Public Domain Tales: The Twelve Chairs: Book Four (2024)

Public Domain Tales: The Twelve Chairs: Book Four is the one-hundred-and-sixty-fifth book in the Public Domain Tales series.

 Ippolit Matveyevich was slowly becoming a boot-licker. Whenever he

looked at Ostap, his eyes acquired a blue lackeyish tinge.

 It was so hot in Ivanopulo's room that Vorobyaninov's chairs creaked

like logs in the fireplace. The smooth operator was having a nap with thelight-blue waistcoat under his head.

 Ippolit Matveyevich looked out of the window. A carriage emblazoned

with a coat of arms was moving along the curved side street, past the tinyMoscow gardens. The black gloss reflected the passers-by one after another,a horseguard in a brass helmet, society ladies, and fluffy white clouds.Drumming the roadway with their hooves, the horses drew the carriage pastIppolit Matveyevich. He winced with disappointment.

 The carriage bore the initials of the Moscow communal services and was

being used to carry away refuse; its slatted sides reflected nothing at all.

 In the coachman's seat sat a fine-looking old man with a fluffy white

beard. If Ippolit Matveyevich had known that this was none other than CountAlexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would probably have hailed theold man and chatted with him about the good old days.

 Count Bulanov was deeply troubled. As he whipped up the horses, he

mused about the red tape that was strangling the sub-department ofsanitation, and on account of which he had not received for six months theapron he was entitled to under his contract.

 "Listen," said the smooth operator suddenly. "What did they call you as

a boy?"

 "What do you want to know for?" "I just want to know what to call you. I'm sick of calling you

Vorobyaninov, and Ippolit Matveyevich is too stuffy. What were you called?Ippy?"

 "puss*," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker. "That's more like it. So look, puss*, see what's wrong with my back. It

hurts between the shoulder-blades."

 Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over his head. Before puss* Vorobyaninov

was revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous; a back of enchantingshape, but rather dirty.

 "Aha! I see some redness." Between the smooth operator's shoulders were some strangely shaped

mauve bruises which reflected colours like a rainbow in oil.

 "Honestly, it's the number eight," exclaimed Vorobyaninov. "First time

I've ever seen a bruise like that."

 "Any other number?" asked Ostap. "There seems to be a letter P." "I have no more questions. It's quite clear. That damned pen! You see

how I suffer, puss*, and what risks I run for your chairs. Thesearithmetical figures were branded on me by the huge self-falling pen with aNo. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back atthe very moment I inserted my hands inside the chief editor's chair. Butyou! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair sothat I had to go and do your work for you? I won't even mention the auction.A fine time to go woman-chasing. It's simply bad for you at your age to dothat. Look after your health. Take me, on the other hand. I got the widow'schair. I got the two Shukin chairs. It was me who finally got Iznurenkov'schair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to Lapis's. There wasonly one chair that you managed to run down, and that was with the help ofyour holy enemy, the archbishop."

 Silently walking up and down in his bare feet, the technical adviser

reasoned with the submissive puss*.

 The chair which had vanished into the goods yard of October Station was

still a blot on the glossy schedule of the concession. The four chairs inthe Columbus Theatre were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make atrip down the Volga aboard the lottery ship, S.S. Scriabin, and waspresenting the premiere of The Marriage that day as the last production ofthe season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in Moscow and lookfor the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or go on tour with thetroupe. Ostap was in favour of the latter.

 "Or perhaps we should split up?" he suggested. "I'll go off with the

theatre and you stay and find out about the chair in the goods yard."

 puss*'s grey eyelashes flickered so fearfully, however, that Ostap did

not bother to continue.

 "Of the two birds," said Ostap, "the meatier should be chosen. Let's go

together. But the expenses will be considerable. We shall need money. I havesixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh, I forgot. At your age a maiden'slove is so expensive! I decree that we go together to the premiere of TheMarriage. Don't forget to wear tails. If the chairs are still there andhaven't been sold to pay social-security debts, we can leave tomorrow.Remember, Vorobyaninov, we've now reached the final act of the comedy MyMother-in-Low's Treasure. The Finita la Comedia is fast approaching,Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights! Oh, myyounger days! Oh, the smell of the wings! So many memories! So manyintrigues and affairs I How talented I was in my time in the role of Hamlet!In short, the hearing is continued."

 For the sake of economy they went to the theatre on foot. It was still

quite light, but the street lamps were already casting their lemon light.Spring was dying before everyone's eyes. Dust chased it from the squares,and a warm breeze drove it from the side streets. Old women fondled thebeauty and drank tea with it at little round tables in the yards. Butspring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it somuch wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where the young men were alreadystrolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bowties, and boots.

 Mauve-powdered girls circulated between the holy of holies of the

Moscow Consumers' Union and the 'Commune' cooperative. The girls wereswearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace,though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses wereno better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much onthe edges of the roadway. Cyclists rode noiselessly by from their firstlarge international match at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream mantrundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squintedtimorously at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by theflashing signal with which he regulated the traffic, and was not dangerous.

 The two friends made their way through the hustle and bustle.

Temptation lay in wait for them at every step. Different types of meat onskewers were being roasted in full view of the street in the tiny eatingplates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of stringmusic was wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great SilentFilm' cinema. A loud-speaker raved away at a tram-stop.

 It was time to put a spurt on. The friends reached the foyer of the

Columbus Theatre.

 Vorobyaninov rushed to the box office and read the list of seat prices.

"Rather expensive, I'm afraid," he said. "Three roubles for the sixteenthrow."

 "How I dislike these provincial philistines," Ostap observed. "Where

are you going? Can't you see that's the box office?"

 "Where else? We won't get in without tickets." "puss*, you're vulgar. In every well-built theatre there are two

windows. Only courting couples and wealthy heirs go to the box-officewindow. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you may observe) gostraight to the manager's window."

 And, indeed, at the box-office window were only about five modestly

dressed people. They may have been wealthy heirs or courting couples. At themanager's window, however, there was great activity. A colourful line hadformed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which aprovincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notesfrom friendly directors, actors, editors, theatrical costumiers, thedistrict militia chief, and other persons closely connected with thetheatre, such as members of the theatre and film critics' association, the'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental CircusWorkshop, and some extraordinary name, like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. Abouteight people had notes from Espere Eclairovich.

 Ostap barged into the line, jostled aside the Fortinbrasites, and, with

a cry of "I only want some information: can't you see I haven't taken mygaloshes off!" pushed his way to the window and peered inside.

 The manager was working like a slave. Bright diamonds of __

perspiration irrigated his fat face. The telephone interrupted him all thetime and rang with the obstinacy of a tram trying to pass through theSmolensk market.

 "Hurry up and give me the note!" he shouted at Ostap. "Two seats," said Ostap quietly, "in the stalls." "Who for?" "Me." "And who might you be?" "Now surely you know me?" "No, I don't." But the stranger's gaze was so innocent and open that the manager's

hand by itself gave Ostap two seats in the eleventh row,

 "All kinds come here," said the manager, shrugging his shoulders. "Who

knows who they are? They may be from the Ministry of Education. I seem tohave seen him at the Ministry. Where else could it have been? "

 And mechanically issuing passes to the lucky film and theatre critics,

the manager went on quietly trying to remember where he had seen those cleareyes before.

 When all the passes had been issued and the lights went down in the

foyer, he remembered he had seen them in the Taganka prison in 1922, whilehe was doing time for some trivial matter.

 Laughter echoed from the eleventh row where the concessionaires were

sitting. Ostap liked the musical introduction performed by the orchestra onbottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistledand the curtain went up, wafting a breath of cool air.

 To the surprise of Vorobyaninov, who was used to a classical

interpretation of The Marriage, Podkolesin was not on the stage. Searchingaround with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard triangles hanging from theceiling and painted the primary colours of the spectrum. There "were nodoors or blue muslin windows. Beneath the multicoloured triangles dancedyoung ladies in large hats from black cardboard. The clinking of bottlesbrought forth Podkolesin, who charged into the crowd riding on Stepan'sback. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed the youngladies with words which were not in the play, he bawled out:

 "Stepan!" At the same time he leaped to one side and froze in a difficult pose.

The Esmarch douches began to clatter.

 "Stepan!" repeated Podkolesin, taking another leap. But since Stepan, who was standing right there in a leopard skin, did

not respond, Podkolesin asked tragically:

 "Why are you silent, like the League of Nations?" "I'm obviously afraid of Chamberlain," replied Stepan, scratching his

skin.

 There was a general feeling that Stepan would oust Podkolesin and

become the chief character in this modernized version of the play.

 "Well, is the tailor making a coat?" A leap. A blow on the Esmarch douches. Stepan stood on his hands with

an effort and, still in that position, answered:

 "Yes, he is." The orchestra played a potpourri from Madam Butterfly. Stepan stood on

his hands the whole time. His face flooded with colour.

 "And didn't the tailor ask what the master wanted such good cloth for?" Stepan, who by this time was pitting in the orchestra cuddling the

conductor, answered: "No, he didn't. He's not a member of the BritishParliament, is he?"

 "And didn't the tailor ask whether the master wished to get married?" "The tailor asked whether the master wanted to pay alimony." At this point the lights went out and the audience began stamping their

feet. They kept up the stamping until Podkolesin's voice could be heardsaying from the stage:

 The Marriage

 Text. . . N. V. Gogol Verse . . . M. Cherchezlafemmov Adaptation. . . I. Antiokhiisky Musical accompaniment. . . Kh. Ivanov Producer . . . Nich. Sestrin Scenic effects . . . Simbievich-Sindievich Lighting . . . Platon Plashuk. Sound effects . . . Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind. Make-up. . . Krult workshops; wigs by Foma Kochur Furniture by the Fortinbras woodwork shops attached to the Balthazar Umslopogas Acrobatics instructress: Georgetta Tiraspolskikh Hydraulic press operated by Fitter Mechnikov

 Programme composed, imposed and printed by the KRULT FACTORY SCHOOL

 "Citizens! Don't be alarmed! The lights went out on purpose, as part of

the act. It's required for the scenic effects."

 The audience gave in. The lights did not go up again until the end of

the act. The drums rolled in complete darkness. A squad of soldiers dressedas hotel doormen passed by, carrying torches. Then Kochkarev arrived,apparently on a camel. This could only be judged from the followingdialogue.

 "Ouch, how you frightened me! And you came on a camel, too." "Ah, so you noticed, despite the darkness. I wanted to bring you a

fragrant camellia!"

 During the intermission the concessionaires read the programme. "Do you like it?" Ippolit Matveyevich asked timidly. "Do you?" "It's very interesting-only Stepan is rather odd." "No, I don't like it," said Ostap. "Particularly the fact that the

furniture is from some Vogopas workshops or other. I hope those aren't ourchairs adapted to the new style."

 Their fears were unjustified. At the beginning of the second act all

four chairs were brought on to the stage by Negroes in top hats.

 The matchmaking scene aroused the greatest interest among the audience.

At the moment Agafya Tikhonovna was coming down a rope stretched across theentire width of the theatre, the terrifying orchestra let out such a noisethat she nearly fell off into the audience. But on the stage she balancedperfectly. She was wearing flesh-coloured tights and a bowler. Maintainingher balance by means of a green parasol on which was written "I wantPodkolesin", she stepped along the wire and everyone below immediately sawthat her feet were dirty. She leaped from the wire straight on to a chair,whereupon the Negroes, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in a tutu, and the matchmakerin a bus driver's uniform all turned backward somersaults. Then they had afive-minute rest, to hide which the lights were turned out again.

 The suitors were also very comic, particularly Omlette. In his place a

huge pan of fried eggs was brought on to the stage. The sailor wore a mastwith a sail.

 In vain did Starikov the merchant cry out that he was being crippled by

taxes. Agafaya Tikhonovna did not like him. She married Stepan. They bothdived into the fried eggs served by Podkolesin, who had turned into afootman. Kochkarev and Fekla sang ditties about Chamberlain and therepayment he hoped to extort from Germany. The Esmarch douches played a hymnfor the dying and the curtain came down, wafting a breath of cool air.

 "I'm satisfied with the performance," said Ostap. "The chairs are

intact. But we've no time to lose. If Agafya Tikhonovna is going to land onthose chairs each day, they won't last very long."

 Jostling and laughing, the young men in their fashioned jackets

discussed the finer points of the scenic effects.

 "You need some shut-eye, puss*," said Ostap. "We have to stand in line

for tickets early tomorrow morning. The theatre is leaving by express forNizhni tomorrow evening at seven. So get two seats in a hard coach to Nizhnion the Kursk Railway. We'll sit it out. It's only one night."

 The next day the Columbus Theatre was sitting in the buffet at Kursk

Station. Having taken steps to see that the scenic effects went by the sametrain, Simbievich-Sindievich was having a snack at one of the tables.Dipping his moustache into the beer, he asked the fitter nervously:

 "The hydraulic press won't get broken on the way, will it?" "It's not the press that's the trouble," said fitter Mechnikov. "It's that it only works for five minutes and we have to cart it around

the whole summer."

 "Was it any easier with the 'time projector' from the Ideology Powder!" "Of course it was. The projector was big, but not so fragile." At the next table sat Agafya Tikhonovna, a youngish woman with hard

shiny legs, like skittles. The sound effects -Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,Chalkin and Zalkind-fussed around her.

 "You didn't keep in time with me yesterday," she complained. "I might

have fallen off."

 "What can we do?" clamoured the sound effects. "Two douches broke." "You think it's easy to get an Esmarch douche from abroad nowadays? "

cried Galkin.

 "Just try going to the State Medical Supply Office. It's impossible to

buy a thermometer, let alone an Esmarch douche," added Palkin.

 "Do you play thermometers as well?" asked the girl, horrified. "It's not that we play thermometers," observed Zalkind, "but that the

damned douches are enough to drive you out of your mind and we have to takeour own temperatures."

 Nich. Sestrin, stage manager and producer, was strolling along the

platform with his wife. Podkolesin and Kochkarev had downed three vodkas andwere wooing Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, each trying to outdo the other.

 The concessionaires had arrived two hours before the train was due to

depart and were now on their sixth round of the garden laid out in front ofthe station.

 Ippolit Matveyevich's head was whirling. The hunt for the chairs was

entering the last lap. Long shadows fell on the scorching roadway. Dustsettled on their wet, sweaty faces. Cabs rattled past them and there was asmell of petrol. Hired vehicles set down their passengers. Porters ran up tothem and carried off the bags, while their badges glittered in the sun. TheMuse of Travel had people by the throat.

 "Let's get going as well," said Ostap. Ippolit Matveyevich meekly consented. All of a sudden he came face to

face with Bezenchuk, the undertaker.

 "Bezenchuk!" he exclaimed in amazement. "How did you get here?" Bezenchuk doffed his cap and was speechless with joy. "Mr.

Vorobyaninov," he cried. "Greetin's to an honoured guest."

 "Well, how are things?" "Bad," answered the undertaker. "Why is that?" "I'm lookin' for clients. There ain't none about." "Is the Nymph doing better than you?" "Likely! Could they do better than me? No chance. Since your

mother-in-law, only Tierre and Constantine' has croaked."

 "You don't say! Did he really die?" "He croaked, Ippolit Matveyevich. He croaked at his post. He was

shavin' Leopold the chemist when he croaked. People said it was his insidesthat bust, but I think it was the smell of medicine from the chemist that hecouldn't take."

 "Dear me, dear me," muttered Ippolit Matveyevich. "So you buried him,

did you?"

 "I buried him. Who else could? Does the Nymph, damn 'em, give tassels?" "You got in ahead of them, then? " "Yes, I did, but they beat me up afterwards. Almost beat the guts out

of me. The militia took me away. I was in bed for two days. I cured myselfwith spirits."

 "You massaged yourself?" "No, I don't do that with spirits." "But what made you come here? " "I've brought my stock." "What stock?" "My own. A guard I know helped me bring it here free in the guard's

van. Did it as a friend."

 It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed a neat pile of

coffins on the ground a little way from Bezenchuk. Some had tassels, othersdid not. One of them Ippolit Matveyevich recognized immediately. It was thelarge, dusty oak coffin from Bezenchuk's shop window.

 "Eight of them," said Bezenchuk smugly. "Like gherkins." "But who needs your coffins here? They have plenty of their own

undertakers."

 "What about the flu?" "What flu?" "The epidemic. Prusis told me flu was ragin' in Moscow and there was

nothin' to bury people in. All the coffins were used up. So I decided to putthin's right."

 Ostap, who had been listening to the conversation with curiosity,

intervened. "Listen, dad, the flu epidemic is in Paris."

 "In Paris?" "Yes, go to Paris. You'll make money. Admittedly, there may be some

trouble with the visa, but don't give up. If Briand likes you, you'll dopretty well. They'll set you up as undertaker-royal to the Parismunicipality. Here they have enough of their own undertakers."

 Bezenchuk looked around him wildly. Despite the assurances of Prusis,

there were certainly no bodies lying about; people were cheerfully movingabout on their feet, and some were even laughing.

 Long after the train had carried off the concessionaires, the Columbus

Theatre, and various other people, Bezenchuk was still standing in a daze byhis coffins. His eyes shone in the approaching darkness with an unfadinglight.

 MADAME PETUKHOV'S TREASURE

 The smooth operator stood with his friend and closest associate, puss*

Vorobyaninov, on the left of the passenger landing-stage of the state-ownedVolga River Transport System under a sign which said: "Use the rings formooring, mind the grating, and keep clear of the wall".

 Flags fluttered above the quay. Smoke as curly as a cauliflower poured

from the funnels. The S.S. Anton Rubinstein was being loaded at pier No. 2.Dock workers dug their iron claws into bales of cotton; iron pots werestacked in a square on the quayside, which was littered with treated hides,bundles of wire, crates of sheet glass, rolls of cord for binding sheaves,mill-stones, two-colour bony agricultural implements, wooden forks,sack-lined baskets of early cherries, and casks of herrings.

