m story was reported by the "Prince of
Denmark", writer of humorous pieces, known to the whole town under the pen
name of "Flywheel". Not less than three times a week, in a long account,
Flywheel expressed his irritation at the slowness of the construction. The
newspaper's third column -which used to bound with such sceptical headlines
as "No sign of a club", "Around the weak points", "Inspections are needed,
but what is the point of shine and long tails?" "Good and . . . bad", "What
we like and what we don't", "Deal with the saboteurs of education", and
"It's time to put an end to red tape"-began to present readers with such
sunny and encouraging headings at the top of Flywheel's reports as "How we
are living and how we are building", "Giant will soon start work", "Modest
builder", and so on, in that vein.
Treukhov used to open the newspaper with a shudder and, feeling disgust
for the brotherhood of writers, read such cheerful lines about himself as:
. . . I'm climbing over the rafters with the wind whistling in my ears.
Above me is the invisible builder of our powerful tramway, that thin,
pug-nosed man in a shabby cap with crossed hammers.
It brings to mind Pushkin's poem: "There he stood, full of great
thoughts, on the bank. . . ."
I approach him. Not a breath of air. The rafters do not stir.
I ask him: How is the work progressing? Engineer Treukhov's ugly face
brightens up. . . .
He shakes my hand and says: "Seventy per cent of the target has been
reached." [The article ended like this]:
He shakes my hand in farewell. The rafters creak behind me. Builders
scurry to and fro. Who could forget the feverish activity of the building
site or the homely face of our builder?
FLYWHEEL
The only thing that saved Treukhov was that he had no time to read the
papers and usually managed to miss Comrade Flywheel's jottings.
On one occasion Treukhov could not restrain himself, and he wrote a
carefully worded and malicious reply.
"Of course [he wrote], you can call a bolt a transmission, but people
who do so know nothing about building. And I would like to point out to
Comrade Flywheel that the only time rafters creak is when the building is
about to fall down. To speak of rafters in this way is much the same as
claiming that a 'cello can give birth to children.
"Yours, [etc.]"
After that the indefatigable prince stopped visiting the building site,
but his reports continued to grace the third column, standing out sharply
against a background of such prosaic headlines as "15,000 Roubles Growing
Rusty", "Housing Hitches", "Materials Are Weeping", and "Curiosities and
Tears".
The construction was nearing its end. Rails were welded by the thermite
method, and they stretched, without gaps, from the station to the
slaughterhouse, and from the market to the cemetery.
In the beginning it was intended to time the opening of the tramway for
the Ninth Anniversary of the October Revolution, but the car-building plant
was unable to supply the cars by the promised date and made some excuse
about "fittings". The opening had to be postponed until May Day. By this
date everything was definitely ready.
Wandering about, the concessionaires reached Gusishe at the same time
as the processions. The whole of Stargorod was there. The new depot was
decorated with garlands of evergreen; the flags flapped, and the wind
rippled the banners. A mounted militiaman galloped after an ice-cream seller
who had somehow got into the circular space cordoned off by railway workers.
A rickety platform, as yet empty, with a public-address system, towered
between the two gates of the depot. Delegates began mounting the platform. A
combined band of communal-service workers and ropemakers was trying out its
lungs. The drum lay on the ground.
A Moscow correspondent in a shaggy cap wandered around inside the
depot, which contained ten light-green trams numbered 701 to 710. He was
looking for the chief engineer in order to ask him a few questions on the
subject of tramlines. Although the correspondent had already prepared in his
mind the report on the opening, with a summary of the speeches, he
conscientiously continued his search, his only complaint being the absence
of a bar. The crowds sang, yelled, and chewed sunflower seeds while waiting
for the railway to be opened.
The presidium of the province executive committee mounted the platform.
The Prince of Denmark stammered out a few phrases to his fellow writer.
Newsreel cameramen from Moscow were expected any moment.
"Comrades," said Gavrilin, "I declare the official meeting to celebrate
the opening of the Stargorod tramway open."
The brass trumpets sprang into action, sighed, and played the
International right through three times.
"Comrade Gavrilin will now give a report," cried Comrade Gavrilin.
The Prince of Denmark (Flywheel) and the visitor from Moscow both wrote
in their notebooks, without collusion:
"The ceremony opened with a report by Comrade Gavrilin, Chairman of the
Stargorod Communal Services. The crowd listened attentively."
