interest as the hydraulic press was lowered
into the hold.
 Final preparations for casting off were being made. Agafya Tikhonovna,
alias Mura, ran with clattering feet from her cabin to the stern, looked at
the water, loudly shared her delight with the balalaika virtuoso, and
generally caused confusion among the honoured officials of the lottery
enterprise.
 The ship gave a second hoot. At the terrifying sound the clouds moved
aside. The sun turned crimson and sank below the horizon. Lamps and street
lights came on in the town above. From the market in Pochayevsky Ravine
there came the hoarse voices of gramophones competing for the last
customers. Dismayed and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich kept shouting something,
but no one heard him. The clanking of winches drowned all other sounds.
 Ostap Bender liked effects. It was only just before the third hoot,
when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he had been abandoned to the
mercy of fate, that Ostap noticed him.
 "What are you standing there like a coy suitor for? I thought you were
aboard long ago. They're just going to raise the gangplank. Hurry up! Let
this citizen board. Here's his pass."
 Ippolit Matveyevich hurried aboard almost in tears.
 "Is this your boy?" asked the boss suspiciously.
 "That's the one," said Ostap. "If anyone says he's a girl, I'm a
Dutchman!"
 The fat man glumly went away.
 "Well, Pussy," declared Ostap, "we'll have to get down to work in the
morning. I hope you can mix paints. And, incidentally, I'm an artist, a
graduate of the Higher Art and Technical Workshops, and you're my assistant.
If you don't like the idea, go back ashore at once."
 Black-green foam surged up from under the stern. The ship shuddered;
cymbals clashed together, flutes, cornets, trombones and tubas thundered out
a wonderful march, and the town, swinging around and trying to balance,
shifted to the left bank. Continuing to throb, the ship moved into midstream
and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. A minute later it was so far away
that the lights of the town looked like sparks from a rocket that had frozen
in space.
 The murmuring of typewriters could still be heard, but nature and the
Volga were gaining the upper hand. A cosiness enveloped all those aboard the
S.S. Scriabin. The members of the lottery committee drowsily sipped their
tea. The first meeting of the union committee, held in the prow, was marked
by tenderness. The warm wind breathed so heavily, the water lapped against
the sides of the ship so gently, and the dark outline of the shore sped past
the ship so rapidly that when the chairman of the union committee, a very
positive man, opened his mouth to speak about working conditions in the
unusual situation, he unexpectedly for himself, and for everyone else, began
singing:
 "A ship sailed down the Volga,
 Mother Volga, River Volga. . ."
 And the other, stern-faced members taking part in the meeting rumbled
the chorus:
 "The lilac bloo-ooms. . ."
 The resolution on the chairman's report was just not recorded. A piano
began to play. Kh. Ivanov, head of the musical accompaniment, drew the most
lyrical notes from the instrument. The balalaika virtuoso trailed after
Murochka and, not finding any words of his own to express his love, murmured
the words of a love song.
 "Don't go away! Your kisses still fire me, your passionate embraces
never tire me. The clouds have not awakened in the mountain passes, the
distant sky has not yet faded as a pearly star."
 Grasping the rail, Simbievich-Sindievich contemplated the infinite
heavens. Compared with them, his scenic effects appeared a piece of
disgusting vulgarity. He looked with revulsion at his hands, which had taken
such an eager part in arranging the scenic effects for the classical comedy.
 At the moment the languor was greatest, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin
and Zalkind, who were in the stern of the ship, began banging away at their
surgical and brewery appliances. They were rehearsing. Instantly the mirage
was dispelled. Agafya Tikhonovna yawned and, ignoring the balalaika
virtuoso, went to bed. The minds of the trade unionists were again full of
working conditions, and they dealt with the resolution. After careful
consideration, Simbievich-Sindievich came to the conclusion that the
production of The Marriage was not really so bad. An irate voice from the
darkness called Georgetta Tiraspolskikh to a producer's conference. Dogs
began barking in the villages and it became chilly.
 Ostap lay in a first-class cabin on a leather divan, thoughtfully
staring at a green canvas work belt and questioning Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Can you draw? That's a pity. Unfortunately, I can't, either."
 He thought for a while and then continued.
 "What about lettering? Can't do that either? Too bad. We're supposed to
be artists. Well, we'll manage for a day or so before they kick us out. In
the time we're here we can do everything we need to. The situation has
become a bit more complicated. I've found out that the chairs are in the
producer's cabin. But that's not so bad in the long run. The important thing
is that we're aboard. All the chairs must be examined before they throw us
off. It's too late for today. The producer's already asleep in his cabin."
 People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime.
Rafts floated up and down-huge fields of logs with little wooden houses on
them. A small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curve
over the paddle cover towed along three oil barges in a line. The Red
Latvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin overtook a convoy
of dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began making
a circle, turning against the stream.
 Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on
to the Bramino quayside. With this line the shoremen hauled over the thick
end of the mooring rope. The screws began turning the opposite way and half
the river was covered with seething foam. The Scriabin shook from the
cutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early for
the lottery, which did not start until ten.
 Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would have done on land-at
nine sharp. No one changed his habits. Those who were late for work on land
were late here, too, although they slept on the very premises. The field
staff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine very
quickly. Office-boys swept out their cabins with the same lack of interest
as they swept out the offices in Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, and
hurried with notes from the registry to the personnel department, not a bit
surprised that the latter was in the stern and the registry in the prow. In
the mutual settlement cabin the abacuses clicked like castanets and the
adding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone was
being hauled over the coals.
 Scorching his bare feet on the hot deck, the smooth operator walked
round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which he
kept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every worker
should have government bonds in his pocket."
 The smooth operator was doing his best, but his lack of talent was
painfully obvious. The words slanted downward and, at one stage, it looked
as though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then, with the boy Pussy's
help, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was now
more careful. Before daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lines
with string and chalk, and was now painting in the letters, cursing the
innocent Vorobyaninov.
 Vorobyaninov carried out his duties as boy conscientiously. He ran
below for hot water, melted the glue, sneezing as he did so, poured the
paints into a bucket, and looked fawningly into the exacting artist's eyes.
When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed it on
the side.
 The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see what the new
artist's work looked like from there. The letters of the words were of
different sizes and slightly cockeyed, but nothing could be done about it.
He had to be content.
 The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches.
The sound of the music brought children running from the whole of Bramino
and, after them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band went
on blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. A
meeting began. From the porch steps of Korobkov's tea-house came the first
sounds of a report on the international situation.
 From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see
the white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little way
from the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker,
and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands. Then the music
began again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playing
as it went. A crowd of people poured after it.
 The lottery device mechanically threw up its combination of figures.
Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizens
watched and listened.
 Ostap hurried down for a moment, made certain all the inmates of the
ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again.
 "Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art
department. Stand by the entrance to the first-class corridor and sing. If
anyone comes, sing louder."
 The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? "
 "Whatever else, don't make it 'God Save the Tsar'. Something with
feeling. 'The Apple' or 'A Beauty's Heart'. But I warn you, if you don't
come out with your aria in time . . . This isn't the experimental theatre.
I'll wring your neck."
 The smooth operator padded into the cherry-panelled corridor in his
bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected his
figure. He read the plate on the door:
 Nich. Sestrin
 Producer
 Columbus Theatre
 The mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying
a chair with curved legs. He sped along the corridor, out on to the deck,
and, glancing at Ippolit Matveyevich, took the chair aloft to the
wheelhouse. There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the chair
to the back and said warningly:
 "The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly
anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as soon
as it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents."
 A minute later the chair was covered up with sheets of ply-board and
bunting, and was no longer visible.
 Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever.
 "Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could
open it on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right away
and--"
 "And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we
perhaps take it back to Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry we took
your chair, but unfortunately we didn't find anything in it, so here it is
back somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?"
 As always, the smooth operator was right. Ippolit Matveyevich only
recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of the overture played on the
Esmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck.
 The lottery operations were over for the day. The onlookers spread out
on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negro
minstrels. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind kept looking up
proudly as though to say: 'There, you see! And you said the popular masses
would not understand. But art finds a way!'
 After this the Colombus troupe gave a short variety show with singing
and dancing on an improvised stage, the point of which was to demonstrate
how Vavila the peasant boy won fifty thousand roubles and what came of it.
The actors, who had now freed themselves from the chains of Sestrin's
constructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tuneful
voices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied.
 Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles.
 The balalaika was set in motion. It went flying behind the player's
back and from there came the "If the master has a chain, it means he has no
watch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gave
forth quite a few difficult variations.
 It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led out a herd of
girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances.
 While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its voyage, while the
captain talked with the engine-room through the speaking-tube, and the
boilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and, to
everyone's delight, began playing dances. Picturesque groups of dancers
formed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down a soft, apricot light.
It was an ideal moment for some newsreel shots. And, indeed, Polkan the
cameraman emerged yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had grown used
to his part as general office boy, followed him, cautiously carrying the
camera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polka
was being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping their feet as though
they wanted to split the planet. The girls sailed around. Onlookers crowded
the terraces and slopes. An avant-garde French cameraman would have found
enough material here to keep him busy for three days. Polkan, however,
having run his piggy eyes along the bank, immediately turned around, ambled
to the committee chairman, stood him against a white wall, pushed a book
into his hand, and, asking him not to move, smoothly turned the handle of
his cine-camera for some minutes. He then led the bashful chairman aft and
took him against the setting sun.
 Having completed his shots, Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and
locked himself in.
 Once more the hooter sounded and once more the sun hid in terror. The
second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave.
 Ostap thought with trepidation of the coming morning. Ahead of him was
the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing bonds. This artistic
ordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with the
lettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower.
 "Keep it in mind," warned the fat man, "from Vasyuki onward we are
holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent."
 "Don't worry at all," said Ostap, basing his hopes on that evening,
rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent."
 It was a starry, windy night. The animals in the lottery arc were
lulled to sleep. The lions from the lottery committee were asleep. So were
the lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the rabbits from mutual
settlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound effects, and the pigeons from
the typistry.
 Only the shady couple lay awake. The smooth operator emerged from his
cabin after midnight. He was followed by the noiseless shadow of the
faithful Pussy. They went up on deck and silently approached the chair,
covered with plyboard sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap stood
the chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with a
pair of pliers and inserted his hand.
 "Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice.
 Letter from Theodore
 written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife
 In the regional centre of N.
 My dear and precious Kate,
 Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the
Good-Value Furnished Rooms, having finished all my business. The city of
Baku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you still have
to go by electric train and I haven't any money. This picturesque city is
washed by the Caspian. It really is very large in size. The heat here is
awful. I carry my coat in one hand and my jacket in the other, and it's
still too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practically
no money. But no harm, my dear, we'll soon have plenty. We'll travel
everywhere and settle properly in Samara, near our factory, and we'll have
liqueurs to drink. But to get to the point.
 In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is
considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic.
There are many people from other parts here. Especially Armenians and
Persians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar and
saw many Turkish clothes and shawls. I wanted to buy you a present of a
Mohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when we
are rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedan
blanket.
 Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me
here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian;
and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary. Both these happenings
greatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviour
towards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, but
had actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for the
jacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it was
covered with kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, my
dearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals?
 I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance
to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's not
here just now. He's gone to Batumi on vacation. His family is living
permanently in Batumi. I spoke to some people and they said all his
furniture is there in Batumi. He has a little house there, at the Green
Cape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs.
15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the news
from Batumi. Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed in
Voronezh.
 Your husband ever,
 Theo.
 P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your
brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value. I'm very grieved. A good
thing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother.
 While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would
wait, and others that it would not, time passed in its usual way. The dusty
Moscow May was followed by a dusty June. In the regional centre of N., the
Gos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan Square and
Comrade Gubernsky Street for two days, now and then enveloping the vicinity
in desperate quantities of smoke. One by one the shamefaced members of the
Sword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison, having signed a
statement that they would not leave the town. Widow Gritsatsuyev (the
passionate woman and poet's dream) returned to her grocery business and was
fined only fifteen roubles for not placing the price list of soap, pepper,
blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in a
big-hearted woman.
 "Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into his quivering hands.
Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness.
 A beacon flashed on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river
and swam after the ship.
 "Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else."
 "There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Then you have a look as well."
 Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his arm as far
as he could inside the chair. He could feel the ends of the springs between
his fingers, but nothing else that was hard. There was a dry, stale smell of
disturbed dust from the chair.
 "Nothing?"
 "No."
 Ostap picked up the chair and hurled it far over the side. There was a
heavy splash. Shivering in the damp night air, the concessionaires went back
to their cabin filled with doubts.
 "Well, at any rate we found something," said Bender.
 Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and looked at it in a
daze.
 "Come on, come on! What are you goggling at?"
 The box was opened. On the bottom lay a copper plate, green with age,
which said:
 CRAFTSMAN
 HAMBS
 begins a new batch of furniture
 St. Petersburg 1865
 Ostap read the inscription aloud.
 "But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "You're remarkably shrewd, my dear chair-hunter. As you see, there
aren't any."
 Vorobyaninov was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting moustache
twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He looked as though he
was about to beat his face with his ears in desperation.
 The cold, sober voice of the smooth operator had its usual magic
effect. Vorobyaninov stretched his hands along the seams of his worn
trousers and kept quiet.
 "Shut up, sadness. Shut up, Pussy. Some day we'll have the laugh on the
stupid eighth chair in which we found the silly box. Cheer up! There are
three more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred."
 During the night a volcanic pimple erupted on the aggrieved Ippolit
Matveyevich's cheek. All his sufferings, all his setbacks, and the whole
ordeal of the jewel hunt seemed to be summed up in the pimple, which was
tinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue.
 "Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap.
 Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and went to fetch the paints,
his tall figure slightly bent, like a fishing rod. The transparent was
begun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck.
 And the third day of the voyage commenced.
 It commenced with a brief clash between the brass band and the sound
effects over a place to rehearse.
 After breakfast, the toughs with the brass tubes and the slender
knights with the Esmarch douches both made their way to the stern at the
same time. Galkin managed to get to the bench first. A clarinet from the
brass band came second.
 "The seat's taken," said Galkin sullenly.
 "Who by?" asked the clarinet ominously.
 "Me, Galkin."
 "Who else?"
 "Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind."
 "Haven't you got a Yolkin as well? This is our seat."
 Reinforcements were brought up on both sides. The most powerful machine
in the band was the helicon, encircled three times by a brass serpent. The
French horn swayed to and fro, looking like a human ear, and the trombones
were in a state of readiness for action. The sun was reflected a thousand
times in their armour. Beside them the sound effects looked dark and small.
Here and there a bottle glinted, the enema douches glimmered faintly, and
the saxophone, that outrageous take-off of a musical instrument, was pitiful
to see.
 "The enema battalion," said the bullying clarinet, "lays claim to this
seat."
 "You," said Zalkind, trying to find the most cutting expression he
could, "you are the conservatives of music!"
 "Don't prevent us rehearsing."