 The Scriabin was not in, which greatly disturbed Ippolit Matveyevich. "Why worry about it?" asked Ostap. "Suppose the Scriabin were here. How

would you get aboard? Even if you had the money to buy a ticket, it stillwouldn't be any use. The boat doesn't take passengers."

 While still on the train, Ostap had already had a chance to talk to

Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press, and had found outeverything. The S.S. Scriabin had been chartered by the Ministry of Financeand was due to sail from Nizhni to Tsaritsin, calling at every river port,and holding a government-bond lottery. A complete government department hadleft Moscow for the trip, including a lottery committee, an office staff, abrass band, a cameraman, reporters from the central press and the ColumbusTheatre. The theatre was there to perform plays which popularised the ideaof government loans. Up to Stalingrad the Columbus Theatre was on theestablishment of the lottery committee, after which the theatre had decidedto tour the Caucasus and the Crimea with The Marriage at its own risk.

 The Scriabin was late. A promise was given that she would leave the

backwater, where last-minute preparations were being made, by evening. Sothe whole department from Moscow set up camp on the quayside and waited togo aboard.

 Tender creatures with attache1 cases and hold-alls sat on the bundles

of wire, guarding their Underwoods, and glancing apprehensively at thestevedores. A citizen with a violet imperial positioned himself on amill-stone. On his knees was a pile of enamel plates. A curious person couldhave read the uppermost one:

 Mutual Settlement Department

 Desks with ornamental legs and other, more modest, desks stood on top

of one another. A guard sauntered up and down by a sealed safe. Persidsky,who was representing the Lathe, gazed at the fairground through Zeissbinoculars with eightfold magnification.

 The S.S. Scriabin approached, turning against the stream. Her sides

were decked with plyboard sheets showing brightly coloured pictures ofgiant-sized bonds. The ship gave a roar, imitating the sound of a mammoth,or possibly some other animal used in prehistoric times, as a substitute forthe sound of a ship's hooter.

 The finance-and-theatre camp came to life. Down the slopes to the quay

came the lottery employees. Platon Plashuk, a fat little man, toddled downto the ship in a cloud of dust. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkindflew out of the Raft beer-hall. Dockers were already loading the safe.Georgetta Tiraspolskikh, the acrobatics instructress, hurried up the gangwaywith a springy walk, while Simbievich-Sindievich, still worried about thescenic effects, raised his hands, at one moment to the Kremlin heights, andat another towards the captain standing on the bridge. The cameraman carriedhis camera high above the heads of the crowd, and as he went he demanded aseparate cabin in which to set up a darkroom.

 Amid the general confusion, Ippolit Matveyevich made his way over to

the chairs and was about to drag one away to one side.

 "Leave the chair alone!" snarled Bender. "Are you crazy? Even if we

take one, the others will disappear for good. You'd do better to think of away to get aboard the ship."

 Belted with brass tubes, the band passed along the landing-stage. The

musicians looked with distaste at the saxophones, flexotones, beer bottlesand Esmarch douches, with which the sound effects were armed.

 The lottery wheels arrived in a Ford station wagon. They were built

into a complicated device composed of six rotating cylinders with shiningbrass and glass. It took some time to set them up on the lower deck. Thestamping about and exchange of abuse continued until late evening.

 In the lottery hall people were erecting a stage, fixing notices and

slogans to the walls, arranging benches for the visitors, and joiningelectric cables to the lottery wheels. The desks were in the stern, and thetapping of typewriters, interspersed with laughter, could be heard from thetypists' cabin. The pale man in the violet imperial walked the length of theship, hanging his enamel plates on the relevant doors.

 Mutual Settlement Department Personnel Department Office Engine Room

 To the larger plates the man with the imperial added smaller plates.

 No entry except on business No consultations No admittance to outsiders All inquiries at the registry

 The first-class saloon had been fitted up for an exhibition of bank

notes and bonds. This aroused a wave of indignation from Galkin, Palkin,Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind.

 "Where are we going to eat?" they fretted. "And what happens if it

rains?"

 "This is too much," said Nich. Sestrin to his assistant. "What do you

think, Seryozha? Can we do without the sound effects?"

 "Lord, no, Nicholas Constantinovich. The actors are used to the rhythm

by now."

 A fresh racket broke out. The "Five" had found that the stage manager

had taken all four chairs to his cabin.

 "So that's it," said the "Five" ironically. "We're supposed to rehearse

sitting on our berths, while Sestrin and his wife, Gusta, who has nothing todo with our group, sit on the four chairs. Perhaps we should have broughtour own wives with us on this trip."

 The lottery ship was watched malevolently from the bank by the smooth

operator. A fresh outbreak of shouting reached the concessionaires' ears.

 "Why didn't you tell me before?" cried a committee member. "How was I to know he would fall ill." "A hell of a mess we're in! Then go to the artists'-union office and

insist that an artist be sent here immediately."

 "How can I? It's now six o'clock. The union office closed long ago.

Anyway, the ship is leaving in half an hour."

 "Then you can do the painting yourself. Since you're responsible for

the decorations on the ship, get out of the mess any way you like!"

 Ostap was already running up the gangplank, elbowing his way through

the dockers, young ladies, and idle onlookers. He was stopped at the top.

 "Your pass?' "Comrade!" roared Bender. "You! You! The little fat man! The one who

needs an artist!"

 Five minutes later the smooth operator was sitting in the white cabin

occupied by the fat little assistant manager of the floating lottery, anddiscussing terms.

 "So we want you to do the following, Comrade," said fatty. "Paint

notices, inscriptions, and complete the transparent. Our artist began thework, but is now ill. We've left him at the hospital. And, of course,general supervision of the art department.

 Can you take that on? I warn you, incidentally, there's a great deal of

work."

 "Yes, I can undertake that. I've had occasion to do that kind of work

before."

 "And you can come along with us now?" "That will be difficult, but I'll try." A large and heavy burden fell from the shoulders of the assistant

manager. With a feeling of relief, the fat man looked at the new artist withshining eyes.

 "Your terms?" asked Ostap sharply. "Remember, I'm not from a funeral

home."

 "It's piecework. At union rates." Ostap frowned, which was very hard for him. "But free meals as well," added the tubby man hastily. "And a separate

cabin."

 "All right," said Ostap, "I accept. But I have a boy, an assistant,

with me."

 "I don't know about the boy. There are no funds for a boy. But at your

own expense by all means. He can live in your cabin."

 "As you like. The kid is smart. He's used to Spartan conditions." Ostap was given a pass for himself and for the smart boy; he put the

key of the cabin in his pocket and went out onto the hot deck. He felt greatsatisfaction as he fingered the key. For the first time in his stormy lifehe had both a key and an apartment. It was only the money he lacked. Butthere was some right next to him in the chairs. The smooth operator walkedup and down the deck with his hands in his pockets, ignoring Vorobyaninov onthe quayside.

 At first Ippolit Matveyevich made signs; then he was even daring enough

to whistle. But Bender paid no heed. Turning his back on the president ofthe concession, he watched with interest as the hydraulic press was loweredinto the hold.

 Final preparations for casting off were being made. Agafya Tikhonovna,

alias Mura, ran with clattering feet from her cabin to the stern, looked atthe water, loudly shared her delight with the balalaika virtuoso, andgenerally caused confusion among the honoured officials of the lotteryenterprise.

 The ship gave a second hoot. At the terrifying sound the clouds moved

aside. The sun turned crimson and sank below the horizon. Lamps and streetlights came on in the town above. From the market in Pochayevsky Ravinethere came the hoarse voices of gramophones competing for the lastcustomers. Dismayed and lonely, Ippolit Matveyevich kept shouting something,but no one heard him. The clanking of winches drowned all other sounds.

 Ostap Bender liked effects. It was only just before the third hoot,

when Ippolit Matveyevich no longer doubted that he had been abandoned to themercy of fate, that Ostap noticed him.

 "What are you standing there like a coy suitor for? I thought you were

aboard long ago. They're just going to raise the gangplank. Hurry up! Letthis citizen board. Here's his pass."

 Ippolit Matveyevich hurried aboard almost in tears. "Is this your boy?" asked the boss suspiciously. "That's the one," said Ostap. "If anyone says he's a girl, I'm a

Dutchman!"

 The fat man glumly went away. "Well, puss*," declared Ostap, "we'll have to get down to work in the

morning. I hope you can mix paints. And, incidentally, I'm an artist, agraduate of the Higher Art and Technical Workshops, and you're my assistant.If you don't like the idea, go back ashore at once."

 Black-green foam surged up from under the stern. The ship shuddered;

cymbals clashed together, flutes, cornets, trombones and tubas thundered outa wonderful march, and the town, swinging around and trying to balance,shifted to the left bank. Continuing to throb, the ship moved into midstreamand was soon swallowed up in the darkness. A minute later it was so far awaythat the lights of the town looked like sparks from a rocket that had frozenin space.

 The murmuring of typewriters could still be heard, but nature and the

Volga were gaining the upper hand. A cosiness enveloped all those aboard theS.S. Scriabin. The members of the lottery committee drowsily sipped theirtea. The first meeting of the union committee, held in the prow, was markedby tenderness. The warm wind breathed so heavily, the water lapped againstthe sides of the ship so gently, and the dark outline of the shore sped pastthe ship so rapidly that when the chairman of the union committee, a verypositive man, opened his mouth to speak about working conditions in theunusual situation, he unexpectedly for himself, and for everyone else, begansinging:

 "A ship sailed down the Volga, Mother Volga, River Volga. . ."

 And the other, stern-faced members taking part in the meeting rumbled

the chorus:

 "The lilac bloo-ooms. . ."

 The resolution on the chairman's report was just not recorded. A piano

began to play. Kh. Ivanov, head of the musical accompaniment, drew the mostlyrical notes from the instrument. The balalaika virtuoso trailed afterMurochka and, not finding any words of his own to express his love, murmuredthe words of a love song.

 "Don't go away! Your kisses still fire me, your passionate embraces

never tire me. The clouds have not awakened in the mountain passes, thedistant sky has not yet faded as a pearly star."

 Grasping the rail, Simbievich-Sindievich contemplated the infinite

heavens. Compared with them, his scenic effects appeared a piece ofdisgusting vulgarity. He looked with revulsion at his hands, which had takensuch an eager part in arranging the scenic effects for the classical comedy.

 At the moment the languor was greatest, Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin

and Zalkind, who were in the stern of the ship, began banging away at theirsurgical and brewery appliances. They were rehearsing. Instantly the miragewas dispelled. Agafya Tikhonovna yawned and, ignoring the balalaikavirtuoso, went to bed. The minds of the trade unionists were again full ofworking conditions, and they dealt with the resolution. After carefulconsideration, Simbievich-Sindievich came to the conclusion that theproduction of The Marriage was not really so bad. An irate voice from thedarkness called Georgetta Tiraspolskikh to a producer's conference. Dogsbegan barking in the villages and it became chilly.

 Ostap lay in a first-class cabin on a leather divan, thoughtfully

staring at a green canvas work belt and questioning Ippolit Matveyevich.

 "Can you draw? That's a pity. Unfortunately, I can't, either." He thought for a while and then continued. "What about lettering? Can't do that either? Too bad. We're supposed to

be artists. Well, we'll manage for a day or so before they kick us out. Inthe time we're here we can do everything we need to. The situation hasbecome a bit more complicated. I've found out that the chairs are in theproducer's cabin. But that's not so bad in the long run. The important thingis that we're aboard. All the chairs must be examined before they throw usoff. It's too late for today. The producer's already asleep in his cabin."

 People were still asleep, but the river was as alive as in the daytime.

Rafts floated up and down-huge fields of logs with little wooden houses onthem. A small, vicious tug with the name Storm Conqueror written in a curveover the paddle cover towed along three oil barges in a line. The RedLatvia, a fast mail boat, came up the river. The Scriabin overtook a convoyof dredgers and, having measured her depth with a striped pole, began makinga circle, turning against the stream.

 Aboard ship people began to wake up. A weighted cord was sent flying on

to the Bramino quayside. With this line the shoremen hauled over the thickend of the mooring rope. The screws began turning the opposite way and halfthe river was covered with seething foam. The Scriabin shook from thecutting strokes of the screw and sidled up to the pier. It was too early forthe lottery, which did not start until ten.

 Work began aboard the Scriabin just as it would have done on land-at

nine sharp. No one changed his habits. Those who were late for work on landwere late here, too, although they slept on the very premises. The fieldstaff of the Ministry of Finance adjusted themselves to the new routine veryquickly. Office-boys swept out their cabins with the same lack of interestas they swept out the offices in Moscow. The cleaners took around tea, andhurried with notes from the registry to the personnel department, not a bitsurprised that the latter was in the stern and the registry in the prow. Inthe mutual settlement cabin the abacuses clicked like castanets and theadding machine made a grinding sound. In front of the wheelhouse someone wasbeing hauled over the coals.

 Scorching his bare feet on the hot deck, the smooth operator walked

round and round a long strip of bunting, painting some words on it, which hekept comparing with a piece of paper: "Everyone to the lottery! Every workershould have government bonds in his pocket."

 The smooth operator was doing his best, but his lack of talent was

painfully obvious. The words slanted downward and, at one stage, it lookedas though the cloth had been completely spoiled. Then, with the boy puss*'shelp, Ostap turned the strip the other way round and began again. He was nowmore careful. Before daubing on the letters, he had made two parallel lineswith string and chalk, and was now painting in the letters, cursing theinnocent Vorobyaninov.

 Vorobyaninov carried out his duties as boy conscientiously. He ran

below for hot water, melted the glue, sneezing as he did so, poured thepaints into a bucket, and looked fawningly into the exacting artist's eyes.When the slogan was dry, the concessionaires took it below and fixed it onthe side.

 The fat little man who had hired Ostap ran ashore to see what the new

artist's work looked like from there. The letters of the words were ofdifferent sizes and slightly co*ckeyed, but nothing could be done about it.He had to be content.

 The brass band went ashore and began blaring out some stirring marches.

The sound of the music brought children running from the whole of Braminoand, after them, the peasant men and women from the orchards. The band wenton blaring until all the members of the lottery committee had gone ashore. Ameeting began. From the porch steps of Korobkov's tea-house came the firstsounds of a report on the international situation.

 From the ship the Columbus Theatre goggled at the crowd. They could see

the white kerchiefs of the women, who were standing hesitantly a little wayfrom the steps, a motionless throng of peasant men listening to the speaker,and the speaker himself, from time to time waving his hands. Then the musicbegan again. The band turned around and marched towards the gangway, playingas it went. A crowd of people poured after it.

 The lottery device mechanically threw up its combination of figures.

Its wheels went around, the numbers were announced, and the Bramino citizenswatched and listened.

 Ostap hurried down for a moment, made certain all the inmates of the

ship were in the lottery hall, and ran up on deck again.

 "Vorobyaninov," he whispered. "I have an urgent task for you in the art

department. Stand by the entrance to the first-class corridor and sing. Ifanyone comes, sing louder."

 The old man was aghast. "What shall I sing? " "Whatever else, don't make it 'God Save the Tsar'. Something with

feeling. 'The Apple' or 'A Beauty's Heart'. But I warn you, if you don'tcome out with your aria in time . . . This isn't the experimental theatre.I'll wring your neck."

 The smooth operator padded into the cherry-panelled corridor in his

bare feet. For a brief moment the large mirror in the corridor reflected hisfigure. He read the plate on the door:

 Nich. Sestrin Producer Columbus Theatre

 The mirror cleared. Then the smooth operator reappeared in it carrying

a chair with curved legs. He sped along the corridor, out on to the deck,and, glancing at Ippolit Matveyevich, took the chair aloft to thewheelhouse. There was no one in the glass wheelhouse. Ostap took the chairto the back and said warningly:

 "The chair will stay here until tonight. I've worked it all out. Hardly

anyone comes here except us. We'll cover the chair with notices and as soonas it's dark we'll quietly take a look at its contents."

 A minute later the chair was covered up with sheets of ply-board and

bunting, and was no longer visible.

 Ippolit Matveyevich was again seized with gold-fever. "Why don't you take it to your cabin? " he asked impatiently. "We could

open it on the spot. And if we find the jewels, we can go ashore right awayand--"

 "And if we don't? Then what? Where are we going to put it? Or should we

perhaps take it back to Citizen Sestrin and say politely: 'Sorry we tookyour chair, but unfortunately we didn't find anything in it, so here it isback somewhat the worse for wear.' Is that what you'd do?"

 As always, the smooth operator was right. Ippolit Matveyevich only

recovered from his embarrassment at the sound of the overture played on theEsmarch douches and batteries of beer bottles resounding from the deck.

 The lottery operations were over for the day. The onlookers spread out

on the sloping banks and, above all expectation, noisily acclaimed the Negrominstrels. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind kept looking upproudly as though to say: 'There, you see! And you said the popular masseswould not understand. But art finds a way!'

 After this the Colombus troupe gave a short variety show with singing

and dancing on an improvised stage, the point of which was to demonstratehow Vavila the peasant boy won fifty thousand roubles and what came of it.The actors, who had now freed themselves from the chains of Sestrin'sconstructivism, acted with spirit, danced energetically, and sang in tunefulvoices. The river-bank audience was thoroughly satisfied.

 Next came the balalaika virtuoso. The river bank broke into smiles. The balalaika was set in motion. It went flying behind the player's

back and from there came the "If the master has a chain, it means he has nowatch". Then it went flying up in the air and, during the short flight, gaveforth quite a few difficult variations.

 It was then the turn of Georgetta Tiraspolskikh. She led out a herd of

girls in sarafans. The concert ended with some Russian folk dances.

