Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.

Ippolit Matveyevich left the house in rather an irritable mood.

Bezenchuk the undertaker was standing at the entrance to his tumble-down

establishment, leaning against the door with his hands crossed. The regular

collapse of his commercial undertakings plus a long period of practice in

the consumption of intoxicating drinks had made his eyes bright yellow like

a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.

"Greetings to an honoured guest!" he rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov.

"Good mornin'."

Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled beaver hat. "How's your

mother-in-law, might I inquire? " "Mrr-mrr," said Ippolit Matveyevich

indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.

"God grant her health," said Bezenchuk bitterly. "Nothin' but losses,

durn it." And crossing his hands on his chest, he again leaned against the

doorway.

At the entrance to the Nymph Funeral Home Ippolit Matveyevich was

stopped once more. There were three owners of the Nymph. They all bowed to

Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.

"She's well," replied Ippolit Matveyevich. "The things she does! Last

night she saw a golden girl with her hair down. It was a dream."

The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly.

These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov on his way, and contrary to

his usual practice, he did not arrive at work until the clock on the wall

above the slogan "Finish Your Business and Leave" showed five past nine.

Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache,

Ippolit Matveyevich was known in the office as Maciste.* although the real

Maciste had no moustache. ( Translator's Note: Maciste was an

internationally known Italian actor of the time.)

Taking a blue felt cushion out of a drawer in the desk, Ippolit

Matveyevich placed it on his chair, aligned his moustache correctly

(parallel to the top of the desk) and sat down on the cushion, rising

slightly higher than his three colleagues. He was not afraid of getting

piles; he was afraid of wearing out his trousers-that was why he used the

blue cushion.

All these operations were watched timidly by two young persons-a boy

and a girl. The young man, who wore a padded cotton coat, was completely

overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink, the clock

that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice

"Finish Your Business and Leave". The young man in the coat had not even

begun his business, but he was nonetheless ready to leave. He felt his

business was so insignificant that it was shameful to disturb such a

distinguished-looking grey-haired citizen as Vorobyaninov. Ippolit

Matveyevich also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could

wait, so he opened folder no. 2 and, with a twitch of the cheek, immersed

himself in the papers. The girl, who had on a long jacket edged with shiny

black ribbon, whispered something to the young man and, pink with

embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Comrade," she said, "where do we . . ."

The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly

for himself, blurted out:

"Get married!"

Ippolit Matveyevich looked thoughtfully at the rail behind which the

young couple were standing.

"Birth? Death?"

"Get married?" repeated the young man in the coat and looked round him

in confusion.

The girl gave a giggle. Things were going fine. Ippolit Matveyevich set

to work with the skill of a magician. In spidery handwriting he recorded the

names of the bride and groom in thick registers, sternly questioned the

witnesses, who had to be fetched from outside, breathed tenderly and

lengthily on the square rubber stamps and then, half rising to his feet,

impressed them upon the tattered identification papers. Having received two

roubles from the newly-weds "for administration of the sacrament", as he

said with a smirk, and given them a receipt, Ippolit Matveyevich drew

himself up to his splendid height, automatically pushing out his chest (he

had worn a corset at one time). The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his

shoulders like epaulettes. His appearance was slightly comic, but singularly

impressive. The biconcave lenses of his pince-nez flashed white like

searchlights. The young couple stood in awe.

"Young people," said Ippolit Matveyevich pompously, "allow me to

congratulate you, as they used to say, on your legal marriage. It is very,

very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the

realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!'

Having made this address, Ippolit Matveyevich shook hands with the

newly married couple, sat down, and, extremely pleased with himself,

continued to read the papers in folder no. 2. At the next desk the clerks

sniggered into their ink-wells. The quiet routine of the working day had

begun. No one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages desk. Through the windows

citizens could be seen making their way home, shivering in the spring

chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough co-operative

began crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then came the mechanical rattling and

squeaking of a car engine. A thick cloud of violet smoke billowed out from

Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the clanking grew louder. Through the smoke

appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with

its minute radiator and bulky body. Floundering in the mud as it went, the

car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a

cloud of poisonous smoke. The clerks remained standing at the window for

some time, commenting on the event and attempting to connect it with a

possible reduction in staff. A little while later Bezenchuk cautiously went

past along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town

trying to find out if anyone had died.

The working day was drawing to a close. In the nearby white and yellow

belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one

by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting,

and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square.

It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be

born on that day had been born and registered in the thick ledgers. All

those wishing to get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the

thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of the undertakers, there had not

been a single death. Ippolit Matveyevich packed up his files, put the felt

cushion away in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache with a comb, and was

just about to leave, having visions of a bowl of steaming soup, when the

door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold.

"Greetings to an honoured guest," said Ippolit Matveyevich with a

smile. "What can I do for you?"

The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable

to utter a word.

"Well?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely.

"Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?" said the

undertaker vaguely. "Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a coffin needs

so much wood alone."

"What?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"It's the Nymph. . . . Three families livin' on one rotten business.

And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the