 "It's you who're preventing us. The less you rehearse on those
chamber-pots of yours, the nicer it sounds."
 "Whether you rehearse on those samovars of yours or not makes no damn
difference."
 Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained where they were and
obstinately began playing their own music. Down the river floated sounds
that could only have been made by a tram passing slowly over broken glass.
The brass played the Kexholm Lifeguards' march, while the sound effects
rendered a Negro dance, "An Antelope at the Source of the Zambesi". The
shindy was ended by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lottery
committee.
 At eleven o'clock the magnum opus was completed. Walking backwards,
Ostap and Vorobyaninov dragged their transparent up to the bridge. The fat
little man in charge ran in front with his hands in the air. By joint effort
the transparent was tied to the rail. It towered above the passenger deck
like a cinema screen. In half an hour the electrician had laid cables to the
back of the transparent and fitted up three lights inside it. All that
remained was to turn the switch.
 Off the starboard bow the lights of Vasyuki could already be made out
through the darkness.
 The chief summoned everyone to the ceremonial illumination of the
transparent. Ippolit Matveyevich and the smooth operator watched the
proceedings from above, standing beside the dark screen.
 Every event on board was taken seriously by the floating government
department. Typists, messengers, executives, the Columbus Theatre, and
members of the ship's company crowded on to the passenger deck, staring
upward.
 "Switch it on!" ordered the fat man.
 The transparent lit up.
 Ostap looked down at the crowd. Their faces were bathed in pink light.
The onlookers began laughing; then there was silence and a stern voice from
below said:
 "Where's the second-in-command?"
 The voice was so peremptory that the second-in-command rushed down
without counting the steps.
 "Just have a look," said the voice, "and admire your work!"
 "We're about to be booted off," whispered Ostap to Ippolit Matveyevich.
 And, indeed, the little fat man came flying up to the top deck like a
hawk.
 "Well, how's the transparent?" asked Ostap cheekily. "Is it long
enough?"
 "Collect your things!" shouted the fat man.
 "What's the hurry?"
 "Collect your things! You're going to court! Our boss doesn't like to
joke."
 "Throw him out!" came the peremptory voice from below.
 "But, seriously, don't you like our transparent? Isn't it really any
good?"
 There was no point in continuing the game. The Scriabin had already
heaved to, and the faces of the bewildered Vasyuki citizens crowding the
pier could be seen from the ship. Payment was categorically refused. They
were given five minutes to collect their things.
 "Incompetent fool," said Simbievich-Sindievich as the partners walked
down on to the pier. "They should have given the transparent to me to do. I
would have done it so that no Meyer-hold would have had a look-in!"
 On the quayside the concessionaires stopped and looked up. The
transparent shone bright against the dark sky.
 "Hm, yes," said Ostap, "the transparent is rather outlandish. A lousy
job!"
 Compared with Ostap's work, any picture drawn with the tail of an
unruly donkey would have been a masterpiece. Instead of a sower sowing
bonds, Ostap's mischievous hand had drawn a stumpy body with a sugar-loaf
head and thin whiplike arms.
 Behind the concessionaires the ship blazed with light and resounded
with music, while in front of them, on the high bank, was the darkness of
provincial midnight, the barking of a dog, and a distant accordion.
 "I will sum up the situation," said Ostap light-heartedly. "Debit: not
a cent of money; three chairs sailing down the river; nowhere to go; and no
SPCC badge. Credit: a 1926 edition of a guidebook to the Volga (I was forced
to borrow it from Monsieur Simbievich's cabin). To balance that without a
deficit would be very difficult. We'll have to spend the night on the quay."
 The concessionaires arranged themselves on the riverside benches. By
the light of a battered kerosene lamp Ostap read the guide-book:
 On the right-hand bank is the town of Vasyuki. The commodities
despatched from here are timber, resin, bark and bast; consumer goods are
delivered here for the region, which is fifty miles from the nearest
railway.
 The town has a population of 8,000; it has a state-owned cardboard
factory employing 520 workers, a small foundry, a brewery and a tannery.
Besides normal academic establishments, there is also a forestry school.
 "The situation is more serious than I thought," observed Ostap. "It
seems out of the question that we'll be able to squeeze any money out of the
citizens of Vasyuki. We nevertheless need thirty roubles. First, we have to
eat, and, second, we have to catch up the lottery ship and meet the Columbus
Theatre in Stalingrad."
 Ippolit Matveyevich curled up like an old emaciated tomcat after a
skirmish with a younger rival, an ebullient conqueror of roofs, penthouses
and dormer windows.
 Ostap walked up and down the benches, thinking and scheming. By one
o'clock a magnificent plan was ready. Bender lay down by the side of his
partner and went to sleep.
 A tall, thin, elderly man in a gold pince-nez and very dirty
paint-splashed boots had been walking about the town of Vasyuki since early
morning, attaching hand-written notices to walls. The notices read:
 On June 22,1927,
 a lecture entitled
 will be given at the Cardboardworker Club
 by Grossmeister (Grand Chess Master) O. Bender
 after which he will play
 on 160 boards
 Admission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 kopeks
 Participation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 kopeks
 Commencement at 6 p.m. sharp
 Bring your own chessboards
 MANAGER : K. Michelson
 The Grossmeister had not been wasting his time, either. Having rented
the club for three roubles, he hurried across to the chess section, which
for some reason or other was located in the corridor of the horse-breeding
administration.
 In the chess section sat a one-eyed man reading a Panteleyev edition of
one of Spielhagen's novels.
 "Grossmeister O. Bender!" announced Bender, sitting down on the table.
"I'm organizing a simultaneous chess match here."
 The Vasyuki chess player's one eye opened as wide as its natural limits
would allow.
 "One second, Comrade Grossmeister," he cried. "Take a seat, won't you?
I'll be back in a moment."
 And the one-eyed man disappeared. Ostap looked around the chess-section
room. The walls were hung with photographs of racehorses; on the table lay a
dusty register marked "Achievements of the Vasyuki Chess Section for 1925".
 The one-eyed man returned with a dozen citizens of varying ages. They
all introduced themselves in turn and respectfully shook hands with the
Grossmeister.
 "I'm on my way to Kazan," said Ostap abruptly. "Yes, yes, the match is
this evening. Do come along. I'm sorry, I'm not in form at the moment. The
Carlsbad tournament was tiring."
 The Vasyuki chess players listened to him with filial love in their
eyes. Ostap was inspired, and felt a flood of new strength and chess ideas.
 "You wouldn't believe how far chess thinking has advanced," he said.
"Lasker, you know, has gone as far as trickery. It's impossible to play him
any more. He blows cigar smoke over his opponents and smokes cheap cigars so
that the smoke will be fouler. The chess world is greatly concerned."
 The Grossmeister then turned to more local affairs.
 "Why aren't there any new ideas about in the province? Take, for
instance, your chess section. That's what it's called-the chess section.
That's boring, girls! Why don't you call it something else, in true chess
style? It would attract the trade-union masses into the section. For
example, you could call it The Four Knights Chess Club', or The Red
End-game', or 'A Decline in the Standard of Play with a Gain in Pace'. That
would be good. It has the right kind of sound."
 The idea was successful.
 "Indeed," exclaimed the citizens, "why shouldn't we rename our section
The Four Knights Chess Club'?"
 Since the chess committee was there on the spot, Ostap organized a
one-minute meeting under his honorary chairmanship, and the chess section
was unanimously renamed The Four Knights Chess Club'. Benefiting from his
lessons aboard the Scriabin, the Grossmeister artistically drew four knights
and the appropriate caption on a sheet of cardboard.
 This important step promised the flowering of chess thought in Vasyuki.
 "Chess!" said Ostap. "Do you realize what chess is? It promotes the
advance of culture and also the economy. Do you realize that The Four
Knights Chess Club', given the right organization, could completely
transform the town of Vasyuki?"
 Ostap had not eaten since the day before, which accounted for his
unusual eloquence.
 "Yes," he cried, "chess enriches a country! If you agree to my plan,
you'll soon be descending marble steps to the quay! Vasyuki will become the
centre of ten provinces! What did you ever hear of the town of Semmering
before? Nothing! But now that miserable little town is rich and famous just
because an international tournament was held there. That's why I say you
should organize an international chess tournament in Vasyuki."
 "How?" they all cried.
 "It's a perfectly practical plan," replied the Grossmeister. "My
connections and your activity are all that are required for an international
tournament in Vasyuki. Just think how fine that would sound-The 1927
International Tournament to be held in Vasyuki!' Such players as Jose-Raoul
Capablanca, Lasker, Alekhine, Reti, Rubinstein, Tarrasch, Widmar and Dr.
Grigoryev are bound to come. What's more, I'll take part myself!"
 "But what about the money?" groaned the citizens. "They would all have
to be paid. Many thousands of roubles! Where would we get it?"
 "A powerful hurricane takes everything into account," said Ostap. "The
money will come from collections."
 "And who do you think is going to pay that kind of money? The people of
Vasyuki?"
 "What do you mean, the people of Vasyuki? The people of Vasyuki are not
going to pay money, they're going to receive it. It's all extremely simple.
After all, chess enthusiasts will come from all over the world to attend a
tournament with such great champions. Hundreds of thousands of
people-well-to-do people-will head for Vasyuki. Naturally, the river
transport will not be able to cope with such a large number of passengers.
So the Ministry of Railways will have to build a main line from Moscow to
Vasyuki. That's one thing. Another is hotels and skyscrapers to accommodate
the visitors. The third thing is improvement of the agriculture over a
radius of five hundred miles; the visitors have to be provided with fruit,
vegetables, caviar and chocolate. The building for the actual tournament is
the next thing. Then there's construction of garages to house motor
transport for the visitors. An extra-high power radio station will have to
be built to broadcast the sensational results of the tournament to the rest
of the world. Now about the Vasyuki railway. It most likely won't be able to
carry all the passengers wanting to come to Vasyuki, so we will have to have
a 'Greater Vasyuki' airport with regular nights by mail planes and airships
to all parts of the globe, including Los Angeles and Melbourne."
 Dazzling vistas unfolded before the Vasyuki chess enthusiasts. The
walls of the room melted away. The rotting walls of the stud-farm collapsed
and in their place a thirty-storey building towered into the sky. Every
hall, every room, and even the lightning-fast lifts were full of people
thoughtfully playing chess on malachite encrusted boards.
 Marble steps led down to the blue Volga. Ocean-going steamers were
moored on the river. Cablecars communicating with the town centre carried up
heavy-faced foreigners, chess-playing ladies, Australian advocates of the
Indian defence, Hindus in turbans, devotees of the Spanish gambit, Germans,
Frenchmen, New Zealanders, inhabitants of the Amazon basin, and finally
Muscovites, citizens of Leningrad and Kiev, Siberians and natives of Odessa,
all envious of the citizens of Vasyuki.
 Lines of cars moved in between the marble hotels. Then suddenly
everything stopped. From out of the fashionable Pass Pawn Hotel came the
world champion Capablanca. He was surrounded by women. A militiaman dressed
in special chess uniform (check breeches and bishops in his lapels) saluted
smartly. The one-eyed president of the "Four Knights Club" of Vasyuki
approached the champion in a dignified manner.
 The conversation between the two luminaries, conducted in English, was
interrupted by the arrival by air of Dr. Grigoryev and the future world
champion, Alekhine.
 Cries of welcome shook the town. Capablanca glowered. At a wave of
one-eye's hand, a set of marble steps was run up to the plane. Dr. Grigoryev
came down, waving his hat and commenting, as he went, on a possible mistake
by Capablanca in his forthcoming match with Alekhine.
 Suddenly a black dot was noticed on the horizon. It approached rapidly,
growing larger and larger until it finally turned into a large emerald
parachute. A man with an attache case was hanging from the harness, like a
huge radish.
 "Here he is!" shouted one-eye. "Hooray, hooray, I recognize the great
philosopher and chess player Dr. Lasker. He is the only person in the world
who wears those green socks." Capablanca glowered again.
 The marble steps were quickly brought up for Lasker to alight on, and
the cheerful ex-champion, blowing from his sleeve a speck of dust which had
settled on him over Silesia f ell into the arms of one-eye. The latter put
his arm around Lasker's waist and walked him over to the champion, saying:
 "Make up your quarrel! On behalf of the popular masses of Vasyuki, I
urge you to make up your quarrel."
 Capablanca sighed loudly and, shaking hands with the veteran, said: "I
always admired your idea of moving QK5 to QB3 in the Spanish gambit."
 "Hooray!" exclaimed one-eye. "Simple and convincing in the style of a
champion."
 And the incredible crowd joined in with: "Hooray! Vivat! Banzai! Simple
and convincing in the style of a champion!"
 Express trains sped into the twelve Vasyuki stations, depositing ever
greater crowds of chess enthusiasts.
 Hardly had the sky begun to glow from the brightly lit advertisements,
when a white horse was led through the streets of the town. It was the only
horse left after the mechanization of the town's transportation. By special
decree it had been renamed a stallion, although it had actually been a mare
the whole of its life. The lovers of chess acclaimed it with palm leaves and
chessboards.
 "Don't worry," continued Ostap, "my scheme will guarantee the town an
unprecedented boom in your production forces. Just think what will happen
when the tournament is over and the visitors have left. The citizens of
Moscow, crowded together on account of the housing shortage, will come
flocking to your beautiful town. The capital will be automatically
transferred to Vasyuki. The government will move here. Vasyuki will be
renamed New Moscow, and Moscow will become Old Vasyuki. The people of
Leningrad and Kharkov will gnash their teeth in fury but won't be able to do
a thing about it. New Moscow will soon become the most elegant city in
Europe and, soon afterwards, in the whole world."
 "The whole world!! I" gasped the citizens of Vasyuki in a daze.
 "Yes, and, later on, in the universe. Chess thinking-which has turned a
regional centre into the capital of the world-will become an applied science
and will invent ways of interplanetary communication. Signals will be sent
from Vasyuki to Mars, Jupiter and Neptune. Communications with Venus will be
as easy as going from Rybinsk to Yaroslavl. And then who knows what may
happen? In maybe eight or so years the first interplanetary chess tournament
in the history of the world will be held in Vasyuki."
 Ostap wiped his noble brow. He was so hungry he could have eaten a
roasted knight from the chessboard.
 "Ye-es," said the one-eyed man with a sigh, looking around the dusty
room with an insane light in his eye, "but how are we to put the plan into
effect, to lay the basis, so to say?"
 They all looked at the Grossmelster tensely.
 "As I say, in practice the plan depends entirely on your activity. I
will do all the organizing myself. There will be no actual expense, except
for the cost of the telegrams."
 One-eyed nudged his companions. "Well?" he asked, "what do you say?"
 "Let's do it, let's do it!" cried the citizens.
 "How much money is needed for the . . . er . . . telegrams?"
 "A mere bagatelle. A hundred roubles."
 "We only have twenty-one roubles in the cash box. We realize, of
course, that it is by no means enough . . ."
 But the Grossmeister proved to be accommodating. "All right," he said,
"give me the twenty roubles."