 While the Scriabin made preparations to continue its voyage, while the

captain talked with the engine-room through the speaking-tube, and theboilers blazed, heating the water, the brass band went ashore again and, toeveryone's delight, began playing dances. Picturesque groups of dancersformed, full of movement. The setting sun sent down a soft, apricot light.It was an ideal moment for some newsreel shots. And, indeed, Polkan thecameraman emerged yawning from his cabin. Vorobyaninov, who had grown usedto his part as general office boy, followed him, cautiously carrying thecamera. Polkan approached the side and glared at the bank. A soldier's polkawas being danced on the grass. The boys were stamping their feet as thoughthey wanted to split the planet. The girls sailed around. Onlookers crowdedthe terraces and slopes. An avant-garde French cameraman would have foundenough material here to keep him busy for three days. Polkan, however,having run his piggy eyes along the bank, immediately turned around, ambledto the committee chairman, stood him against a white wall, pushed a bookinto his hand, and, asking him not to move, smoothly turned the handle ofhis cine-camera for some minutes. He then led the bashful chairman aft andtook him against the setting sun.

 Having completed his shots, Polkan retired pompously to his cabin and

locked himself in.

 Once more the hooter sounded and once more the sun hid in terror. The

second night fell and the steamer was ready to leave.

 Ostap thought with trepidation of the coming morning. Ahead of him was

the job of making a cardboard figure of a sower sowing bonds. This artisticordeal was too much for the smooth operator. He had managed to cope with thelettering, but he had no resources left for painting a sower.

 "Keep it in mind," warned the fat man, "from Vasyuki onward we are

holding evening lotteries, so we can't do without the transparent."

 "Don't worry at all," said Ostap, basing his hopes on that evening,

rather than the next day. "You'll have the transparent."

 It was a starry, windy night. The animals in the lottery arc were

lulled to sleep. The lions from the lottery committee were asleep. So werethe lambs from personnel, the goats from accounts, the rabbits from mutualsettlement, the hyenas and jackals from sound effects, and the pigeons fromthe typistry.

 Only the shady couple lay awake. The smooth operator emerged from his

cabin after midnight. He was followed by the noiseless shadow of thefaithful puss*. They went up on deck and silently approached the chair,covered with plyboard sheets. Carefully removing the covering, Ostap stoodthe chair upright and, tightening his jaw, ripped open the upholstery with apair of pliers and inserted his hand.

 "Got it!" said Ostap in a hushed voice.

 Letter from Theodore written at the Good-Value Furnished Rooms in Baku to his wife In the regional centre of N.

 My dear and precious Kate, Every hour brings us nearer our happiness. I am writing to you from the

Good-Value Furnished Rooms, having finished all my business. The city ofBaku is very large. They say kerosene is extracted here, but you still haveto go by electric train and I haven't any money. This picturesque city iswashed by the Caspian. It really is very large in size. The heat here isawful. I carry my coat in one hand and my jacket in the other, and it'sstill too hot. My hands sweat. I keep indulging in tea, and I've practicallyno money. But no harm, my dear, we'll soon have plenty. We'll traveleverywhere and settle properly in Samara, near our factory, and we'll haveliqueurs to drink. But to get to the point.

 In its geographical position and size of population the city of Baku is

considerably greater than Rostov. But it is inferior to Kharkov in traffic.There are many people from other parts here. Especially Armenians andPersians. It's not far from Turkey, either, Mother. I went to the bazaar andsaw many Turkish clothes and shawls. I wanted to buy you a present of aMohammedan blanket, but I didn't have any money. Then I thought that when weare rich (it's only a matter of days) we'll be able to buy the Mohammedanblanket.

 Oh, I forgot to tell you about two frightful things that happened to me

here in Baku: (1) I accidentally dropped your brother's coat in the Caspian;and (2) I was spat on in the bazaar by a dromedary. Both these happeningsgreatly amazed me. Why do the authorities allows such scandalous behaviourtowards travellers, all the more since I had not touched the dromedary, buthad actually been nice to it and tickled its nose with a twig. As for thejacket, everybody helped to fish it out and we only just managed it; it wascovered with kerosene, believe it or not. Don't mention a word about it, mydearest. Is Estigneyev still having meals?

 I have just read through this letter and I see I haven't had a chance

to say anything. Bruns the engineer definitely works in As-Oil. But he's nothere just now. He's gone to Batumi on vacation. His family is livingpermanently in Batumi. I spoke to some people and they said all hisfurniture is there in Batumi. He has a little house there, at the GreenCape-that's the name of the summer resort (expensive, I hear). It costs Rs.15 from here to Batumi. Cable me twenty here and I'll cable you all the newsfrom Batumi. Spread the rumour that I'm still at my aunt's deathbed inVoronezh.

 Your husband ever, Theo.

 P.S. While I was taking this letter to the post-box, someone stole your

brother's coat from my room at the Good-Value. I'm very grieved. A goodthing it's summer. Don't say anything to your brother.

 While some of the characters in our book were convinced that time would

wait, and others that it would not, time passed in its usual way. The dustyMoscow May was followed by a dusty June. In the regional centre of N., theGos. No. 1 motor-car had been standing at the corner of Staropan Square andComrade Gubernsky Street for two days, now and then enveloping the vicinityin desperate quantities of smoke. One by one the shamefaced members of theSword and Ploughshare conspiracy left the Stargorod prison, having signed astatement that they would not leave the town. Widow Gritsatsuyev (thepassionate woman and poet's dream) returned to her grocery business and wasfined only fifteen roubles for not placing the price list of soap, pepper,blueing and other items in a conspicuous place-forgetfulness forgivable in abig-hearted woman.

 "Got it!" said Ostap in a strangled voice. "Hold this!" Ippolit Matveyevich took a fiat wooden box into his quivering hands.

Ostap continued to grope inside the chair in the darkness.

 A beacon flashed on the bank; a golden pencil spread across the river

and swam after the ship.

 "Damn it!" swore Ostap. "Nothing else." "There m-m-must be," stammered Ippolit Matveyevich. "Then you have a look as well." Scarcely breathing, Vorobyaninov knelt down and thrust his arm as far

as he could inside the chair. He could feel the ends of the springs betweenhis fingers, but nothing else that was hard. There was a dry, stale smell ofdisturbed dust from the chair.

 "Nothing?" "No." Ostap picked up the chair and hurled it far over the side. There was a

heavy splash. Shivering in the damp night air, the concessionaires went backto their cabin filled with doubts.

 "Well, at any rate we found something," said Bender. Ippolit Matveyevich took the box from his pocket and looked at it in a

daze.

 "Come on, come on! What are you goggling at?" The box was opened. On the bottom lay a copper plate, green with age,

which said:

 CRAFTSMAN HAMBS begins a new batch of furniture St. Petersburg 1865

 Ostap read the inscription aloud. "But where are the jewels?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich. "You're remarkably shrewd, my dear chair-hunter. As you see, there

aren't any."

 Vorobyaninov was pitiful to look at. His slightly sprouting moustache

twitched and the lenses of his pince-nez were misty. He looked as though hewas about to beat his face with his ears in desperation.

 The cold, sober voice of the smooth operator had its usual magic

effect. Vorobyaninov stretched his hands along the seams of his worntrousers and kept quiet.

 "Shut up, sadness. Shut up, puss*. Some day we'll have the laugh on the

stupid eighth chair in which we found the silly box. Cheer up! There arethree more chairs aboard; ninety-nine chances out of a hundred."

 During the night a volcanic pimple erupted on the aggrieved Ippolit

Matveyevich's cheek. All his sufferings, all his setbacks, and the wholeordeal of the jewel hunt seemed to be summed up in the pimple, which wastinged with mother-of-pearl, sunset cherry and blue.

 "Did you do that on purpose? " asked Ostap. Ippolit Matveyevich sighed convulsively and went to fetch the paints,

his tall figure slightly bent, like a fishing rod. The transparent wasbegun. The concessionaires worked on the upper deck.

 And the third day of the voyage commenced. It commenced with a brief clash between the brass band and the sound

effects over a place to rehearse.

 After breakfast, the toughs with the brass tubes and the slender

knights with the Esmarch douches both made their way to the stern at thesame time. Galkin managed to get to the bench first. A clarinet from thebrass band came second.

 "The seat's taken," said Galkin sullenly. "Who by?" asked the clarinet ominously. "Me, Galkin." "Who else?" "Palkin, Malkin, Chalkin and Zalkind." "Haven't you got a Yolkin as well? This is our seat." Reinforcements were brought up on both sides. The most powerful machine

in the band was the helicon, encircled three times by a brass serpent. TheFrench horn swayed to and fro, looking like a human ear, and the tromboneswere in a state of readiness for action. The sun was reflected a thousandtimes in their armour. Beside them the sound effects looked dark and small.Here and there a bottle glinted, the enema douches glimmered faintly, andthe saxophone, that outrageous take-off of a musical instrument, was pitifulto see.

 "The enema battalion," said the bullying clarinet, "lays claim to this

seat."

 "You," said Zalkind, trying to find the most cutting expression he

could, "you are the conservatives of music!"

 "Don't prevent us rehearsing." "It's you who're preventing us. The less you rehearse on those

chamber-pots of yours, the nicer it sounds."

 "Whether you rehearse on those samovars of yours or not makes no damn

difference."

 Unable to reach any agreement, both sides remained where they were and

obstinately began playing their own music. Down the river floated soundsthat could only have been made by a tram passing slowly over broken glass.The brass played the Kexholm Lifeguards' march, while the sound effectsrendered a Negro dance, "An Antelope at the Source of the Zambesi". Theshindy was ended by the personal intervention of the chairman of the lotterycommittee.

 At eleven o'clock the magnum opus was completed. Walking backwards,

Ostap and Vorobyaninov dragged their transparent up to the bridge. The fatlittle man in charge ran in front with his hands in the air. By joint effortthe transparent was tied to the rail. It towered above the passenger decklike a cinema screen. In half an hour the electrician had laid cables to theback of the transparent and fitted up three lights inside it. All thatremained was to turn the switch.

 Off the starboard bow the lights of Vasyuki could already be made out

through the darkness.

 The chief summoned everyone to the ceremonial illumination of the

transparent. Ippolit Matveyevich and the smooth operator watched theproceedings from above, standing beside the dark screen.

 Every event on board was taken seriously by the floating government

department. Typists, messengers, executives, the Columbus Theatre, andmembers of the ship's company crowded on to the passenger deck, staringupward.

 "Switch it on!" ordered the fat man. The transparent lit up. Ostap looked down at the crowd. Their faces were bathed in pink light.

The onlookers began laughing; then there was silence and a stern voice frombelow said:

 "Where's the second-in-command?" The voice was so peremptory that the second-in-command rushed down

without counting the steps.

 "Just have a look," said the voice, "and admire your work!" "We're about to be booted off," whispered Ostap to Ippolit Matveyevich. And, indeed, the little fat man came flying up to the top deck like a

hawk.

 "Well, how's the transparent?" asked Ostap cheekily. "Is it long

enough?"

 "Collect your things!" shouted the fat man. "What's the hurry?" "Collect your things! You're going to court! Our boss doesn't like to

joke."

 "Throw him out!" came the peremptory voice from below. "But, seriously, don't you like our transparent? Isn't it really any

good?"

 There was no point in continuing the game. The Scriabin had already

heaved to, and the faces of the bewildered Vasyuki citizens crowding thepier could be seen from the ship. Payment was categorically refused. Theywere given five minutes to collect their things.

 "Incompetent fool," said Simbievich-Sindievich as the partners walked

down on to the pier. "They should have given the transparent to me to do. Iwould have done it so that no Meyer-hold would have had a look-in!"

 On the quayside the concessionaires stopped and looked up. The

transparent shone bright against the dark sky.

 "Hm, yes," said Ostap, "the transparent is rather outlandish. A lousy

job!"

 Compared with Ostap's work, any picture drawn with the tail of an

unruly donkey would have been a masterpiece. Instead of a sower sowingbonds, Ostap's mischievous hand had drawn a stumpy body with a sugar-loafhead and thin whiplike arms.

 Behind the concessionaires the ship blazed with light and resounded

with music, while in front of them, on the high bank, was the darkness ofprovincial midnight, the barking of a dog, and a distant accordion.

 "I will sum up the situation," said Ostap light-heartedly. "Debit: not

a cent of money; three chairs sailing down the river; nowhere to go; and noSPCC badge. Credit: a 1926 edition of a guidebook to the Volga (I was forcedto borrow it from Monsieur Simbievich's cabin). To balance that without adeficit would be very difficult. We'll have to spend the night on the quay."

 The concessionaires arranged themselves on the riverside benches. By

the light of a battered kerosene lamp Ostap read the guide-book:

 On the right-hand bank is the town of Vasyuki. The commodities

despatched from here are timber, resin, bark and bast; consumer goods aredelivered here for the region, which is fifty miles from the nearestrailway.

 The town has a population of 8,000; it has a state-owned cardboard

factory employing 520 workers, a small foundry, a brewery and a tannery.Besides normal academic establishments, there is also a forestry school.

 "The situation is more serious than I thought," observed Ostap. "It

seems out of the question that we'll be able to squeeze any money out of thecitizens of Vasyuki. We nevertheless need thirty roubles. First, we have toeat, and, second, we have to catch up the lottery ship and meet the ColumbusTheatre in Stalingrad."

 Ippolit Matveyevich curled up like an old emaciated tomcat after a

skirmish with a younger rival, an ebullient conqueror of roofs, penthousesand dormer windows.

 Ostap walked up and down the benches, thinking and scheming. By one

o'clock a magnificent plan was ready. Bender lay down by the side of hispartner and went to sleep.

 A tall, thin, elderly man in a gold pince-nez and very dirty

paint-splashed boots had been walking about the town of Vasyuki since earlymorning, attaching hand-written notices to walls. The notices read:

 On June 22,1927, a lecture entitled

 will be given at the Cardboardworker Club by Grossmeister (Grand Chess Master) O. Bender after which he will play

 on 160 boards

 Admission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 kopeks Participation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 kopeks Commencement at 6 p.m. sharp Bring your own chessboards MANAGER: K. Michelson

 The Grossmeister had not been wasting his time, either. Having rented

the club for three roubles, he hurried across to the chess section, whichfor some reason or other was located in the corridor of the horse-breedingadministration.

 In the chess section sat a one-eyed man reading a Panteleyev edition of

one of Spielhagen's novels.

 "Grossmeister O. Bender!" announced Bender, sitting down on the table.

"I'm organizing a simultaneous chess match here."

 The Vasyuki chess player's one eye opened as wide as its natural limits

would allow.

 "One second, Comrade Grossmeister," he cried. "Take a seat, won't you?

I'll be back in a moment."

 And the one-eyed man disappeared. Ostap looked around the chess-section

room. The walls were hung with photographs of racehorses; on the table lay adusty register marked "Achievements of the Vasyuki Chess Section for 1925".

 The one-eyed man returned with a dozen citizens of varying ages. They

all introduced themselves in turn and respectfully shook hands with theGrossmeister.

 "I'm on my way to Kazan," said Ostap abruptly. "Yes, yes, the match is

this evening. Do come along. I'm sorry, I'm not in form at the moment. TheCarlsbad tournament was tiring."

 The Vasyuki chess players listened to him with filial love in their

eyes. Ostap was inspired, and felt a flood of new strength and chess ideas.

 "You wouldn't believe how far chess thinking has advanced," he said.

"Lasker, you know, has gone as far as trickery. It's impossible to play himany more. He blows cigar smoke over his opponents and smokes cheap cigars sothat the smoke will be fouler. The chess world is greatly concerned."

 The Grossmeister then turned to more local affairs. "Why aren't there any new ideas about in the province? Take, for

instance, your chess section. That's what it's called-the chess section.That's boring, girls! Why don't you call it something else, in true chessstyle? It would attract the trade-union masses into the section. Forexample, you could call it The Four Knights Chess Club', or The RedEnd-game', or 'A Decline in the Standard of Play with a Gain in Pace'. Thatwould be good. It has the right kind of sound."

 The idea was successful. "Indeed," exclaimed the citizens, "why shouldn't we rename our section

The Four Knights Chess Club'?"

 Since the chess committee was there on the spot, Ostap organized a

one-minute meeting under his honorary chairmanship, and the chess sectionwas unanimously renamed The Four Knights Chess Club'. Benefiting from hislessons aboard the Scriabin, the Grossmeister artistically drew four knightsand the appropriate caption on a sheet of cardboard.

 This important step promised the flowering of chess thought in Vasyuki. "Chess!" said Ostap. "Do you realize what chess is? It promotes the

advance of culture and also the economy. Do you realize that The FourKnights Chess Club', given the right organization, could completelytransform the town of Vasyuki?"

 Ostap had not eaten since the day before, which accounted for his

unusual eloquence.

 "Yes," he cried, "chess enriches a country! If you agree to my plan,

you'll soon be descending marble steps to the quay! Vasyuki will become thecentre of ten provinces! What did you ever hear of the town of Semmeringbefore? Nothing! But now that miserable little town is rich and famous justbecause an international tournament was held there. That's why I say youshould organize an international chess tournament in Vasyuki."

 "How?" they all cried. "It's a perfectly practical plan," replied the Grossmeister. "My

connections and your activity are all that are required for an internationaltournament in Vasyuki. Just think how fine that would sound-The 1927International Tournament to be held in Vasyuki!' Such players as Jose-RaoulCapablanca, Lasker, Alekhine, Reti, Rubinstein, Tarrasch, Widmar and Dr.Grigoryev are bound to come. What's more, I'll take part myself!"

 "But what about the money?" groaned the citizens. "They would all have

to be paid. Many thousands of roubles! Where would we get it?"

 "A powerful hurricane takes everything into account," said Ostap. "The

money will come from collections."

 "And who do you think is going to pay that kind of money? The people of

Vasyuki?"