The two correspondents were people of completely different types. The
Muscovite was young and single, while Flywheel was burdened with a large
family and had passed his forties some time ago. One had lived in Moscow all
his life, while the other had never been there. The Muscovite liked beer,
while Flywheel never let anything but vodka pass his lips. Despite this
difference in character, age, habits and upbringing, however, the
impressions of both the journalists were cast in the same hackneyed,
second-hand, dust-covered phrases. Their pencils began scratching and
another observation was recorded in the notebooks: "On this day of festivity
it is as though the streets of Stargorod have grown wider. . . ."
Gavrilin began his speech in a good and simple fashion. "Building a
tramway is not like buying a donkey."
A loud guffaw was suddenly heard from Ostap Bender in the crowd; he had
appreciated the remark. Heartened by the response, Gavrilin, without knowing
why himself, suddenly switched to the international situation. Several times
he attempted to bring his speech back on to the rails, but, to his horror,
found he was unable to. The international words just flowed out by
themselves, against the speaker's will. After Chamberlain, to whom Gavrilin
devoted half an hour, the international arena was taken by the American
Senator Borah; the crowd began to wilt. Both correspondents wrote: "The
speaker described the international situation in vivid language. . . ."
Gavrilin, now worked up, made some nasty comments about the Rumanian
nobility and then turned to Mussolini. It was only towards the end of his
speech that he was able to suppress his second international nature and say
in a good, businesslike way:
"And so, Comrades, I think that the tram about to leave the depot . . .
is leaving on whose account? Yours, of course, Comrades-and that of all
workers who have really worked, not from fear, Comrades, but from
conscience. It is also due, Comrades, to that honest Soviet specialist,
Chief Engineer Treukhov. We must thank him as well."
A search for Treukhov was made, but he was not to be found. The
representative of the dairy co-operatives, who had been itching to have his
say, squeezed through to the front of the platform, waved his hand, and
began speaking loudly of the international situation. At the end of the
speech, both correspondents promptly jotted down, and they listened to the
feeble applause: "Loud applause turning into an ovation." They both wondered
whether "turning into an ovation" wasn't too strong. The Muscovite made up
his mind to cross it out. Flywheel sighed and left it.
The sun rapidly rolled down an inclined plane. Slogans resounded from
the platform, and the band played a flourish. The sky became a vivid dark
blue and the meeting went on and on. Both the speakers and the listeners had
felt for some time that something was wrong, that the meeting had gone on
much too long and that the tramway should be started up as soon as possible.
But they had all become so used to talking that they could not stop.
Treukhov was finally found. He was covered with dirt and took a long
time to wash his face and hands before going on to the platform.
"Comrade Treukhov, chief engineer, will now say a few words," announced
Gavrilin jubilantly. "Well, say something-I said all the wrong things," he
added in a whisper.
Treukhov wanted to say a number of things. About voluntary Saturdays,
the difficulties of his work, and about everything that had been done and
remained to do. And there was a lot to be done: the town ought to do away
with the horrible market; there were covered glass buildings to be
constructed; a permanent bridge could be built instead of the present
temporary one, which was swept away each year by the ice drifts, and finally
there was the plan for a very large meat-refrigeration plant.
Treukhov opened his mouth and, stuttering, began. "Comrades ! The
international position of our country . . ." And then he went on to burble
such boring truisms that the crowd, now listening to its sixth international
speech, lost interest.
It was only when he had finished that Treukhov realized he had not said
a word about the tramway. "It's a shame," he said to himself, "we have
absolutely no idea how to make speeches."
He remembered hearing a speech by a French Communist at a meeting in
Moscow. The Frenchman was talking about the bourgeois press. "Those acrobats
of the pen, those virtuosos of farce, those jackals of the rotary press," he
exclaimed. The first part of his speech had been delivered in the key of A,
the second in C, and the final part, the pathetique, had been in the key of
E. His gestures were moderate and elegant.
"But we only make a mess of things," decided Treukhov. "It would be
better if we didn't talk at all."
It was completely dark when the chairman of the province executive
committee snipped the red tape sealing off the depot. Workers and
representatives of public organizations noisily began taking their seats in
the trams. There was a tinkling of bells and the first tram, driven by
Treukhov himself, sailed out of the depot to the accompaniment of deafening
shouts from the crowd and groans from the band. The illuminated cars seemed
even more dazzling than in the daytime. They made their way through Gusishe
in a line; passing under the railway bridge, they climbed easily into the
town and turned into Greater Pushkin Street. The band was in the second
tramcar; poking their trumpets out of the windows they played the Budyonny
march.
