Ilf and Petrov. The Twelve Chairs
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...r ways; some of them hadcompleted their studies and gone off to take up jobs, and some had been
expelled for failing their exams. It was the latter group which, growing in
number from year to year, had formed something between a housing
co-operative and a feudal settlement in the little pink house. In vain had
ranks of freshmen sought to invade the hostel; the ex-chemists were highly
resourceful and repulsed all assaults. Finally the house was given up as a
bad job and disappeared from the housing programmes of the Moscow real
estate administration. It was as though it had never existed. It did exist,
however, and there were people living in it.
The concessionaires went upstairs to the second floor and turned into a
corridor cloaked in complete darkness.
"Light and airy!" said Ostap.
Suddenly someone wheezed in the darkness, just by Ippolit Matveyevich's
elbow.
"Don't be alarmed," Ostap observed. "That wasn't in the corridor, but
behind the wall. Plyboard, as you know from physics, is an excellent
conductor of sound. Careful! Hold on to me! There should be a cabinet here
somewhere."
The cry uttered at that moment by Ippolit Matveyevich as he hit his
chest against a sharp steel corner showed that there was indeed a cabinet
there somewhere.
"Did you hurt yourself?" Ostap inquired. "That's nothing. That's
physical pain. I'd hate to think how much mental suffering has gone on here.
There used to be a skeleton in here belonging to a student called Ivanopulo.
He bought it at the market, but was afraid to keep it in his room. So
visitors first bumped into the cabinet and then the skeleton fell on top of
them. Pregnant women were always very annoyed."
The partners wound their way up a spiral staircase to the large attic,
which was divided by plyboard partitions into long slices five feet wide.
The rooms were like pencil boxes, the only difference being that besides
pens and pencils they contained people and primus stoves as well.
"Are you there, Nicky?" Ostap asked quietly, stopping at a central
door.
The response was an immediate stirring and chattering in all five
pencil boxes.
"Yes," came the answer from behind the door.
"That fool's guests have arrived too early again!" whispered a woman's
voice in the last box on the left.
"Let a fellow sleep, can't you!" growled box no. 2.
There was a delighted hissing from the third box.
"It's the militia to see Nicky about that window he smashed yesterday."
No one spoke in the fifth pencil box; instead came the hum of a primus
and the sound of kissing.
Ostap pushed open the door with his foot. The whole of the plyboard
erection gave a shake and the concessionaires entered Nicky's cell.
The scene that met Ostap's eye was horrible, despite all its outward
innocence. The only furniture in the room was a red-striped mattress resting
on four bricks. But it was not that which disturbed Ostap, who had long been
aware of the state of Nicky's furniture; nor was he surprised to see Nicky
himself, sitting on the legged mattress. It was the heavenly creature
sitting beside him who made Ostap's face cloud over immediately. Such girls
never make good business associates. Their eyes are too blue and the lines
of their necks too clean for that sort of thing. They make mistresses or,
what is worse, wives-beloved wives. And, indeed, Nicky addressed this
creature as Liza and made funny faces at her.
Ippolit Matveyevich took off his beaver cap, and Ostap led Nicky out
into the corridor, where they conversed in whispers for some time.
"A splendid morning, madam," said Ippolit Matveyevich.
The blue-eyed madam laughed and, without any apparent bearing on
Ippolit Matveyevich's remark, began telling him what fools the people in the
next box were.
"They light the primus on purpose so that they won't be heard kissing.
But think how silly that is. We can all hear. The point is they don't hear
anything themselves because of the primus. Look, I'll show you."
And Nicky's wife, who had mastered all the secrets of the primus stove,
said loudly: "The Zveryevs are fools!"
From behind the wall came the infernal hissing of the primus stove and
the sound of kisses.
"You see! They can't hear anything. The Zveryevs are fools, asses and
cranks! You see!"
"Yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich.
"We don't have a primus, though. Why? Because we eat at the vegetarian
canteen, although I'm against a vegetarian diet. But when Nicky and I were
married, he was longing for us to eat together in the vegetarian canteen, so
that's why we go there. I'm actually very fond of meat, but all you get
there is rissoles made of noodles. Only please don't say anything to Nicky."
At this point Nicky and Ostap returned.
"Well, then, since we definitely can't stay with you, we'll go and see
Pantelei."
"That's right, fellows," cried Nicky, "go and see Ivanopulo. He's a
good sport."
"Come and visit us," said Nicky's wife. "My husband and I will always
be glad to see you."
"There they go inviting people again!" said an indignant voice in the
last pencil box. "As though they didn't have enough visitors!"
"Mind your own business, you fools, asses and cranks!" said Nicky's
wife without raising her voice.
"Do you hear that, Ivan Andreyevich?" said an agitated voice in the
last box. "They insult your wife and you say nothing."
Invisible commentators from the other boxes added their voices to the
fray and the verbal cross-fire increased. The partners went downstairs to
Ivanopulo.
The student was not at home. Ippolit Matveyevich lit a match and saw
that a note was pinned to the door. It read: "Will not be back before nine.
Pantelei".
"That's no harm," said Ostap. "I know where the key is." He groped
underneath the cabinet, produced a key, and unlocked the door.
Ivanopulo's room was exactly of the same size as Nicky's, but, being a
corner room, had one wall made of brick; the student was very proud of it.
Ippolit Matveyevich noted with dismay that he did not even have a mattress.