 "Will it be enough?" asked one-eye.
 "It'll be enough for the initial telegrams. Later on we can start
collecting contributions. Then there'll be so much money we shan't know what
to do with it."
 Putting the money away in his green field jacket, the Grossmeister
reminded the gathered citizens of his lecture and simultaneous match on one
hundred and sixty boards, and, taking leave of them until evening, made his
way to the Cardboard-worker Club to find Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "I'm starving," said Vorobyaninov in a tremulous voice.
 He was already sitting at the window of the box office, but had not
collected one kopek; he could not even buy a hunk of bread. In front of him
lay a green wire basket intended for the money. It was the kind that is used
in middle-class houses to hold the cutlery.
 "Listen, Vorobyaninov," said Ostap, "stop your cash transactions for an
hour and come and eat at the caterers' union canteen. I'll describe the
situation as we go. By the way, you need a shave and brush-up. You look like
a tramp. A Grossmeister cannot have such suspicious-looking associates."
 "I haven't sold a single ticket," Ippolit Matveyevich informed him.
 "Don't worry. People will come flocking in towards evening. The town
has already contributed twenty roubles for the organization of an
international chess tournament."
 "Then why bother about the simultaneous match?" whispered his manager.
"You may lose the games anyway. With twenty roubles we can now buy tickets
for the ship-the Karl Liebknecht has just come in-travel quietly to
Stalingrad and wait for the theatre to arrive. We can probably open the
chairs there. Then we'll be rich and the world will belong to us."
 "You shouldn't say such silly things on an empty stomach. It has a bad
effect on the brain. We might reach Stalingrad on twenty roubles, but what
are we going to eat with? Vitamins, my dear comrade marshal, are not given
away free. On the other hand, we can get thirty roubles out of the locals
for the lecture and match."
 "They'll slaughter us!" said Vorobyaninov.
 "It's a risk, certainly. We may be manhandled a bit. But anyway, I have
a nice little plan which will save you, at least. But we can talk about that
later on. Meanwhile, let's go and try the local dishes."
 Towards six o'clock the Grossmeister, replete, freshly shaven, and
smelling of eau-de-Cologne, went into the box office of the Cardboardworker
Club.
 Vorobyaninov, also freshly shaven, was busily selling tickets.
 "How's it going? " asked the Grossmeister quietly.
 "Thirty have gone in and twenty have paid to play," answered his
manager.
 "Sixteen roubles. That's bad, that's bad!" -
 "What do you mean, Bender? Just look at the number of people standing
in line. They're bound to beat us up."
 "Don't think about it. When they hit you, you can cry. In the meantime,
don't dally. Learn to do business."
 An hour later there were thirty-five roubles in the cash box. The
people in the clubroom were getting restless.
 "Close the window and give me the money!" said Bender. "Now listen!
Here's five roubles. Go down to the quay, hire a boat for a couple of hours,
and wait for me by the riverside just below the warehouse. We're going for
an evening boat trip. Don't worry about me. I'm in good form today."
 The Grossmeister entered the clubroom. He felt in good spirits and knew
for certain that the first move-pawn to king four-would not cause him any
complications. The remaining moves were, admittedly, rather more obscure,
but that did not disturb the smooth operator in the least. He had worked out
a surprise plan to extract him from the most hopeless game.
 The Grossmeister was greeted with applause. The small club-room was
decorated with coloured flags left over from an evening held a week before
by the lifeguard rescue service. This was clear, furthermore, from the
slogan on the wall:
 IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES
 Ostap bowed, stretched out his hands as though restraining the public
from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.
 "Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice:
"the subject of my lecture today is one on which I spoke, not without
certain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago. The subject of my
lecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.
 "What, Comrades, is an opening? And what, Comrades, is an idea? An
opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia. And what, Comrades, is an idea? An
idea, Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form. Even with
insignificant forces you can master the whole of the chessboard. It all
depends on each separate individual. Take, for example, the fair-haired
young man sitting in the third row. Let's assume he plays well. . . ." The
fair-haired young man turned red.
 "And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play
very well."
 Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow.
 "What do we see, Comrades? We see that the fair-haired fellow plays
well and that the other one plays badly. And no amount of lecturing can
change this correlation of forces unless each separate individual keeps
practising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell you
some instructive stories about our esteemed ultramodernists, Capablanca,
Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."
 Ostap told the audience a few antiquated anecdotes, gleaned in
childhood from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first half of the
evening.
 The brevity of the lecture caused certain surprise. The one-eyed man
was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.
 The beginning of the simultaneous chess match, however, allayed the
one-eyed chess player's growing suspicions. Together with the rest, he set
up the tables along three sides of the room. Thirty enthusiasts in all took
their places to play the Grossmeister. Many of them were in complete
confusion and kept glancing at books on chess to refresh their knowledge of
complicated variations, with the help of which they hoped not to have to
resign before the twenty-second move, at least.
 Ostap ran his eyes along the line of black chessmen surrounding him on
three sides, looked at the door, and then began the game. He went up to the
one-eyed man, who was sitting at the first board, and moved the king's pawn
forward two squares.
 One-eye immediately seized hold of his ears and began thinking hard.
 A whisper passed along the line of players. "The Grossmeister has
played pawn to king four."
 Ostap did not pamper his opponents with a variety of openings. On the
remaining twenty-nine boards he made the same move-pawn to king four. One
after another the enthusiasts seized their heads and launched into feverish
discussions. Those who were not playing followed the Grossmeister with their
eyes. The only amateur photographer in the town was about to clamber on to a
chair and light his magnesium flare when Ostap waved his arms angrily and,
breaking off his drift along the boards, shouted loudly:
 "Remove the photographer! He is disturbing my chess thought!"
 What would be the point of leaving a photograph of myself in this
miserable town, thought Ostap to himself. I don't much like having dealings
with the militia.
 Indignant hissing from the enthusiasts forced the photographer to
abandon his attempt. In fact, their annoyance was so great that he was
actually put outside the, door.
 At the third move it became clear that in eighteen games the
Grossmeister was playing a Spanish gambit. In the other twelve the blacks
played the old-fashioned, though fairly reliable, Philidor defence. If Ostap
had known he was using such cunning gambits and countering such tested
defences, he would have been most surprised. The truth of the matter was
that he was playing chess for the second time in his life.
 At first the enthusiasts, and first and foremost one-eye, were
terrified at the Grossmeister's obvious craftiness.
 With singular ease, and no doubt scoffing to himself at the
backwardness of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, the Grossmeister sacrificed pawns
and other pieces left and right. He even sacrificed his queen to the
brown-haired fellow whose skill had been so belittled during the lecture.
The man was horrified and about to resign; it was only by a terrific effort
of will that he was able to continue.
 The storm broke about five minutes later. "Mate!" babbled the
brown-haired fellow, terrified out of his wits. "You're checkmate, Comrade
Grossmeister!'
 Ostap analysed the situation, shamefully called a rook a "castle" and
pompously congratulated the fellow on his win. A hum broke out among the
enthusiasts.
 Time to push off, thought Ostap, serenely wandering up and down the
rows of tables and casually moving pieces about.
 "You've moved the knight wrong, Comrade Grossmeister," said one-eye,
cringing. "A knight doesn't go like that."
 "So sorry," said the Grossmeister, "I'm rather tired after the
lecture."
 During the next ten minutes the Grossmeister lost a further ten games.
 Cries of surprise echoed through the Cardboardworker club-room.
Conflict was near. Ostap lost fifteen games in succession, and then another
three.
 Only one-eye was left. At the beginning of the game he had made a large
number of mistakes from nervousness and was only now bringing the game to a
victorious conclusion. Unnoticed by those around, Ostap removed the black
rook from the board and hid it in his pocket.
 A crowd of people pressed tightly around the players.
 "I had a rook on this square a moment ago," cried one-eye, looking
round, "and now it's gone!"
 "If it's not there now, it wasn't there at all," said Ostap, rather
rudely.
 "Of course it was. I remember it distinctly!"
 "Of course it wasn't!"
 "Where's it gone, then? Did you take it?"
 "Yes, I took it."
 "At which move?"
 "Don't try to confuse me with your rook. If you want to resign, say
so!"
 "Wait a moment, Comrades, I have all the moves written down."
 "Written down my foot!"
 "This is disgraceful!" yelled one-eye. "Give me back the rook!"
 "Come on, resign, and stop this fooling about."
 "Give me back my rook!"
 At this point the Grossmeister, realizing that procrastination was the
thief of time, seized a handful of chessmen and threw them in his one-eyed
opponent's face.
 "Comrades!" shrieked one-eye. "Look, everyone, he's hitting an
amateur!"
 The chess players of Vasyuki were aghast.
 Without wasting valuable time, Ostap hurled a chessboard at the lamp
and, hitting out at jaws and faces in the ensuing darkness, ran out into the
street. The Vasyuki chess enthusiasts, falling over each other, tore after
him.
 It was a moonlit evening. Ostap bounded along the silvery street as
lightly as an angel repelled from the sinful earth. On account of the
interrupted transformation of Vasyuki into the centre of the world, it was
not between palaces that Ostap had to run, but wooden houses with outside
shutters.
 The chess enthusiasts raced along behind.
 "Catch the Grossmeister!" howled one-eye.
 "Twister!" added the others.
 "Jerks!" snapped back the Grossmeister, increasing his speed.
 "Stop him!" cried the outraged chess players.
 Ostap began running down the steps leading down to the quay. He had
four hundred steps to go. Two enthusiasts, who had taken a short cut down
the hillside, were waiting for him at the bottom of the sixth flight. Ostap
looked over his shoulder. The advocates of Philidor's defence were pouring
down the steps like a pack of wolves. There was no way back, so he kept on
going.
 "Just wait till I get you, you bastards!" he shouted at the two-man
advance party, hurtling down from the sixth flight.
 The frightened troopers gasped, fell over the balustrade, and rolled
down into the darkness of mounds and slopes. The path was clear.
 "Stop the Grossmeister !" echoed shouts from above.
 The pursuers clattered down the wooden steps with a noise like falling
skittle balls.
 Reaching the river bank, Ostap made to the right, searching with his
eyes for the boat containing his faithful manager.
 Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting serenely in the boat. Ostap dropped
heavily into a seat and began rowing for all he was worth. A minute later a
shower of stones flew in the direction of the boat, one of them hitting
Ippolit Matveyevich. A yellow bruise appeared on the side of his face just
above the volcanic pimple. Ippolit Matveyevich hunched his shoulders and
began whimpering.
 "You are a softie! They practically lynched me, but I'm still happy and
cheerful. And if you take the fifty roubles net profit into account, one
bump on the head isn't such an unreasonable price to pay."
 In the meantime, the pursuers, who had only just realized that their
plans to turn Vasyuki into New Moscow had collapsed and that the
Grossmeister was absconding with fifty vital Vasyukian roubles, piled into a
barge and, with loud shouts, rowed out into midstream. Thirty people were
crammed into the boat, all of whom were anxious to take a personal part in
settling the score with the Grossmeister. The expedition was commanded by
one-eye, whose single peeper shone in the night like a lighthouse.
 "Stop the Grossmeister!" came shouts from the overloaded barge.
 "We must step on it, Pussy!" said Ostap. "If they catch up with us, I
won't be responsible for the state of your pince-nez."
 Both boats were moving downstream. The gap between them was narrowing.
Ostap was going all out.
 "You won't escape, you rats!" people were shouting from the barge.
 Ostap had no time to answer. His oars flashed in and out of the water,
churning it up so that it came down in floods in the boat.
 Keep going! whispered Ostap to himself.
 Ippolit Matveyevich had given up hope. The larger boat was gaining on
them and its long hull was already flanking them to port in an attempt to
force the Grossmeister over to the bank. A sorry fate awaited the
concessionaires. The jubilance of the chess players in the barge was so
great that they all moved across to the sides to be in a better position to
attack the villainous Grossmeister in superior forces as soon as they drew
alongside the smaller boat.
 "Watch out for your pince-nez, Pussy," shouted Ostap in despair,
throwing aside the oars. "The fun is about to begin."
 "Gentlemen!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in a croaking voice, "you
wouldn't hit us, would you? "
 "You'll see!" roared the enthusiasts, getting ready to leap into the
boat.
 But at that moment something happened which will outrage all honest
chess players throughout the world. The barge listed heavily and took in
water on the starboard side.
 "Careful!" squealed the one-eyed captain.
 But it was too late. There were too many enthusiasts on one side of the
Vasyuki dreadnought. As the centre of gravity shifted, the boat stopped
rocking, and, in full conformity with the laws of physics, capsized.
 A concerted wailing disturbed the tranquillity of the river.
 "Ooooooh!" groaned the chess players.
 All thirty enthusiasts disappeared under the water. They quickly came
up one by one and seized hold of the upturned boat. The last to surface was
one-eye.
 "You jerks!" cried Ostap in delight. "Why don't you come and get your
Grossmeister? If I'm not mistaken, you intended to trounce me, didn't you? "
 Ostap made a circle around the shipwrecked mariners.
 "You realize, individuals of Vasyuki, that I could drown you all one by
one, don't you? But I'm going to spare your lives.
 Live on, citizens! Only don't play chess any more, for God's sake.
You're just no good at it, you jerks! Come on, Ippolit Matveyevich, let's
go. Good-bye, you one-eyed amateurs! I'm afraid Vasyuki will never become a
world centre. I doubt whether the masters of chess would ever visit fools
like you, even if I asked them to. Good-bye, lovers of chess thrills! Long
live the 'Four Knights Chess Club'!"
 Morning found the concessionaires in sight of Chebokary. Ostap was
dozing at the rudder while Ippolit Matveyevich sleepily moved the oars
through the water. Both were shivering from the chilliness of the night.
Pink buds blossomed in the east. Ippolit Matveyevich's pince-nez was all of
a glitter. The oval lenses caught the light and alternately reflected one
bank and then the other. A signal beacon from the left bank arched in the
biconcave glass. The blue domes of Chebokary sailed past like ships. The
garden in the east grew larger, and the buds changed into volcanoes, pouring
out lava of the best sweetshop colours. Birds on the bank were causing a
noisy scene. The gold nosepiece of the pince-nez flashed and dazzled the
Grossmeister. The sun rose. Ostap opened his eyes and stretched himself,
tilting the boat and cracking his joints.
 "Good morning, Pussy," he said, suppressing a yawn. "I come to bring
greetings and to tell you the sun is up and is making something over there
glitter with a bright, burning light. . ." "The pier. . . ." reported
Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap took out the guide-book and consulted it. "From
all accounts it's Chebokary. I see: 'Let us note the pleasantly situated
town of Chebokary.' "Do you really think it's pleasantly situated, Pussy?
'At the present time Chebokary has 7,702 inhabitants' "Pussy! Let's give up
our hunt for the jewels and increase the population to 7,704. What about it?
