Eugene Petrov - The Twelve Chairs

tassels ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in

1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a

good coffin."

"What are you talking about? Are you crazy?" snapped Ippolit

Matveyevich and moved towards the door. "Your coffins will drive you out of

your mind."

Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first

and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience.

"When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one

firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I

tell you straight, there's nothin' to beat mine. You don't even need to

look."

Ippolit Matveyevich turned round angrily, glared at Bezenchuk, and

began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office

that day, he felt rotten.

The three owners of the Nymph were standing by their establishment in

the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that morning.

They appeared not to have exchanged a single word with one another, yet a

striking change in their expressions and a kind of secret satisfaction

darkly gleaming in their eyes indicated that they had heard something of

importance.

At the sight of his business rivals, Bezenchuk waved his hand in

despair and called after Vorobyaninov in a whisper: "I'll make it thirty-two

roubles." Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and increased his pace. "You can have

credit," added Bezenchuk. The three owners of the Nymph said nothing. They

sped after Vorobyaninov in silence, continually doffing their caps and

bowing as they went.

Highly annoyed by the stupid attentions of the undertakers, Ippolit

Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably

wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of

hunger, went into the hallway. He was met by Father Theodore, priest of the

Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room

and was looking hot and bothered. Holding up his cassock in his right hand,

Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich.

It was then that Vorobyaninov noticed the extra cleanliness and the

unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in

his nose from the strong smell of medicine. In the outer room Ippolit

Matveyevich was met by his neighbour, Mrs. Kuznetsov, the agronomist. She

spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about.

"She's worse. She's just made her confession. Don't make a noise with

your boots."

"I'm not," said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. "What's happened?"

Mrs. Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner

room: "Very severe heart attack."

Then, clearly repeating what she had heard, added: "The possibility of

her not recovering should not be discounted. I've been on my feet all day. I

came this morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was

no one in the kitchen and no one in this room either. So I thought Claudia

Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to

for some time. You know what flour is like nowadays. If you don't buy it

beforehand . . ."

Mrs. Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour

and the high price of it and how she found Claudia Ivanovna lying by the

tiled stove completely unconscious, had not a groan from the next room

impinged painfully on Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. He quickly crossed himself

with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room.

CHAPTER TWO

MADAME PETUKHOV'S DEMISE

Claudia Ivanovna lay on her back with one arm under her head. She was

wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion

when ladies wore the "chanticleer" and had just begun to dance the tango.

Claudia Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed absolutely nothing.

Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

"Claudia Ivanovna!" called Ippolit Matveyevich.

His mother-in-law moved her lips rapidly, but instead of the

trumpet-like sounds to which his ear was accustomed, Ippolit Matveyevich

only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a

leap. A tear suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a

drop of mercury.

"Claudia Ivanovna," repeated Vorobyaninov, "what's the matter?"

But again he received no answer. The old woman had closed her eyes and

slumped to one side.

The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a

little boy taken to be washed.

"She's dropped off. The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed.

Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out

how much an ice-bag costs."

Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable

superiority in such matters.

It was a long way to the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his

fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.

It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of

Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of

bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge

from an iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the

undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his

shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:

"Always in me way, durn 'em."

In the middle of the square, near the bust of the "poet Zhukovsky,

which was inscribed with the words "Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of

the Earth", an animated conversation was in progress following the news of

Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The general opinion of the assembled citizens

could have been summed up as "We all have to go sometime" and "What the Lord

gives, the Lord takes back".

The hairdresser "Pierre and Constantine"-who also answered readily to

the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the way-once again took the opportunity to

air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok.

"Modern science," Andrew Ivanovich was saying, "has achieved the

impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his

chin. In the old days that usually resulted in blood-poisoning. But they say

that nowadays, in Moscow-I don't know whether it's true or not-a freshly

sterilized shaving brush is used for every customer." The citizens gave long

sighs. "Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Andrew? " "How could there be a

different brush for every person? That's a good one!"

Prusis, a former member of the proletariat intelligentsia, and now a

private stall-owner, actually became excited.

"Wait a moment, Andrew Ivanovich. According to the latest census, the

population of Moscow is more than two million. That means they'd need more

than two million brushes. Seems rather curious."

The conversation was becoming heated, and heaven only knows how it

would have ended had not Ippolit Matveyevich appeared at the end of the

street. "He's off to the chemist's again. Things must be bad." "The old

woman will die. Bezenchuk isn't running round the town in a flurry for

nothing." "What does the doctor say? "

"What doctor? Do you call those people in the social-insurance office

doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!"

"Pierre and Constantine", who had been longing for a chance to make a