"This will do nicely," said Ostap. "Quite a decent size for Moscow. If
we all three lie on the floor, there will even be some room to spare. I
wonder what that son of a bitch, Pantelei, did with the mattress."
The window looked out on to a narrow street. A militiaman was walking
up and down outside the little house opposite, built in the style of a
Gothic tower, which housed the embassy of a minor power. Behind the iron
gates some people could be seen playing tennis. The white ball flew backward
and forward accompanied by short exclamations.
"Out!" said Ostap. "And the standard of play is not good. However,
let's have a rest."
The concessionaires spread newspapers on the floor and Ippolit
Matveyevich brought out the cushion which he carried with him.
Ostap dropped down on to the papers and dozed off. Vorobyaninov was
already asleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HAVE RESPECT FOR MATTRESSES, CITIZENS!
"Liza, let's go and have dinner!"
"I don't feel like it. I had dinner yesterday."
"I don't get you."
"I'm not going to eat mock rabbit."
"Oh, don't be silly!"
"I can't exist on vegetarian sausages."
"Today you can have apple pie."
"I just don't feel like it."
"Not so loud. Everything can be heard."
The young couple changed voices to a stage whisper.
Two minutes later Nicky realized for the first time in three months of
married life that his beloved liked sausages of carrots, potatoes, and peas
less than he did.
"So you prefer dog meat to a vegetarian diet," cried Nicky,
disregarding the eavesdropping neighbours in his burst of anger.
"Not so loud, I say!" shouted Liza. "And then you're nasty to me! Yes,
I do like meat. At times. What's so bad about that?"
Nicky said nothing in his amazement. This was an unexpected turn of
events. Meat would make an enormous, unfillable hole in his budget. The
young husband strolled up and down beside the mattress on which the
red-faced Liza was sitting curled up into a ball, and made some desperate
calculations.
His job of tracing blueprints at the Technopower design office brought
Nicky Kalachov no more than forty roubles, even in the best months. He did
not pay any rent for the apartment for there was no housing authority in
that jungle settlement and rent was an abstract concept. Ten roubles went on
Liza's dressmaking lessons. Dinner for the two of them (one first course of
monastery beet soup and a second course of phoney rabbit or genuine noodles)
consumed in two honestly halved portions in the Thou-Shalt-Not-Steal
vegetarian canteen took thirteen roubles each month from the married
couple's budget. The rest of their money dwindled away heavens knows where.
This disturbed Nicky most of all. "Where does the money go?" he used to
wonder, drawing a thin line with a special pen on sky-blue tracing paper. A
change to meat-eating under these circumstances would mean ruin. That was
why Nicky had spoken so heatedly.
"Just think of eating the bodies of dead animals. Cannibalism in the
guise of culture. All diseases stern from meat."
"Of course they do," said Liza with modest irony, "angina, for
instance."
"Yes, they do-including angina. Don't you believe me? The organism is
weakened by the continual consumption of meat and is unable to resist
infection."
"How stupid!"
"It's not stupid. It's the stupid person who tries to stuff his stomach
full without bothering about the quantity of vitamins."
Nicky suddenly became quiet. An enormous pork chop had loomed up before
his inner eye, driving the insipid, uninteresting baked noodles, porridge
and potato nonsense further and further into the background. It seemed to
have just come out of the pan. It was sizzling, bubbling, and giving off
spicy fumes. The bone stuck out like the barrel of a duelling pistol.
"Try to understand," said Nicky, "a pork chop reduces a man's life by a
week."
"Let it," said Liza. "Mock rabbit reduces it by six months. Yesterday
when we were eating that carrot entree I felt I was going to die. Only I
didn't want to tell you."
"Why didn't you want to tell me?"
"I hadn't the strength. I was afraid of crying."
"And aren't you afraid now?"
"Now I don't care." Liza began sobbing.
"Leo Tolstoy," said Nicky in a quavering voice, "didn't eat meat
either."
"No," retorted Liza, hiccupping through her tears, "the count ate
asparagus."
"Asparagus isn't meat."
"But when he was writing War and Peace he did eat meat. He did! He did!
And when he was writing Anna Karenina he stuffed himself and stuffed
himself."
"Do shut up!"
"Stuffed himself! Stuffed himself!"
"And I suppose while he was writing The Kreutzer Sonata he also stuffed
himself?" asked Nicky venomously.
"The Kreutzer Sonata is short. Just imagine him trying to write War and
Peace on vegetarian sausages! "
"Anyway, why do you keep nagging me about your Tolstoy?"
"Me nag you about Tolstoy! I like that. Me nag you!"
There was loud merriment in the pencil boxes. Liza hurriedly pulled a
blue knitted hat on to her head.
"Where are you going?"
"Leave me alone. I have something to do."
And she fled.
"Where can she have gone?" Nicky wondered. He listened hard.
"Women like you have a lot of freedom under the Soviet regime," said a
voice in the last pencil box on the left. "She's gone to drown herself,"
decided the third pencil box. The fifth pencil box lit the primus and got
down to the routine kissing. Liza ran from street to street in agitation.
It was that Sunday hour when lucky people carry mattresses along the
Arbat and from the market.
Newly-married couples and Soviet farmers are the principal purchasers
of spring mattresses. They carry them upright, clasping them with both arms.
Indeed, how can they help clasping those blue, shiny-flowered foundations of
their happiness!