Gavrilin, in a conductor's coat and with a bag across his shoulders,
smiled tenderly as he jumped from one car to another, ringing the bell at
the wrong time and handing out invitations to:
on May 1 at 9 p.m.
GALA EVENING
at the COMMUNAL SERVICES WORKERS' CLUB
Programme
1. Report by Comrade Mosin.
2. Award of certificates by the Communal Service Workers' Union.
3. Informal half: grand concert, family supper and bar.
On the platform of the last car stood Victor Polesov, who had somehow
or other been included among the guests of honour. He sniffed the motor. To
his extreme surprise, it looked perfectly all right and seemed to be working
normally. The glass in the windows was not rattling, and, looking at the
panes closely, he saw that they were padded with rubber. He had already made
several comments to the driver and was now considered by the public to be an
expert on trams in the West.
"The pneumatic brake isn't working too well," said Polesov, looking
triumphantly at the passengers. "It's not sucking!"
"Nobody asked you," replied the driver. "It will no doubt suck all
right,"
Having made a festive round of the town, the cars returned to the
depot, where a crowd was waiting for them. Treukhov was tossed in the air
beneath the full glare of electric lights. They also tried tossing Gavrilin,
but since he weighed almost 216 pounds and did not soar very high, he was
quickly set down again. Comrade Mosin and various technicians were also
tossed. Victor Polesov was then tossed for the second time that day. This
time he did not kick with his legs, but soared up and down, gazing sternly
and seriously at the starry sky. As he soared up for the last time, Polesov
noticed that the person holding him by the foot and laughing nastily was
none other than the former marshal of the nobility, Ippolit Matveyevich
Vorobyaninov. Polesov politely freed himself and went a short distance away,
still keeping the marshal in sight. Observing that Ippolit Matveyevich and
the young stranger with him, clearly an ex-officer, were leaving, he
cautiously started to follow them.
As soon as everything was over, and Comrade Gavrilin was sitting in his
lilac Fiat waiting for Treukhov to issue final instructions so that they
could then drive together to the club, a Ford station-wagon containing
newsreel cameramen drove up to the depot gates.
A man wearing twelve-sided horn-rimmed spectacles and a sleeveless
leather coat was the first to spring nimbly out of the vehicle. A long
pointed beard grew straight out of his Adam's apple. A second man carried
the camera and kept tripping over a long scarf of the kind that Ostap Bender
usually called chic moderne. Next came assistants, lights and girls. The
whole group tore into the depot with loud shouts.
"Attention!" cried the bearded owner of the leather coat. "Nick, set
the lights up!"
Treukhov turned crimson and went over to the late arrivals.
"Are you the newsreel reporters?" he asked. "Why didn't you come during
the day? "
"When is the tramway going to be opened? "
"It has already been opened."
"Yes, yes, we are a little late. We came across some good nature shots.
There was loads of work. A sunset! But, anyway, we'll manage. Nick, lights!
Close-up of a turning wheel. Close-up of the feet of the moving crowd.
Lyuda, Milochka, start walking! Nick, action! Off you go! Keep walking, keep
walking ! That's it, thank you! Now we'll take the builder. Comrade
Treukhov? Would you mind, Comrade Treukhov? No, not like that.
Three-quarters. Like this, it's more original! Against a tram . . . Nick!
Action! Say something! "
"I. . . I. . . honestly, I feel so awkward!"
"Splendid! Good! Say something else! Now you're talking to the first
passenger. Lyuda, come into the picture! That's it. Breathe deeper, you're
excited! . . . Nick! A close-up of their legs! Action! That's it. Thanks
very much. Cut! "
Gavrilin clambered out of the throbbing Fiat and went to fetch his
missing friend. The producer with the hairy Adam's apple came to life.
"Nick! Over here! A marvellous character type. A worker! A tram
passenger. Breathe deeper, you're excited! You've never been in a tram
before. Breathe! "
Gavrilin wheezed malevolently.
"Marvellous! Milochka, come here! Greetings from the Communist Youth!
Breathe deeper, you're excited! That's it! Swell! Nick, cut!"