 "What do you mean, the people of Vasyuki? The people of Vasyuki are not

going to pay money, they're going to receive it. It's all extremely simple.After all, chess enthusiasts will come from all over the world to attend atournament with such great champions. Hundreds of thousands ofpeople-well-to-do people-will head for Vasyuki. Naturally, the rivertransport will not be able to cope with such a large number of passengers.So the Ministry of Railways will have to build a main line from Moscow toVasyuki. That's one thing. Another is hotels and skyscrapers to accommodatethe visitors. The third thing is improvement of the agriculture over aradius of five hundred miles; the visitors have to be provided with fruit,vegetables, caviar and chocolate. The building for the actual tournament isthe next thing. Then there's construction of garages to house motortransport for the visitors. An extra-high power radio station will have tobe built to broadcast the sensational results of the tournament to the restof the world. Now about the Vasyuki railway. It most likely won't be able tocarry all the passengers wanting to come to Vasyuki, so we will have to havea 'Greater Vasyuki' airport with regular nights by mail planes and airshipsto all parts of the globe, including Los Angeles and Melbourne."

 Dazzling vistas unfolded before the Vasyuki chess enthusiasts. The

walls of the room melted away. The rotting walls of the stud-farm collapsedand in their place a thirty-storey building towered into the sky. Everyhall, every room, and even the lightning-fast lifts were full of peoplethoughtfully playing chess on malachite encrusted boards.

 Marble steps led down to the blue Volga. Ocean-going steamers were

moored on the river. Cablecars communicating with the town centre carried upheavy-faced foreigners, chess-playing ladies, Australian advocates of theIndian defence, Hindus in turbans, devotees of the Spanish gambit, Germans,Frenchmen, New Zealanders, inhabitants of the Amazon basin, and finallyMuscovites, citizens of Leningrad and Kiev, Siberians and natives of Odessa,all envious of the citizens of Vasyuki.

 Lines of cars moved in between the marble hotels. Then suddenly

everything stopped. From out of the fashionable Pass Pawn Hotel came theworld champion Capablanca. He was surrounded by women. A militiaman dressedin special chess uniform (check breeches and bishops in his lapels) salutedsmartly. The one-eyed president of the "Four Knights Club" of Vasyukiapproached the champion in a dignified manner.

 The conversation between the two luminaries, conducted in English, was

interrupted by the arrival by air of Dr. Grigoryev and the future worldchampion, Alekhine.

 Cries of welcome shook the town. Capablanca glowered. At a wave of

one-eye's hand, a set of marble steps was run up to the plane. Dr. Grigoryevcame down, waving his hat and commenting, as he went, on a possible mistakeby Capablanca in his forthcoming match with Alekhine.

 Suddenly a black dot was noticed on the horizon. It approached rapidly,

growing larger and larger until it finally turned into a large emeraldparachute. A man with an attache case was hanging from the harness, like ahuge radish.

 "Here he is!" shouted one-eye. "Hooray, hooray, I recognize the great

philosopher and chess player Dr. Lasker. He is the only person in the worldwho wears those green socks." Capablanca glowered again.

 The marble steps were quickly brought up for Lasker to alight on, and

the cheerful ex-champion, blowing from his sleeve a speck of dust which hadsettled on him over Silesia f ell into the arms of one-eye. The latter puthis arm around Lasker's waist and walked him over to the champion, saying:

 "Make up your quarrel! On behalf of the popular masses of Vasyuki, I

urge you to make up your quarrel."

 Capablanca sighed loudly and, shaking hands with the veteran, said: "I

always admired your idea of moving QK5 to QB3 in the Spanish gambit."

 "Hooray!" exclaimed one-eye. "Simple and convincing in the style of a

champion."

 And the incredible crowd joined in with: "Hooray! Vivat! Banzai! Simple

and convincing in the style of a champion!"

 Express trains sped into the twelve Vasyuki stations, depositing ever

greater crowds of chess enthusiasts.

 Hardly had the sky begun to glow from the brightly lit advertisem*nts,

when a white horse was led through the streets of the town. It was the onlyhorse left after the mechanization of the town's transportation. By specialdecree it had been renamed a stallion, although it had actually been a marethe whole of its life. The lovers of chess acclaimed it with palm leaves andchessboards.

 "Don't worry," continued Ostap, "my scheme will guarantee the town an

unprecedented boom in your production forces. Just think what will happenwhen the tournament is over and the visitors have left. The citizens ofMoscow, crowded together on account of the housing shortage, will comeflocking to your beautiful town. The capital will be automaticallytransferred to Vasyuki. The government will move here. Vasyuki will berenamed New Moscow, and Moscow will become Old Vasyuki. The people ofLeningrad and Kharkov will gnash their teeth in fury but won't be able to doa thing about it. New Moscow will soon become the most elegant city inEurope and, soon afterwards, in the whole world."

 "The whole world!! I" gasped the citizens of Vasyuki in a daze. "Yes, and, later on, in the universe. Chess thinking-which has turned a

regional centre into the capital of the world-will become an applied scienceand will invent ways of interplanetary communication. Signals will be sentfrom Vasyuki to Mars, Jupiter and Neptune. Communications with Venus will beas easy as going from Rybinsk to Yaroslavl. And then who knows what mayhappen? In maybe eight or so years the first interplanetary chess tournamentin the history of the world will be held in Vasyuki."

 Ostap wiped his noble brow. He was so hungry he could have eaten a

roasted knight from the chessboard.

 "Ye-es," said the one-eyed man with a sigh, looking around the dusty

room with an insane light in his eye, "but how are we to put the plan intoeffect, to lay the basis, so to say?"

 They all looked at the Grossmelster tensely. "As I say, in practice the plan depends entirely on your activity. I

will do all the organizing myself. There will be no actual expense, exceptfor the cost of the telegrams."

 One-eyed nudged his companions. "Well?" he asked, "what do you say?" "Let's do it, let's do it!" cried the citizens. "How much money is needed for the . . . er . . . telegrams?" "A mere bagatelle. A hundred roubles." "We only have twenty-one roubles in the cash box. We realize, of

course, that it is by no means enough . . ."

 But the Grossmeister proved to be accommodating. "All right," he said,

"give me the twenty roubles."

 "Will it be enough?" asked one-eye. "It'll be enough for the initial telegrams. Later on we can start

collecting contributions. Then there'll be so much money we shan't know whatto do with it."

 Putting the money away in his green field jacket, the Grossmeister

reminded the gathered citizens of his lecture and simultaneous match on onehundred and sixty boards, and, taking leave of them until evening, made hisway to the Cardboard-worker Club to find Ippolit Matveyevich.

 "I'm starving," said Vorobyaninov in a tremulous voice. He was already sitting at the window of the box office, but had not

collected one kopek; he could not even buy a hunk of bread. In front of himlay a green wire basket intended for the money. It was the kind that is usedin middle-class houses to hold the cutlery.

 "Listen, Vorobyaninov," said Ostap, "stop your cash transactions for an

hour and come and eat at the caterers' union canteen. I'll describe thesituation as we go. By the way, you need a shave and brush-up. You look likea tramp. A Grossmeister cannot have such suspicious-looking associates."

 "I haven't sold a single ticket," Ippolit Matveyevich informed him. "Don't worry. People will come flocking in towards evening. The town

has already contributed twenty roubles for the organization of aninternational chess tournament."

 "Then why bother about the simultaneous match?" whispered his manager.

"You may lose the games anyway. With twenty roubles we can now buy ticketsfor the ship-the Karl Liebknecht has just come in-travel quietly toStalingrad and wait for the theatre to arrive. We can probably open thechairs there. Then we'll be rich and the world will belong to us."

 "You shouldn't say such silly things on an empty stomach. It has a bad

effect on the brain. We might reach Stalingrad on twenty roubles, but whatare we going to eat with? Vitamins, my dear comrade marshal, are not givenaway free. On the other hand, we can get thirty roubles out of the localsfor the lecture and match."

 "They'll slaughter us!" said Vorobyaninov. "It's a risk, certainly. We may be manhandled a bit. But anyway, I have

a nice little plan which will save you, at least. But we can talk about thatlater on. Meanwhile, let's go and try the local dishes."

 Towards six o'clock the Grossmeister, replete, freshly shaven, and

smelling of eau-de-Cologne, went into the box office of the CardboardworkerClub.

 Vorobyaninov, also freshly shaven, was busily selling tickets. "How's it going? " asked the Grossmeister quietly. "Thirty have gone in and twenty have paid to play," answered his

manager.

 "Sixteen roubles. That's bad, that's bad!" - "What do you mean, Bender? Just look at the number of people standing

in line. They're bound to beat us up."

 "Don't think about it. When they hit you, you can cry. In the meantime,

don't dally. Learn to do business."

 An hour later there were thirty-five roubles in the cash box. The

people in the clubroom were getting restless.

 "Close the window and give me the money!" said Bender. "Now listen!

Here's five roubles. Go down to the quay, hire a boat for a couple of hours,and wait for me by the riverside just below the warehouse. We're going foran evening boat trip. Don't worry about me. I'm in good form today."

 The Grossmeister entered the clubroom. He felt in good spirits and knew

for certain that the first move-pawn to king four-would not cause him anycomplications. The remaining moves were, admittedly, rather more obscure,but that did not disturb the smooth operator in the least. He had worked outa surprise plan to extract him from the most hopeless game.

 The Grossmeister was greeted with applause. The small club-room was

decorated with coloured flags left over from an evening held a week beforeby the lifeguard rescue service. This was clear, furthermore, from theslogan on the wall:

 IN THE HANDS OF THOSE PERSONS THEMSELVES

 Ostap bowed, stretched out his hands as though restraining the public

from undeserved applause, and went up on to the dais.

 "Comrades and brother chess players," he said in a fine speaking voice:

"the subject of my lecture today is one on which I spoke, not withoutcertain success, I may add, in Nizhni-Novgorod a week ago. The subject of mylecture is 'A Fruitful Opening Idea'.

 "What, Comrades, is an opening? And what, Comrades, is an idea? An

opening, Comrades, is quasi una fantasia. And what, Comrades, is an idea? Anidea, Comrades, is a human thought moulded in logical chess form. Even withinsignificant forces you can master the whole of the chessboard. It alldepends on each separate individual. Take, for example, the fair-hairedyoung man sitting in the third row. Let's assume he plays well. . . ." Thefair-haired young man turned red.

 "And let's suppose that the brown-haired fellow over there doesn't play

very well."

 Everyone turned around and looked at the brown-haired fellow. "What do we see, Comrades? We see that the fair-haired fellow plays

well and that the other one plays badly. And no amount of lecturing canchange this correlation of forces unless each separate individual keepspractising his dra-I mean chess. And now, Comrades, I would like to tell yousome instructive stories about our esteemed ultramodernists, Capablanca,Lasker and Dr Grigoryev."

 Ostap told the audience a few antiquated anecdotes, gleaned in

childhood from the Blue Magazine, and this completed the first half of theevening.

 The brevity of the lecture caused certain surprise. The one-eyed man

was keeping his single peeper firmly fixed on the Grossmeister.

 The beginning of the simultaneous chess match, however, allayed the

one-eyed chess player's growing suspicions. Together with the rest, he setup the tables along three sides of the room. Thirty enthusiasts in all tooktheir places to play the Grossmeister. Many of them were in completeconfusion and kept glancing at books on chess to refresh their knowledge ofcomplicated variations, with the help of which they hoped not to have toresign before the twenty-second move, at least.

 Ostap ran his eyes along the line of black chessmen surrounding him on

three sides, looked at the door, and then began the game. He went up to theone-eyed man, who was sitting at the first board, and moved the king's pawnforward two squares.

 One-eye immediately seized hold of his ears and began thinking hard. A whisper passed along the line of players. "The Grossmeister has

played pawn to king four."

 Ostap did not pamper his opponents with a variety of openings. On the

remaining twenty-nine boards he made the same move-pawn to king four. Oneafter another the enthusiasts seized their heads and launched into feverishdiscussions. Those who were not playing followed the Grossmeister with theireyes. The only amateur photographer in the town was about to clamber on to achair and light his magnesium flare when Ostap waved his arms angrily and,breaking off his drift along the boards, shouted loudly:

 "Remove the photographer! He is disturbing my chess thought!" What would be the point of leaving a photograph of myself in this

miserable town, thought Ostap to himself. I don't much like having dealingswith the militia.

 Indignant hissing from the enthusiasts forced the photographer to

abandon his attempt. In fact, their annoyance was so great that he wasactually put outside the, door.

 At the third move it became clear that in eighteen games the

Grossmeister was playing a Spanish gambit. In the other twelve the blacksplayed the old-fashioned, though fairly reliable, Philidor defence. If Ostaphad known he was using such cunning gambits and countering such testeddefences, he would have been most surprised. The truth of the matter wasthat he was playing chess for the second time in his life.

 At first the enthusiasts, and first and foremost one-eye, were

terrified at the Grossmeister's obvious craftiness.

 With singular ease, and no doubt scoffing to himself at the

backwardness of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, the Grossmeister sacrificed pawnsand other pieces left and right. He even sacrificed his queen to thebrown-haired fellow whose skill had been so belittled during the lecture.The man was horrified and about to resign; it was only by a terrific effortof will that he was able to continue.

 The storm broke about five minutes later. "Mate!" babbled the

brown-haired fellow, terrified out of his wits. "You're checkmate, ComradeGrossmeister!'

 Ostap analysed the situation, shamefully called a rook a "castle" and

pompously congratulated the fellow on his win. A hum broke out among theenthusiasts.

 Time to push off, thought Ostap, serenely wandering up and down the

rows of tables and casually moving pieces about.

 "You've moved the knight wrong, Comrade Grossmeister," said one-eye,

cringing. "A knight doesn't go like that."

 "So sorry," said the Grossmeister, "I'm rather tired after the

lecture."

 During the next ten minutes the Grossmeister lost a further ten games. Cries of surprise echoed through the Cardboardworker club-room.

Conflict was near. Ostap lost fifteen games in succession, and then anotherthree.

 Only one-eye was left. At the beginning of the game he had made a large

number of mistakes from nervousness and was only now bringing the game to avictorious conclusion. Unnoticed by those around, Ostap removed the blackrook from the board and hid it in his pocket.

 A crowd of people pressed tightly around the players. "I had a rook on this square a moment ago," cried one-eye, looking

round, "and now it's gone!"

 "If it's not there now, it wasn't there at all," said Ostap, rather

rudely.

 "Of course it was. I remember it distinctly!" "Of course it wasn't!" "Where's it gone, then? Did you take it?" "Yes, I took it." "At which move?" "Don't try to confuse me with your rook. If you want to resign, say

so!"

 "Wait a moment, Comrades, I have all the moves written down." "Written down my foot!" "This is disgraceful!" yelled one-eye. "Give me back the rook!" "Come on, resign, and stop this fooling about." "Give me back my rook!" At this point the Grossmeister, realizing that procrastination was the

thief of time, seized a handful of chessmen and threw them in his one-eyedopponent's face.

 "Comrades!" shrieked one-eye. "Look, everyone, he's hitting an

amateur!"

 The chess players of Vasyuki were aghast. Without wasting valuable time, Ostap hurled a chessboard at the lamp

and, hitting out at jaws and faces in the ensuing darkness, ran out into thestreet. The Vasyuki chess enthusiasts, falling over each other, tore afterhim.

 It was a moonlit evening. Ostap bounded along the silvery street as

lightly as an angel repelled from the sinful earth. On account of theinterrupted transformation of Vasyuki into the centre of the world, it wasnot between palaces that Ostap had to run, but wooden houses with outsideshutters.

 The chess enthusiasts raced along behind. "Catch the Grossmeister!" howled one-eye. "Twister!" added the others. "Jerks!" snapped back the Grossmeister, increasing his speed. "Stop him!" cried the outraged chess players. Ostap began running down the steps leading down to the quay. He had

four hundred steps to go. Two enthusiasts, who had taken a short cut downthe hillside, were waiting for him at the bottom of the sixth flight. Ostaplooked over his shoulder. The advocates of Philidor's defence were pouringdown the steps like a pack of wolves. There was no way back, so he kept ongoing.

 "Just wait till I get you, you bastards!" he shouted at the two-man

advance party, hurtling down from the sixth flight.

 The frightened troopers gasped, fell over the balustrade, and rolled

down into the darkness of mounds and slopes. The path was clear.

 "Stop the Grossmeister!" echoed shouts from above. The pursuers clattered down the wooden steps with a noise like falling

skittle balls.

 Reaching the river bank, Ostap made to the right, searching with his

eyes for the boat containing his faithful manager.

 Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting serenely in the boat. Ostap dropped

heavily into a seat and began rowing for all he was worth. A minute later ashower of stones flew in the direction of the boat, one of them hittingIppolit Matveyevich. A yellow bruise appeared on the side of his face justabove the volcanic pimple. Ippolit Matveyevich hunched his shoulders andbegan whimpering.

 "You are a softie! They practically lynched me, but I'm still happy and

cheerful. And if you take the fifty roubles net profit into account, onebump on the head isn't such an unreasonable price to pay."

 In the meantime, the pursuers, who had only just realized that their

plans to turn Vasyuki into New Moscow had collapsed and that theGrossmeister was absconding with fifty vital Vasyukian roubles, piled into abarge and, with loud shouts, rowed out into midstream. Thirty people werecrammed into the boat, all of whom were anxious to take a personal part insettling the score with the Grossmeister. The expedition was commanded byone-eye, whose single peeper shone in the night like a lighthouse.

 "Stop the Grossmeister!" came shouts from the overloaded barge. "We must step on it, puss*!" said Ostap. "If they catch up with us, I

won't be responsible for the state of your pince-nez."

 Both boats were moving downstream. The gap between them was narrowing.

Ostap was going all out.