Citizens! have respect for a blue-flowered spring mattress. It's a
family hearth. The be-all and the end-all of furnishings and the essence of
domestic comfort; a base for love-making; the father of the primus. How
sweet it is to sleep to the democratic hum of its springs. What marvellous
dreams a man may have when he falls asleep on its blue hessian. How great is
the respect enjoyed by a mattress owner.
A man without a mattress is pitiful. He does not exist. He does not pay
taxes; he has no wife; friends will not lend him money "until Wednesday";
cab-drivers shout rude words after him and girls laugh at him. They do not
like idealists.
People without mattresses largely write such verse as:
It's nice to rest in a rocking-chair
To the quiet tick of a Bouret clock.
When snow flakes swirling fill the air
And the daws pass, like dreams, In a flock.
They compose the verse at high desks in the post office, delaying the
efficient mattress owners who come to send telegrams.
A mattress changes a man's life. There is a certain attractive,
unfathomed force hidden in its covering and springs. People and things come
together to the alluring ring of its springs. It summons the income-tax
collector and girls. They both want to be friends with the1 mattress owner.
The tax collector does so for fiscal reasons and for the benefit of the
state, and the girls do so unselfishly, obeying the laws of nature.
Youth begins to bloom. Having collected his tax like a bumblebee
gathering spring honey, the tax collector flies away with a joyful hum to
his district hive. And the fast-retking girls are replaced by a wife and a
Jewel No. 1 primus.
A mattress is insatiable. It demands sacrifices. At night it makes the
sound of a bouncing ball. It needs a bookcase. It needs a table with thick
stupid legs. Creaking its springs, it demands drapes, a door curtain, and
pots and pans for the kitchen. It shoves people and says to them:
"Goon! Buy a washboard and rolling-pin!"
"I'm ashamed of you, man. You haven't yet got a carpet."
"Work! I'll soon give you children. You need money for nappies and a
pram."
A mattress remembers and does everything in its own way.
Not even a poet can escape the common lot. Here he comes, carrying one
from the market, hugging it to his soft belly with horror.
"I'll break down your resistance, poet," says the mattress. "You no
longer need to run to the post office to write poetry. And, anyway, is it
worth writing? Work and the balance will always be in your favour. Think
about your wife and children!"
"I haven't a wife," cries the poet, staggering back from his sprung
teacher.
"You will have! But I don't guarantee she will be the loveliest girl on
earth. I don't even know whether she will be kind. Be prepared for anything.
You will have children."
"I don't like children."
"You will."
"You frighten me, citizen mattress."
"Shut up, you fool. You don't know everything. You'll also obtain
credit from the Moscow woodworking factory."
"I'll kill you, mattress!"
"Puppy! If you dare to, the neighbours will denounce you to the housing
authority."
So every Sunday lucky people cruise around Moscow to the joyful sound
of mattresses. But that is not the only thing, of course, which makes a
Moscow Sunday. Sunday is museum day.
There is a special group of people in Moscow who know nothing about
art, are not interested in architecture, and do not like historical
monuments. These people visit museums solely because they are housed in
splendid buildings. These people stroll through the dazzling rooms, look
enviously at the frescoes, touch the things they are requested not to touch,
and mutter continually:
"My, how they used to live!"
They are not concerned with the fact that the murals were painted by
the Frenchman Puvis de Chavannes. They are only concerned with how much they
cost the former owner of the house. They go up staircases with marble
statues on the landings and try to imagine how many footmen used to stand
there, what wages were paid to them, and how much they received in tips.
There is china on the mantelpiece, but they disregard it and decide that a
fireplace is not such a good thing, as it uses up a lot of wood. In the
oak-panelled dining-room they do not examine the wonderful carving. They are
troubled by one thought: what used the former merchant-owner to eat there
and how much would it cost at present prices.
People like this can be found in any museum. While the conducted tours
are cheerfully moving from one work of art to another, this kind of person
stands in the middle of the room and, looking in front of him, sadly moans:
"My, how they used to live!"
Liza ran along the street, stifling her tears. Her thoughts spurred her
on. She was thinking about her poor, unhappy life.
"If we just had a table and two more chairs, it would be fine. And
we'll have a primus in the long run. We must get organized."
She slowed down, suddenly remembering her quarrel with Nicky.
Furthermore, she felt hungry. Hatred for her husband suddenly welled up in
her.
"It's simply disgraceful," she said aloud.
She felt even more hungry.
"Very well, then, I know what I'll do."
And Liz blushingly bought a slice of bread and sausage from a vendor.
Hungry as she was, it was awkward eating in the street. She was, after all,
a mattress-owner and understood the subtleties of life. Looking around, she
turned into the entrance to a large two-storeyed house. Inside, she attacked
the slice of bread and sausage with great avidity. The sausage was
delicious. A large group of tourists entered the doorway. They looked at
Liza by the wall as they passed.
Let them look! decided the infuriated girl.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE FURNITURE MUSEUM
Liza wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and brushed the crumbs off her
blouse. She felt happier. She was standing in front of a notice that read:
MUSEUM OF FURNITURE-MAKING
To return home would be awkward. She had no one she could go and see.
There were twenty kopeks in her pocket. So Liza decided to begin her life of
independence with a visit to the museum. Checking her cash in hand, she went
into the lobby.
Inside she immediately bumped into a man with a shabby beard who was
staring at a malachite column with a grieved expression and muttering
through his moustache:
"People certainly lived well!"
Liza looked respectfully at the column and went upstairs.
For ten minutes or so she sauntered through small square rooms with
ceilings so low that people entering them looked like giants.