"Aren't you going to film the tramway?" asked Treukhov shyly.
"You see," lowed the leather producer, "the lighting conditions make it
difficult. We'll have to fill in the shots in Moscow. 'Bye-'bye!"
The newsreel reporters disappeared quicker than lightning.
"Well, let's go and relax, pal," said Gavrilin. "What's this? You
smoking!"
"I've begun smoking," confessed Treukhov. "I couldn't stop myself."
At the family gathering, the hungry Treukhov smoked one cigarette after
another, drank three glasses of vodka, and became hopelessly drunk. He
kissed everyone and they kissed him. He tried to say something nice to his
wife, but only burst into laughter. Then he shook Gavrilin's hand for a long
time and said:
"You're a strange one! You should learn to build railway bridges. It's
a wonderful science, and the chief thing is that it's so simple. A bridge
across the Hudson . . ."
Half an hour later he was completely gone and made a Philippic against
the bourgeois press.
"Those acrobats of the press, those hyenas of the pen! Those virtuosos
of the rotary printing machine!" he cried.
His wife took him home in a horse-cab.
"I want to go by tram," he said to his wife. "Can't you understand? If
there's a tramway system, we should use it. Why? First, because it's an
advantage!"
Polesov followed the concessionaires, spent some time mustering his
courage, and finally, waiting until there was no one about, went up to
Vorobyaninov.
"Good evening, Mr. Ippolit Matveyevich!" he said respectfully.
Vorobyaninov turned pale. "I don't think I know you," he mumbled.
Ostap stuck out his right shoulder and went up to the
mechanic-intellectual. "Come on now, what is it that you want to tell my
friend?"
"Don't be alarmed," whispered Polesov, "Elena Stanislavovna sent me."
"What! Is she here?"
"Yes, and she wants to see you."
"Why?" asked Ostap. "And who are you?"
"I . . . Don't you think anything of the sort, Ippolit Matveyevich. You
don't know me, but I remember you very well."
"I'd like to visit Elena Stanislavovna," said Vorobyaninov
indecisively.
"She's very anxious to see you."
"Yes, but how did she find out? "
"I saw you in the corridor of the communal services building and
thought to myself for a long time: 'I know that face.' Then I remembered.
Don't worry about anything, Ippolit Matveyevich. It will all be absolutely
secret."
"Do you know the woman?" asked Ostap in a business-like tone.
"Mm . . . yes. An old friend."
"Then we might go and have supper with your old friend. I'm famished
and all the shops are shut."
"We probably can."
"Let's go, then. Lead the way, mysterious stranger."
And Victor Mikhailovich, continually looking behind him, led the
partners through the back yards to the fortune-teller's house on
Pereleshinsky Street.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE ALLIANCE OF THE SWORD AND PLOUGHSHARE
When a woman grows old, many unpleasant things may happen to her: her
teeth may fall out, her hair may thin out and turn grey, she may become
short-winded, she may unexpectedly develop fat or grow extremely thin, but
her voice never changes. It remains just as it was when she was a
schoolgirl, a bride, or some young rake's mistress.
That was why Vorobyaninov trembled when Polesov knocked at the door and
Elena Stanislavovna answered: "Who's that?" His mistress's voice was the
same as it had been in 1899 just before the opening of the Paris Fair. But
as soon as he entered the room, squinting from the glare of the light, he
saw that there was not a trace of her former beauty left.
"How you've changed," he said involuntarily.
The old woman threw herself on to his neck. "Thank you," she said. "I
know what you risk by coming here to see me. You're the same chivalrous
knight. I'm not going- to ask you why you're here from Paris. I'm not
curious, you see."
"But I haven't come from Paris at all," said Ippolit Matveyevich in
confusion.
"My colleague and I have come from Berlin," Ostap corrected her,
nudging Ippolit Matveyevich, "but it's not advisable to talk about it too
loudly."
"Oh, how pleased I am to see you," shrilled the fortune-teller. "Come
in here, into this room. And I'm sorry, Victor Mikhailovich, but couldn't
you come back in half an hour?"
"Oh!" Ostap remarked. "The first meeting. Difficult moments! Allow me
to withdraw as well. May I come with you, dear Victor Mikhailovich?"
The mechanic trembled with joy. They both went off to Polesov's
apartment, where Ostap, sitting on a piece of one of the gates of No. 5
Pereleshinsky Street, outlined his phantasmagoric ideas for the salvation of
the motherland to the dumbstruck artisan. An hour later they returned to
find the old couple lost in reminiscence.