 "You won't escape, you rats!" people were shouting from the barge. Ostap had no time to answer. His oars flashed in and out of the water,

churning it up so that it came down in floods in the boat.

 Keep going! whispered Ostap to himself. Ippolit Matveyevich had given up hope. The larger boat was gaining on

them and its long hull was already flanking them to port in an attempt toforce the Grossmeister over to the bank. A sorry fate awaited theconcessionaires. The jubilance of the chess players in the barge was sogreat that they all moved across to the sides to be in a better position toattack the villainous Grossmeister in superior forces as soon as they drewalongside the smaller boat.

 "Watch out for your pince-nez, puss*," shouted Ostap in despair,

throwing aside the oars. "The fun is about to begin."

 "Gentlemen!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in a croaking voice, "you

wouldn't hit us, would you? "

 "You'll see!" roared the enthusiasts, getting ready to leap into the

boat.

 But at that moment something happened which will outrage all honest

chess players throughout the world. The barge listed heavily and took inwater on the starboard side.

 "Careful!" squealed the one-eyed captain. But it was too late. There were too many enthusiasts on one side of the

Vasyuki dreadnought. As the centre of gravity shifted, the boat stoppedrocking, and, in full conformity with the laws of physics, capsized.

 A concerted wailing disturbed the tranquillity of the river. "Ooooooh!" groaned the chess players. All thirty enthusiasts disappeared under the water. They quickly came

up one by one and seized hold of the upturned boat. The last to surface wasone-eye.

 "You jerks!" cried Ostap in delight. "Why don't you come and get your

Grossmeister? If I'm not mistaken, you intended to trounce me, didn't you? "

 Ostap made a circle around the shipwrecked mariners. "You realize, individuals of Vasyuki, that I could drown you all one by

one, don't you? But I'm going to spare your lives.

 Live on, citizens! Only don't play chess any more, for God's sake.

You're just no good at it, you jerks! Come on, Ippolit Matveyevich, let'sgo. Good-bye, you one-eyed amateurs! I'm afraid Vasyuki will never become aworld centre. I doubt whether the masters of chess would ever visit foolslike you, even if I asked them to. Good-bye, lovers of chess thrills! Longlive the 'Four Knights Chess Club'!"

 Morning found the concessionaires in sight of Chebokary. Ostap was

dozing at the rudder while Ippolit Matveyevich sleepily moved the oarsthrough the water. Both were shivering from the chilliness of the night.Pink buds blossomed in the east. Ippolit Matveyevich's pince-nez was all ofa glitter. The oval lenses caught the light and alternately reflected onebank and then the other. A signal beacon from the left bank arched in thebiconcave glass. The blue domes of Chebokary sailed past like ships. Thegarden in the east grew larger, and the buds changed into volcanoes, pouringout lava of the best sweetshop colours. Birds on the bank were causing anoisy scene. The gold nosepiece of the pince-nez flashed and dazzled theGrossmeister. The sun rose. Ostap opened his eyes and stretched himself,tilting the boat and cracking his joints.

 "Good morning, puss*," he said, suppressing a yawn. "I come to bring

greetings and to tell you the sun is up and is making something over thereglitter with a bright, burning light. . ." "The pier. . . ." reportedIppolit Matveyevich. Ostap took out the guide-book and consulted it. "Fromall accounts it's Chebokary. I see: 'Let us note the pleasantly situatedtown of Chebokary.' "Do you really think it's pleasantly situated, puss*?'At the present time Chebokary has 7,702 inhabitants' "puss*! Let's give upour hunt for the jewels and increase the population to 7,704. What about it?It would be very effective. We'll open a 'Petit* Chevaux' gaming-house andfrom the 'Petit* Chevaux' we'll have une grande income. Anyway, to continue:

 'Founded in 1555, the town has preserved some very interesting

churches. Besides the administrative institutions of the Chuvash Republic,Chebokary also has a workers' school, a Party school, a teachers' institute,two middle-grade schools, a museum, a scientific society, and a library. Onthe quayside and in the bazaar it is possible to see Chuvash and Cheremisnationals, distinguishable by their dress. . . .'"

 But before the friends were able to reach the quay, where the Chuvash

and Cheremis nationals were to be seen, their attention was caught by anobject floating downstream ahead of the boat.

 "The chair!" cried Ostap. "Manager! It's our chair!" The partners rowed over to the chair. It bobbed up and down, turned

over, went under, and came up farther away from the boat. Water pouredfreely into its slashed belly.

 It was the chair opened aboard the Scriabin, and it was now floating

slowly towards the Caspian Sea.

 "Hi there, friend!" called Ostap. "Long time no see. You know,

Vorobyaninov, that chair reminds me of our life. We're also floating withthe tide. People push us under and we come up again, although they aren'ttoo pleased about it. No one likes us, except for the criminal investigationdepartment, which doesn't like us, either. Nobody has any time for us. Ifthe chess enthusiasts had managed to drown us yesterday, the only thing leftof us would have been the coroner's report. 'Both bodies lay with their feetto the south-east and their heads to the north-west. There were jaggedwounds in the bodies, apparently inflicted by a blunt instrument.' Theenthusiasts would have beaten us with chessboards, I imagine. That'scertainly a blunt instrument. The first body belonged to a man of aboutfifty-five, dressed in a torn silk jacket, old trousers, and old boots. Inthe jacket pocket was an identification card bearing the name KonradKarlovich Michelson . ..' That's what they would have written about you,puss*."

 "And what would they have written about you?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich

irritably.

 "Ah! They would have written something quite different about me. It

would have gone like this: 'The second corpse belonged to a man of abouttwenty-seven years of age. He loved and suffered. He loved money andsuffered from a lack of it. His head with its high forehead fringed withraven-black curls was turned towards the sun. His elegant feet, sizeforty-two boots, were pointing towards the northern lights. The body wasdressed in immaculate white clothes, and on the breast was a gold harpencrusted with mother-of-pearl, bearing the words of the song "Farewell, NewVillage!" The deceased youth engaged in poker-work, which was clear from thepermit No. 86/1562, issued on 8/23/24 by the Pegasus-and-Parnasuscraftsmen's artel, found in the pocket of his tails.' And they would haveburied me, puss*, with pomp and circ*mstance, speeches, a band, and mygrave-stone would have had the inscription 'Here lies the unknowncentral-heating engineer and conqueror, Ostap-Suleiman-Bertha-Maria BenderBey, whose father, a Turkish citizen, died without leaving his son,Ostap-Suleiman, a cent. The deceased's mother was a countess of independentmeans."

 Conversing along these lines, the concessionaires nosed their way to

the bank.

 That evening, having increased their capital by five roubles from the

sale of the Vasyuki boat, the friends went aboard the diesel ship Uritskyand sailed for Stalingrad, hoping to overtake the slow-moving lottery shipand meet the Columbus Theatre troupe in Stalingrad.

 The Scriabin reached Stalingrad at the beginning of July. The friends

met it, hiding behind crates on the quayside. Before the ship was unloaded,a lottery was held aboard and some big prizes were won.

 They had to wait four hours for the chairs. First to come ashore was

the theatre group and then the lottery employees. Persidsky's shining facestood out among them. As they lay in wait, the concessionaires could hearhim shouting:

 "Yes, I'll come to Moscow immediately. I've already sent a telegram.

And do you know which one? 'Celebrating with you.' Let them guess who it'sfrom."

 Then Persidsky got into a hired car, having first inspected it

thoroughly, and drove off, accompanied for some reason by shouts of"Hooray!"

 As soon as the hydraulic press had been unloaded, the scenic effects

were brought ashore. Darkness had already fallen by the time they unloadedthe chairs. The troupe piled into five two-horse carts and, gaily shouting,went straight to the station.

 "I don't think they're going to play in Stalingrad," said Ippolit

Matveyevich.

 Ostap was in a quandary. "We'll have to travel with them," he decided. "But where's the money?

Let's go to the station, anyway, and see what happens."

 At the station it turned out that the theatre was going to Pyatigorsk

via Tikhoretsk. The concessionaires only had enough money for one ticket.

 "Do you know how to travel without a ticket?" Ostap asked Vorobyaninov. "I'll try," said Vorobyaninov timidly. "Damn you! Better not try. I'll forgive you once more. Let it be. I'll

do the bilking."

 Ippolit Matveyevich was bought a ticket in an upholstered coach and

with it travelled to the station Mineral Waters on the North CaucasusRailway. Keeping out of sight of the troupe alighting at the station(decorated with oleander shrubs in green tubs), the former marshal went tolook for Ostap.

 Long after the theatre had left for Pyatigorsk in new little local-line

coaches, Ostap was still not to be seen. He finally arrived in the eveningand found Vorobyaninov completely distraught.

 "Where were you?" whimpered the marshal. "I was in such a state?" "You were in a state, and you had a ticket in your pocket! And I

wasn't, I suppose! Who was kicked off the buffers of the last coach of yourtrain? Who spent three hours waiting like an idiot for a goods train withempty mineral-water bottles? You're a swine, citizen marshal! Where's thetheatre? "

 "In Pyatigorsk." "Let's go. I managed to pick up something on the way. The net income is

three roubles. It isn't much, of course, but enough for the first purchaseof mineral water and railway tickets."

 Creaking like a cart, the train left for Pyatigorsk and, fifty minutes

later, passing Zmeika and Beshtau, brought the concessionaires to the footof Mashuk.

 It was Sunday evening. Everything was clean and washed. Even Mashuk,

overgrown with shrubbery and small clumps of trees, was carefully combed andexuded a smell of toilet water.

 White trousers of the most varied types flashed up and down the toy

platform: there were trousers made of twill, moleskin, calamanco, duck andsoft flannel. People were walking about in sandals and Apache shirts. Intheir heavy, dirty boots, heavy dusty trousers, heated waistcoats andscorching jackets, the concessionaires felt very out of place. Among thegreat variety of gaily coloured cottons in which the girls of the resortwere parading themselves, the brightest and most elegant was the uniform ofthe stationmaster.

 To the surprise of all newcomers, the stationmaster was a woman. Auburn

curls peeped from under her red peaked cap with its two lines of silverbraid around the band. She wore a white tunic and a white skirt.

 As soon as the travellers had had a good look at the station-master,

had read the freshly pasted notices advertising the tour of the ColumbusTheatre and drunk two five-kopek glasses of mineral water, they went intothe town on the Station-Flower Garden tram route. They were charged tenkopeks to go into the Flower Garden.

 In the Flower Garden there was a great deal of music, a large number of

happy people, and very few flowers. A symphony orchestra in a whiteshell-like construction was playing the "Dance of the Gnats"; narzan mineralwater was on sale in the Lermontov gallery, and was also obtainable fromkiosks and vendors walking around.

 No one had time for the two grimy jewel-hunters. "My, puss*," said Ostap, "we're out of place in all this festivity." The concessionaires spent their first night at the spa by a narzan

spring.

 It was only there, in Pyatigorsk, when the Columbus Theatre had

performed their version of The Marriage to an audience of astoundedtown-dwellers for the third time, that the partners realized the realdifficulties involved in their treasure hunt. To find their way into thetheatre as they had planned proved impossible. Galkin, Palkin, Malkin,Chalkin and Zalkind slept in the wings, since their modest earningsprevented them from living in a hotel.

 The days passed, and the friends were slowly reaching the end of their

tether, spending their nights 'at the site of Lermontov's duel andsubsisting by carrying the baggage of peasant tourists.

 On the sixth day Ostap managed to strike up an acquaintance with

Mechnikov, the fitter in charge of the hydraulic press. By this time,Mechnikov, who had no money and was forced to get rid of his daily hang-overby drinking mineral water, was in a terrible state and had been observed byOstap to sell some of the theatre props at the market. Final agreement wasreached during the morning libation by a spring. The fitter called Ostap"Palsie" and seemed about to consent.

 "That's possible," he said. "That's always possible, palsie. It's my

pleasure, palsie."

 Ostap realized at once that the fitter knew his stuff. The contracting parties looked one another in the eye, embraced,

slapped each other's backs and laughed politely.

 "Well," said Ostap, "ten for the whole deal." "Palsie!" exclaimed the astonished fitter, "don't make me mad. I'm a

man who's suffering from the narzan."

 "How much do you want then?" "Make it fifty. After all, it's government property. I'm a man who's

suffering."

 "All right, accept twenty. Agreed? I see from your eyes you agree." "Agreement is the result of complete non-objection on both sides." "There are no flies on this one," whispered Ostap to Vorobyaninov.

"Take a lesson."

 "When will you bring the chairs?" "You'll get the chairs when I get the money." "That's fine," said Ostap without thinking. "Money in advance," declared the fitter. "The money in the morning, the

chairs in the evening; or, the money in the evening, the chairs the nextmorning."

 "What about the chairs this morning, the money tomorrow evening," tried

Ostap.

 "Palsie, I'm a man who's suffering. Such terms are revolting." "But the point is, I won't receive my money by telegraph until

tomorrow," said Ostap.

 "Then we'll discuss the matter tomorrow," concluded the obstinate

fitter. "And in the meantime, palsie, have a nice time at the spring. I'moff. Simbievich has me by the throat. I've no strength left. Can you expecta man to thrive on mineral water?"

 And resplendent in the sunlight, Mechnikov went off. Ostap looked severely at Ippolit Matveyevich. "The time we have," he said, "is the money we don't have. puss*, we

must decide on a career. A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zerokopeks awaits us. We only need twenty roubles for the treasure to be ours.We must not be squeamish. It's sink or swim. I choose swim."

 Ostap walked around Ippolit Matveyevich thoughtfully. "OS with your jacket, marshal," he said suddenly, "and make it snappy." He took the jacket from the surprised Vorobyaninov, threw it on the

ground, and began stamping on it with his dusty boots.

 "What are you doing?" howled Vorobyaninov. "I've been wearing that

jacket for fifteen years, and it's as good as new."

 "Don't get excited, it soon won't be. Give me your hat. Now, sprinkle

your trousers with dust and pour some mineral water over them. Be quickabout it."

 In a few moments Ippolit Matveyevich was dirty to the point of

revulsion.

 "Now you're all set and have every chance of earning honest money." "What am I supposed to do?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich tearfully. "You

know French, I hope? "

 "Not very well. What I learned at school." "Hm . . . then we'll have to

operate with what you learned at school. Can you say in French, 'Gentleman,I haven't eaten for six days'?"

 "M'sieu," began Ippolit Matveyevich, stuttering, "m'sieu . . . er . . .

je ne mange .. , that's right, isn't it? Je ne mange pas . . . er How do yousay 'six'? Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six. It's: 'Je ne mange pas sixjours' "

 "What an accent, puss*! Anyway, what do you expect from a beggar. Of

course a beggar in European Russia wouldn't speak French as well asMilerand. Right, puss*, and how much German do you know?"

 "Why all this?" exclaimed Ippolit Matveyevich. "Because," said Ostap

weightily, "you're now going to the Flower Garden, you're going to stand inthe shade and beg for alms in French, German and Russian, emphasizing thefact that you are an ex-member of the Cadet faction of the Tsarist Duma. Thenet profit will go to Mechnikov. Understand?"

 Ippolit Matveyevich was transfigured. His chest swelled up like the

Palace bridge in Leningrad, his eyes flashed fire, and his nose seemed toOstap to be pouring forth smoke. His moustache slowly began to rise.

 "Dear me," said the smooth operator, not in the least alarmed. "Just

look at him! Not a man, but a dragon."

 "Never," suddenly said Ippolit Matveyevich, "never has Vorobyaninov

held out his hand."

 "Then you can stretch out your feet, you silly old ass!" shouted Ostap.

"So you've never held out your hand?"

 "No, I have not." "Spoken like a true gigolo. You've been living off me for the last

three months. For three months I've been providing you with food and drinkand educating you, and now you stand like a gigolo in the third position andsay . . . Come off it, Comrade! You've got two choices. Either you go rightaway to the Flower Garden and bring back ten roubles by nightfall, or elseI'm automatically removing you from the list of shareholders in theconcession. I'll give you five to decide yes or no. One. . ."

 "Yes," mumbled the marshal. "In that case, repeat the words." "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. Geben Sie mir bitte etwas Kopek fur

ein Stuck Brot. Give something to an ex-member of the Duma."

 "Once again. Make it more heart-rending." Ippolit Matveyevich repeated the words. "All right. You have a latent talent for begging. Off you go. The rendezvous is at midnight here by the spring. That's not for

romantic reasons, mind you, but simply because people give more in theevening."

 "What about you?" asked Vorobyaninov. "Where are you going?" "Don't worry about me. As usual, I shall be where things are most

difficult."

 The friends went their ways. Ostap hurried to a small stationery shop, bought a book of receipts

with his last ten-kopek bit, and sat on a stone block for an hour or so,numbering the receipts and scribbling something on each one.

 "System above all," he muttered to himself. "Every public kopek must be

accounted for."

 The smooth operator marched up the mountain road that led round Mashuk

to the site of Lermontov's duel with Martynov, passing sanatoriums and resthomes.

 Constantly overtaken by buses and two-horse carriages, he arrived at

the Drop.

 A narrow path cut in the cliff led to a conical drop. At the end of the

path was a parapet from which one could see a puddle of stinking malachiteat the bottom of the Drop. This Drop is considered one of the sights ofPyatigorsk and is visited by a large number of tourists in the course of aday.

 Ostap had seen at once that for a man without prejudice the Drop could

be a source of income.

 "What a remarkable thing," mused Ostap, "that the town has never

thought of charging ten kopeks to see the Drop. It seems to be the onlyplace where the people of Pyatigorsk allow the sightseers in free. I willremove that blemish on the town's escutcheon and rectify the regrettableomission."

 And Ostap acted as his reason, instinct, and the situation in hand

prompted.

 He stationed himself at the entrance to the Drop and, rustling the

receipt book, called out from time to time:

 "Buy your tickets here, citizens. Ten kopeks. Children and servicemen

free. Students, five kopeks. Non-union members, thirty kopeks!"