It would be very effective. We'll open a 'Petits Chevaux' gaming-house and
from the 'Petits Chevaux' we'll have une grande income. Anyway, to continue:
 'Founded in 1555, the town has preserved some very interesting
churches. Besides the administrative institutions of the Chuvash Republic,
Chebokary also has a workers' school, a Party school, a teachers' institute,
two middle-grade schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. On
the quayside and in the bazaar it is possible to see Chuvash and Cheremis
nationals, distinguishable by their dress. . . .'"
 But before the friends were able to reach the quay, where the Chuvash
and Cheremis nationals were to be seen, their attention was caught by an
object floating downstream ahead of the boat.
 "The chair!" cried Ostap. "Manager! It's our chair!"
 The partners rowed over to the chair. It bobbed up and down, turned
over, went under, and came up farther away from the boat. Water poured
freely into its slashed belly.
 It was the chair opened aboard the Scriabin, and it was now floating
slowly towards the Caspian Sea.
 "Hi there, friend!" called Ostap. "Long time no see. You know,
Vorobyaninov, that chair reminds me of our life. We're also floating with
the tide. People push us under and we come up again, although they aren't
too pleased about it. No one likes us, except for the criminal investigation
department, which doesn't like us, either. Nobody has any time for us. If
the chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, the only thing left
of us would have been the coroner's report. 'Both bodies lay with their feet
to the south-east and their heads to the north-west. There were jagged
wounds in the bodies, apparently inflicted by a blunt instrument.' The
enthusiasts would have beaten us with chessboards, I imagine. That's
certainly a blunt instrument. The first body belonged to a man of about
fifty-five, dressed in a torn silk jacket, old trousers, and old boots. In
the jacket pocket was an identification card bearing the name Konrad
Karlovich Michelson . ..' That's what they would have written about you,
Pussy."
 "And what would they have written about you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich
irritably.
 "Ah! They would have written something quite different about me. It
would have gone like this: 'The second corpse belonged to a man of about
twenty-seven years of age. He loved and suffered. He loved money and
suffered from a lack of it. His head with its high forehead fringed with
raven-black curls was turned towards the sun. His elegant feet, size
forty-two boots, were pointing towards the northern lights. The body was
dressed in immaculate white clothes, and on the breast was a gold harp
encrusted with mother-of-pearl, bearing the words of the song "Farewell, New
Village!" The deceased youth engaged in poker-work, which was clear from the
permit No. 86/1562, issued on 8/23/24 by the Pegasus-and-Parnasus
craftsmen's artel, found in the pocket of his tails.' And they would have
buried me, Pussy, with pomp and circumstance, speeches, a band, and my
grave-stone would have had the inscription 'Here lies the unknown
central-heating engineer and conqueror, Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria Bender
Bey, whose father, a Turkish citizen, died without leaving his son,
Ostap-Suleiman, a cent. The deceased's mother was a countess of independent
means."
 Conversing along these lines, the concessionaires nosed their way to
the bank.
 That evening, having increased their capital by five roubles from the
sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends went aboard the diesel ship Uritsky
and sailed for Stalingrad, hoping to overtake the slow-moving lottery ship
and meet the Columbus Theatre troupe in Stalingrad.
 The Scriabin reached Stalingrad at the beginning of July. The friends
met it, hiding behind crates on the quayside. Before the ship was unloaded,
a lottery was held aboard and some big prizes were won.
 They had to wait four hours for the chairs. First to come ashore was
the theatre group and then the lottery employees. Persidsky's shining face
stood out among them. As they lay in wait, the concessionaires could hear
him shouting:
 "Yes, I'll come to Moscow immediately. I've already sent a telegram.
And do you know which one? 'Celebrating with you.' Let them guess who it's
from."
 Then Persidsky got into a hired car, having first inspected it
thoroughly, and drove off, accompanied for some reason by shouts of
"Hooray!"
 As soon as the hydraulic press had been unloaded, the scenic effects
were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen by the time they unloaded
the chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse carts and, gaily shouting,
went straight to the station.
 "I don't think they're going to play in Stalingrad," said Ippolit
Matveyevich.
 Ostap was in a quandary.
 "We'll have to travel with them," he decided. "But where's the money?
Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."
 At the station it turned out that the theatre was going to Pyatigorsk
via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.
 "Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov.
 "I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly.
 "Damn you! Better not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll
do the bilking."
 Ippolit Matveyevich was bought a ticket in an upholstered coach and
with it travelled to the station Mineral Waters on the North Caucasus
Railway. Keeping out of sight of the troupe alighting at the station
(decorated with oleander shrubs in green tubs), the former marshal went to
look for Ostap.
 Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line
coaches, Ostap was still not to be seen. He finally arrived in the evening
and found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.
 "Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?"
 "You were in a state, and you had a ticket in your pocket! And I
wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of the last coach of your
train? Who spent three hours waiting like an idiot for a goods train with
empty mineral-water bottles? You're a swine, citizen marshal! Where's the
theatre? "
 "In Pyatigorsk."
 "Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is
three roubles. It isn't much, of course, but enough for the first purchase
of mineral water and railway tickets."
 Creaking like a cart, the train left for Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes
later, passing Zmeika and Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the foot
of Mashuk.
 It was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and washed. Even Mashuk,
overgrown with shrubbery and small clumps of trees, was carefully combed and
exuded a smell of toilet water.
 White trousers of the most varied types flashed up and down the toy
platform: there were trousers made of twill, moleskin, calamanco, duck and
soft flannel. People were walking about in sandals and Apache shirts. In
their heavy, dirty boots, heavy dusty trousers, heated waistcoats and
scorching jackets, the concessionaires felt very out of place. Among the
great variety of gaily coloured cottons in which the girls of the resort
were parading themselves, the brightest and most elegant was the uniform of
the stationmaster.
 To the surprise of all newcomers, the stationmaster was a woman. Auburn
curls peeped from under her red peaked cap with its two lines of silver
braid around the band. She wore a white tunic and a white skirt.
 As soon as the travellers had had a good look at the station-master,
had read the freshly pasted notices advertising the tour of the Columbus
Theatre and drunk two five-kopek glasses of mineral water, they went into
the town on the Station-Flower Garden tram route. They were charged ten
kopeks to go into the Flower Garden.
 In the Flower Garden there was a great deal of music, a large number of
happy people, and very few flowers. A symphony orchestra in a white
shell-like construction was playing the "Dance of the Gnats"; narzan mineral
water was on sale in the Lermontov gallery, and was also obtainable from
kiosks and vendors walking around.
 No one had time for the two grimy jewel-hunters.
 "My, Pussy," said Ostap, "we're out of place in all this festivity."
 The concessionaires spent their first night at the spa by a narzan
spring.
 It was only there, in Pyatigorsk, when the Columbus Theatre had
performed their version of The Marriage to an audience of astounded
town-dwellers for the third time, that the partners realized the real
difficulties involved in their treasure hunt. To find their way into the
theatre as they had planned proved impossible. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,
Chalkin and Zalkind slept in the wings, since their modest earnings
prevented them from living in a hotel.
 The days passed, and the friends were slowly reaching the end of their
tether, spending their nights 'at the site of Lermontov's duel and
subsisting by carrying the baggage of peasant tourists.
 On the sixth day Ostap managed to strike up an acquaintance with
Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press. By this time,
Mechnikov, who had no money and was forced to get rid of his daily hang-over
by drinking mineral water, was in a terrible state and had been observed by
Ostap to sell some of the theatre props at the market. Final agreement was
reached during the morning libation by a spring. The fitter called Ostap
"Palsie" and seemed about to consent.
 "That's possible," he said. "That's always possible, palsie. It's my
pleasure, palsie."
 Ostap realized at once that the fitter knew his stuff.
 The contracting parties looked one another in the eye, embraced,
slapped each other's backs and laughed politely.
 "Well," said Ostap, "ten for the whole deal."
 "Palsie!" exclaimed the astonished fitter, "don't make me mad. I'm a
man who's suffering from the narzan."
 "How much do you want then?"
 "Make it fifty. After all, it's government property. I'm a man who's
suffering."
 "All right, accept twenty. Agreed? I see from your eyes you agree."
 "Agreement is the result of complete non-objection on both sides."
 "There are no flies on this one," whispered Ostap to Vorobyaninov.
"Take a lesson."
 "When will you bring the chairs?"
 "You'll get the chairs when I get the money."
 "That's fine," said Ostap without thinking.
 "Money in advance," declared the fitter. "The money in the morning, the
chairs in the evening; or, the money in the evening, the chairs the next
morning."
 "What about the chairs this morning, the money tomorrow evening," tried
Ostap.
 "Palsie, I'm a man who's suffering. Such terms are revolting."
 "But the point is, I won't receive my money by telegraph until
tomorrow," said Ostap.
 "Then we'll discuss the matter tomorrow," concluded the obstinate
fitter. "And in the meantime, palsie, have a nice time at the spring. I'm
off. Simbievich has me by the throat. I've no strength left. Can you expect
a man to thrive on mineral water?"
 And resplendent in the sunlight, Mechnikov went off.
 Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "The time we have," he said, "is the money we don't have. Pussy, we
must decide on a career. A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero
kopeks awaits us. We only need twenty roubles for the treasure to be ours.
We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."
 Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully.
 "OS with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy."
 He took the jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov, threw it on the
ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.
 "What are you doing?" howled Vorobyaninov. "I've been wearing that
jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."
 "Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your hat. Now, sprinkle
your trousers with dust and pour some mineral water over them. Be quick
about it."
 In a few moments Ippolit Matveyevich was dirty to the point of
revulsion.
 "Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money."
 "What am I supposed to do?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully. "You
know French, I hope? "
 "Not very well. What I learned at school." "Hm . . . then we'll have to
operate with what you learned at school. Can you say in French, 'Gentleman,
I haven't eaten for six days'?"
 "M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . .
je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do you
say 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six. It's: 'Je ne mange pas six
jours' "
 "What an accent, Pussy! Anyway, what do you expect from a beggar. Of
course a beggar in European Russia wouldn't speak French as well as
Milerand. Right, pussy, and how much German do you know?"
 "Why all this?" exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. "Because," said Ostap
weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're going to stand in
the shade and beg for alms in French, German and Russian, emphasizing the
fact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. The
net profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich was transfigured. His chest swelled up like the
Palace bridge in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire, and his nose seemed to
Ostap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.
 "Dear me," said the smooth operator, not in the least alarmed. "Just
look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."
 "Never," suddenly said Ippolit Matveyevich, "never has Vorobyaninov
held out his hand."
 "Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap.
"So you've never held out your hand?"
 "No, I have not."
 "Spoken like a true gigolo. You've been living off me for the last
three months. For three months I've been providing you with food and drink
and educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position and
say . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you go right
away to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by nightfall, or else
I'm automatically removing you from the list of shareholders in the
concession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ."
 "Yes," mumbled the marshal.
 "In that case, repeat the words."
 "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur
ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma."
 "Once again. Make it more heart-rending."
 Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words.
 "All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go.
 The rendezvous is at midnight here by the spring. That's not for
romantic reasons, mind you, but simply because people give more in the
evening."
 "What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?"
 "Don't worry about me. As usual, I shall be where things are most
difficult."
 The friends went their ways.
 Ostap hurried to a small stationery shop, bought a book of receipts
with his last ten-kopek bit, and sat on a stone block for an hour or so,
numbering the receipts and scribbling something on each one.
 "System above all," he muttered to himself. "Every public kopek must be
accounted for."
 The smooth operator marched up the mountain road that led round Mashuk
to the site of Lermontov's duel with Martynov, passing sanatoriums and rest
homes.
 Constantly overtaken by buses and two-horse carriages, he arrived at
the Drop.
 A narrow path cut in the cliff led to a conical drop. At the end of the
path was a parapet from which one could see a puddle of stinking malachite
at the bottom of the Drop. This Drop is considered one of the sights of
Pyatigorsk and is visited by a large number of tourists in the course of a
day.
 Ostap had seen at once that for a man without prejudice the Drop could
be a source of income.
 "What a remarkable thing," mused Ostap, "that the town has never
thought of charging ten kopeks to see the Drop. It seems to be the only
place where the people of Pyatigorsk allow the sightseers in free. I will
remove that blemish on the town's escutcheon and rectify the regrettable
omission."
 And Ostap acted as his reason, instinct, and the situation in hand
prompted.
 He stationed himself at the entrance to the Drop and, rustling the
receipt book, called out from time to time:
 "Buy your tickets here, citizens. Ten kopeks. Children and servicemen
free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!"
 It was a sure bet. The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went to the Drop,
and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no great
difficulty. The non-union members, of whom there were many in Pyatigorsk,
were a great help.
 They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked
tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:
 "You see, Tanyusha, what did I tell you? And you said there was no
charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?"
 "You're absolutely right. It would be quite impossible not to charge
for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members."
 Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the
Drop in two wagons. Ostap was alarmed and was about to pretend to be an
innocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded round the smooth operator so
timidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice:
 "Union members, ten kopeks; but since representatives of the militia
can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks."
 The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what purpose the
money was being collected.
 "For general repairs to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't
drop too much."
 While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of the malachite
puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame,
stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by, mumbled his
three phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."
People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly. However, by
exploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pulling
at their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of the
Tsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.
 The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra
played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between. Brightly
coloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, and
came back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens trying
matsoni on the verandah of the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologne
and sulphur gas.
 "Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal.
 "Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice
right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah!
Ah! First rate!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about
in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He had
changed his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with a
playful spotted pattern. He was in unusual spirits and from time to time
jumped as much as five or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov did not
recognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.
 "Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald?
Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!"
 Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused
marshal's hand and ran off. But for some time afterwards his thick thighs
could be glimpsed in various parts of the Flower Garden, and his voice
seemed to float down from the trees.
 "Ah! Ah! 'Don't sing to me, my beauty, of sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They
remind me of another life and a distant shore.' 'And in the morning she
smiled again.' First rate!"
 Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he
did so. He missed a lot.
 In the enchanting darkness of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shukin
strolled through the park, dragging after her the submissive and newly
reconciled Ernest Pavlovich. The trip to the spa was the finale of the hard
battle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud American girl had recently set
sail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.
 "Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!"
 In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen. Her cheeks
were still adorned with sideburns. Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab,
washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking her
sideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.
 After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had
been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan, "By carefully
masticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have a
holiday and enjoy himself. Fate itself had saved the full-bellied little
crook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostap
would certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.
 Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to the spring as the musicians were
folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courting
couples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.
 "How much did you collect?" asked Ostap as soon as the marshal's
hunched figure appeared at the spring.
 "Seven roubles, twenty-nine kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest,
copper and silver."
 "For the first go-terrific! An executive's rate! You amaze me, Pussy.
But what fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know? You didn't give him
change, I hope?"
 "It was Iznurenkov."
 "What, really? Absalom! Why, that rolling stone. Where has he rolled
to! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn't recognize you!"
 "He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma. And laughed."
 "There, you see, marshal, it's not really so bad being a beggar,
particularly with a moderate education and a feeble voice. And you were
stubborn about it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were the Lord
Privy Seal. Well, Pussy my lad, I haven't been wasting my time, either.
