ark." 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 eighty thousand fighters." It was past midnight when they all went home. "Yes, indeed. They've got the Bolsheviks worried." The governor took the mayor home. They both walked with an exaggeratedly even pace. "Governor!" Charushnikov was saying. "How can you be a governor when you aren't even a general!" "I shall be a civilian governor. Why, are you jealous? I'll jail you whenever I want. You'll have your fill of jail from me." "You can't jail me. I've been elected and entrusted with authority." "They prefer elected people in jail." "Kindly don't try to be funny," shouted Charushnikov for all the streets to hear. "What are you shouting for, you fool?" said the governor. "Do you want to spend the night in the police station?" "I can't spend the night in the police station," retorted the mayor. "I'm a government employee." A star twinkled. The night was enchanting. The argument between the governor and the mayor continued down Second Soviet Street. CHAPTER TWENTY FROM SEVILLE TO GRANADA Wait a minute now, where is Father Theodore? Where is the shorn priest from the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence? Was he not about to go to see citizen Bruns at 34 Vineyard Street? Where is that treasure-seeker in angel's clothing and sworn enemy of Ippolit Vorobyaninov, at present cooling his heels in the dark corridor by the safe. Gone is Father Theodore. He has been spirited away. They say he was seen at Popasnaya station on the Donets railway, hurrying along the platform with a teapot full of hot water. Greedy is Father Theodore. He wants to be rich. He is chasing round Russia in search of the furniture belonging to General Popov's wife, which does not contain a darn thing, to tell the truth. He is on his way through Russia. And all he does is write letters to his wife: Letter -from Father Theodore written from Kharkov Station to his wife in the district centre of N. My Darling Catherine Alexandrovna, I owe you an apology. I have left you alone, poor thing, at a time like this. I must tell you everything. You will understand and, I hope, agree. It was not, of course, to join the new church movement that I went. I had no intention of doing so, God forbid! Now read this carefully. We shall soon begin to live differently. You remember I told you about the candle factory. It will be ours, and perhaps one or two other things as well. And you won't have to cook your own meals or have boarders any more. We'll go to Samara and hire servants. I'm on to something, but you must keep it absolutely secret: don't even tell Marya Ivanovna. I'm looking for treasure. Do you remember the deceased Claudia Ivanovna, Vorobyaninov's mother-in-law? Just before her death, Claudia Ivanovna disclosed to me that her jewels were hidden in one of the drawing-room chairs (there are twelve of them) at her house in Stargorod, Don't think, Katey, that I'm just a common thief. She bequeathed them to me and instructed me not to let Ippolit Matveyevich, her lifelong tormentor, get them. That's why I left so suddenly, you poor thing. Don't condemn me. I went to Stargorod, and what do you think-that old woman-chaser turned up as well. He had found out. He must have tortured the old woman before she died. Horrible man! And there was some criminal travelling with him: he had hired himself a thug. They fell upon me and tried to get rid of me. But I'm not one to be trifled with: I didn't give in. At first I went off on a false track. I only found one chair in Vorobyaninov's house (it's now a home for pensioners); I was carrying the chair to my room in the Sorbonne Hotel when suddenly a man came around the corner roaring like a lion and rushed at me, seizing the chair. We almost had a fight. He wanted to shame me. Then I looked closely and who was it but Vorobyaninov. Just imagine, he had cut off his moustache and shaved his head, the crook. Shameful at his age. We broke open the chair, but there was nothing there. It was not until later that I realized I was on the wrong track. But at that moment I was very distressed. I felt outraged and I told that old libertine the truth to his face. What a disgrace, I said, at your age. What mad things are going on in Russia nowadays when a marshal of the nobility pounces on a minister of the church like a lion and rebukes him for not being in the Communist Party. You're a low fellow, I said, you tormented Claudia Ivanovna and you want someone else's property-which is now state-owned and no longer his. He was ashamed and went away-to the brothel, I imagine. So I went back to my room in the Sorbonne and started to make plans. I thought of something that bald-headed fool would never have dreamed of. I decided to find the person who had distributed the requisitioned