 It was a sure bet. The citizens of Pyatigorsk never went to the Drop,

and to fleece the Soviet tourists ten kopeks to see "Something" was no greatdifficulty. The non-union members, of whom there were many in Pyatigorsk,were a great help.

 They all trustingly passed over their ten kopeks, and one ruddy-cheeked

tourist, seeing Ostap, said triumphantly to his wife:

 "You see, Tanyusha, what did I tell you? And you said there was no

charge to see the Drop. That couldn't have been right, could it, Comrade?"

 "You're absolutely right. It would be quite impossible not to charge

for entry. Ten kopeks for union members and thirty for non-members."

 Towards evening, an excursion of militiamen from Kharkov arrived at the

Drop in two wagons. Ostap was alarmed and was about to pretend to be aninnocent sightseer, but the militiamen crowded round the smooth operator sotimidly that there was no retreat. So he shouted in a rather harsh voice:

 "Union members, ten kopeks; but since representatives of the militia

can be classed as students and children, they pay five kopeks."

 The militiamen paid up, having tactfully inquired for what purpose the

money was being collected.

 "For general repairs to the Drop," answered Ostap boldly. "So it won't

drop too much."

 While the smooth operator was briskly selling a view of the malachite

puddle, Ippolit Matveyevich, hunching his shoulders and wallowing in shame,stood under an acacia and, avoiding the eyes of the passers-by, mumbled histhree phrases. "M'sieu, je ne mange pas six jours. . . . Geben Sle Mir. . ."People not only gave little, they somehow gave unwillingly. However, byexploiting his purely Parisian pronunciation of the word mange and pullingat their heart-strings by his desperate position as an ex-member of theTsarist Duma, he was able to pick up three roubles in copper coins.

 The gravel crunched under the feet of the holidaymakers. The orchestra

played Strauss, Brahms and Grieg with long pauses in between. Brightlycoloured crowds drifted past the old marshal, chattering as they went, andcame back again. Lermontov's spirit hovered unseen above the citizens tryingmatsoni on the verandah of the buffet. There was an odour of eau-de-Cologneand sulphur gas.

 "Give to a former member of the Duma," mumbled the marshal. "Tell me, were you really a member of the State Duma?" asked a voice

right by Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. "And did you really attend meetings? Ah!Ah! First rate!"

 Ippolit Matveyevich raised his eyes and almost fainted. Hopping about

in front of him like a sparrow was Absalom Vladimirovich Iznurenkov. He hadchanged his brown Lodz suit for a white coat and grey trousers with aplayful spotted pattern. He was in unusual spirits and from time to timejumped as much as five or six inches off the ground. Iznurenkov did notrecognize Ippolit Matveyevich and continued to shower him with questions.

 "Tell me, did you actually see Rodzyanko? Was Purishkevich really bald?

Ah! Ah! What a subject! First rate!"

 Continuing to gyrate, Iznurenkov shoved three roubles into the confused

marshal's hand and ran off. But for some time afterwards his thick thighscould be glimpsed in various parts of the Flower Garden, and his voiceseemed to float down from the trees.

 "Ah! Ah! 'Don't sing to me, my beauty, of sad Georgia.' Ah! Ah! They

remind me of another life and a distant shore.' 'And in the morning shesmiled again.' First rate!"

 Ippolit Matveyevich remained standing, staring at the ground. A pity he

did so. He missed a lot.

 In the enchanting darkness of the Pyatigorsk night, Ellochka Shukin

strolled through the park, dragging after her the submissive and newlyreconciled Ernest Pavlovich. The trip to the spa was the finale of the hardbattle with Vanderbilt's daughter. The proud American girl had recently setsail on a pleasure cruise to the Sandwich Isles in her own yacht.

 "Hoho!" echoed through the darkness. "Great, Ernestula! Ter-r-rific!" In the lamp-lit buffet sat Alchen and his wife, Sashchen. Her cheeks

were still adorned with sideburns. Alchen was bashfully eating shishkebab,washing it down with Kahetinsky wine no. 2, while Sashchen, stroking hersideburns, waited for the sturgeon she had ordered.

 After the liquidation of the second pensioners' home (everything had

been sold, including the cook's cap and the slogan, "By carefullymasticating your food you help society"), Alchen had decided to have aholiday and enjoy himself. Fate itself had saved the full-bellied littlecrook. He had decided to see the Drop that day, but did not have time. Ostapwould certainly not have let him get away for less than thirty roubles.

 Ippolit Matveyevich wandered off to the spring as the musicians were

folding up their stands, the holidaymakers were dispersing, and the courtingcouples alone breathed heavily in the narrow lanes of the Flower Garden.

 "How much did you collect?" asked Ostap as soon as the marshal's

hunched figure appeared at the spring.

 "Seven roubles, twenty-nine kopeks. Three roubles in notes. The rest,

copper and silver."

 "For the first go-terrific! An executive's rate! You amaze me, puss*.

But what fool gave you three roubles, I'd like to know? You didn't give himchange, I hope?"

 "It was Iznurenkov." "What, really? Absalom! Why, that rolling stone. Where has he rolled

to! Did you talk to him? Oh, he didn't recognize you!"

 "He asked all sorts of questions about the Duma. And laughed." "There, you see, marshal, it's not really so bad being a beggar,

particularly with a moderate education and a feeble voice. And you werestubborn about it, tried to give yourself airs as though you were the LordPrivy Seal. Well, puss* my lad, I haven't been wasting my time, either.Fifteen roubles. Altogether that's enough."

 The next morning the fitter received his money and brought them two

chairs in the evening. He claimed it was not possible to get the third chairas the sound effects were playing cards on it.

 For greater security the friends climbed practically to the top of

Mashuk.

 Beneath, the lights of Pyatigorsk shone strong and steady. Below

Pyatigorsk more feeble lights marked Goryachevodsk village. On the horizonKislovodsk stood out from behind a mountain in two parallel dotted lines.

 Ostap glanced up at the starry sky and took the familiar pliers from

his pocket.

 Engineer Bruns was sitting on the stone verandah of his little wooden

house at the Green Cape, under a large palm, the starched leaves of whichcast narrow, pointed shadows on the back of his shaven neck, his whiteshirt, and the Hambs chair from Madame Popov's suite, on which the engineerwas restlessly awaiting his dinner.

 Bruns pouted his thick, juicy lips and called in the voice of a

petulant, chubby little boy:

 "Moo-oosie!" The house was silent. The tropical flora fawned on the engineer. Cacti stretched out their

spiky mittens towards him. Dracaena shrubs rustled their leaves. Bananatrees and sago palms chased the flies from his face, and the roses withwhich the verandah was woven fell at his feet.

 But all in vain. Bruns was hungry. He glowered petulantly at the

mother-of-pearl bay, and the distant cape at Batumi, and called out in asingsong voice:

 "Moosie, moosie!" The sound quickly died away in the moist sub-tropical air. There was no

answer. Bruns had visions of a large golden-brown goose with sizzling,greasy skin, and, unable to control himself, yelled out:

 "Moosie, where's the goosie?" "Andrew Mikhailovich," said a woman's voice from inside, "don't keep on

at me."

 The engineer, who was already pouting his lips into the accustomed

shape, promptly answered:

 "Moosie, you haven't any pity for your little hubby." "Get out, you glutton," came the reply from inside. The engineer did not give in, however. He was just about to continue

his appeals for the goose, which had been going on unsuccessfully for twohours, when a sudden rustling made him turn round.

 From the black-green clumps of bamboo there had emerged a man in torn

blue tunic-shirt-belted with a shabby twisted cord with tassels-and frayedstriped trousers. The stranger's kindly face was covered with raggedstubble. He was carrying his jacket in his hand.

 The man approached and asked in a pleasant voice: "Where can I find Engineer Bruns?" "I'm Engineer Bruns," said the goose-charmer in an unexpectedly deep

voice. "What can I do for you?"

 The man silently fell to his knees. It was Father Theodore. "Have you gone crazy? " cried the engineer. "Stand up, please." "I won't," said Father Theodore, following the engineer with his head

and gazing at him with bright eyes.

 "Stand up." "I won't." And carefully, so that it would not hurt, the priest began beating his

head against the gravel.

 "Moosie, come here!" shouted the frightened engineer. "Look what's

happening! Please get up. I implore you."

 "I won't," repeated Father Theodore. Moosie ran out on to the verandah; she was very good at interpreting

her husband's intonation.

 Seeing the lady, Father Theodore promptly crawled over to her and,

bowing to her feet, rattled off:

 "On you, Mother, on you, my dear, on you I lay my hopes." Engineer Bruns thereupon turned red in the face, seized the petitioner

under the arms and, straining hard, tried to lift him to his feet. FatherTheodore was crafty, however, and tucked up his legs. The disgusted Brunsdragged his extraordinary visitor into a corner and forcibly sat him in achair (a Hambs chair, not from Vorobyaninov's house, but one belonging toGeneral Popov's wife).

 "I dare not sit in the presence of high-ranking persons," mumbled

Father Theodore, throwing the baker's jacket, which smelt of kerosene,across his knees.

 And he made another attempt to go down on his knees. With a pitiful cry the engineer restrained him by the shoulders. "Moosie," he said, breathing heavily, "talk to this citizen. There's

been some misunderstanding."

 Moosie at once assumed a businesslike tone. "In my house," she said menacingly, "kindly don't go down on anyone's

knees."

 "Dear lady," said Father Theodore humbly, "Mother!" "I'm not your mother. What do you want? " The priest began burbling something incoherent, but apparently deeply

moving. It was only after lengthy questioning that they were able to gatherthat he was asking them to do him a special favour and sell him the suite oftwelve chairs, one of which he was sitting on at that moment.

 The engineer let go of Father Theodore with surprise, whereupon the

latter immediately plumped down on his knees again and began creeping afterthe engineer like a tortoise.

 "But why," cried the engineer, trying to dodge Father Theodore's long

arms, "why should I sell my chairs? It's no use how much you go down on yourknees like that, I just don't understand anything."

 "But they're my chairs," groaned the holy father. "What do you mean, they're yours? How can they be yours? You're crazy.

Moosie, I see it all. This man's a crackpot."

 "They're mine," repeated the priest in humiliation. "Do you think I stole them from you, then?" asked the engineer

furiously. "Did I steal them? Moosie, this is blackmail."

 "Oh, Lord," whispered Father Theodore. "If I stole them from you, then take the matter to court, but don't

cause pandemonium in my house. Did you hear that, Moosie? How impudent canyou get? They don't even let a man have his dinner in peace."

 No, Father Theodore did not want to recover "his" chairs by taking the

matter to court. By no means. He knew that Engineer Bruns had not stolenthem from him. Oh, no. That was the last idea he had in his mind. But thechairs had nevertheless belonged to him before the revolution, and his wife,who was on her deathbed in Voronezh, was very attached to them. It was tocomply with her wishes and not on his own initiative that he had taken theliberty of finding out the whereabouts of the chairs and coming to seeCitizen Bruns. Father Theodore was not asking for charity. Oh, no. He wassufficiently well off (he owned a small candle factory in Samara) to sweetenhis wife's last few minutes by buying the old chairs. He was ready tosplurge and pay twenty roubles for the whole set of chairs.

 "What?" cried the engineer, growing purple. "Twenty roubles? For a

splended drawing-room suite? Moosie, did you hear that? He really is a nut.Honestly he is."

 "I'm not a nut, but merely complying with the wishes of my wife who

sent me."

 "Oh, hell!" said the engineer. "Moosie, he's at it again. He's crawling

around again."

 "Name your price," moaned Father Theodore, cautiously beating his head

against the trunk of an araucaria.

 "Don't spoil the tree, you crazy man. Moosie, I don't think he's a nut.

He's simply distraught at his wife's illness. Shall we sell him the chairsand get rid of him? Otherwise, he'll crack his skull."

 "And what are we going to sit on?" asked Moosie. "We'll buy some more." "For twenty roubles?" "Suppose I don't sell them for twenty. Suppose I don't sell them for

two hundred, but supposing I do sell them for two-fifty?"

 In response came the sound of a head against a tree. "Moosie, I'm fed up with this!" The engineer went over to Father Theodore, with his mind made up and

began issuing an ultimatum.

 "First, move back from the palm at least three paces; second, stand up

at once; third, I'll sell you the chairs for two hundred and fifty and not akopek less."

 "It's not for personal gain," chanted Father Theodore, "but merely in

compliance with my sick wife's wishes."

 "Well, old boy, my wife's also sick. That's right, isn't it, Moosie?

Your lungs aren't in too good a state, are they? But on the strength of thatI'm not asking you to . . . er . . . sell me your jacket for thirty kopeks."

 "Have it for nothing," exclaimed Father Theodore. The engineer waved him aside in irritation and then said coldly: "Stop your tricks. I'm not going to argue with you any more. I've assessed the worth of the chairs at two hundred and fifty roubles

and I'm not shifting one cent." "Fifty," offered the priest.

 "Moosie," said the engineer, "call Bagration. Let him see this citizen

off the premises." "Not for personal gain. . . ." "Bagration!"

 Father Theodore fled in terror, while the engineer went into the

dining-room and sat down to the goose. Bruns's favourite bird had a soothingeffect on him. He began to calm down.

 Just as the engineer was about to pop a goose leg into his pink mouth,

having first wrapped a piece of cigarette paper around the bone, the face ofthe priest appeared appealingly at the window.

 "Not for personal gain," said a soft voice. "Fifty-five roubles." The

engineer let out a roar without turning around. Father Theodore disappeared.

 The whole of that day Father Theodore's figure kept appearing at

different points near the house. At one moment it was seen coming out of theshade of the cryptomeria, at another it rose from a mandarin grove; then itraced across the back yard and, fluttering, dashed towards the botanicalgarden.

 The whole day the engineer kept calling for Moosie, complaining about

the crackpot and his own headache. From time to time Father Theodore's voicecould be heard echoing through the dusk.

 "A hundred and eight," he called from somewhere in the sky. A moment

later his voice came from the direction of Dumbasoc's house.

 "A hundred and forty-one. Not for personal gain, Mr. Brans, but merely

. . ."

 At length the engineer could stand it no longer; he came out on to the

verandah and, peering into the darkness, began shouting very clearly:

 "Damn you! Two hundred roubles then. Only leave us alone." There was a

rustle of disturbed bamboo, the sound of a soft groan and fading footsteps,then all was quiet.

 Stars floundered in the bay. Fireflies chased after Father Theodore and

circled round his head, casting a greenish medicinal glow on his face.

 "Now the goose is flown," muttered the engineer, going inside.

Meanwhile, Father Theodore was speeding along the coast in the last bus inthe direction of Batumi. A slight surf washed right up to the side of him;the wind blew in his face, and the bus hooted in reply to the whiningjackals.

 That evening Father Theodore sent a telegram to his wife in the town of

N.

THEO

 For two days he loafed about elatedly near Bruns's house, bowing to

Moosie in the distance, and even making the tropical distances resound withshouts of "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes of my wife whosent me."

 Two days later the money was received together with a desperate

telegram:

EVSTIGNEYEV STILL HAVING MEALS STOP KATEY

 Father Theodore counted the money, crossed himself frenziedly, hired a

cart, and drove to the Green Cape.

 The weather was dull. A wind from the Turkish frontier blew across

thunderclouds. The strip of blue sky became narrower and narrower. The windwas near gale force. It was forbidden to take boats to sea and to bathe.Thunder rumbled above Batumi. The gale shook the coast.

 Reaching Bruns's house, the priest ordered the Adzhar driver to wait

and went to fetch the furniture.

 "I've brought the money," said Father Theodore. "You ought to lower

your price a bit."

 "Moosie," groaned the engineer, "I can't stand any more of this." "No, no, I've brought the money," said Father Theodore hastily, "two

hundred, as you said."

 "Moosie, take the money and give him the chairs, and let's get it over

with. I've a headache."

 His life ambition was achieved. The candle factory in Samara was

falling into his lap. The jewels were pouring into his pocket like seeds.

 Twelve chairs were loaded into the cart one after another. They were

very like Vorobyaninov's chairs, except that the covering was not floweredchintz, but rep with blue and pink stripes.

 Father Theodore was overcome with impatience. Under his shirt behind a

twisted cord he had tucked a hatchet. He sat next to the driver and,constantly looking round at the chairs, drove to Batumi. The spirited horsescarried the holy father and his treasure down along the highway past theFinale restaurant, where the wind swept across the bamboo tables andarbours, past a tunnel that was swallowing up the last few tank cars of anoil train, past the photographer, deprived that overcast day of his usualclientele, past a sign reading "Batumi Botanical Garden", and carried him,not too quickly, along the very line of surf. At the point where the roadtouched the rocks, Father Theodore was soaked with salty spray. Rebuffed bythe rocks, the waves turned into waterspouts and, rising up to the sky,slowly fell back again.

 The jolting and the spray from the surf whipped Father Theodore's

troubled spirit into a frenzy. Struggling against the wind, the horsesslowly approached Makhinjauri. From every side the turbid green watershissed and swelled. Right up to Batumi the white surf swished like the edgeof a petticoat peeking from under the skirt of a slovenly woman.

 "Stop!" Father Theodore suddenly ordered the driver. "Stop,

Mohammedan!"

 Trembling and stumbling, he started to unload the chairs on to the

deserted shore. The apathetic Adzhar received his five roubles, whipped upthe horses and rode off. Making sure there was no one about, Father Theodorecarried the chairs down from the rocks on to a dry patch of sand and tookout his hatchet.

 For a moment he hesitated, not knowing where to start. Then, like a man

walking in his sleep, he went over to the third chair and struck the back aferocious blow with the hatchet. The chair toppled over undamaged.