The rooms were furnished in the style of the period of Emperor Paul
with mahogany and Karelian birch furniture that was austere, magnificent,
and militant. Two square dressers, the doors of which were crisscrossed with
spears, stood opposite a writing desk. The desk was vast. Sitting at it
would have been like sitting at the Theatre Square with the Bolshoi Theatre
with its colonnade and four bronze horses drawing Apollo to the first night
of "The Red Poppy" as an inkwell. At least, that is how it seemed to Liza,
who was being reared on carrots like a rabbit. There were high-backed chairs
in the corners of the room with tops twisted to resemble the horns of a ram.
The sunshine lay on their peach-coloured covers.
The chairs looked very inviting, but it was forbidden to sit on them.
Liza made a mental comparison to see how a priceless Empire chair would
look beside her red-striped mattress. The result was not too bad. She read
the plate on the wall which gave a scientific and ideological justification
of the period, and, regretting that she and Nicky did not have a room in
this palatial building, went out, unexpectedly finding herself in a
corridor.
Along the left-hand-side, at floor level, was a line of semicircular
windows. Through them Liza could see below her a huge columned hall with two
rows of large windows. The hall was also full of furniture, and visitors
strolled about inspecting it. Liza stood still. Never before had she seen a
room under her feet.
Marvelling and thrilling at the sight, she stood for some time gazing
downward. Suddenly she noticed the friends she had made that day, Bender and
his travelling companion, the distinguished-looking old man with the shaven
head; they were moving from the chairs towards the desks.
"Good," said Liza. "Now I won't be so bored."
She brightened up considerably, ran downstairs, and immediately lost
her way. She came to a red drawing-room in which there were about forty
pieces of furniture. It was walnut furniture with curved legs. There was no
exit from the drawing-room, so she had to run back through a circular room
with windows at the top, apparently furnished with nothing but flowered
cushions.
She hurried past Renaissance brocade chairs, Dutch dressers, a large
Gothic bed with a canopy resting on four twisted columns. In a bed like that
a person would have looked no larger than a nut.
At length Liza heard the drone of a batch of tourists as they listened
inattentively to the guide unmasking the imperialistic designs of Catherine
II in connection with the deceased empress's love of Louis Quinze furniture.
This was in fact the large columned hall with the two rows of large
windows. Liza made towards the far end, where her acquaintance, Comrade
Bender, was talking heatedly to his shaven-headed companion.
As she approached, she could hear a sonorous voice saying:
"The furniture is chic moderne, but not apparently what we want."
"No, but there are other rooms as well. We must examine everything
systematically."
"Hello!" said Liza.
They both turned around and immediately frowned.
"Hello, Comrade Bender. I'm glad I've found you. It's boring by myself.
Let's look at everything together."
The concessionaires exchanged glances. Ippolit Matveyevich assumed a
dignified air, although the idea that Liza might delay their important
search for the chair with the jewels was not a pleasant one.
"We are typical provincials," said Bender impatiently. "But how did you
get here, Miss Moscow?"
"Quite by accident. I had a row with Nicky."
"Really?" Ippolit Matveyevich observed.
"Well, let's leave this room," said Ostap.
"But I haven't looked at it yet. It's so nice."
"That's done it!" Ostap whispered to Vorobyaninov. And, turning to
Liza, he added: "There's absolutely nothing to see here. The style is
decadent. The Kerensky period."
"I'm told there's some Hambs furniture somewhere here," Ippolit
Matveyevich declared. "Maybe we should see that."
Liza agreed and, taking Vorobyaninov's arm (she thought him a
remarkably nice representative of science), went towards the exit. Despite
the seriousness of the situation, at this decisive moment in the treasure
hunt, Bender laughed good-humouredly as he walked behind the couple. He was
amused at the chief of the Comanche in the role of a cavalier.
Liza was a great hindrance to the concessionaires. Whereas they could
determine at a glance whether or not the room contained the furniture they
were after, and if not, automatically make for the next, Liza browsed at
length in each section. She read all the printed tags, made cutting remarks
about the other visitors, and dallied at each exhibit. Completely without
realizing it, she was mentally adapting all the furniture she saw to her own
room and requirements. She did not like the Gothic bed at all. It was too
big. Even if Nicky in some miraculous way acquired a room six yards square,
the mediaeval couch would still not fit into it. Liza walked round and round
the bed, measuring its true area in paces. She was very happy. She did not
notice the sour faces of her companions, whose chivalrous natures prevented
them from heading for the Hambs room at full pelt.
"Let's be patient," Ostap whispered. "The furniture won't run away. And
don't squeeze the girl, Marshal, I'm jealous!" Vorobyaninov laughed smugly.
The rooms went on and on. There was no end to them. The furniture of
the Alexander period was displayed in batches. Its relatively small size
delighted Liza.
"Look, look!" she cried, seizing Ippolit Matveyevich by the sleeve.
"You see that bureau? That would suit our room wonderfully, wouldn't it?"
"Charming furniture," said Ostap testily. "But decadent." "I've been in
here already," said Liza as she entered the red drawing-room. "I don't think
it's worth stopping here."
To her astonishment, the indifferent companions were standing
stock-still by the door like sentries.
"Why have you stopped? Let's go on. I'm tired."
"Wait," said Ippolit Matveyevich, freeing his arm. "One moment."
The large room was crammed with furniture. Hambs chairs were arranged
along the wall and around a table. The couch in the corner was also
encircled by chairs. Their curved legs and comfortable backs were excitingly
familiar to Ippolit Matveyevich. Ostap looked at him questioningly.