furniture. So you see, Katey, I did well to study law at college: it has served me well. I found the person in question the next day. Bartholomeich, a very decent old man. He lives quietly with his grandmother and works hard to earn his living. He gave me all the documents. It's true I had to reward him for the service. I'm now out of money (I'll come to that). It turned out that all twelve chairs from Vorobyaninov's house went to engineer Bruns at 34 Vineyard Street. Note that all the chairs went to one person, which I had not expected (I was afraid the chairs might have gone to different places). I was very pleased at this. Then I met that wretch Vorobyaninov in the Sorbonne again. I gave him a good talking to and didn't spare his friend, the thug, either. I was very afraid they might find out my secret, so I hid in the hotel until they left. Bruns turned out to have moved from Stargorod to Kharkov in 1922 to take up an appointment. I learned from the caretaker that he had taken all his furniture and was looking after it very carefully. He's said to be a shrewd person. I'm now sitting in the station at Kharkov and writing for this reason: first, I love you very much and keep thinking of you, and, second, Bruns is no longer here. But don't despair. Bruns is now working in Rostov at the New-Ros-Cement plant. I have just enough money for the fare. I'm leaving in an hour's time on a mixed passenger-goods train. Please stop by your brother-in-law's, my sweet, and get fifty roubles from him (he owes it to me and promised to pay) and send it to: Theodore Ivanovich Vostrikov, Central Post Office, Rostov, to await collection. Send a money order by post to economize. It will cost thirty kopeks. What's the news in the town? Has Kondratyevna been to see you? Tell Father Cyril that I'll be back soon and that I've gone to see my dying aunt in Voronezh. Be economical. Is Evstigneyev still having meals? Give him my regards. Say I've gone to my aunt. How's the weather? It's already summer here in Kharkov. A noisy city, the centre of the Ukrainian Republic. After the provinces it's like being abroad. Please do the following: (1) Send my summer cassock to the cleaner (it's better to spend Rs. 3 on cleaning than waste money on buying a new one); (2) look after yourself; and (3) when you write to Gulka, mention casually that I've gone to Voronezh to see my aunt. Give everyone my regards. Say I'll be back soon. With tender kisses and blessings, Your husband, Theo. P.S. Where can Vorobyaninov be roving about at the moment? Love dries a man up. The bull lows with desire. The rooster cannot keep still. The marshal of the nobility loses his appetite. Leaving Ostap and the student Ivanopulo in a bar, Ippolit Matveyevich made his way to the little pink house and took up his stand by the cabinet. He could hear the sound of trains leaving for Castille and the splash of departing steamers. As in far-off Alpujarras The golden mountains fade His heart was fluttering like a pendulum. There was a ticking in his ears. And guitars strum out their summons Come forth, my pretty maid. Uneasiness spread along the corridor. Nothing could thaw the cold of the cabinet. From Seville to Granada Through the stillness of the night- Gramophones droned in the pencil boxes. Primuses hummed like bees. Comes the sound of serenading Comes the ring of swords in fight. In short, Ippolit Matveyevich was head over heels in love with Liza Kalachov. Many people passed Ippolit Matveyevich in the corridor, but they all smelled of either tobacco, vodka, disinfectant, or stale soup. In the obscurity of the corridor it was possible to distinguish people only by their smell or the heaviness of their tread. Liza had not come by. Ippolit Matveyevich was sure of that. She did not smoke, drink vodka, or wear boots with iron studs. She could not have smelled of iodine or cod's-head. She could only exude the tender fragrance of rice pudding or tastily prepared hay, on which Mrs. Nordman-Severov fed the famous painter Repin for such a long time. And then he heard light, uncertain footsteps. Someone was coming down the corridor, bumping into its elastic walls and murmuring sweetly. "Is that you, Elizabeth Petrovna? " asked Ippolit Matveyevich. "Can you tell me where the Pfefferkorns live?" a deep voice replied. "I can't see a damn thing in the dark!" Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing in his alarm. The Pfefferkorn-seeker waited for an answer but, not getting one, moved on, puzzled. It was nine o'clock before Liza came. They went out into the street under a caramel-green evening sky. "Where shall we go?" asked Liza. Ippolit Matveyevich looked at her pale, shining face and, instead of saying "I am here, Inezilla, beneath thy window," began to talk long-windedly and tediously about the fact that he had not been in Moscow for a long time and that Paris was infinitely better than the Russian capital, which was always a large, badly planned village, whichever way you turned it. "This isn't the Moscow I remember, Elizabeth Petrovna. Now there's a stinginess everywhere. In my day we spent money like water. 