Fifteen roubles. Altogether that's enough."
 The next morning the fitter received his money and brought them two
chairs in the evening. He claimed it was not possible to get the third chair
as the sound effects were playing cards on it.
 For greater security the friends climbed practically to the top of
Mashuk.
 Beneath, the lights of Pyatigorsk shone strong and steady. Below
Pyatigorsk more feeble lights marked Goryachevodsk village. On the horizon
Kislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines.
 Ostap glanced up at the starry sky and took the familiar pliers from
his pocket.
 Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden
house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of which
cast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his white
shirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineer
was restlessly awaiting his dinner.
 Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a
petulant, chubby little boy:
 "Moo-oosie!"
 The house was silent.
 The tropical flora fawned on the engineer. Cacti stretched out their
spiky mittens towards him. Dracaena shrubs rustled their leaves. Banana
trees and sago palms chased the flies from his face, and the roses with
which the verandah was woven fell at his feet.
 But all in vain. Bruns was hungry. He glowered petulantly at the
mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant cape at Batumi, and called out in a
singsong voice:
 "Moosie, moosie!"
 The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air. There was no
answer. Bruns had visions of a large golden-brown goose with sizzling,
greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out:
 "Moosie, where's the goosie?"
 "Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on
at me."
 The engineer, who was already pouting his lips into the accustomed
shape, promptly answered:
 "Moosie, you haven't any pity for your little hubby."
 "Get out, you glutton," came the reply from inside.
 The engineer did not give in, however. He was just about to continue
his appeals for the goose, which had been going on unsuccessfully for two
hours, when a sudden rustling made him turn round.
 From the black-green clumps of bamboo there had emerged a man in torn
blue tunic-shirt-belted with a shabby twisted cord with tassels-and frayed
striped trousers. The stranger's kindly face was covered with ragged
stubble. He was carrying his jacket in his hand.
 The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice:
 "Where can I find Engineer Bruns?"
 "I'm Engineer Bruns," said the goose-charmer in an unexpectedly deep
voice. "What can I do for you?"
 The man silently fell to his knees. It was Father Theodore.
 "Have you gone crazy? " cried the engineer. "Stand up, please."
 "I won't," said Father Theodore, following the engineer with his head
and gazing at him with bright eyes.
 "Stand up."
 "I won't."
 And carefully, so that it would not hurt, the priest began beating his
head against the gravel.
 "Moosie, come here!" shouted the frightened engineer. "Look what's
happening! Please get up. I implore you."
 "I won't," repeated Father Theodore.
 Moosie ran out on to the verandah; she was very good at interpreting
her husband's intonation.
 Seeing the lady, Father Theodore promptly crawled over to her and,
bowing to her feet, rattled off:
 "On you, Mother, on you, my dear, on you I lay my hopes."
 Engineer Bruns thereupon turned red in the face, seized the petitioner
under the arms and, straining hard, tried to lift him to his feet. Father
Theodore was crafty, however, and tucked up his legs. The disgusted Bruns
dragged his extraordinary visitor into a corner and forcibly sat him in a
chair (a Hambs chair, not from Vorobyaninov's house, but one belonging to
General Popov's wife).
 "I dare not sit in the presence of high-ranking persons," mumbled
Father Theodore, throwing the baker's jacket, which smelt of kerosene,
across his knees.
 And he made another attempt to go down on his knees.
 With a pitiful cry the engineer restrained him by the shoulders.
 "Moosie," he said, breathing heavily, "talk to this citizen. There's
been some misunderstanding."
 Moosie at once assumed a businesslike tone.
 "In my house," she said menacingly, "kindly don't go down on anyone's
knees."
 "Dear lady," said Father Theodore humbly, "Mother!"
 "I'm not your mother. What do you want? "
 The priest began burbling something incoherent, but apparently deeply
moving. It was only after lengthy questioning that they were able to gather
that he was asking them to do him a special favour and sell him the suite of
twelve chairs, one of which he was sitting on at that moment.
 The engineer let go of Father Theodore with surprise, whereupon the
latter immediately plumped down on his knees again and began creeping after
the engineer like a tortoise.
 "But why," cried the engineer, trying to dodge Father Theodore's long
arms, "why should I sell my chairs? It's no use how much you go down on your
knees like that, I just don't understand anything."
 "But they're my chairs," groaned the holy father.
 "What do you mean, they're yours? How can they be yours? You're crazy.
Moosie, I see it all. This man's a crackpot."
 "They're mine," repeated the priest in humiliation.
 "Do you think I stole them from you, then?" asked the engineer
furiously. "Did I steal them? Moosie, this is blackmail."
 "Oh, Lord," whispered Father Theodore.
 "If I stole them from you, then take the matter to court, but don't
cause pandemonium in my house. Did you hear that, Moosie? How impudent can
you get? They don't even let a man have his dinner in peace."
 No, Father Theodore did not want to recover "his" chairs by taking the
matter to court. By no means. He knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolen
them from him. Oh, no. That was the last idea he had in his mind. But the
chairs had nevertheless belonged to him before the revolution, and his wife,
who was on her deathbed in Voronezh, was very attached to them. It was to
comply with her wishes and not on his own initiative that he had taken the
liberty of finding out the whereabouts of the chairs and coming to see
Citizen Bruns. Father Theodore was not asking for charity. Oh, no. He was
sufficiently well off (he owned a small candle factory in Samara) to sweeten
his wife's last few minutes by buying the old chairs. He was ready to
splurge and pay twenty roubles for the whole set of chairs.
 "What?" cried the engineer, growing purple. "Twenty roubles? For a
splended drawing-room suite? Moosie, did you hear that? He really is a nut.
Honestly he is."
 "I'm not a nut, but merely complying with the wishes of my wife who
sent me."
 "Oh, hell!" said the engineer. "Moosie, he's at it again. He's crawling
around again."
 "Name your price," moaned Father Theodore, cautiously beating his head
against the trunk of an araucaria.
 "Don't spoil the tree, you crazy man. Moosie, I don't think he's a nut.
He's simply distraught at his wife's illness. Shall we sell him the chairs
and get rid of him? Otherwise, he'll crack his skull."
 "And what are we going to sit on?" asked Moosie.
 "We'll buy some more."
 "For twenty roubles?"
 "Suppose I don't sell them for twenty. Suppose I don't sell them for
two hundred, but supposing I do sell them for two-fifty?"
 In response came the sound of a head against a tree.
 "Moosie, I'm fed up with this!"
 The engineer went over to Father Theodore, with his mind made up and
began issuing an ultimatum.
 "First, move back from the palm at least three paces; second, stand up
at once; third, I'll sell you the chairs for two hundred and fifty and not a
kopek less."
 "It's not for personal gain," chanted Father Theodore, "but merely in
compliance with my sick wife's wishes."
 "Well, old boy, my wife's also sick. That's right, isn't it, Moosie?
Your lungs aren't in too good a state, are they? But on the strength of that
I'm not asking you to . . . er . . . sell me your jacket for thirty kopeks."
 "Have it for nothing," exclaimed Father Theodore.
 The engineer waved him aside in irritation and then said coldly:
 "Stop your tricks. I'm not going to argue with you any more.
 I've assessed the worth of the chairs at two hundred and fifty roubles
and I'm not shifting one cent." "Fifty," offered the priest.
 "Moosie," said the engineer, "call Bagration. Let him see this citizen
off the premises." "Not for personal gain. . . ." "Bagration!"
 Father Theodore fled in terror, while the engineer went into the
dining-room and sat down to the goose. Bruns's favourite bird had a soothing
effect on him. He began to calm down.
 Just as the engineer was about to pop a goose leg into his pink mouth,
having first wrapped a piece of cigarette paper around the bone, the face of
the priest appeared appealingly at the window.
 "Not for personal gain," said a soft voice. "Fifty-five roubles." The
engineer let out a roar without turning around. Father Theodore disappeared.
 The whole of that day Father Theodore's figure kept appearing at
different points near the house. At one moment it was seen coming out of the
shade of the cryptomeria, at another it rose from a mandarin grove; then it
raced across the back yard and, fluttering, dashed towards the botanical
garden.
 The whole day the engineer kept calling for Moosie, complaining about
the crackpot and his own headache. From time to time Father Theodore's voice
could be heard echoing through the dusk.
 "A hundred and eight," he called from somewhere in the sky. A moment
later his voice came from the direction of Dumbasoc's house.
 "A hundred and forty-one. Not for personal gain, Mr. Brans, but merely
. . ."
 At length the engineer could stand it no longer; he came out on to the
verandah and, peering into the darkness, began shouting very clearly:
 "Damn you! Two hundred roubles then. Only leave us alone." There was a
rustle of disturbed bamboo, the sound of a soft groan and fading footsteps,
then all was quiet.
 Stars floundered in the bay. Fireflies chased after Father Theodore and
circled round his head, casting a greenish medicinal glow on his face.
 "Now the goose is flown," muttered the engineer, going inside.
Meanwhile, Father Theodore was speeding along the coast in the last bus in
the direction of Batumi. A slight surf washed right up to the side of him;
the wind blew in his face, and the bus hooted in reply to the whining
jackals.
 That evening Father Theodore sent a telegram to his wife in the town of
N.
THEO
 For two days he loafed about elatedly near Bruns's house, bowing to
Moosie in the distance, and even making the tropical distances resound with
shouts of "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes of my wife who
sent me."
 Two days later the money was received together with a desperate
telegram:
EVSTIGNEYEV STILL HAVING MEALS STOP KATEY
 Father Theodore counted the money, crossed himself frenziedly, hired a
cart, and drove to the Green Cape.
 The weather was dull. A wind from the Turkish frontier blew across
thunderclouds. The strip of blue sky became narrower and narrower. The wind
was near gale force. It was forbidden to take boats to sea and to bathe.
Thunder rumbled above Batumi. The gale shook the coast.
 Reaching Bruns's house, the priest ordered the Adzhar driver to wait
and went to fetch the furniture.
 "I've brought the money," said Father Theodore. "You ought to lower
your price a bit."
 "Moosie," groaned the engineer, "I can't stand any more of this."
 "No, no, I've brought the money," said Father Theodore hastily, "two
hundred, as you said."
 "Moosie, take the money and give him the chairs, and let's get it over
with. I've a headache."
 His life ambition was achieved. The candle factory in Samara was
falling into his lap. The jewels were pouring into his pocket like seeds.
 Twelve chairs were loaded into the cart one after another. They were
very like Vorobyaninov's chairs, except that the covering was not flowered
chintz, but rep with blue and pink stripes.
 Father Theodore was overcome with impatience. Under his shirt behind a
twisted cord he had tucked a hatchet. He sat next to the driver and,
constantly looking round at the chairs, drove to Batumi. The spirited horses
carried the holy father and his treasure down along the highway past the
Finale restaurant, where the wind swept across the bamboo tables and
arbours, past a tunnel that was swallowing up the last few tank cars of an
oil train, past the photographer, deprived that overcast day of his usual
clientele, past a sign reading "Batumi Botanical Garden", and carried him,
not too quickly, along the very line of surf. At the point where the road
touched the rocks, Father Theodore was soaked with salty spray. Rebuffed by
the rocks, the waves turned into waterspouts and, rising up to the sky,
slowly fell back again.
 The jolting and the spray from the surf whipped Father Theodore's
troubled spirit into a frenzy. Struggling against the wind, the horses
slowly approached Makhinjauri. From every side the turbid green waters
hissed and swelled. Right up to Batumi the white surf swished like the edge
of a petticoat peeking from under the skirt of a slovenly woman.
 "Stop!" Father Theodore suddenly ordered the driver. "Stop,
Mohammedan!"
 Trembling and stumbling, he started to unload the chairs on to the
deserted shore. The apathetic Adzhar received his five roubles, whipped up
the horses and rode off. Making sure there was no one about, Father Theodore
carried the chairs down from the rocks on to a dry patch of sand and took
out his hatchet.
 For a moment he hesitated, not knowing where to start. Then, like a man
walking in his sleep, he went over to the third chair and struck the back a
ferocious blow with the hatchet. The chair toppled over undamaged.
 "Aha!" shouted Father Theodore. "I'll show you!"
 And he flung himself on the chair as though it had been a live animal.
In a trice the chair had been hacked to ribbons. Father Theodore could not
hear the sound of the hatchet against the wood, cloth covering, and springs.
All sounds were drowned by the powerful roar of the gale.
 "Aha! Aha! Aha!" cried the priest, swinging from the shoulder.
 One by one the chairs were put out of action. Father Theodore's fury
increased more and more. So did the fury of the gale. Some of the waves came
up to his feet.
 From Batumi to Sinop there was a great din. The sea raged and vented
its spite on every little ship. The S.S. Lenin sailed towards Novorossisk
with its two funnels smoking and its stern plunging low in the water. The
gale roared across the Black Sea, hurling thousand-ton breakers on to the
shore of Trebizond, Yalta, Odessa and Konstantsa. Beyond the still in the
Bosporus and the Dardanelles surged the Mediterranean. Beyond the Straits of
Gibraltar, the Atlantic smashed against the shores of Europe. A belt of
angry water encircled the world.
 And on the Batumi shore stood Father Theodore, bathed in sweat and
hacking at the final chair. A moment later it was all over. Desperation
seized him. With a dazed look at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs,
he turned back. The water grabbed him by the feet. He lurched forward and
ran soaked to the road. A huge wave broke on the spot where he had been a
moment before and, swirling back, washed away the mutilated furniture.
Father Theodore no longer saw anything. He staggered along the road, hunched
and hugging his fist to his chest.
 He went into Batumi, unable to see anything about him. His position was
the most terrible thing of all. Three thousand miles from home and twenty
roubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question.
 Father Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he was advised in a
perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contraband
Batumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowd
of porters.
 Three days after the concessionaires' deal with Mechnikov the fitter,
the Columbus Theatre left by railway via Makhacha-Kala and Baku. The whole
of these three days the concessionaires, frustrated by the contents of the
two chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to bring them the third of
the Columbus chairs. But the narzan-tortured fitter converted the whole of
the twenty roubles into the purchase of plain vodka and drank himself into
such a state that he was kept locked up in the props room.
 "That's Mineral Waters for you!" said Ostap, when he heard about the
theatre's departure. "A useful fool, that fitter. Catch me having dealings
with theatre people after this!"
 Ostap became much more nervy than before. The chances of finding the
treasure had increased infinitely.
 "We need money to get to Vladikavkaz," said Ostap. "From there we'll
drive by car to Tiflis along the Georgian Military Highway. Glorious
scenery! Magnificent views! Wonderful mountain air! And at the end of it
all-one hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks. There is some
point in continuing the hearing."
 But it was not quite so easy to leave Mineral Waters. Vorobyaninov
proved to have absolutely no talent for bilking the railway, and so when all
attempts to get him aboard a train had failed he had to perform again in the
Flower Garden, this time as an educational district ward. This was not at
all a success. Two roubles for twelve hours' hard and degrading work, though
it was a large enough sum for the fare to Vladikavkaz.
