Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

Soviet novels.

Inevitably, some of the humour must get lost in the process of

translation. The protagonists in The Twelve Chairs are for the most part

semi-educated men, but they all aspire to kulturnost, and love to refer to

classics of Russian literature-which they usually misquote. They also

frequently mispronounce foreign words with comical effect. These no

translator could possibly salvage. But the English-speaking reader won't

miss the ridiculous quality of the "updated" version of The Marriage on a

Soviet stage, even if he has never seen a traditional performance of Gogol's

comedy; he will detect with equal ease the hilarious scheme of Ostap Bender

to "modernize" a famous canvas by Repin even if he has never seen the

original painting. Fortunately, most of the comic qualities of the novel are

inherent in the actions of the protagonists, and these are not affected by

being translated. They will only serve to prove once again that, basically,

Soviet Russians are fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,

subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by

the same winter and summer" as all men are.

MAURICE FRIEDBERQ

Hunter College 1960

Part I

THE LION OF STARGOROD

CHAPTER ONE

BEZENCHUK AND THE NYMPHS

There were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral homes in the

regional centre of N. that the inhabitants seemed to be born merely in order

to have a shave, get their hair cut, freshen up their heads with toilet

water and then die. In actual fact, people came into the world, shaved, and

died rather rarely in the regional centre of N. Life in N. was extremely

quiet. The spring evenings were delightful, the mud glistened like

anthracite in the light of the moon, and all the young men of the town were

so much in love with the secretary of the communal-service workers' local

committee that she found difficulty in collecting their subscriptions.

Matters of life and death did not worry Ippolit Matveyevich

Vorobyaninov, although by the nature of his work he dealt with them from

nine till five every day, with a half-hour break for lunch.

Each morning, having drunk his ration of hot milk brought to him by

Claudia Ivanovna in a streaky frosted-glass tumbler, he left the dingy

little house and went outside into the vast street bathed in weird spring

sunlight; it was called Comrade Gubernsky Street. It was the nicest kind of

street you can find in regional centres. On the left you could see the

coffins of the Nymph Funeral Home glittering with silver through undulating

green-glass panes. On the right, the dusty, plain oak coffins of Bezenchuk,

the undertaker, reclined sadly behind small windows from which the putty was

peeling off. Further up, "Master Barber Pierre and Constantine" promised

customers a "manicure" and "home curlings". Still further on was a hotel

with a hairdresser's, and beyond it a large open space in which a

straw-coloured calf stood tenderly licking the rusty sign propped up against

a solitary gateway. The sign read: Do-Us-the-Honour Funeral Home.

Although there were many funeral homes, their clientele was not

wealthy. The Do-Us-the-Honour had gone broke three years before Ippolit

Matveyevich settled in the town of N., while Bezenchuk drank like a fish and

had once tried to pawn his best sample coffin.

People rarely died in the town of N. Ippolit Matveyevich knew this

better than anyone because he worked in the registry office, where he was in

charge of the registration of deaths and marriages.

The desk at which Ippolit Matveyevich worked resembled an ancient

gravestone. The left-hand corner had been eaten away by rats. Its wobbly

legs quivered under the weight of bulging tobacco-coloured files of notes,

which could provide any required information on the origins of the town

inhabitants and the family trees that had grown up in the barren regional

soil.

On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half

past seven and immediately slipped on to his nose an old-fashioned pince-nez

with a gold nosepiece. He did not wear glasses. At one time, deciding that

it was not hygienic to wear pince-nez, he went to the optician and bought

himself a pair of frameless spectacles with gold-plated sidepieces. He liked

the spectacles from the very first, but his wife (this was shortly before

she died) found that they made him look the spitting image of Milyukov, and

he gave them to the man who cleaned the yard. Although he was not

shortsighted, the fellow grew accustomed to the glasses and enjoyed wearing

them.

"Bonjour!" sang Ippolit Matveyevich to himself as he lowered his legs

from the bed. "Bonjour" showed that he had woken up in a. good humour. If he

said "Guten Morgen" on awakening, it usually meant that his liver was

playing tricks, that it was no joke being fifty-two, and that the weather

was damp at the time.

Ippolit Matveyevich thrust his legs into pre-revolutionary trousers,

tied the ribbons around his ankles, and pulled on short, soft-leather boots

with narrow, square toes. Five minutes later he was neatly arrayed in a

yellow waistcoat decorated with small silver stars and a lustrous silk

jacket that reflected the colours of the rainbow as it caught the light.

Wiping away the drops of water still clinging to his grey hairs after his

ablutions, Ippolit Matveyevich fiercely wiggled his moustache, hesitantly

felt his bristly chin, gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush and,

then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who

had just come into the room.

"Eppole-et," she thundered, "I had a bad dream last night."

The word "dream" was pronounced with a French "r".

Ippolit Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law up and down. He was six

feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for him to look down

on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt.

Claudia Ivanovna continued: "I dreamed of the deceased Marie with her

hair down, and wearing a golden sash."

The iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at the

rumble of Claudia Ivanovna's voice. "I am very disturbed. I fear something

may happen." These last words were uttered with such force that the square

of bristling hair on Ippolit Matveyevich's head moved in different

directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly:

"Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?"

It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit

Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her

advanced age gave little hope of any improvement. She was stingy in the

extreme, and it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's poverty which prevented her

giving rein to this passion. Her voice was so strong and fruity that it

might well have been envied by Richard the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is

well known, horses used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing

of all about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed

of girls in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid worn by dragoons,

caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats who went for walks

at night carrying clappers, and knitting-needles which hopped around the

room by themselves making a distressing tinkle. An empty-headed woman was

Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her upper lip was covered