Vorobyaninov was flushed.
"You're tired, young lady," he said to Liza. "Sit down here a moment to
rest while he and I walk around a bit. This seems to be an interesting
room."
They sat Liza down. Then the concessionaires went over to the window.
"Are they the ones?" Ostap asked.
"It looks like it. I must have a closer look."
"Are they all here?"
"I'll just count them. Wait a moment." Vorobyaninov began shifting his
eyes from one chair to another. "Just a second," he said at length. "Twenty
chairs! That can't be right. There are only supposed to be twelve."
"Take a good look. They may not be the right ones."
They began walking among the chairs.
"Well?" Ostap asked impatiently.
"The back doesn't seem to be the same as in mine."
"So they aren't the ones?"
"No, they're not."
"What a waste of time it was taking up with you!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was completely crushed.
"All right," said Ostap, "the hearing is continued. A chair isn't a
needle in a haystack. We'll find it. Give me the orders. We will have to
establish unpleasant contact with the museum curators. Sit down beside the
girl and wait. I'll be back soon."
"Why are you so depressed?" asked Liza, "Are you tired?"
Ippolit Matveyevich tried not to answer.
"Does your head ache?"
"Yes, slightly. I have worries, you know. Lack of a woman's affection
has an effect on one's tenor of life."
Liza was at first surprised, and then, looking at her bald-headed
companion, felt truly sorry for him. Vorobyaninov's eyes were full of
suffering. His pince-nez could not hide the sharply outlined bags underneath
them. The rapid change from the quiet life of a clerk in a district registry
office to the uncomfortable, irksome existence of a diamond hunter and
adventurer had left its mark. Ippolit Matveyevich had become extremely thin
and his liver had started paining him. Under the strict supervision of
Bender he was losing his own personality and rapidly being absorbed by the
powerful intellect of the son of a Turkish citizen. Now that he was left
alone for a minute with the charming Liza, he felt an urge to tell her about
his trials and tribulations, but did not dare to do so.
"Yes," he said, gazing tenderly at his companion, "that's how it is.
How are you, Elizabeth. . ."
"Petrovna. And what's your name?"
They exchanged names and patronymics. "A tale of true love," thought
Ippolit Matveyevich, peering into Liza's simple face. So passionately and so
irresistibly did the old marshal want a woman's affection that he
immediately seized Liza's tiny hand in his own wrinkled hands and began
talking enthusiastically of Paris. He wanted to be rich, extravagant and
irresistible. He wanted to captivate a beauty from the all-women orchestra
and drink champagne with her in a private dining-room to the sound of music.
What was the use of talking to a girl who knew absolutely nothing about
women's orchestras or wine, and who by nature would not appreciate the
delights of that kind of life? But he so much wanted to be attractive!
Ippolit Matveyevich enchanted Liza with his account of Paris. "Are you a
scientist?" asked Liza.
"Yes, to a certain extent,", replied Ippolit Matveyevich, feeling that
since first meeting Bender he had regained some of the nerve that he had
lost in recent years.
"And how old are you, if it's not an indiscreet question?"
"That has nothing to do with the science which I am at present
representing."
Liza was squashed by the prompt and apt reply. "But, anyway-thirty,
forty, fifty?"
"Almost. Thirty-seven."
"Oh! You look much younger."
Ippolit Matveyevich felt happy. "When will you give me the pleasure of
seeing you again? " he asked through his nose.
Liza was very ashamed. She wriggled about on her seat and felt
miserable. "Where has Comrade Bender got to?" she asked in a thin voice.
"So when, then?" asked Vorobyaninov impatiently. "When and where shall
we meet?"
"Well, I don't know. Whenever you like."
"Is today all right?"
"Today?"
"Please!"
"Well, all right. Today, if you like. Come and see us."
"No, let's meet outside. The weather's so wonderful at present. Do you
know the poem 'It's mischievous May, it's magical May, who is waving his fan
of freshness'?"
"Is that Zharov?"
"Mmm . . . I think so. Today, then? And where?"
"How strange you are. Anywhere you like. By the cabinet if you want. Do
you know it? As soon as it's dark."
Hardly had Ippolit Matveyevich time to kiss Liza's hand, which he did
solemnly and in three instalments, when Ostap returned. He was very
businesslike.
"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he said quickly, "but my friend and I cannot
see you home. A small but important matter has arisen. We have to go
somewhere urgently."
Ippolit Matveyevich caught his breath. "Good-bye, Elizabeth Petrovna,"
he said hastily. "I'm very, very sorry, but we're in a terrible hurry."
The partners ran off, leaving the astonished Liza in the room so
abundantly furnished with Hambs chairs.
"If it weren't for me," said Ostap as they went downstairs, "not a damn
thing would get done. Take your hat off to me! Go on! Don't be afraid! Your
head won't fall off! Listen! The museum has no use for your furniture. The
right place for it is not a museum, but the barracks of a punishment
battalion. Are you satisfied with the situation?"
"What nerve!" exclaimed Vorobyaninov, who had begun to free himself
from the other's powerful intellect.
"Silence!" said Ostap coldly. "You don't know what's happening. If we
don't get hold of your furniture, everything's lost. We'll never see it. I
have just had a depressing conversation with the curator of this historical
refuse-dump."