 At Beslan, Ostap, who was travelling without a ticket, was thrown off
the train, and the smooth operator impudently ran behind it for a mile or
so, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich.
 Soon after, Ostap managed to jump on to a train slowly making its way
to the Caucasian ridge. From his position on the steps Ostap surveyed with
great curiosity the panorama of the mountain range that unfolded before him.
 It was between three and four in the morning. The mountain-tops were
lit by dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains.
 "Too showy," he said. "Weird kind of beauty. An idiot's imagination. No
use at all."
 At Vladikavkaz station the passengers were met by a large open bus
belonging to the Transcaucasian car-hire-and-manufacturing society, and
nice, kind people said:
 "Those travelling by the Georgian Military Highway will be taken into
the town free."
 "Hold on, Pussy," said Ostap. "We want the bus. Let them take us free."
 When the bus had given him a lift to the centre of the town, however,
Ostap was in no hurry to put his name down for a seat in a car. Talking
enthusiastically to Ippolit Matveyevich, he gazed admiringly at the view of
the cloud-enveloped Table Mountain, but finding that it really was like a
table, promptly retired.
 They had to spend several days in Vladikavkaz. None of their attempts
to obtain money for the road fare met with any success, nor provided them
with enough money to buy food. An attempt to make the citizens pay ten-kopek
bits failed. The mountain ridge was so high and clear that it was not
possible to charge for looking at it. It was visible from practically every
point, and there were no other beauty spots in Vladikavkaz. There was the
Terek, which flowed past the "Trek", but the town charged for entry to that
without Ostap's assistance. The alms collected in two days by Ippolit
Matveyevich only amounted to thirteen kopeks.
 "There's only one thing to do," said Ostap. "We'll go to Tiflis on
foot. We can cover the hundred miles in five days. Don't worry, dad, the
mountain view is delightful and the air is bracing . . . We only need money
for bread and salami sausage. You can add a few Italian phrases to your
vocabulary, or not, as you like; but by evening you've got to collect at
least two roubles. We won't have a chance to eat today, dear chum. Alas!
What bad luck!"
 Early in the morning the partners crossed the little bridge across the
Terek river, went around the barracks, and disappeared deep into the green
valley along which ran the Georgian Military Highway.
 "We're in luck, Pussy," said Ostap. "It rained last night so we won't
have to swallow the dust. Breathe in the fresh air, marshal. Sing something.
Recite some Caucasian poetry and behave as befits the occasion."
 But Ippolit Matveyevich did not sing or recite poetry. The road went
uphill. The nights spent in the open made themselves felt by pains in his
side and heaviness in his legs, and the salami sausage made itself felt by a
constant and griping indigestion. He walked along, holding in his hand a
five-pound loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper, his left foot dragging
slightly.
 On the move again! But this time towards Tiflis; this time along the
most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich could not have cared
less. He did not look around him as Ostap did. He certainly did not notice
the Terek, which now could just be heard rumbling at the bottom of the
valley. It was only the ice-capped mountain-tops glistening in the sun which
somehow reminded him of a sort of cross between the sparkle of diamonds and
the best brocade coffins of Bezenchuk the undertaker.
 After Balta the road entered and continued as a narrow ledge cut in the
dark overhanging cliff. The road spiralled upwards, and by evening the
concessionaires reached the village of Lars, about three thousand feet above
sea level.
 They passed the night in a poor native hotel without charge and were
even given a glass of milk each for delighting the owner and his guests with
card tricks.
 The morning was so glorious that Ippolit Matveyevich, braced by the
mountain air, began to stride along more cheerfully than the day before.
Just behind Lars rose the impressive rock wall of the Bokovoi ridge. At this
point the Terek valley closed up into a series of narrow gorges. The scenery
became more and more sombre, while the inscriptions on the cliffs grew more
frequent At the point where the cliffs squeezed the Terek's flow between
them to the extent that the span of the bridge was no more than ten feet,
the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions on the side of the gorge that
Ostap forgot the majestic sight of the Daryal gorge and shouted out, trying
to drown the rumble and rushing of the Terek:
 "Great people! Look at that, marshal! Do you see it? Just a little
higher than the cloud and slightly lower than the eagle! An inscription
which says, 'Micky and Mike, July 1914'. An unforgettable sight! Notice the
artistry with which it was done. Each letter is three feet high, and they
used oil paints. Where are you now, Nicky and Mike?"
 "Pussy," continued Ostap, "let's record ourselves for prosperity, too.
I have some chalk, by the way. Honestly, I'll go up and write 'Pussy and
Ossy were here'."
 And without giving it much thought, Ostap put down the supply of
sausage on the wall separating the road from the seething depths of the
Terek and began clambering up the rocks. At first Ippolit Matveyevich
watched the smooth operator's ascent, but then lost interest and began to
survey the base of Tamara's castle, which stood on a rock like a horse's
tooth.
 Just at this time, about a mile away from the concessionaires, Father
Theodore entered the Daryal gorge from the direction of Tiflis. He marched
along like a soldier with his eyes, as hard as diamonds, fixed ahead of him,
supporting himself on a large crook.
 With his last remaining money Father Theodore had reached Tiflis and
was now walking home, subsisting on charity. While crossing the Cross gap he
had been bitten by an eagle. Father Theodore hit out at the insolent bird
with his crook and continued on his way.
 As he went along, intermingling with the clouds, he muttered:
 "Not for personal gain, but at the wishes of my wife who sent me."
 The distance between the enemies narrowed. Turning a sharp bend, Father
Theodore came across an old man in a gold pince-nez.
 The gorge split asunder before Father Theodore's eyes. The Terek
stopped its thousand-year-old roar.
 Father Theodore recognized Vorobyaninov. After the terrible fiasco in
Batumi, after all his hopes had been dashed, this new chance of gaining
riches had an extraordinary effect on the priest. He grabbed Ippolit
Matveyevich by his scraggy Adam's apple, squeezed his fingers together, and
shouted hoarsely:
 "What have you done with the treasure that you slew your mother-in-law
to obtain?" Ippolit Matveyevich, who had not been expecting anything of this
nature, said nothing, but his eyes bulged so far that they almost touched
the lenses of his pince-nez.
 "Speak!" ordered the priest. "Repent, you sinner!"
 Vorobyaninov felt himself losing his senses.
 Suddenly Father Theodore caught sight of Bender leaping from rock to
rock; the technical adviser was coining down, shouting at the top of his
voice:
 "Against the sombre rocks they dash, Those waves, they foam and
splash."
 A terrible fear gripped Father Theodore. He continued mechanically
holding the marshal by the throat, but his knees began to knock.
 "Well, of all people!" cried Ostap in a friendly tone. "The rival
concern."
 Father Theodore did not dally. Obeying his healthy instinct, ' he
grabbed the concessionaires' bread and sausage and fled.
 "Hit him, Comrade Bender!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich, who was sitting
on the ground recovering his breath. "Catch him!. Stop him I"
 Ostap began whistling and whooping.
 "Wooh-wooh," he warbled, starting in pursuit. "The Battle of the
Pyramids or Bender goes hunting. Where are you going, client? I can offer
you a well-gutted chair."
 This persecution was too much for Father Theodore and he began climbing
up a perpendicular wall of rock. He was spurred on by his heart, which was
in his mouth, and an itch in his heels known only to cowards. His legs moved
over the granite by themselves, carrying their master aloft.
 "Wooooh-woooh!" yelled Ostap from below. "Catch him!"
 "He's taken our supplies," screeched Vorobyaninov, running up.
 "Stop!" roared Ostap. "Stop, I tell you."
 But this only lent new strength to the exhausted priest. He wove about,
making several leaps, and finally ended ten feet above the highest
inscription.
 "Give back our sausage!" howled Ostap. "Give back the sausage, you
fool, and we'll forget everything."
 Father Theodore no longer heard anything. He found himself on a flat
ledge, on to which no man had ever climbed before. Father Theodore was
seized by a sickening dread. He realized he could never get down again by
himself. The cliff face dropped vertically to the road.
 He looked below. Ostap was gesticulating furiously, and the marshal's
gold pince-nez glittered at the bottom of the gorge.
 "I'll give back the sausage," cried the holy father, "only get me
down."
 He could see all the movements of the concessionaires. They were
running about below and, judging from their gestures, swearing like
troopers.
 An hour later, lying on his stomach and peering over the edge, Father
Theodore saw Bender and Vorobyaninov going off in the direction of the Cross
gap.
 Night fell quickly. Surrounded by pitch darkness and deafened by the
infernal roar, Father Theodore trembled and wept up in the very clouds. He
no longer wanted earthly treasures, he only wanted one thing-to get down on
to the ground.
 During the night he howled so loudly that at times the sound of the
Terek was drowned, and when morning came, he fortified himself with sausage
and bread and roared with demoniac laughter at the cars passing underneath.
The rest of the day was spent contemplating the mountains and that heavenly
body, the sun. The next night he saw the Tsaritsa Tamara. She came flying
over to him from her castle and said coquettishly:
 "Let's be neighbours! "
 "Mother!" said Father Theodore with feeling. "Not for personal gain . .
."
 "I know, I know," observed the Tsaritsa, "but merely at the wishes of
your wife who sent you."
 "How did you know?" asked the astonished priest.
 "I just know. Why don't you stop by, neighbour? We'll play sixty-six.
What about it?"
 She gave a laugh and flew off, letting off firecrackers into the night
sky as she went.
 The day after, Father Theodore began preaching to the birds. For some
reason he tried to sway them towards Lutheranism.
 "Birds," he said in a sonorous voice, "repent your sins publicly."
 On the fourth day he was pointed out to tourists from below.
 "On the right we have Tamara's castle," explained the experienced
guides, "and on the left is a live human being, but it is not known what he
lives on or how he got there."
 "My, what a wild people!" exclaimed the tourists in amazement.
"Children of the mountains!"
 Clouds drifted by. Eagles cruised above Father Theodore's head. The
bravest of them stole the remains of the sausage and with its wings swept a
pound and a half of bread into the foaming Terek.
 Father Theodore wagged his finger at the eagle and, smiling radiantly,
whispered:
 "God's bird does not know Either toil or unrest, He leisurely builds
His long-lasting nest."
 The eagle looked sideways at Father Theodore, squawked cockadoodledoo
and flew away.
 "Oh, eagle, you eagle, you bitch of a bird!"
 Ten days later the Vladikavkaz fire brigade arrived with suitable
equipment and brought Father Theodore down.
 As they were lowering him, he clapped his hands and sang in a tuneless
voice:
 "And you will be queen of all the world, My lifelo-ong frie-nd!"
 And the rugged Caucuses re-echoed Rubinstein's setting of the Lermontov
poem many times.
 "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes . . ." Father Theodore
told the fire chief.
 The cackling priest was taken on the end of a fire ladder to the
psychiatric hospital.
 "What do you think, marshal," said Ostap as the concessionaires
approached the settlement of Sioni, "how can we earn money in a dried-up
spot like this?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could
have kept himself going was begging, but here in the mountain spirals and
ledges there was no one to beg from.
 Anyway, there was begging going on already-alpine begging, a special
kind. Every bus and passenger car passing through the settlement was
besieged by children who performed a few steps of a local folk dance to the
mobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of:
 "Give us money! Give money!"
 The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and continued on their
way to the Cross gap.
 "A noble cause," said Ostap. "No capital outlay needed. The income is
small, but in our case, valuable."
 By two o'clock of the second day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich
had performed his first dance for the aerial passengers, under the
supervision of the smooth operator. The dance was rather like a mazurka; the
passengers, drunk with the exotic beauty of the Caucasus, took it for a
native lezginka and rewarded him with three five-kopek bits. The next
vehicle, which was a bus going from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz, was entertained
by the smooth operator himself.
 "Give me money! Give money," he shouted angrily.
 The amused passengers richly rewarded his capering about, and Ostap
collected thirty kopeks from the dusty road. But the Sioni children showered
their competitors with stones, and, fleeing from the onslaught, the
travellers made off at the double for the next village, where they spent
their earnings on cheese and local flat bread.
 The concessionaires passed their days in this way. They spent the
nights in mountain-dwellers' huts. On the fourth day they went down the
hairpin bends of the road and arrived in the Kaishaur valley. The sun was
shining brightly, and the partners, who had been frozen to the marrow in the
Cross gap, soon warmed up their bones again.
 The Daryal cliffs, the gloom and the chill of the gap gave way to the
greenery and luxury of a very deep valley. The companions passed above the
Aragva river and went down into the valley, settled by people and teeming
with cattle and food. There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, or
simply steal. It was the Transcaucasus.
 The heartened concessionaires increased their pace.
 In Passanaur, in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels and
several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushes
opposite the Hotel France, with its garden and two chained-up bear cubs.
They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest.
 Their rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car horn,
the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment. The friends
peeped out. Three identical new cars were driving up to the Hotel France in
line. The cars stopped without any noise.
 Out of the first one jumped Persidsky; he was followed by
Life-and-the-Law smoothing down his dusty hair. Out of the other cars
tumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club.
 "A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!"
 The sleepy figures staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the
bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs.
 "Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's the reporter
from the Scriabin, one of those who criticized our transparent. They've
certainly arrived in style. What's it all about?"
 Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to Persidsky in the most
elegant fashion.
 "Bonjour!" said the reporter. "Where have I seen you before, dear
friend? Aha! I remember. The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?"
 Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely.
 "Wait a moment, wait a moment," continued Persidsky, who had a
reporter's retentive memory. "Wasn't it you who was knocked down by a
carthorse in Sverdlov Square? "
 "That's right. And as you so neatly expressed it, I also suffered
slight shock."
 "What are you doing here? Working as an artist?"
 "No, I'm on a sightseeing trip."
 "On foot?"
 "Yes, on foot. The experts say a car trip along the Georgian Military
Highway is simply ridiculous."
 "Not always ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always. For instance, our
trip isn't exactly ridiculous. We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars,
collectively owned. A direct link between Moscow and Tiflis. Petrol hardly
costs anything. Comfort and speed. Soft springs. Europe!"
 "How did you come by it all?" asked Ostap enviously. "Did you win a
hundred thousand? "
 "Not a hundred, but we won fifty."
 "Gambling?"
 "With a bond belonging to the automobile club."
 "I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars."
 "That's right."
 "I see. Maybe you need a manager? I know a young man. He doesn't
drink."
 "What sort of manager?"
 "Well, you know . . . general management, business advice, instruction
with visual aids by the complex method. . ."
 "I see what you mean. No, we don't need a manager."
 "You don't?"
 "Unfortunately not. Nor an artist."
 "In that case let me have ten roubles."
 "Avdotyin," said Persidsky, "kindly give this citizen ten roubles on my
account. I don't need a receipt. This person is unaccountable."