'We only live once.' There's a song called that." They walked the length of Prechistenka Boulevard and came out on to the embankment by the Church of Christ the Saviour. A line of black-brown fox tails stretched along the far side of Moskvoretsk Bridge. The power stations were smoking like a squadron of ships. Trams rattled across the bridge and boats moved up and down the river. An accordion was sadly telling its tale. Taking hold of Ippolit Matveyevich's hand, Liza told him about her troubles: the quarrel with her husband, the difficulty of living with eavesdropping neighbours, the ex-chemists, and the monotony of a vegetarian diet. Ippolit Matveyevich listened and began thinking. Devils were aroused in him. He visualized a wonderful supper. He decided he must in some way or other make an overwhelming impression on the girl. "Let's go to the theatre," he suggested. "The cinema would be better," said Liza, "it's cheaper." "Why think of money? A night like this and you worry about the cost!" The devils in him threw prudence to the wind, set the couple in a cab, without haggling about the fare, and took them to the Ars cinema. Ippolit Matveyevich was splendid. He bought the most expensive seats. They did not wait for the show to finish, however. Liza was used to cheaper seats nearer the screen and could not see so well from the thirty-fourth row. In his pocket Ippolit Matveyevich had half the sum obtained by the concessionaires from the Stargorod conspirators. It was a lot of money for Vorobyaninov, so unaccustomed to luxury. Excited by the possibility of an easy conquest, he was ready to dazzle Liza with the scale of his entertaining. He considered himself admirably equipped for this, and proudly remembered how easily he had once won the heart of Elena Bour. It was part of his nature to spend money extravagantly and showily. He had been famous in Stargorod for his good manners and ability to converse with any woman. He thought it would be amusing to use his pre-revolutionary polish on conquering a little Soviet girl, who had never seen anything or known anything. With little persuasion Ippolit Matveyevich took Liza to the Prague Restaurant, the showpiece of the Moscow union of consumer societies; the best place in Moscow, as Bender used to say. The Prague awed Liza by the copious mirrors, lights and flower-pots. This was excusable; she had never before been in a restaurant of this kind. But the mirrored room unexpectedly awed Ippolit Matveyevich, too. He was out of touch and had forgotten about the world of restaurants. Now he felt ashamed of his baronial boots with square toes, pre-revolutionary trousers, and yellow, star-spangled waistcoat. They were both embarrassed and stopped suddenly at the sight of the rather motley public. "Let's go over there in the corner," suggested Vorobyaninov, although there were tables free just by the stage, where the orchestra was scraping away at the stock potpourri from the "Bayadere". Liza quickly agreed, feeling that all eyes were upon her. The social lion and lady-killer, Vorobyaninov, followed her awkwardly. The social lion's shabby trousers drooped baggily from his thin behind. The lady-killer hunched his shoulders and began polishing his pince-nez in an attempt to cover up his embarrassment. No one took their order. Ippolit Matveyevich had not expected this. Instead of gallantly conversing with his lady, he remained silent, sighed, tapped the table timidly with an ashtray, and coughed incessantly. Liza looked around her with curiosity; the silence became unnatural. But Ippolit Matveyevich could not think of anything to say. He had forgotten what he usually said in such cases. "We'd like to order," he called to waiters as they flew past. "Just coming, sir," cried the waiters without stopping. A menu was eventually brought, and Ippolit Matveyevich buried himself in it with relief. "But veal cutlets are two twenty-five, a fillet is two twenty-five, and vodka is five roubles," he mumbled. "For five roubles you get a large decanter, sir," said the waiter, looking around impatiently. "What's the matter with me?" Ippolit Matveyevich-asked himself in horror. "I'm making myself ridiculous." "Here you are," he said to Liza with belated courtesy, "you choose something. What would you like? " Liza felt ashamed. She saw how haughtily the waiter was looking at her escort, and realized he was doing something wrong. "I'm not at all hungry," she said in a shaky voice. "Or