The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке

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 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.

Сhapter 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 pronouncement on the subject of medicine, looked around cautiously, and said:

«Haemoglobin is what counts nowadays». Having said that, he fell silent. The citizens also fell silent, each reflecting in his own way on the mysterious power of haemoglobin.

When the moon rose and cast its minty light on the miniature bust of Zhukovsky, a rude word could clearly be seen chalked on the poet's bronze back.

This inscription had first appeared on June 15, 1897, the same day that the bust had been unveiled. And despite all the efforts of the tsarist police, and later the Soviet militia, the defamatory word had reappeared each day with unfailing regularity.

The samovars were already singing in the little wooden houses with their outside shutters, and it was time for supper. The citizens stopped wasting their time and went their way. A wind began to blow.

In the meantime Claudia Ivanovna was dying. First she asked for something to drink, then said she had to get up and fetch Ippolit Matveyevich's best boots from the cobbler. One moment she complained of the dust which, as she put it, was enough to make you choke, and the next asked for all the lamps to be lit.

Ippolit Matveyevich paced up and down the room, tired of worrying. His mind was full of unpleasant, practical thoughts. He was thinking how he would have to ask for an advance at the mutual assistance office, fetch the priest, and answer letters of condolence from relatives. To take his mind off these things, Ippolit Matveyevich went out on the porch. There, in the green light of the moon, stood Bezenchuk the undertaker.

«So how would you like it, Mr. Vorobyaninov?» asked the undertaker, hugging his cap to his chest. «Yes, probably», answered Ippolit Matveyevich gloomily. «Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?» said Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. «Go to the devil! You make me sick!»

«I'm not doin' nothin'. I'm only askin' about the tassels and brocade. How shall I make it? Best quality? Or how?»

«No tassels or brocade. Just an ordinary coffin made of pine-wood. Do you understand?»