 "That's extraordinarily little," observed Ostap, "but I'll accept it. I
realize the great difficulty of your position. Naturally, if you had won a
hundred thousand, you might have loaned me a whole five roubles. But you won
only fifty thousand roubles, zero kopeks. In any case, many thanks."
 Bender politely raised his hat. Persidsky politely raised his hat.
Bender bowed most courteously. Persidsky replied with a most courteous bow.
Bender waved his hand in farewell. Persidsky, sitting at the wheel, did the
same. Persidsky drove off in his splendid car into the glittering distances
in the company of his gay friends, while the smooth operator was left on the
dusty road with his fool of a partner.
 "Did you see that swank? "
 "The Transcaucasian car service, or the private 'Motor' company? "
asked Ippolit Matveyevich in a businesslike way; he was now thoroughly
acquainted with all types of transportation on the road. "I was just about
to do a dance for them."
 "You'll soon be completely dotty, my poor friend. How could it be the
Transcaucasian car service? Those people have won fifty thousand roubles,
Pussy. You saw yourself how happy they were and how much of that mechanical
junk they had bought. When we find our money, we'll spend it more sensibly,
won't we?"
 And imagining what they would buy when they became rich, the friends
left Passanaur. Ippolit Matveyevich vividly saw himself buying some new
socks and travellirig abroad. Ostap's visions were more ambitious. Something
between damming the Blue Nile and opening a gaming-house in Riga with
branches in the other Baltic states.
 The travellers reached Mtskhet, the ancient capital of Georgia, on the
third day, before lunch. Here the Kura river turned towards Tiflis.
 In the evening they passed the Zerno-Avchal hydro-electric station. The
glass, water and electricity all shone with different-coloured light. It was
reflected and scattered by the fast-flowing Kura.
 It was there the concessionaires made friends with a peasant who gave
them a lift into Tiflis in his cart; they arrived at 11 p.m., that very hour
when the cool of the evening summons into the streets the citizens of the
Georgian capital, limp after their sultry day.
 "Not a bad little town," remarked Ostap, as they came out into
Rustavelli Boulevard. "You know, Pussy. . ."
 Without finishing what he was saying, Ostap suddenly darted after a
citizen, caught him up after ten paces, and began an animated conversation
with him.
 Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side.
 "Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the
Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's go and see him. However paradoxical it seems,
you are now the master-mind and father of Russian democracy again. Don't
forget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite a
bit, by the way. A hell of a piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fifty
roubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!"
 And indeed, a short distance away from the concessionaires stood
Kislarsky in a tussore-silk suit and a boater; he was a milky blue colour
with fright.
 "I think you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman
close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don't
pay attention to his suit; that's part of our security measures. Take us
somewhere right away. We've got to have a talk."
 Kislarsky, who had come to the Caucasus to recover from his gruelling
experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about a
recession in the roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriage
with silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. They
went up to the top of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowly
disappeared into the depths in a thousand lights. The conspirators were
ascending to the very stars.
 At the restaurant the tables were set up on a lawn. A Caucasian band
made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tables
of her own accord, watched happily by her parents.
 "Order something," suggested Bender.
 The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese.
 "And something to eat," said Ostap. "If you only knew, dear Mr.
Kislarsky, the things that Ippolit Matveyevich and I have had to suffer,
you'd be amazed at our courage."
 There he goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will
start all over again. Why didn't I go to the Crimea? I definitely wanted to
go to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too.
 But he ordered two shishkebabs without a murmur, and turned his
unctuous face towards Ostap.
 "Here's the point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice.
"They've been following us for two months and will probably ambush us
tomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out."
 Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead.
 "Under the circumstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal
patriot."
 "Mmm .. . yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich proudly, remembering the
hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni.
 "Yes," whispered Ostap, "we're hoping-with your aid-to defeat the
enemy. I'll give you a pistol."
 "There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly.
 The next moment it was made clear that the chairman of the
stock-exchange committee would not have the opportunity of taking part in
the coming battle. He regretted it very much. He was not familiar with
warfare, and it was just for this reason that he had been elected chairman
of the stock-exchange committee. He was very much disappointed, but was
prepared to offer financial assistance to save the life of the father of
Russian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist).
 "You're a true friend of society," said Ostap triumphantly, washing
down the spicy kebab with sweetish Kipiani wine. "Fifty can save the
master-mind."
 "Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully.
 Ostap could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich under
the table in delight.
 "I consider that haggling," said Ippolit Matveyevich, "is somewhat out
of place here."
 He immediately received a kick on the thigh which meant- Well done,
Pussy, that's the stuff!
 It was the first time in his life that Kislarsky had heard the
master-mind's voice. He was so overcome that he immediately handed over
fifty roubles. Then he paid the bill and, leaving the friends at the table,
departed with the excuse that he had a headache. Half an hour later he
dispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:
 The many privations which Ostap had suffered demanded immediate
compensation. That evening the smooth operator drank himself into a stupor
and practically fell out of the cable-car on the way back to the hotel. The
next day he realized a long-cherished dream and bought a heavenly grey
polka-dot suit. It was hot wearing it, but he nevertheless did so, sweating
profusely. In the Tif-Co-Op men's shop, Vorobyaninov was bought a white
pique" suit and a yachting cap with the gold insignia of some unknown yacht
club. In this attire Ippolit Matveyevich looked like an amateur admiral in
the merchant navy. His figure straightened up and his gait became firmer.
 "Ah," said Bender, "first rate! If I were a girl, I'd give a handsome
he-man like you an eight per cent reduction off my usual price. My, we can
certainly get around like this. Do you know how to get around, Pussy? "
 "Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov kept saying, "what about the chairs?
We've got to find out what happened to the theatre."
 "Hoho," retorted Ostap, dancing with a chair in a large Moorish-style
room in the Hotel Orient. "Don't tell me how to live. I'm now evil. I have
money, but I'm magnanimous. I'll give you twenty roubles and three days to
loot the city. I'm like Suvorov. . . . Loot the city, Pussy! Enjoy
yourself!"
 And swaying his hips, Ostap sang in quick time:
 "The evening bells, the evening bells, How many thoughts they bring. .
. ."
 The friends caroused wildly for a whole week. Vorobyaninov's naval
uniform became covered with apple-sized wine spots of different colours; on
Ostap's suit the stains suffused into one large rainbow-like apple.
 "Hi!" said Ostap on the eighth morning, so hung-over that he was
reading the newspaper Dawn of the East. "Listen, you drunken sot, to what
clever people are writing in the press! Listen!
 The Moscow Columbus Theatre left yesterday, Sept. 3, for a tour of
Yalta, having completed its stay in Tiflis. The theatre is planning to
remain in the Crimea until the opening of the winter season in Moscow.'"
 "What did I tell you!" said Vorobyaninov.
 "What did you tell me!" snapped back Ostap.
 He was nevertheless embarrassed. The careless mistake was very
unpleasant. Instead of ending the treasure hunt in Tiflis, they now had to
move on to the Crimean peninsula. Ostap immediately set to work. Tickets
were bought to Batumi and second-class-berths reserved on the S.S. Pestel
leaving Batumi for Odessa at 11 p.m. Moscow time on September 7.
 On the night of September 10, as the Pestel turned out to sea and set
sail for Yalta without calling at Anapa on account of the gale, Ippolit
Matveyevich had a dream.
 He dreamed he was standing in his admiral's uniform on the balcony of
his house in Stargorod, while the crowd gathered below waited for him to do
something. A large crane deposited a black-spotted pig at his feet.
 Tikhon the caretaker appeared and, grabbing the pig by the hind legs,
said:
 "Durn it. Does the Nymph really provide tassels?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich found a dagger in his hand. He stuck it into the
pig's side, and jewels came pouring out of the large wound and rolled on to
the cement floor. They jumped about and clattered more and more loudly. The
noise finally became unbearable and terrifying,
 Ippolit Matveyevich was wakened by the sound of waves dashing against
the porthole.
 They reached Yalta in calm weather on an enervating sunny morning.
Having recovered from his seasickness, the marshal was standing at the prow
near the ship's bell with its embossed Old Slavonic lettering. Gay Yalta had
lined up its tiny stalls and floating restaurants along the shore. On the
quayside there were waiting carriages with velvet-covered seats and linen
awnings, motor-cars and buses belonging to the "Krymkurso" and "Crimean
Driver" societies. Brick-coloured girls twirled parasols and waved
kerchiefs.
 The friends were the first to go ashore, on to the scorching
embankment. At the sight of the concessionaires, a citizen in a tussore-silk
suit dived out of the crowd of people meeting the ship and idle onlookers
and began walking quickly towards the exit to the dockyard. But too late.
The smooth operator's eagle eye had quickly recognized the silken citizen.
 "Wait a moment, Vorobyaninov," cried Ostap.
 And he raced off at such a pace that he caught up the silken citizen
about ten feet from the exit. He returned instantly with a hundred roubles.
 "He wouldn't give me any more. Anyway, I didn't insist; otherwise he
won't be able to get home."
 And indeed, at that very moment Kislarsky was fleeing in a bus for
Sebastopol, and from there went home to Stargorod by third class.
 The concessionaires spent the whole day in the hotel sitting naked on
the floor and every few moments running under the shower in the bathroom.
But the water there was like warm weak tea. They could not escape from the
heat. It felt as though Yalta was just about to melt and flow into the sea.
 Towards eight that evening the partners struggled into their red-hot
shoes, cursing all the chairs in the world, and went to the theatre.
 The Marriage was being shown. Exhausted by the heat, Stepan almost fell
over while standing on his hands. Agafya ran along the wire, holding the
parasol marked "I want Podkolesin" in her dripping hands. All she really
wanted at that moment was a drink of ice water. The audience was thirsty,
too. For this reason and perhaps also because the sight of Stepan gorging a
pan of hot fried eggs was revolting, the performance did not go over.
 The concessionaires were satisfied as soon as they saw that their
chair, together with three new rococo armchairs, was safe.
 Hiding in one of the boxes, they patiently waited for the end of the
performance; it dragged on interminably. Then, finally, the audience left
and the actors hurried away to try to cool off. The theatre was empty except
for the shareholders in the concession. Every living thing had hurried out
into the street where fresh rain was, at last, falling fast.
 "Follow me, Pussy," ordered Ostap. "Just in case, we're provincials who
couldn't find the exit."
 They made their way on to the stage and, striking matches, though they
still collided with the hydraulic press, searched the whole stage.
 The smooth operator ran up a staircase into the props room.
 "Up here! "he called.
 Waving his arms, Vorobyaninov raced upstairs.
 "Do you see?" said Ostap, lighting a match.
 Through the darkness showed the corner of a Hambs chair and part of the
parasol with the word "want".
 "There it is! There is our past, present and future. Light a match,
Pussy, and I'll open it up."
 Ostap dug into his pockets for the tools.
 "Right," he said, reaching towards the chair. "Another match, marshal."
 The match flared up, and then a strange thing happened. The chair gave
a jump and suddenly, before the very eyes of the amazed concessionaires,
disappeared through the floor.
 "Mama!" cried Vorobyaninov, and went flying over to the wall, although
he had not the least desire to do so.
 The window-panes came out with a crash and the parasol with the words
"I want Podkolesin" flew out of the window, towards the sea. Ostap lay on
the floor, pinned down by sheets of cardboard.
 It was fourteen minutes past midnight. This was the first shock of the
great Crimean earthquake of 1927.
 A severe earthquake, wreaking untold disaster throughout the peninsula,
had plucked the treasure from the hands of the concessionaires.
 "Comrade Bender, what's happening?" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in
terror.
 Ostap was beside himself. The earthquake had blocked his path. It was
the only time it had happened in his entire, extensive practice.
 "What is it?" screech Vorobyaninov.
 Screaming, ringing, and trampling feet could be heard from the street.
 "We've got to get outside immediately before the wall caves in on us.
Quick! Give me your hand, softie."
 They raced to the door. To their surprise, the Hambs chair was lying on
its back, undamaged, at the exit from the stage to the street. Growling like
a dog, Ippolit Matveyevich seized it in a death-grip.
 "Give me the pliers," he shouted to Bender. "Don't be a stupid fool,"
gasped Ostap. "The ceiling is about to collapse, and you stand there going
out of your mind! Let's get out quickly."
 "The pliers," snarled the crazed Vorobyaninov. "To hell with you.
Perish here with your chair, then. I value my life, if you don't."
 With these words Ostap ran for the door. Ippolit Matveyevich picked up
the chair with a snarl and ran after him.
 Hardly had they reached the middle of the street when the ground heaved
sickeningly under their feet; tiles came off the roof of the theatre, and
the spot where the concessionakes had just been standing was strewn with the
remains of the hydraulic press.
 "Right, give me the chair now," said Bender coldly. "You're tired of
holding it, I see." "I won't!" screeched Ippolit Matveyevich. "What's this?
Mutiny aboard? Give me the chair, do you hear?"
 "It's my chair," clucked Vorobyaninov, drowning the weeping, shouting
and crashing on all sides., "In that case, here's your reward, you old
goat!" And Ostap hit Vorobyaninov on the neck with his bronze fist. At that
moment a fire engine hurtled down the street and in the lights of its
headlamps Ippolit Matveyevich glimpsed such a terrifying expression on
Ostap's face that he instantly obeyed and gave up the chair.
 "That's better," said Ostap, regaining his breath. "The mutiny has been
suppressed. Now, take the chair and follow me. You are responsible for the
state of the chair. The chair must be preserved even if there are ten
earthquakes. Do you understand?"
 "Yes."
 The whole night the concessionaires wandered about with the
panic-stricken crowds, unable to decide, like everyone else, whether or not
to enter the abandoned buildings, and expecting new shocks.
 At dawn, when the terror had died down somewhat, Ostap selected a spot
near which there was no wall likely to collapse, or people likely to
interfere, and set about opening the chair.
 The results of the autopsy staggered both of them-there was nothing in
the chair. The effect of the ordeal of the night and morning was 'too much
for Ippolit Matveyevich; he burst into a vicious, high-pitched cackle.
 Immediately after this came the third shock. The ground heaved and
swallowed up the Hambs chair; its flowered pattern smiled at the sun that
was rising in a dusty sky.
 Ippolit Matveyevich went down on all fours and, turning his haggard
face to the dark purple disc of the sun, began howling. The smooth operator
fainted as he listened to him. When he regained consciousness, he saw beside
him Vorobyaninov's lilac-stubble chin. Vorobyaninov was unconscious.
 "At last," said Ostap, like a patient recovering from typhus, "we have
a dead certainty. The last chair [at the word "chair", Ippolit Matveyevich
stirred] may have vanished into the goods yard of October Station, but has
by no means been swallowed up by the ground. What's wrong? The hearing is
continued."
 Bricks came crashing down nearby. A ship's siren gave a protracted
wail.