 "Aha!" shouted Father Theodore. "I'll show you!" And he flung himself on the chair as though it had been a live animal.

In a trice the chair had been hacked to ribbons. Father Theodore could nothear the sound of the hatchet against the wood, cloth covering, and springs.All sounds were drowned by the powerful roar of the gale.

 "Aha! Aha! Aha!" cried the priest, swinging from the shoulder. One by one the chairs were put out of action. Father Theodore's fury

increased more and more. So did the fury of the gale. Some of the waves cameup to his feet.

 From Batumi to Sinop there was a great din. The sea raged and vented

its spite on every little ship. The S.S. Lenin sailed towards Novorossiskwith its two funnels smoking and its stern plunging low in the water. Thegale roared across the Black Sea, hurling thousand-ton breakers on to theshore of Trebizond, Yalta, Odessa and Konstantsa. Beyond the still in theBosporus and the Dardanelles surged the Mediterranean. Beyond the Straits ofGibraltar, the Atlantic smashed against the shores of Europe. A belt ofangry water encircled the world.

 And on the Batumi shore stood Father Theodore, bathed in sweat and

hacking at the final chair. A moment later it was all over. Desperationseized him. With a dazed look at the mountain of legs, backs, and springs,he turned back. The water grabbed him by the feet. He lurched forward andran soaked to the road. A huge wave broke on the spot where he had been amoment before and, swirling back, washed away the mutilated furniture.Father Theodore no longer saw anything. He staggered along the road, hunchedand hugging his fist to his chest.

 He went into Batumi, unable to see anything about him. His position was

the most terrible thing of all. Three thousand miles from home and twentyroubles in his pocket-getting home was definitely out of the question.

 Father Theodore passed the Turkish bazaar-where he was advised in a

perfect stage whisper to buy some Coty powder, silk stockings and contrabandBatumi tobacco-dragged himself to the station, and lost himself in the crowdof porters.

 Three days after the concessionaires' deal with Mechnikov the fitter,

the Columbus Theatre left by railway via Makhacha-Kala and Baku. The wholeof these three days the concessionaires, frustrated by the contents of thetwo chairs opened on Mashuk, waited for Mechnikov to bring them the third ofthe Columbus chairs. But the narzan-tortured fitter converted the whole ofthe twenty roubles into the purchase of plain vodka and drank himself intosuch a state that he was kept locked up in the props room.

 "That's Mineral Waters for you!" said Ostap, when he heard about the

theatre's departure. "A useful fool, that fitter. Catch me having dealingswith theatre people after this!"

 Ostap became much more nervy than before. The chances of finding the

treasure had increased infinitely.

 "We need money to get to Vladikavkaz," said Ostap. "From there we'll

drive by car to Tiflis along the Georgian Military Highway. Gloriousscenery! Magnificent views! Wonderful mountain air! And at the end of itall-one hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks. There is somepoint in continuing the hearing."

 But it was not quite so easy to leave Mineral Waters. Vorobyaninov

proved to have absolutely no talent for bilking the railway, and so when allattempts to get him aboard a train had failed he had to perform again in theFlower Garden, this time as an educational district ward. This was not atall a success. Two roubles for twelve hours' hard and degrading work, thoughit was a large enough sum for the fare to Vladikavkaz.

 At Beslan, Ostap, who was travelling without a ticket, was thrown off

the train, and the smooth operator impudently ran behind it for a mile orso, shaking his fist at the innocent Ippolit Matveyevich.

 Soon after, Ostap managed to jump on to a train slowly making its way

to the Caucasian ridge. From his position on the steps Ostap surveyed withgreat curiosity the panorama of the mountain range that unfolded before him.

 It was between three and four in the morning. The mountain-tops were

lit by dark pink sunlight. Ostap did not like the mountains.

 "Too showy," he said. "Weird kind of beauty. An idiot's imagination. No

use at all."

 At Vladikavkaz station the passengers were met by a large open bus

belonging to the Transcaucasian car-hire-and-manufacturing society, andnice, kind people said:

 "Those travelling by the Georgian Military Highway will be taken into

the town free."

 "Hold on, puss*," said Ostap. "We want the bus. Let them take us free." When the bus had given him a lift to the centre of the town, however,

Ostap was in no hurry to put his name down for a seat in a car. Talkingenthusiastically to Ippolit Matveyevich, he gazed admiringly at the view ofthe cloud-enveloped Table Mountain, but finding that it really was like atable, promptly retired.

 They had to spend several days in Vladikavkaz. None of their attempts

to obtain money for the road fare met with any success, nor provided themwith enough money to buy food. An attempt to make the citizens pay ten-kopekbits failed. The mountain ridge was so high and clear that it was notpossible to charge for looking at it. It was visible from practically everypoint, and there were no other beauty spots in Vladikavkaz. There was theTerek, which flowed past the "Trek", but the town charged for entry to thatwithout Ostap's assistance. The alms collected in two days by IppolitMatveyevich only amounted to thirteen kopeks.

 "There's only one thing to do," said Ostap. "We'll go to Tiflis on

foot. We can cover the hundred miles in five days. Don't worry, dad, themountain view is delightful and the air is bracing . . . We only need moneyfor bread and salami sausage. You can add a few Italian phrases to yourvocabulary, or not, as you like; but by evening you've got to collect atleast two roubles. We won't have a chance to eat today, dear chum. Alas!What bad luck!"

 Early in the morning the partners crossed the little bridge across the

Terek river, went around the barracks, and disappeared deep into the greenvalley along which ran the Georgian Military Highway.

 "We're in luck, puss*," said Ostap. "It rained last night so we won't

have to swallow the dust. Breathe in the fresh air, marshal. Sing something.Recite some Caucasian poetry and behave as befits the occasion."

 But Ippolit Matveyevich did not sing or recite poetry. The road went

uphill. The nights spent in the open made themselves felt by pains in hisside and heaviness in his legs, and the salami sausage made itself felt by aconstant and griping indigestion. He walked along, holding in his hand afive-pound loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper, his left foot draggingslightly.

 On the move again! But this time towards Tiflis; this time along the

most beautiful road in the world. Ippolit Matveyevich could not have caredless. He did not look around him as Ostap did. He certainly did not noticethe Terek, which now could just be heard rumbling at the bottom of thevalley. It was only the ice-capped mountain-tops glistening in the sun whichsomehow reminded him of a sort of cross between the sparkle of diamonds andthe best brocade coffins of Bezenchuk the undertaker.

 After Balta the road entered and continued as a narrow ledge cut in the

dark overhanging cliff. The road spiralled upwards, and by evening theconcessionaires reached the village of Lars, about three thousand feet abovesea level.

 They passed the night in a poor native hotel without charge and were

even given a glass of milk each for delighting the owner and his guests withcard tricks.

 The morning was so glorious that Ippolit Matveyevich, braced by the

mountain air, began to stride along more cheerfully than the day before.Just behind Lars rose the impressive rock wall of the Bokovoi ridge. At thispoint the Terek valley closed up into a series of narrow gorges. The scenerybecame more and more sombre, while the inscriptions on the cliffs grew morefrequent At the point where the cliffs squeezed the Terek's flow betweenthem to the extent that the span of the bridge was no more than ten feet,the concessionaires saw so many inscriptions on the side of the gorge thatOstap forgot the majestic sight of the Daryal gorge and shouted out, tryingto drown the rumble and rushing of the Terek:

 "Great people! Look at that, marshal! Do you see it? Just a little

higher than the cloud and slightly lower than the eagle! An inscriptionwhich says, 'Micky and Mike, July 1914'. An unforgettable sight! Notice theartistry with which it was done. Each letter is three feet high, and theyused oil paints. Where are you now, Nicky and Mike?"

 "puss*," continued Ostap, "let's record ourselves for prosperity, too.

I have some chalk, by the way. Honestly, I'll go up and write 'puss* andOssy were here'."

 And without giving it much thought, Ostap put down the supply of

sausage on the wall separating the road from the seething depths of theTerek and began clambering up the rocks. At first Ippolit Matveyevichwatched the smooth operator's ascent, but then lost interest and began tosurvey the base of Tamara's castle, which stood on a rock like a horse'stooth.

 Just at this time, about a mile away from the concessionaires, Father

Theodore entered the Daryal gorge from the direction of Tiflis. He marchedalong like a soldier with his eyes, as hard as diamonds, fixed ahead of him,supporting himself on a large crook.

 With his last remaining money Father Theodore had reached Tiflis and

was now walking home, subsisting on charity. While crossing the Cross gap hehad been bitten by an eagle. Father Theodore hit out at the insolent birdwith his crook and continued on his way.

 As he went along, intermingling with the clouds, he muttered: "Not for personal gain, but at the wishes of my wife who sent me." The distance between the enemies narrowed. Turning a sharp bend, Father

Theodore came across an old man in a gold pince-nez.

 The gorge split asunder before Father Theodore's eyes. The Terek

stopped its thousand-year-old roar.

 Father Theodore recognized Vorobyaninov. After the terrible fiasco in

Batumi, after all his hopes had been dashed, this new chance of gainingriches had an extraordinary effect on the priest. He grabbed IppolitMatveyevich by his scraggy Adam's apple, squeezed his fingers together, andshouted hoarsely:

 "What have you done with the treasure that you slew your mother-in-law

to obtain?" Ippolit Matveyevich, who had not been expecting anything of thisnature, said nothing, but his eyes bulged so far that they almost touchedthe lenses of his pince-nez.

 "Speak!" ordered the priest. "Repent, you sinner!" Vorobyaninov felt himself losing his senses. Suddenly Father Theodore caught sight of Bender leaping from rock to

rock; the technical adviser was coining down, shouting at the top of hisvoice:

 "Against the sombre rocks they dash, Those waves, they foam and

splash."

 A terrible fear gripped Father Theodore. He continued mechanically

holding the marshal by the throat, but his knees began to knock.

 "Well, of all people!" cried Ostap in a friendly tone. "The rival

concern."

 Father Theodore did not dally. Obeying his healthy instinct, ' he

grabbed the concessionaires' bread and sausage and fled.

 "Hit him, Comrade Bender!" cried Ippolit Matveyevich, who was sitting

on the ground recovering his breath. "Catch him!. Stop him I"

 Ostap began whistling and whooping. "Wooh-wooh," he warbled, starting in pursuit. "The Battle of the

Pyramids or Bender goes hunting. Where are you going, client? I can offeryou a well-gutted chair."

 This persecution was too much for Father Theodore and he began climbing

up a perpendicular wall of rock. He was spurred on by his heart, which wasin his mouth, and an itch in his heels known only to cowards. His legs movedover the granite by themselves, carrying their master aloft.

 "Wooooh-woooh!" yelled Ostap from below. "Catch him!" "He's taken our supplies," screeched Vorobyaninov, running up. "Stop!" roared Ostap. "Stop, I tell you." But this only lent new strength to the exhausted priest. He wove about,

making several leaps, and finally ended ten feet above the highestinscription.

 "Give back our sausage!" howled Ostap. "Give back the sausage, you

fool, and we'll forget everything."

 Father Theodore no longer heard anything. He found himself on a flat

ledge, on to which no man had ever climbed before. Father Theodore wasseized by a sickening dread. He realized he could never get down again byhimself. The cliff face dropped vertically to the road.

 He looked below. Ostap was gesticulating furiously, and the marshal's

gold pince-nez glittered at the bottom of the gorge.

 "I'll give back the sausage," cried the holy father, "only get me

down."

 He could see all the movements of the concessionaires. They were

running about below and, judging from their gestures, swearing liketroopers.

 An hour later, lying on his stomach and peering over the edge, Father

Theodore saw Bender and Vorobyaninov going off in the direction of the Crossgap.

 Night fell quickly. Surrounded by pitch darkness and deafened by the

infernal roar, Father Theodore trembled and wept up in the very clouds. Heno longer wanted earthly treasures, he only wanted one thing-to get down onto the ground.

 During the night he howled so loudly that at times the sound of the

Terek was drowned, and when morning came, he fortified himself with sausageand bread and roared with demoniac laughter at the cars passing underneath.The rest of the day was spent contemplating the mountains and that heavenlybody, the sun. The next night he saw the Tsaritsa Tamara. She came flyingover to him from her castle and said coquettishly:

 "Let's be neighbours! " "Mother!" said Father Theodore with feeling. "Not for personal gain . .

."

 "I know, I know," observed the Tsaritsa, "but merely at the wishes of

your wife who sent you."

 "How did you know?" asked the astonished priest. "I just know. Why don't you stop by, neighbour? We'll play sixty-six.

What about it?"

 She gave a laugh and flew off, letting off firecrackers into the night

sky as she went.

 The day after, Father Theodore began preaching to the birds. For some

reason he tried to sway them towards Lutheranism.

 "Birds," he said in a sonorous voice, "repent your sins publicly." On the fourth day he was pointed out to tourists from below. "On the right we have Tamara's castle," explained the experienced

guides, "and on the left is a live human being, but it is not known what helives on or how he got there."

 "My, what a wild people!" exclaimed the tourists in amazement.

"Children of the mountains!"

 Clouds drifted by. Eagles cruised above Father Theodore's head. The

bravest of them stole the remains of the sausage and with its wings swept apound and a half of bread into the foaming Terek.

 Father Theodore wagged his finger at the eagle and, smiling radiantly,

whispered:

 "God's bird does not know Either toil or unrest, He leisurely builds

His long-lasting nest."

 The eagle looked sideways at Father Theodore, squawked co*ckadoodledoo

and flew away.

 "Oh, eagle, you eagle, you bitch of a bird!" Ten days later the Vladikavkaz fire brigade arrived with suitable

equipment and brought Father Theodore down.

 As they were lowering him, he clapped his hands and sang in a tuneless

voice:

 "And you will be queen of all the world, My lifelo-ong frie-nd!" And the rugged Caucuses re-echoed Rubinstein's setting of the Lermontov

poem many times.

 "Not for personal gain, but merely at the wishes . . ." Father Theodore

told the fire chief.

 The cackling priest was taken on the end of a fire ladder to the

psychiatric hospital.

 "What do you think, marshal," said Ostap as the concessionaires

approached the settlement of Sioni, "how can we earn money in a dried-upspot like this?"

 Ippolit Matveyevich said nothing. The only occupation by which he could

have kept himself going was begging, but here in the mountain spirals andledges there was no one to beg from.

 Anyway, there was begging going on already-alpine begging, a special

kind. Every bus and passenger car passing through the settlement wasbesieged by children who performed a few steps of a local folk dance to themobile audience, after which they ran after the vehicle with shouts of:

 "Give us money! Give money!" The passengers flung five-kopek pieces at them and continued on their

way to the Cross gap.

 "A noble cause," said Ostap. "No capital outlay needed. The income is

small, but in our case, valuable."

 By two o'clock of the second day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich

had performed his first dance for the aerial passengers, under thesupervision of the smooth operator. The dance was rather like a mazurka; thepassengers, drunk with the exotic beauty of the Caucasus, took it for anative lezginka and rewarded him with three five-kopek bits. The nextvehicle, which was a bus going from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz, was entertainedby the smooth operator himself.

 "Give me money! Give money," he shouted angrily. The amused passengers richly rewarded his capering about, and Ostap

collected thirty kopeks from the dusty road. But the Sioni children showeredtheir competitors with stones, and, fleeing from the onslaught, thetravellers made off at the double for the next village, where they spenttheir earnings on cheese and local flat bread.

 The concessionaires passed their days in this way. They spent the

nights in mountain-dwellers' huts. On the fourth day they went down thehairpin bends of the road and arrived in the Kaishaur valley. The sun wasshining brightly, and the partners, who had been frozen to the marrow in theCross gap, soon warmed up their bones again.

 The Daryal cliffs, the gloom and the chill of the gap gave way to the

greenery and luxury of a very deep valley. The companions passed above theAragva river and went down into the valley, settled by people and teemingwith cattle and food. There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, orsimply steal. It was the Transcaucasus.

 The heartened concessionaires increased their pace. In Passanaur, in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels and

several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushesopposite the Hotel France, with its garden and two chained-up bear cubs.They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest.

 Their rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car horn,

the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment. The friendspeeped out. Three identical new cars were driving up to the Hotel France inline. The cars stopped without any noise.

 Out of the first one jumped Persidsky; he was followed by

Life-and-the-Law smoothing down his dusty hair. Out of the other carstumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club.

 "A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!" The sleepy figures staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the

bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs.

 "Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's the reporter

from the Scriabin, one of those who criticized our transparent. They'vecertainly arrived in style. What's it all about?"

 Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to Persidsky in the most

elegant fashion.

 "Bonjour!" said the reporter. "Where have I seen you before, dear

friend? Aha! I remember. The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?"

 Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely. "Wait a moment, wait a moment," continued Persidsky, who had a

reporter's retentive memory. "Wasn't it you who was knocked down by acarthorse in Sverdlov Square? "

 "That's right. And as you so neatly expressed it, I also suffered

slight shock."

 "What are you doing here? Working as an artist?" "No, I'm on a sightseeing trip." "On foot?" "Yes, on foot. The experts say a car trip along the Georgian Military

Highway is simply ridiculous."

 "Not always ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always. For instance, our

trip isn't exactly ridiculous. We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars,collectively owned. A direct link between Moscow and Tiflis. Petrol hardlycosts anything. Comfort and speed. Soft springs. Europe!"

 "How did you come by it all?" asked Ostap enviously. "Did you win a

hundred thousand? "

 "Not a hundred, but we won fifty." "Gambling?" "With a bond belonging to the automobile club." "I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars." "That's right." "I see. Maybe you need a manager? I know a young man. He doesn't

drink."

 "What sort of manager?" "Well, you know . . . general management, business advice, instruction

with visual aids by the complex method. . ."