"Well, and what did he say," cried Ippolit Matveyevich, "this curator
of yours? "
"He said all he needed to. Don't worry. Tell me,' I said to him, 'how
do you explain the fact that the furniture requisitioned in Stargorod and
sent to your museum isn't here?" I asked him politely, of course, as a
comrade. 'Which furniture?' he asks. 'Such things do not occur in my
museum.' I immediately shoved the orders under his nose. He began rummaging
in the files. He searched for about half an hour and finally came back.
Well, guess what happened to the furniture!" "Not lost? " squeaked
Vorobyaninov.
"No, just imagine! Just imagine, it remained safe and sound through all
the confusion. As I told you, it has no museum value. It was dumped in a
storehouse and only yesterday, mind you, only yesterday, after seven
years-it had been in the storehouse seven years-it was sent to be auctioned.
The auction is being held by the chief scientific administration. And
provided no one bought it either yesterday or this morning, it's ours."
"Quick!" Ippolit Matveyevich shouted. "Taxi! "Ostap yelled.
They got in without even arguing about the price. "Take your hat off to
me! Don't be afraid, Hofmarshal! Wine, women and cards will be provided.
Then we'll settle for the light-blue waistcoat as well."
As friskily as foals, the concessionaires tripped into the Petrovka
arcade where the auction rooms were located.
In the first auction room they caught sight of what they had long been
chasing. All ten chairs were lined along the wall. The upholstery had not
even become darker, nor had it faded or been in any way spoiled. The chairs
were as fresh and clean as when they had first been removed from the
supervision of the zealous Claudia Ivanovna. "Are those the ones?" asked
Ostap.
"My God, my God," Vorobyaninov kept repeating. "They're the ones. The
very ones. There's no doubt this time."
"Let's make certain, just in case," said Ostap, trying to remain calm.
They went up to an auctioneer.
"These chairs are from the furniture museum, aren't they? "
"These? Yes, they are."
"And they're for sale?"
"Yes."
"At what price?"
"No price yet. They're up for auction."
"Aha! Today?"
"No. The auction has finished for today. Tomorrow at five."
"And they're not for sale at the moment? "
"No. Tomorrow at five."
They could not leave the chairs at once, just like that.
"Do you mind if we have a look at them?" Ippolit Matveyevich stammered.
The concessionaires examined the chairs at great length, sat on them,
and, for the sake of appearances, looked at the other lots. Vorobyaninov was
breathing hard and kept nudging Ostap.
"Take your hat off to me, Marshal!"
Ippolit Matveyevich was not only prepared to take his hat off to Ostap;
he was even ready to kiss the soles of his crimson boots.
"Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow," he kept saying.
He felt an urge to sing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
VOTING THE EUROPEAN WAY
While the friends were leading a cultured and edifying way of life,
visiting museums and making passes at girls, the double-widow Gritsatsuyev,
a fat and feeble woman, was consulting and conspiring with her neighbours in
Plekhanov Street, Stargorod.
They examined the note left by Bender in groups, and even held it up to
the light. But it had no watermark, and even if it had, the mysterious
squiggles of the splendid Ostap would not have been any clearer.
Three days passed. The horizon remained clear. Neither Bender, the tea
strainer, the imitation-gold bracelet, nor the chair returned. These animate
and inanimate objects had all disappeared in the most puzzling way.
The widow then decided to take drastic measures. She went to the office
of the Stargorod Truth, where they briskly concocted for her the following
notice:
MISSING FROM HOME. I implore anyone knowing the whereabouts of Com.
Bender to inform me. Aged 25-30, brown hair, last seen dressed in a green
suit, yellow boots and a blue waistcoat. Information on the above person
will be adequately rewarded. Gritsatsuyev, 15 Plekhanov St.
"Is he your son?" they asked sympathetically in the office.
"Husband!" replied the martyr, covering her face with a handkerchief.
"Your husband!"
"Why not? He's legal."
"Nothing. You ought really to go to the militia."
The widow was alarmed. She was terrified of the militia. She left,
accompanied by curious glances.
Three times did the columns of the Stargorod Truth send out their
summons, but the great land was silent. No one came forward who knew the
whereabouts of a brown-haired man in yellow boots. No one came forward to
collect the adequate reward. The neighbours continued to gossip.
People became used to the Stargorod tramway and rode on it without
trepidation. The conductors shouted "Full up" in fresh voices and everything
proceeded as though the trams had been going since the time of St. Vladimir
the Red Sun. Disabled persons of all categories, women and children and
Victor Polesov sat at the front of the cars. To the cry of "Fares please"
Polesov used to answer "Season" and remain next to the driver. He did not
have a season ticket, nor could he have had one.
The sojourn of Vorobyaninov and the smooth operator left a deep imprint
on the town.
The conspirators carefully kept the secret entrusted to them. Even
Polesov kept it, despite the fact that he was dying to blurt out the
exciting secret to the first person he met. But then, remembering Ostap's
powerful shoulders, he stood firm. He only poured out his heart in
conversations with the fortune-teller.
"What do you think, Elena Stanislavovna?" he would ask. "How do you
explain the absence of our leaders? "
Elena Stanislavovna was also very intrigued, but she had no
information.
"Don't you think, Elena Stanislavovna," continued the indefatigable
mechanic, "that they're on a special mission at present?"
The fortune-teller was convinced that this was the case. Their opinion
was apparently shared by the parrot in the red underpants as well. It looked
at Polesov with a round, knowing eye as if to say: "Give me some seeds and
I'll tell you all about it. You'll be governor, Victor. All the mechanics
will be in your charge. And the yard-keeper from no. 5 will remain as
before- a conceited bum."