wait, have you anything vegetarian?" "We don't serve vegetarian dishes. Maybe a ham omelette? " "All right, then," said Ippolit Matveyevich, having made up his mind, "bring us some sausages. You'll eat sausages, won't you, Elizabeth Petrovna?" "Yes, certainly." "Sausages, then. These at a rouble twenty-five each. And a bottle of vodka." "It's served by the decanter." "Then a large one." The public-catering employee gave the defenceless Liza a knowing look. "What will you have with the vodka? Fresh caviar? Smoked salmon?" The registry-office employee continued to rage in Ippolit Matveyevich. "Nothing," he said rudely. "How much are the salted gherkins? All right, let me have two." The waiter hurried away and silence reigned once more at the table. Liza was the first to speak. "I've never been here before. It's very nice." "Ye-es," said Vorobyaninov slowly, working out the cost of what they had ordered. "Never mind," he thought, "I'll drink some vodka and loosen up a bit. I feel so awkward at the moment." But when he had drunk the vodka and accompanied it with a gherkin, he did not loosen up, but rather became more gloomy. Liza did not drink anything. The tension continued. Then someone else approached the table and, looking tenderly at Liza, tried to sell them flowers. Ippolit Matveyevich pretended not to notice the bewhiskered flower seller, but he kept hovering near the table. It was quite impossible to say nice things with him there. They were saved for a while by the cabaret. A well-fed man in a morning coat and patent-leather shoes came on to the stage. "Well, here we are again," he said breezily, addressing the public. "Next on our programme we have the well-known Russian folk-singer Barbara Godlevsky." Ippolit Matveyevich drank his vodka and said nothing. Since Liza did not drink and kept wanting to go home, he had to hurry to finish the whole decanter. By the time the singer had been replaced by an entertainer in a ribbed velvet shirt, who came on to the stage and began to sing: Roaming, You're always roaming As though with all the life outside Your appendix will be satisfied, Roaming, Ta-ra-ra-ra . . . Ippolit Matveyevich was already well in his cups and, together with all the other customers in the restaurant, whom half an hour earlier he had considered rude and niggardly Soviet thugs, was clapping in time to the music and joining in the chorus: Roaming, Ta-ra-ra-ra . . . He kept jumping up and going to the gentlemen's without excusing himself. The nearby tables had already begun calling him "daddy", and invited him over for a glass of beer. But he did not go. He suddenly became proud and suspicious. Liza stood up determinedly. "I'm going. You stay. I can go home by myself." "Certainly not I As a member of the upper class I cannot allow that. "Carport! The bill! Bums!" Ippolit Matveyevich stared at the bill for some time, swaying in his chair. "Nine roubles, twenty kopeks," he muttered. "Perhaps you'd also like the key of the apartment where the money is." He ended up by being marched downstairs by the arm. Liza could not escape, since the social lion had the cloakroom ticket. In the first side street Ippolit Matveyevich leaned against Liza and began to paw her. Liza fought him off. "Stop it!" she cried. "Stop it! Stop it!" "Let's go to a hotel," Vorobyaninov urged. Liza freed herself with difficulty and, without taking aim, punched the lady-killer on the nose. The pince-nez with the gold nose-piece fell to the ground and, getting in the way of one of the square-toed baronial boots broke with a crunch. The evening breeze Sighs through the trees Choking back her tears, Liza ran home down Silver Lane. Loud and fast Flows the Gualdalquivir. The blinded Ippolit Matveyevich trotted off in the opposite direction, shouting "Stop! Thief!" Then he cried for a long time and, still weeping, bought a full basket of bagels from an old woman. Reaching the Smolensk market, now empty and dark, he walked up and down for some time, throwing the bagels all over the place like a sower sowing seed. As he went, he shouted in a tuneless voice: Roaming, You're always roaming, Ta-ra-ra-ra . . . Later on he befriended a taxi-driver, poured out his heart to him, and told him in a muddled way about the jewels. "A gay old gentleman," exclaimed the taxi-driver. Ippolit Matveyevich was really in a gay mood, but the gaiety was clearly of a rather reprehensible nature, because he woke up at about eleven the next day in the local police-station. Of the two hundred roubles with which he had shamefully begun his night of enjoyment and debauchery, only twelve remained. He felt like death. His spine ached, his liver hurt, and his head felt as if he had a lead pot on top of it. But the most awful thing was that he could not remember how and where he co