"And do you remember, Elena Stanislavovna?" Ippolit Matveyevich was
saying.
"And do you remember, Ippolit Matveyevich?" Elena Stanislavovna was
saying.
"The psychological moment for supper seems to have arrived," thought
Ostap, and, interrupting Ippolit Matveyevich, who was recalling the
elections to the Tsarist town council, said: "They have a very strange
custom in Berlin. They eat so late that you can't tell whether it's an early
supper or a late lunch."
Elena Stanislavovna gave a start, took her rabbit's eyes off
Vorobyaninov, and dragged herself into the kitchen.
"And now we must act, act, and act," said Ostap, lowering his voice to
a conspiratorial whisper. He took Polesov by the arm. "The old woman is
reliable, isn't she, and won't give us away?"
Polesov joined his hands as though praying.
"What's your political credo?"
"Always!" replied Polesov delightedly.
"You support Kirillov, I hope?"
"Yes, indeed." Polesov stood at attention.
"Russia will not forget you," Ostap rapped out.
Holding a pastry in his hand, Ippolit Matveyevich listened in dismay to
Ostap, but there was no holding the smooth operator. He was carried away. He
felt inspired and ecstatically pleased at this above-average blackmail. He
paced up and down like a leopard.
This was the state in which Elena Stanislavovna found him as she carted
in the samovar from the kitchen. Ostap gallantly ran over to her, took the
samovar without stopping, and placed it on the table. The samovar gave a
peep and Ostap decided to act.
"Madame," he said, "we are happy to see in you . . ."
He did not know whom he was happy to see in Elena Stanislavovna. He had
to start again. Of all the flowery expressions of the Tsarist regime, only
one kept coming to mind-"has graciously commanded". This was out of place,
so he began in a businesslike way.
"Strict secrecy. A state secret." He pointed to Vorobyaninov. "Who do
you think this powerful old man is? Don't say you don't know. He's the
master-mind, the father of Russian democracy and a person close to the
emperor."
Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height and goggled
in confusion. He had no idea of what was happening, but knowing from
experience that Ostap Bender never did anything without good reason, kept
silent. Polesov was thrilled. He stood with his chin tucked in, like someone
about to begin a parade.
Elena Stanislavovna sat down in a chair and looked at Ostap in fright.
"Are there many of us in the town?" he asked outright. "What's the
general feeling?"
"Given the absence . . ." said Polesov, and began a muddled account of
his troubles. These included that conceited bum, the yard-keeper from no. 5,
the three-eighths-inch dies, the tramway, and so on.
"Good!" snapped Ostap. "Elena Stanislavovna! With your assistance we
want to contact the best people in the town who have been forced underground
by a cruel fate. Who can we ask to come here?"
"Who can we ask! Maxim Petrovich and his wife."
"No women," Ostap corrected her. "You will be the only pleasant
exception. Who else?"
From the discussion, in which Polesov also took an active part, it came
to light that they could ask Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov, a former Tsarist
town councillor, who had now in some miraculous way been raised to the rank
of a Soviet official; Dyadyev, owner of Fastpack; Kislarsky, chairman of the
Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun Artel; and two young men who were
nameless but fully reliable.
"In that case, please ask them to come here at once for a small
conference. In the greatest secrecy."
Polesov began speaking. "I'll fetch Maxim Petrovich, Nikesha, and
Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna, be so good as to run down to Fastpack
for Kislarsky."
Polesov sped off. The fortune-teller looked reverently at Ippolit
Matveyevich and also went off.
"What does this mean?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"It means," retorted Ostap, "that you're behind the times."
"Why?"
"Because! Excuse a vulgar question, but how much money do you have?"
"What money?"
"All kinds-including silver and copper."
"Thirty-five roubles."
"And I suppose you intended to recover the entire outlay on the
enterprise with that much money? "
Ippolit Matveyevich was silent.
"Here's the point, dear boss. I reckon you understand me. You will have
to be the master-mind and person close to the emperor for an hour or so."
"Why?"
"Because we need capital. Tomorrow's my wedding. I'm not a beggar. I
want to have a good time on that memorable day."
"What do T have to do?" groaned Ippolit Matveyevich.
"You have to keep quiet. Puff out your cheeks now and then to look
important."