"Don't you think we ought to carry on without them, Elena
Stanislavovna? Whatever happens, we can't sit around doing nothing."
The fortune-teller agreed and remarked: "He's a hero, our Ippolit
Matveyevich."
"He is a hero, Elena Stanislavovna, that's clear. But what about the
officer with him? A go-getting fellow. Say what you like, Elena
Stanislavovna, but things can't go on like this. They definitely can't."
And Polesov began to act. He made regular visits to all the members of
the secret society "Sword and Ploughshare", pestering Kislarsky, the canny
owner of the Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun artel, in particular. At
the sight of Polesov, Kislarsky's face darkened. And his talk of the need to
act drove the timid bun-maker to distraction.
Towards the week-end they all met at Elena Stanislavovna's in the room
with the parrot. Polesov was bursting with energy.
"Stop blathering, Victor," said the clear-thinking Dyadyev. "What have
you been careering round the town for days on end for?"
"We must act!" cried Polesov.
"Act yes, but certainly not shout. This is how I see the situation,
gentlemen. Once Ippolit Matveyevich has spoken, his words are sacred. And we
must assume we haven't long to wait. How it will all take place, we don't
need to know; there are military people to take care of that. We are the
civilian contingent- representatives of the town intelligentsia and
merchants. What's important for us? To be ready. Do we have anything? Do we
have a centre? No. Who will be governor of the town? There's no one. But
that's the main thing, gentlemen. I don't think the British will stand on
ceremony with the Bolsheviks. That's our first sign. It will all change very
rapidly, gentlemen, I assure you."
"Well, we don't doubt that in the least," said Charushnikov, puffing
out his cheeks.
"And a very good thing you don't. What do you think, Mr. Kislarsky? And
you, young men?"
Nikesha and Vladya both looked absolutely certain of a rapid change,
while Kislarsky happily nodded assent, having gathered from what the head of
Fastpack had said that he would not be required to participate directly in
any armed clashes. "What are we to do?" asked Polesov impatiently. "Wait,"
said Dyadyev. "Follow the example of Mr. Vorobyaninov's companion. How
smart! How shrewd! Did you notice how quickly he got around to assistance to
waifs and strays? That's how we should all act. We're only helping the
children. So, gentlemen, let's nominate our candidates."
"We propose Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov as marshal of the
nobility," exclaimed the young Nikesha and Vladya.
Charushnikov coughed condescendingly. "What do you mean! Nothing less
than a minister for him. Higher, if you like. Make him a dictator."
"Come, come, gentlemen," said Dyadyev, "a marshal is the last thing to
think about. We need a governor. I think. . ."
"You, Mr. Dyadyev," cried Polesov ecstatically. "Who else is there to
take the reins in our province."
"I am most flattered by your confidence .. ." Dyadyev began, but at
this point Charushnikov, who had suddenly turned pink, began to speak.
"The question, gentlemen," he said in a strained voice, "ought to have
been aired."
He tried not to look at Dyadyev.
The owner of Fastpack also looked at his boots, which had wood shavings
sticking to them.
"I don't object," he said. "Let's put it to the vote. Secret ballot or
a show of hands? "
"We don't need to do it in the Soviet style," said Charushnikov in a
hurt voice. "Let's vote in an honest European way, by secret ballot."
They voted on pieces of paper. Dyadyev received four votes and
Charushnikov two. Someone had abstained. It was clear from Kislarsky's face
that he was the one. He did not wish to spoil his relations with the future
governor, whoever he might be.
When Polesov excitedly announced the results of the-honest European
ballot, there was silence in the room. They tried not to look at
Charushnikov. The unsuccessful candidate for governor sat in humiliation.
Elena Stanislavovna felt very sorry for him, as she had voted in his
favour. Charushnikov obtained his second vote by voting for himself; he was,
after all, well versed in electoral procedure.
"Anyway, I propose Monsieur Charushnikov as mayor," said the kindly
Elena Stanislavovna immediately.
"Why 'anyway'?" asked the magnanimous governor. "Not anyway, but him
and no one else. Mr. Charushnikov's public activity is well known to us
all."
"Hear, hear I" they all cried.
"Then we can consider the election accepted?"
The humiliated Charushnikov livened up and even tried to protest. "No,
no, gentlemen, I request a vote. It's even more necessary to vote for a
mayor than for a governor. If you wish to show me your confidence,
gentlemen, I ask you to hold a ballot." Pieces of paper poured into the
empty sugar-bowl. "Six votes in favour and one abstention."
"Congratulations, Mr. Mayor," said Kislarsky, whose face gave away that he
had abstained this time, too. "Congratulations !'
Charushnikov swelled with pride.
"And now it only remains to take some refreshment, Your Excellency," he
said to Dyadyev. "Polesov, nip down to the October beer-hall. Do you have
any money?"
Polesov made a mysterious gesture with his hand and ran off. The
elections were temporarily adjourned and resumed after supper.
As ward of the educational region they appointed Raspopov, former
headmaster of a private school, and now a second-hand book dealer. He was
greatly praised. R was only Vladya who protested suddenly, after his third
glass of vodka.
"We mustn't elect him. He gave me bad marks in logic at the
school-leaving exams." They all went for Vladya.
"At such a decisive hour, you must not think of your own good. Think of
the fatherland."