 On a rainy day in October, Ippolit Matveyevich, in his silver
star-spangled waistcoat and without a jacket, was working busily in
Ivanopulo's room. He was working at the windowsill, since there still was no
table in the room. The smooth operator had been commissioned to paint a
large number of address plates for various housing co-operatives. The
stencilling of the plates had been passed on to Vorobyaninov, while Ostap,
for almost the whole of the month since their return to Moscow, had cruised
round the area of the October Station looking with incredible avidity for
clues to the last chair, which undoubtedly contained Madame Petukhov's
jewels. Wrinkling his brow, Ippolit Matveyevich stencilled away at the iron
plates. During the six months of the jewel race he had lost certain of his
habits.
 At night Ippolit Matveyevich dreamed about mountain ridges adorned with
weird transparents, Iznurenkov, who hovered in front of him, shaking his
brown thighs, boats that capsized, people who drowned, bricks falling out of
the sky, and ground that heaved and poured smoke into his eyes.
 Ostap had not observed the change in Vorobyaninov, for he was with him
every day. Ippolit Matveyevich, however, had changed in a remarkable way.
Even his gait was different; the expression of his eyes had become wild and
his long moustache was no longer parallel to the earth's surface, but
drooped almost vertically, like that of an aged cat.
 He had also altered inwardly. He had developed determination and
cruelty, which were traits of character unknown to him before. Three
episodes had gradually brought out these streaks in him: the miraculous
escape from the hard fists of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, his debut in the
field of begging in the Flower Garden at Pyatigorsk, and, finally, the
earthquake, since which Ippolit Matveyevich had become somewhat unhinged and
harboured a secret loathing for his partner.
 Ippolit Matveyevich had recently been seized by the strongest
suspicions. He was afraid that Ostap would open the chair without him and
make off with the treasure, abandoning him to his own fate. He did not dare
voice these suspicions, knowing Ostap's strong arm and iron will. But each
day, as he sat at the window scraping off surplus paint with an old, jagged
razor, Ippolit Matveyevich wondered. Every day he feared that Ostap would
not come back and that he, a former marshal of the nobility, would die of
starvation under some wet Moscow wall.
 Ostap nevertheless returned each evening, though he never brought any
good news. His energy and good spirits were inexhaustible. Hope never
deserted him for a moment.
 There was a sound of running footsteps in the corridor and someone
crashed into the cabinet; the plywood door flew open with the ease of a page
turned by the wind, and in the doorway stood the smooth operator. His
clothes were soaked, and his cheeks glowed like apples. He was panting.
"Ippolit Matveyevich!" he shouted. "Ippolit Matveyevich!" Vorobyaninov was
startled. Never before had the technical adviser called him by his first two
names. Then he cottoned on. . . .
 "It's there?" he gasped.
 "You're dead right, it's there, Pussy. Damn you."
 "Don't shout. Everyone will hear."
 "That's right, they might hear," whispered Ostap. "It's there, Pussy,
and if you want, I can show it to you right away. It's in the
railway-workers' club, a new one. It was opened yesterday. How did I find
it? Was it child's play? It was singularly difficult. A stroke of genius,
brilliantly carried through to the end. An ancient adventure. In a word,
first rate!"
 Without waiting for Ippolit Matveyevich to pull on his jacket, Ostap
ran to the corridor. Vorobyaninov joined him on the landing. Excitedly
shooting questions at one another, they both hurried along the wet streets
to Kalanchev Square. They did not even think of taking a tram.
 "You're dressed like a navvy," said Ostap jubilantly. "Who goes about
like that, Pussy? You should have starched underwear, silk socks, and, of
course, a top hat. There's something noble about your face. Tell me, were
you really a marshal of the nobility?"
 Pointing out the chair, which was standing in the chess-room, and
looked a perfectly normal Hambs chair, although it contained such untold
wealth, Ostap pulled Ippolit Matveyevich into the corridor. There was no one
about. Ostap went up to a window that had not yet been sealed for the winter
and drew back the bolts on both sets of frames.
 "Through this window," he said, "we can easily get into the club at any
time of the night. Remember, Pussy, the third window from the front
entrance."
 For a while longer the friends wandered about the club, pretending to
be railway-union representatives, and were more and more amazed by the
splendid halls and rooms.
 "If I had played the match in Vasyuki," said Ostap, "sitting on a chair
like this, I wouldn't have lost a single game. My enthusiasm would have
prevented it. Anyway, let's go, old man. I have twenty-five roubles. We
ought to have a glass of beer and relax before our nocturnal visitation. The
idea of beer doesn't shock you, does it, marshal? No harm. Tomorrow you can
lap up champagne in unlimited quantities."
 By the time they emerged from the beer-hall, Bender was thoroughly
enjoying himself and made taunting remarks at the passers-by. He embraced
the slightly tipsy Ippolit Matveyevich round the shoulders and said
lovingly:
 "You're an extremely nice old man, Pussy, but I'm not going to give you
more than ten per cent. Honestly, I'm not. What would you want with all that
money? "
 "What do you mean, what would I want?" Ippolit Matveyevich seethed with
rage.
 Ostap laughed heartily and rubbed his cheek against his partner's wet
sleeve.
 "Well, what would you buy, Pussy? You haven't any imagination.
Honestly, fifteen thousand is more than enough for you. You'll soon die,
you're so old. You don't need any money at all. You know, Pussy, I don't
think I'll give you anything. I don't want to spoil you. I'll take you on as
a secretary, Pussy my lad. What do you say? Forty roubles a month and all
your grub. You get work clothes, tips, and national health. Well, is it a
deal?"
 Ippolit Matveyevich tore his arm free and quickly walked ahead. Jokes
like that exasperated him. Ostap caught him up at the entrance to the little
pink house. "Are you really mad at me?" asked Ostap. "I was only joking.
You'll get your three per cent. Honestly, three per cent is all you need,
Pussy."
 Ippolit Matveyevich sullenly entered the room. "Well, Pussy, take three
per cent." Ostap was having fun. "Come on, take three. Anyone else would.
You don't have any rooms to rent. It's a blessing Ivanopulo has gone to Tver
for a whole year. Anyway, come and be my valet. . . an easy job."
 Seeing that Ippolit Matveyevich could not be baited, Ostap yawned
sweetly, stretched himself, almost touching the ceiling as he filled his
broad chest with air, and said:
 "Well, friend, make your pockets ready. We'll go to the club just
before dawn. That's the best time. The watchmen are asleep, having sweet
dreams, for which they get fired without severance pay. In the meantime,
chum, I advise you to have a nap."
 Ostap stretched himself out on the three chairs, acquired from
different corners of Moscow, and said, as he dozed off:
 "Or my valet . . . a decent salary. No, I was joking. . . . The
hearing's continued. Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury."
 Those were the smooth operator's last words. He fell into a deep,
refreshing sleep, untroubled by dreams.
 Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the street. He was full of
desperation and cold fury. The moon hopped about among the banks of cloud.
The wet railings of the houses glistened greasily. In the street the
flickering gas lamps were encircled by halos of moisture. A drunk was being
thrown out of the Eagle beer-hall. He began bawling. Ippolit Matveyevich
frowned and went back inside. His one wish was to finish the whole business
as soon as possible.
 He went back into the room, looked grimly at the sleeping Ostap, wiped
his pince-nez and took up the razor from the window sill. There were still
some dried scales of oil paint on its jagged edge. He put the razor in his
pocket, walked past Ostap again, without looking at him, but listening to
his breathing, and then went out into the corridor. It was dark and sleepy
out there. Everyone had evidently gone to bed. In the pitch darkness of the
corridor Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly smiled in the most evil way, and felt
the skin creep on his forehead. To test this new sensation he smiled again.
He suddenly remembered a boy at school who had been able to move his ears.
 Ippolit Matveyevich went as far as the stairs and listened carefully.
There was no one there. From the street came the drumming of a carthorse's
hooves, intentionally loud and clear as though someone was counting on an
abacus. As stealthily as a cat, the marshal went back into the room, removed
twenty-five roubles and the pair of pliers from Ostap's jacket hanging on
the back of a chair, put on his own yachting cap, and again listened
intently.
 Ostap was sleeping quietly. His nose and lungs were working perfectly,
smoothly inhaling and exhaling air. A brawny arm hung down to the floor.
Conscious of the second-long pulses in his temple, Ippolit Matveyevich
slowly rolled up his right sleeve above the elbow and bound a
wafer-patterned towel around his bare arm; he stepped back to the door, took
the razor out of his pocket, and gauging the position of the furniture in
the room turned the switch. The light went out, but the room was still lit
by a bluish aquarium-like light from the street lamps.
 "So much the better," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich.
 He approached the back of the chair and, drawing back his hand with the
razor, plunged the blade slantways into Ostap's throat, pulled it out, and
jumped backward towards the wall. The smooth operator gave a gurgle like a
kitchen sink sucking down the last water. Ippolit Matveyevich managed to
avoid being splashed with blood. Wiping the wall with his jacket, he stole
towards the blue door, and for a brief moment looked back at Ostap. His body
had arched twice and slumped against the backs of the chairs. The light from
the street moved across a black puddle forming on the floor.
 What is that puddle? wondered Vorobyaninov. Oh, yes, it's blood.
Comrade Bender is dead.
 He unwound the slightly stained towel, threw it aside, carefully put
the razor on the floor, and left, closing the door quietly.
 Finding himself in the street, Vorobyaninov scowled and, muttering "The
jewels are all mine, not just six per cent," went off to Kalanchev Square.
 He stopped at the third window from the front entrance to the railway
club. The mirrorlike windows of the new club shone pearl-grey in the
approaching dawn. Through the damp air came the muffled voices of goods
trains. Ippolit Matveyevich nimbly scrambled on to the ledge, pushed the
frames, and silently dropped into the corridor.
 Finding his way without difficulty through the grey pre-dawn halls of
the club, he reached the chess-room and went over to the chair, bumping his
head on a portrait of Lasker hanging on the wall. He was in no hurry. There
was no point in it. No one was after him. Grossmeister Bender was asleep for
ever in the little pink house.
 Ippolit Matveyevich sat down on the floor, gripped the chair between
his sinewy legs, and with the coolness of a dentist, began extracting the
tacks, not missing a single one. His work was complete at the sixty-second
tack. The English chintz and canvas lay loosely on top of the stuffing.
 He had only to lift them to see the caskets, boxes, and cases
containing the precious stones.
 Straight into a car, thought Ippolit Matveyevich, who had learned the
facts of life from the smooth operator, then to the station, and on to the
Polish frontier. For a small gem they should get me across, then . . .
 And desiring to find out as soon as possible what would happen then,
Ippolit Matveyevich pulled away the covering from the chair. Before his eyes
were springs, beautiful English springs, and stuffing, wonderful pre-war
stuffing, the like of which you never see nowadays. But there was nothing
else in the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich mechanically turned the chair inside
out and sat for a whole hour clutching it between his legs and repeating in
a dull voice:
 "Why isn't there anything there? It can't be right. It can't be." It
was almost light when Vorobyaninov, leaving everything as it was in the
chess-room and forgetting the pliers and his yachting cap with the gold
insignia of a non-existent yacht club, crawled tired, heavy and unobserved
through the window into the street.
 "It can't be right," he kept repeating, having walked a block away. "It
can't be right."
 Then he returned to the club and began wandering up and down by the
large windows, mouthing the words: "It can't be right. It can't be."
 From time to time he let out a shriek and seized hold of his head, wet
from the morning mist. Remembering the events of that night, he shook his
dishevelled grey hair. The excitement of the jewels was too much for him; he
had withered in five minutes. "There's all kinds come here!" said a voice by
his ear,
 He saw in front of him a watchman in canvas work-clothes and poor
quality boots. He was very old and evidently friendly.
 "They keep comin'," said the old man politely, tired of his nocturnal
solitude. "And you, comrade, are interested. That's right. Our club's kind
of unusual."
 Ippolit Matveyevich looked ruefully at the red-cheeked old man.
 "Yes, sir," said the old man, "a very unusual club; there ain't another
like it."
 "And what's so unusual about it?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, trying to
gather his wits.
 The little old man beamed at Vorobyaninov. The story of the unusual
club seemed to please him, and he liked to retell it.
 "Well, it's like this," began the old man, "I've been a watchman here
for more'n ten years, and nothing like that ever happened. Listen, soldier
boy! Well, there used to be a club here, you know the one, for workers in
the first transportation division. I used to be the watchman. A no-good club
it was. They heated and heated and couldn't do anythin'. Then Comrade
Krasilnikov comes to me and asks, 'Where's all that firewood goin'?' Did he
think I was eatin' it or somethin"? Comrade Krasilnikov had a job with that
club, he did. They asked for five years' credit for a new club, but I don't
know what became of it. They didn't allow the credit. Then, in the spring,
Comrade Krasilnikov bought a new chair for the stage, a good soft'n."
 With his whole body close to the watchman's, Ippolit Matveyevich
listened. He was only half conscious, as the watchman, cackling with
laughter, told how he had once clambered on to the chair to put in a new
bulb and missed his footing.
 "I slipped off the chair and the coverin' was torn off. So I look round
and see bits of glass and beads on a string come pouring out."
 "Beads?" repeated Ippolit Matveyevich.
 "Beads!" hooted the old man with delight. "And I look, soldier boy, and
there are all sorts of little boxes. I didn't touch 'em. I went straight to
Comrade Krasilnikov and reported it. And that's what I told the committee
afterwards. I didn't touch the boxes, I didn't. And a good thing I didn't,
soldier boy. Because jewellery was found in 'em, hidden by the bourgeois. .
. ."
 "Where are the jewels?" cried the marshal.
 "Where, where?" the watchman imitated him. "Here they are, soldier boy,
use your imagination! Here they are."
 "Where?"
 "Here they are!" cried the ruddy-faced old man, enjoying the effect.
"Wipe your eyes. The club was built with them, soldier boy. You see? It's
the club. Central heating, draughts with timing-clocks, a buffet, theatre;
you aren't allowed inside in your galoshes."
 Ippolit Matveyevich stiffened and, without moving, ran his eyes over
the ledges.
 So that was where it was. Madame Petukhov's treasure. There. All of it.
A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks, as Ostap Suleiman
Bertha Maria Bender used to say.
 The jewels had turned into a solid frontage of glass and ferroconcrete
floors. Cool gymnasiums had been made from the pearls. The diamond diadem
had become a theatre-auditorium with a revolving stage; the ruby pendants
had grown into chandeliers; the serpent bracelets had been transformed into
a beautiful library, and the clasp had metamorphosed into a creche, a glider
workshop, a chess and billiards room.
 The treasures remained; it had been preserved and had even grown. It
could be touched with the hand, though not taken away. It had gone into the
service of new people. Ippolit Matveyevich felt the granite facing. The
coldness of the stone penetrated deep into his heart.
 And he gave a cry.
 It was an insane, impassioned wild cry-the cry of a vixen shot through
the body-it flew into the centre of the square, streaked under the bridge,
and, rebuffed everywhere by the sounds of the waking city, began fading and
died away in a moment. A marvellous autumn morning slipped from the wet
roof-tops into the Moscow streets. The city set off on its daily routine.
Category:Books