"But that's. . .fraud!"
"Who are you to talk-Count Tolstoy or Darwin? That comes well from a
man who was only yesterday preparing to break into Gritsatsuyev's apartment
at night and steal her furniture. Don't think too much. Just keep quiet and
don't forget to puff out your cheeks."
"Why involve ourselves in such a dangerous business. We might be
betrayed."
"Don't worry about that. I don't bet on poor odds. We'll work it so
that none of them understands anything. Let's have some tea."
While the concessionaires were eating and drinking, and the parrot was
cracking sunflower seeds, the guests began arriving at the apartment.
Nikesha and Vladya came with Victor Mikhailovich. He was hesitant to
introduce the young men to the master-mind. They sat down in a corner and
watched the father of Russian democracy eating cold veal. Nikesha and Vladya
were complete and utter gawks. Both were in their late twenties and were
apparently very pleased at being invited to the meeting.
Charusknikov, the former Tsarist town councillor, was a fat, elderly
man. He gave Ippolit Matveyevich a prolonged handshake and peered into his
face.
Under the supervision of Ostap, the old-timers began exchanging
reminiscences.
As soon as the conversation was moving smoothly, Ostap turned to
Charushnikov. "Which regiment were you in?"
Charushnikov took a deep breath. "I . . . I . . . wasn't, so to speak,
in any, since I was entrusted with the confidence of society and was elected
to office."
"Are you a member of the upper class?"
"Yes, I was."
"I hope you still are. Stand firm! We shall need your help. Has Polesov
told you? We will be helped from abroad. It's only a question of public
opinion. The organization is strictly secret. Be careful!"
Ostap chased Polesov away from Nikesha and Vladya and asked them with
genuine severity: "Which regiment were you in? You will have to serve your
fatherland. Are you members of the upper class? Very good. The West will
help us. Stand firm! Contributions-I mean the organization-will be strictly
secret. Be careful!"
Ostap was on form. Things seemed to be going well. Ostap led the owner
of Fastpack into a corner as soon as Elena Stanislavovna had introduced him,
advised him to stand firm, inquired which regiment he had served in, and
promised him assistance from abroad and complete secrecy of the
organization. The first reaction of the owner of Fastpack was a desire to
run away from the conspiratorial apartment as soon as possible. He felt that
his firm was too solvent to engage in such a risky business. But taking a
look at Ostap's athletic figure, he hesitated and began thinking: "Supposing
. . . Anyway, it all depends on what kind of sauce this thing will be served
with."
The tea-party conversation livened up. Those initiated religiously kept
the secret and chatted about the town.
Last to arrive was citizen Kislarsky, who, being neither a member of
the upper class nor a former guardsman, quickly sized up the situation after
a brief talk with Ostap.
"Stand firm!" said Ostap instructively.
Kislarsky promised he would.
"As a representative of private enterprise, you cannot ignore the cries
of the people."
Kislarsky saddened sympathetically.
"Do you know who that is sitting there?" asked Ostap, pointing to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Of course," said Kislarsky. "It's Mr. Vorobyaninov."
"That," said Ostap, "is the master-mind, the father of Russian
democracy and a person close to the emperor."
Two years' solitary confinement at best, thought Kislarsky, beginning
to tremble. Why did I have to come here?
"The secret Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare," whispered Ostap
ominously.
Ten years, flashed through Kislarsky's mind.
"You can leave, by the way, but I warn you, we have a long reach." I'll
show you, you son of a bitch, thought Ostap. You'll not get away from here
for less than a hundred roubles.
Kislarsky became like marble. That day he had had such a good, quiet
dinner of chicken gizzards and soup with nuts, and knew nothing of the
terrible "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare". He stayed. The words "long
reach" made an unfavourable impression on him.
"Citizens," said Ostap, opening the meeting, "life dictates its own
laws, its own cruel laws. I am not going to talk about the aim of our
gathering-you all know it. Our aim is sacred. From everywhere we hear cries.
From every corner of our huge country people are calling for help. We must
extend a helping hand and we will do so. Some of you have work and eat bread
and butter; others earn on the side and eat caviar sandwiches. All of you
sleep in your own beds and wrap yourselves in warm blankets. It is only the
young children, the waifs and strays, who are not looked after. These
flowers of the street, or, as the white-collar proletarians call them,
'flowers in asphalt', deserve a better lot. We must help them, gentlemen of
the jury, and, gentlemen of the jury, we will do so."