They brainwashed Vladya so quickly that he even voted in favour of his
tormentor. Raspopov was elected by six votes with one abstention.
Kislarsky was offered the post of chairman of the stock-exchange
committee. He did not object, but abstained during the voting just in case.
Drawing from among friends and relations, they elected a chief of
police, a head of the assay office, and a customs and excise inspector; they
filled the vacancies of regional public prosecutor, judge, clerk of the
court, and other law court officials; they appointed chairmen for the
Zemstvo and merchants' council, the children's welfare committee, and,
finally, the shop-owners' council. Elena Stanislavovna was elected ward of
the Drop-of-Milk and White-Flower societies. On account of their youth,
Nikesha and Vladya were appointed special-duty clerks attached to the
governor.
"Wait a minute," exclaimed Charushnikov suddenly. "The governor has two
clerks, and what about me?" "A mayor is not entitled to special-duty
clerks." "Then give me a secretary."
Dyadyev consented. Elena Stanislavovna also had something to say.
"Would it be possible," she said, faltering, "I know a young man, a
nice and well-brought-up boy. Madame Cherkesov's son. He's a very, very nice
and clever boy. He hasn't a job at present and has to keep going to the
employment office. He's even a trade-union member. They promised to find
work for him in the union. Couldn't you take him? His mother would be very
grateful."
"It might be possible," said Charushnikov graciously. "What do you
think, gentlemen? All right. I think that could be arranged."
"Right, then-that seems to be about all," Dyadyev observed.
"What about me?" a high-pitched, nervous voice suddenly said.
They all turned around. A very upset Victor Polesov was standing in the
corner next to the parrot. Tears were bubbling on his black eyelids. The
guests all felt very ashamed, remembering that they had been drinking
Polesov's vodka and that he was basically one of the organizers of the
Stargorod branch of the Sword and Ploughshare.
Elena Stanislavovna seized her head and gave a horrified screech.
"Victor Mikhailovich!" they all gasped. "Pal! Shame on you! What are
you doing in the corner? Come out at once."
Polesov came near. He was suffering. He had not expected such
callousness from his fellow-members of the Sword and Ploughshare.
Elena Stanislavovna was unable to restrain herself. "Gentlemen," she
said, "this is awful. How could you forget Victor Mikhailovich, so dear to
us all?" She got up and kissed the mechanic-aristocrat on his sooty
forehead. "Surely Victor Mikhailovich is worthy of being a ward or a police
chief."
"Well, Victor Mikhailovich," asked the governor, "do you want to be a
ward?"
"Well of course, he would make a splendid, humane ward," put in the
mayor, swallowing a mushroom and frowning.
"But what about Raspopov? You've already nominated Raspopov."
"Yes, indeed, what shall we do with Raspopov?"
"Make him a fire chief, eh?"
"A fire chief!" exclaimed Polesov, suddenly becoming excited.
A vision of fire-engines, the glare of lights, the sound of the siren
and the drumming of hoofs suddenly flashed through his mind. Axes glimmered,
torches wavered, the ground heaved, and black dragons carried him to a fire
at the town theatre.
"A fire chief! I want to be a fire chief!"
"Well, that's fine. Congratulations! You're now the fire chief."
"Let's drink to the prosperity of the fire brigade," said the chairman
of the stock-exchange committee sarcastically.
They all went for him.
"You were always left-wing! We know you!"
"What do you mean, gentlemen, left-wing?"
"We know, we know I"
"Left-wing!"
"All Jews are left-wing I"
"Honestly, gentlemen, I don't understand such jokes."
"You're left-wing, don't try to hide it!"
"He dreams about Milyukov at night."
"Cadet! You're a Cadet."
"The Cadets sold Finland," cried Charushnikov suddenly.
"And took money from the Japanese. They split the Armenians."
Kislarsky could not endure the stream of groundless accusations. Pale,
his eyes blazing, the chairman of the stock-exchange committee grasped hold
of his chair and said in a ringing voice:
"I was always a supporter of the Tsar's October manifesto and still
am."
They began to sort out who belonged to which party.
"Democracy above all, gentlemen," said Charushnikov. "Our town
government must be democratic."
"But without Cadets! They did the dirty on us in 1917."
"I hope,' said the governor acidly, "that there aren't any so-called
Social Democrats among us."
There was nobody present more left-wing than the Octobrists,
represented at the meeting by Kislarsky. Charushnikov declared himself to be
the "centre". The extreme right-wing was the fire chief. He was so
right-wing that he did not know which party he belonged to.
They talked about war.
"Any day now," said Dyadyev.
"There'll be a war, yes, there will."
"I advise stocking up with a few things before it's too late."
"Do you think so?" asked Kislarsky in alarm.
"Well, what do you think? Do you suppose you can get anything in
wartime? Flour would disappear from the market right away. Silver coins will
vanish completely. There'll be all sorts of paper currency, and stamps will
have the same value as banknotes, and all that sort of thing."
"War, that's for sure."
"You may think differently, but I'm spending all my spare cash on
buying up essential commodities," said Dyadyev.
"And what about your textile business? "
"Textiles can look out for themselves, but the flour and sugar are
important."
"That's what I advise you. I urge you, even."
Polesov laughed derisively. "How can the Bolsheviks fight? What with?
What will they fight with? Old-fashioned rifles. And the Air Force? A
prominent communist told me that they only have . . . well, how many planes
do you think they have?"
"About two hundred."
"Two hundred? Not two hundred, but thirty-two. And France has e...