The smooth operator's speech caused different reactions among the
audience.
Polesov could not understand his young friend, the guards officer.
"What children?" he wondered. "Why children?"
Ippolit Matveyevich did not even try to understand. He was utterly sick
and tired with the whole business and sat there in silence, puffing out his
cheeks.
Elena Stanislavovna became melancholy. Nikesha and Vladya gazed in
devotion at Ostap's sky-blue waistcoat.
The owner of Fastpack was extremely pleased. Nicely put, he decided.
With that sauce I might even contribute some money. If it's successful, I
get the credit. If it's not, I don't know anything about it. I just helped
the children, and that's all.
Charushnikov exchanged a significant look with Dyadyev and, giving the
speaker his due for conspiratorial ability, continued rolling pellets of
bread across the table.
Kislarsky was in seventh heaven. What a brain, he thought. He felt he
had never loved waifs and strays as much as that evening.
"Comrades," Ostap continued, "immediate help is required. We must tear
these children from the clutches of the street, and we will do so. We will
help these children. Let us remember that they are the flowers of life. I
now invite you to make your contributions and help the children-the children
alone and no one else. Do you understand me? "
Ostap took a receipt book from his side pocket.
"Please make your contributions. Ippolit Matveyevich will vouch for my
authority."
Ippolit Matveyevich puffed out his cheeks and bowed his head. At this,
even the dopey Nikesha and Vladya, and the fidgety mechanic, too, realized
the point of Ostap's allusions.
"In order of seniority, gentlemen," said Ostap. "We'll begin with dear
Maxim Petrovich."
Maxim Petrovich fidgeted and forced himself to give thirty roubles. "In
better times I'd give more," he declared.
"Better times will soon be coming," said Ostap. "Anyway, that has
nothing to do with the children who I am at present representing."
Nikesha and Vladya gave eight roubles. "That's not much, young men."
The young men reddened. Polesov ran home and brought back fifty. "Well
done, hussar," said Ostap. "For a car-owning hussar working by himself
that's enough for the first time. What say the merchants?"
Dyadyev and Kislarsky haggled for some time and complained about taxes.
Ostap was unmoved. "I consider such talk out of place in the presence
of Ippolit Matveyevich."
Ippolit Matveyevich bowed his head. The merchants contributed two
hundred roubles each for the benefit of the children.
"Four hundred and eighty-five roubles in all," announced Ostap. "Hm . .
. twelve roubles short of a round figure."
Elena Stanislavovna, who had been trying to stand firm for some time,
went into the bedroom and brought back the necessary twelve roubles in a
bag.
The remaining part of the meeting was more subdued and less festive in
nature. Ostap began to get frisky. Elena Stanislavovna drooped completely.
The guests gradually dispersed, respectfully taking leave of the organizers.
"You will be given special notice of the date of our next meeting,"
said Ostap as they left. "It's strictly secret. The cause must be kept
secret. It's also in your own interests, by the way."
At these words, Kislarsky felt the urge to give another fifty roubles
and not to come to any more meetings. He only just restrained himself.
"Right," said Ostap, "let's get moving. Ippolit Matveyevich, you, I
hope, will take advantage of Elena Stanislavovna's hospitality and spend the
night here. It will be a good thing for the conspiracy if we separate for a
time, anyway, as a blind. I'm off."
Ippolit Matveyevich was winking broadly, but Ostap pretended he had not
noticed and went out into the street. Having gone a block, he remembered the
five hundred honestly earned roubles in his pocket.
"Cabby! " he cried. "Take me to the Phoenix."
The cabby leisurely drove Ostap to a closed restaurant.
"What's this! Shut?"
"On account of May Day."
"Damn them! All the money in the world and nowhere to have a good time.
All right, then, take me to Plekhanov Street. Do you know it?"
"What was the street called before? " asked the cabby.
"I don't know."
"How can I get there? I don't know it, either."
Ostap nevertheless ordered him to drive on and find it.
For an hour and a half they cruised around the dark and empty town,
asking watchmen and militiamen the way. One militiaman racked his brains and
at length informed them that Plekhanov Street was none other than the former
Governor Street.
"Governor Street! I've been taking people to Governor Street for
twenty-five years."
"Then drive there!"
They arrived at Governor Street, but it turned out to be Karl Marx and
not Plekhanov Street.
The frustrated Ostap renewed his search for the lost street, but was
not able to find it. Dawn cast a pale light on the face of the moneyed
martyr who had been prevented from disporting himself.
"Take me to the Sorbonne Hotel!" he shouted. "A fine driver you are!
You don't even know Plekhanov! "
Widow Gritsatsuyev's palace glittered. At the head of the banquet table
sat the King of Clubs-the son of a Turkish citizen. He was elegant and
drunk. All the guests were talking loudly.
The young bride was no longer young. She was at least thirty-five.
Nature had endowed her generously. She had everything: breasts like
watermelons, a bulging nose, brightly coloured cheeks and a powerful neck.
She adored her new husband and was afraid of him. She did not therefore call
him by his first name, or by his patronymic, which she had not managed to
find out, anyway, but by his surname-Comrade Bender.
Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting on his cherished chair. All through the
wedding feast he bounced up and down, trying to feel something hard. From
time to time he did. Whenever this happened, the people present pleased him,
and he began shouting "Kiss the bride" furiously.
Ostap kept making speeches and proposing toasts. They drank to public
education and the irrigation of Uzbekistan. Later on the guests began to
depart. Ippolit Matveyevich lingered in the hall and whispered to Bender:
"Don't waste time, they're there."
"You're a moneygrubber," replied the drunken Ostap. "Wait for me at the
hotel. Don't go anywhere. I may come at any moment. Settle the hotel bill
and have everything ready. Adieu, Field Marshal! Wish me good night!"
Ippolit Matveyevich did so and went back to the Sorbonne to worry.
Ostap turned up at five in the morning carrying the chair. Vorobyaninov
was speechless. Ostap put down the chair in the middle of the room and sat
on it.
"How did you manage it? " Vorobyaninov finally got out.
"Very simple. Family style. The widow was asleep and dreaming. It was a
pity to wake her. 'Don't wake her at dawn!' Too bad! I had to leave a note.
'Going to Novokhopersk to make a report. Won't be back to dinner. Your own
Bunny.' And I took the chair from the dining-room. There aren't any trams
running at this time of the morning, so I rested on the chair on the way."
Ippolit Matveyevich flung himself towards the chair with a burbling
sound.
"Go easy," said Ostap, "we must avoid making a noise." He took a pair
of pliers out of his pocket, and work soon began to hum. "Did you lock the
door?" he asked.
Pushing aside the impatient Vorobyaninov, he neatly laid open the
chair, trying not to damage the flowered chintz.
"This kind of cloth isn't to be had any more; it should be preserved.
There's a dearth of consumer goods and nothing can be done about it."
Ippolit Matveyevich was driven to a state of extreme irritation.
"There," said Ostap quietly. He raised the covering and groped among
the springs with both his hands. The veins stood out like a "V" on his
forehead.
"Well?" Ippolit Matveyevich kept repeating in various keys. "Well?
Well?"
"Well and well," said Ostap irritably. "One chance in eleven . . ." He
thoroughly examined the inside of the chair and concluded: "And this chance
isn't ours."
He stood up straight and dusted his knees. Ippolit Matveyevich flung
himself on the chair. The jewels were not there. Vorobyaninov's hands
dropped, but Ostap was in good spirits as before.
"Our chances have now increased."
He began walking up and down the room.
"It doesn't matter. The chair cost the widow twice as much as it did
us."
He took out of his side pocket a gold brooch set with coloured stones,
a hollow bracelet of imitation gold, half-a-dozen gold teaspoons, and a
tea-strainer.
In his grief Ippolit Matveyevich did not even realize that he had
become an accomplice in common or garden theft.
"A shabby trick," said Ostap, "but you must agree I couldn't leave my
beloved without something to remember her by. However, we haven't any time
to lose. This is only the beginning. The end will be in Moscow. And a
furniture museum is not like a widow-it'll be a bit more difficult."
The partners stuffed the pieces of the chair under the bed and, having
counted their money (together with the contributions for the children's
benefit, they had five hundred and thirty-five roubles), drove to the
station to catch the Moscow train.
They had to drive right across the town.
On Co-operative Street they caught sight of Polesov running along the
pavement like a startled antelope. He was being pursued by the yard-keeper
from No. 5 Pereleshinsky Street. Turning the corner, the concessionaires
just had time to see the yard-keeper catch him