 "I see what you mean. No, we don't need a manager." "You don't?" "Unfortunately not. Nor an artist." "In that case let me have ten roubles." "Avdotyin," said Persidsky, "kindly give this citizen ten roubles on my

account. I don't need a receipt. This person is unaccountable."

 "That's extraordinarily little," observed Ostap, "but I'll accept it. I

realize the great difficulty of your position. Naturally, if you had won ahundred thousand, you might have loaned me a whole five roubles. But you wononly fifty thousand roubles, zero kopeks. In any case, many thanks."

 Bender politely raised his hat. Persidsky politely raised his hat.

Bender bowed most courteously. Persidsky replied with a most courteous bow.Bender waved his hand in farewell. Persidsky, sitting at the wheel, did thesame. Persidsky drove off in his splendid car into the glittering distancesin the company of his gay friends, while the smooth operator was left on thedusty road with his fool of a partner.

 "Did you see that swank? " "The Transcaucasian car service, or the private 'Motor' company? "

asked Ippolit Matveyevich in a businesslike way; he was now thoroughlyacquainted with all types of transportation on the road. "I was just aboutto do a dance for them."

 "You'll soon be completely dotty, my poor friend. How could it be the

Transcaucasian car service? Those people have won fifty thousand roubles,puss*. You saw yourself how happy they were and how much of that mechanicaljunk they had bought. When we find our money, we'll spend it more sensibly,won't we?"

 And imagining what they would buy when they became rich, the friends

left Passanaur. Ippolit Matveyevich vividly saw himself buying some newsocks and travellirig abroad. Ostap's visions were more ambitious. Somethingbetween damming the Blue Nile and opening a gaming-house in Riga withbranches in the other Baltic states.

 The travellers reached Mtskhet, the ancient capital of Georgia, on the

third day, before lunch. Here the Kura river turned towards Tiflis.

 In the evening they passed the Zerno-Avchal hydro-electric station. The

glass, water and electricity all shone with different-coloured light. It wasreflected and scattered by the fast-flowing Kura.

 It was there the concessionaires made friends with a peasant who gave

them a lift into Tiflis in his cart; they arrived at 11 p.m., that very hourwhen the cool of the evening summons into the streets the citizens of theGeorgian capital, limp after their sultry day.

 "Not a bad little town," remarked Ostap, as they came out into

Rustavelli Boulevard. "You know, puss*. . ."

 Without finishing what he was saying, Ostap suddenly darted after a

citizen, caught him up after ten paces, and began an animated conversationwith him.

 Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side. "Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the

Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's go and see him. However paradoxical it seems,you are now the master-mind and father of Russian democracy again. Don'tforget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite abit, by the way. A hell of a piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fiftyroubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!"

 And indeed, a short distance away from the concessionaires stood

Kislarsky in a tussore-silk suit and a boater; he was a milky blue colourwith fright.

 "I think you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman

close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don'tpay attention to his suit; that's part of our security measures. Take ussomewhere right away. We've got to have a talk."

 Kislarsky, who had come to the Caucasus to recover from his gruelling

experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about arecession in the roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriagewith silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. Theywent up to the top of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowlydisappeared into the depths in a thousand lights. The conspirators wereascending to the very stars.

 At the restaurant the tables were set up on a lawn. A Caucasian band

made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tablesof her own accord, watched happily by her parents.

 "Order something," suggested Bender. The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese. "And something to eat," said Ostap. "If you only knew, dear Mr.

Kislarsky, the things that Ippolit Matveyevich and I have had to suffer,you'd be amazed at our courage."

 There he goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will

start all over again. Why didn't I go to the Crimea? I definitely wanted togo to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too.

 But he ordered two shishkebabs without a murmur, and turned his

unctuous face towards Ostap.

 "Here's the point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice.

"They've been following us for two months and will probably ambush ustomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out."

 Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead. "Under the circ*mstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal

patriot."

 "Mmm .. . yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich proudly, remembering the

hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni.

 "Yes," whispered Ostap, "we're hoping-with your aid-to defeat the

enemy. I'll give you a pistol."

 "There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly. The next moment it was made clear that the chairman of the

stock-exchange committee would not have the opportunity of taking part inthe coming battle. He regretted it very much. He was not familiar withwarfare, and it was just for this reason that he had been elected chairmanof the stock-exchange committee. He was very much disappointed, but wasprepared to offer financial assistance to save the life of the father ofRussian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist).

 "You're a true friend of society," said Ostap triumphantly, washing

down the spicy kebab with sweetish Kipiani wine. "Fifty can save themaster-mind."

 "Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully. Ostap could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich under

the table in delight.

 "I consider that haggling," said Ippolit Matveyevich, "is somewhat out

of place here."

 He immediately received a kick on the thigh which meant- Well done,

puss*, that's the stuff!

 It was the first time in his life that Kislarsky had heard the

master-mind's voice. He was so overcome that he immediately handed overfifty roubles. Then he paid the bill and, leaving the friends at the table,departed with the excuse that he had a headache. Half an hour later hedispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod:

 The many privations which Ostap had suffered demanded immediate

compensation. That evening the smooth operator drank himself into a stuporand practically fell out of the cable-car on the way back to the hotel. Thenext day he realized a long-cherished dream and bought a heavenly greypolka-dot suit. It was hot wearing it, but he nevertheless did so, sweatingprofusely. In the Tif-Co-Op men's shop, Vorobyaninov was bought a whitepique" suit and a yachting cap with the gold insignia of some unknown yachtclub. In this attire Ippolit Matveyevich looked like an amateur admiral inthe merchant navy. His figure straightened up and his gait became firmer.

 "Ah," said Bender, "first rate! If I were a girl, I'd give a handsome

he-man like you an eight per cent reduction off my usual price. My, we cancertainly get around like this. Do you know how to get around, puss*? "

 "Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov kept saying, "what about the chairs?

We've got to find out what happened to the theatre."

 "Hoho," retorted Ostap, dancing with a chair in a large Moorish-style

room in the Hotel Orient. "Don't tell me how to live. I'm now evil. I havemoney, but I'm magnanimous. I'll give you twenty roubles and three days toloot the city. I'm like Suvorov. . . . Loot the city, puss*! Enjoyyourself!"

 And swaying his hips, Ostap sang in quick time: "The evening bells, the evening bells, How many thoughts they bring. .

. ."

 The friends caroused wildly for a whole week. Vorobyaninov's naval

uniform became covered with apple-sized wine spots of different colours; onOstap's suit the stains suffused into one large rainbow-like apple.

 "Hi!" said Ostap on the eighth morning, so hung-over that he was

reading the newspaper Dawn of the East. "Listen, you drunken sot, to whatclever people are writing in the press! Listen!

 The Moscow Columbus Theatre left yesterday, Sept. 3, for a tour of

Yalta, having completed its stay in Tiflis. The theatre is planning toremain in the Crimea until the opening of the winter season in Moscow.'"

 "What did I tell you!" said Vorobyaninov. "What did you tell me!" snapped back Ostap. He was nevertheless embarrassed. The careless mistake was very

unpleasant. Instead of ending the treasure hunt in Tiflis, they now had tomove on to the Crimean peninsula. Ostap immediately set to work. Ticketswere bought to Batumi and second-class-berths reserved on the S.S. Pestelleaving Batumi for Odessa at 11 p.m. Moscow time on September 7.

 On the night of September 10, as the Pestel turned out to sea and set

sail for Yalta without calling at Anapa on account of the gale, IppolitMatveyevich had a dream.

 He dreamed he was standing in his admiral's uniform on the balcony of

his house in Stargorod, while the crowd gathered below waited for him to dosomething. A large crane deposited a black-spotted pig at his feet.

 Tikhon the caretaker appeared and, grabbing the pig by the hind legs,

said:

 "Durn it. Does the Nymph really provide tassels?" Ippolit Matveyevich found a dagger in his hand. He stuck it into the

pig's side, and jewels came pouring out of the large wound and rolled on tothe cement floor. They jumped about and clattered more and more loudly. Thenoise finally became unbearable and terrifying,

 Ippolit Matveyevich was wakened by the sound of waves dashing against

the porthole.

 They reached Yalta in calm weather on an enervating sunny morning.

Having recovered from his seasickness, the marshal was standing at the prownear the ship's bell with its embossed Old Slavonic lettering. Gay Yalta hadlined up its tiny stalls and floating restaurants along the shore. On thequayside there were waiting carriages with velvet-covered seats and linenawnings, motor-cars and buses belonging to the "Krymkurso" and "CrimeanDriver" societies. Brick-coloured girls twirled parasols and wavedkerchiefs.

 The friends were the first to go ashore, on to the scorching

embankment. At the sight of the concessionaires, a citizen in a tussore-silksuit dived out of the crowd of people meeting the ship and idle onlookersand began walking quickly towards the exit to the dockyard. But too late.The smooth operator's eagle eye had quickly recognized the silken citizen.

 "Wait a moment, Vorobyaninov," cried Ostap. And he raced off at such a pace that he caught up the silken citizen

about ten feet from the exit. He returned instantly with a hundred roubles.

 "He wouldn't give me any more. Anyway, I didn't insist; otherwise he

won't be able to get home."

 And indeed, at that very moment Kislarsky was fleeing in a bus for

Sebastopol, and from there went home to Stargorod by third class.

 The concessionaires spent the whole day in the hotel sitting naked on

the floor and every few moments running under the shower in the bathroom.But the water there was like warm weak tea. They could not escape from theheat. It felt as though Yalta was just about to melt and flow into the sea.

 Towards eight that evening the partners struggled into their red-hot

shoes, cursing all the chairs in the world, and went to the theatre.

 The Marriage was being shown. Exhausted by the heat, Stepan almost fell

over while standing on his hands. Agafya ran along the wire, holding theparasol marked "I want Podkolesin" in her dripping hands. All she reallywanted at that moment was a drink of ice water. The audience was thirsty,too. For this reason and perhaps also because the sight of Stepan gorging apan of hot fried eggs was revolting, the performance did not go over.

 The concessionaires were satisfied as soon as they saw that their

chair, together with three new rococo armchairs, was safe.

 Hiding in one of the boxes, they patiently waited for the end of the

performance; it dragged on interminably. Then, finally, the audience leftand the actors hurried away to try to cool off. The theatre was empty exceptfor the shareholders in the concession. Every living thing had hurried outinto the street where fresh rain was, at last, falling fast.

 "Follow me, puss*," ordered Ostap. "Just in case, we're provincials who

couldn't find the exit."

 They made their way on to the stage and, striking matches, though they

still collided with the hydraulic press, searched the whole stage.

 The smooth operator ran up a staircase into the props room. "Up here! "he called. Waving his arms, Vorobyaninov raced upstairs. "Do you see?" said Ostap, lighting a match. Through the darkness showed the corner of a Hambs chair and part of the

parasol with the word "want".

 "There it is! There is our past, present and future. Light a match,

puss*, and I'll open it up."

 Ostap dug into his pockets for the tools. "Right," he said, reaching towards the chair. "Another match, marshal." The match flared up, and then a strange thing happened. The chair gave

a jump and suddenly, before the very eyes of the amazed concessionaires,disappeared through the floor.

 "Mama!" cried Vorobyaninov, and went flying over to the wall, although

he had not the least desire to do so.

 The window-panes came out with a crash and the parasol with the words

"I want Podkolesin" flew out of the window, towards the sea. Ostap lay onthe floor, pinned down by sheets of cardboard.

 It was fourteen minutes past midnight. This was the first shock of the

great Crimean earthquake of 1927.

 A severe earthquake, wreaking untold disaster throughout the peninsula,

had plucked the treasure from the hands of the concessionaires.

 "Comrade Bender, what's happening?" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in

terror.

 Ostap was beside himself. The earthquake had blocked his path. It was

the only time it had happened in his entire, extensive practice.

 "What is it?" screech Vorobyaninov. Screaming, ringing, and trampling feet could be heard from the street. "We've got to get outside immediately before the wall caves in on us.

Quick! Give me your hand, softie."

 They raced to the door. To their surprise, the Hambs chair was lying on

its back, undamaged, at the exit from the stage to the street. Growling likea dog, Ippolit Matveyevich seized it in a death-grip.

 "Give me the pliers," he shouted to Bender. "Don't be a stupid fool,"

gasped Ostap. "The ceiling is about to collapse, and you stand there goingout of your mind! Let's get out quickly."

 "The pliers," snarled the crazed Vorobyaninov. "To hell with you.

Perish here with your chair, then. I value my life, if you don't."

 With these words Ostap ran for the door. Ippolit Matveyevich picked up

the chair with a snarl and ran after him.

 Hardly had they reached the middle of the street when the ground heaved

sickeningly under their feet; tiles came off the roof of the theatre, andthe spot where the concessionakes had just been standing was strewn with theremains of the hydraulic press.

 "Right, give me the chair now," said Bender coldly. "You're tired of

holding it, I see." "I won't!" screeched Ippolit Matveyevich. "What's this?Mutiny aboard? Give me the chair, do you hear?"

 "It's my chair," clucked Vorobyaninov, drowning the weeping, shouting

and crashing on all sides., "In that case, here's your reward, you oldgoat!" And Ostap hit Vorobyaninov on the neck with his bronze fist. At thatmoment a fire engine hurtled down the street and in the lights of itsheadlamps Ippolit Matveyevich glimpsed such a terrifying expression onOstap's face that he instantly obeyed and gave up the chair.

 "That's better," said Ostap, regaining his breath. "The mutiny has been

suppressed. Now, take the chair and follow me. You are responsible for thestate of the chair. The chair must be preserved even if there are tenearthquakes. Do you understand?"

 "Yes." The whole night the concessionaires wandered about with the

panic-stricken crowds, unable to decide, like everyone else, whether or notto enter the abandoned buildings, and expecting new shocks.

 At dawn, when the terror had died down somewhat, Ostap selected a spot

near which there was no wall likely to collapse, or people likely tointerfere, and set about opening the chair.

 The results of the autopsy staggered both of them-there was nothing in

the chair. The effect of the ordeal of the night and morning was 'too muchfor Ippolit Matveyevich; he burst into a vicious, high-pitched cackle.

 Immediately after this came the third shock. The ground heaved and

swallowed up the Hambs chair; its flowered pattern smiled at the sun thatwas rising in a dusty sky.

 Ippolit Matveyevich went down on all fours and, turning his haggard

face to the dark purple disc of the sun, began howling. The smooth operatorfainted as he listened to him. When he regained consciousness, he saw besidehim Vorobyaninov's lilac-stubble chin. Vorobyaninov was unconscious.

 "At last," said Ostap, like a patient recovering from typhus, "we have

a dead certainty. The last chair [at the word "chair", Ippolit Matveyevichstirred] may have vanished into the goods yard of October Station, but hasby no means been swallowed up by the ground. What's wrong? The hearing iscontinued."

 Bricks came crashing down nearby. A ship's siren gave a protracted

wail.

 On a rainy day in October, Ippolit Matveyevich, in his silver

star-spangled waistcoat and without a jacket, was working busily inIvanopulo's room. He was working at the windowsill, since there still was notable in the room. The smooth operator had been commissioned to paint alarge number of address plates for various housing co-operatives. Thestencilling of the plates had been passed on to Vorobyaninov, while Ostap,for almost the whole of the month since their return to Moscow, had cruisedround the area of the October Station looking with incredible avidity forclues to the last chair, which undoubtedly contained Madame Petukhov'sjewels. Wrinkling his brow, Ippolit Matveyevich stencilled away at the ironplates. During the six months of the jewel race he had lost certain of hishabits.

 At night Ippolit Matveyevich dreamed about mountain ridges adorned with

weird transparents, Iznurenkov, who hovered in front of him, shaking hisbrown thighs, boats that capsized, people who drowned, bricks falling out ofthe sky, and ground that heaved and poured smoke into his eyes.

 Ostap had not observed the change in Vorobyaninov, for he was with him

every day. Ippolit Matveyevich, however, had changed in a remarkable way.Even his gait was different; the expression of his eyes had become wild andhis long moustache was no longer parallel to the earth's surface, butdrooped almost vertically, like that of an aged cat.

 He had also altered inwardly. He had developed determination and

cruelty, which were traits of character unknown to him before. Threeepisodes had gradually brought out these streaks in him: the miraculousescape from the hard fists of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, his debut in thefield of begging in the Flower Garden at Pyatigorsk, and, finally, theearthquake, since which Ippolit Matveyevich had become somewhat unhinged andharboured a secret loathing for his partner.

 Ippolit Matveyevich had recently been seized by the strongest

suspicions. He was afraid that Ostap would open the chair without him andmake off with the treasure, abandoning him to his own fate. He did not darevoice these suspicions, knowing Ostap's strong arm and iron will. But eachday, as he sat at the window scraping off surplus paint with an old, jaggedrazor, Ippolit Matveyevich wondered. Every day he feared that Ostap wouldnot come back and that he, a former marshal of the nobility, would die ofstarvation under some wet Moscow wall.

 Ostap nevertheless returned each evening, though he never brought any

good news. His energy and good spirits were inexhaustible. Hope neverdeserted him for a moment.

 There was a sound of running footsteps in the corridor and someone

crashed into the cabinet; the plywood door flew open with the ease of a pageturned by the wind, and in the doorway stood the smooth operator. Hisclothes were soaked, and his cheeks glowed like apples. He was panting."Ippolit Matveyevich!" he shouted. "Ippolit Matveyevich!" Vorobyaninov wasstartled. Never before had the technical adviser called him by his first twonames. Then he cottoned on. . . .

 "It's there?" he gasped. "You're dead right, it's there, puss*. Damn you." "Don't shout. Everyone will hear." "That's right, they might hear," whispered Ostap. "It's there, puss*,

and if you want, I can show it to you right away. It's in therailway-workers' club, a new one. It was opened yesterday. How did I findit? Was it child's play? It was singularly difficult. A stroke of genius,brilliantly carried through to the end. An ancient adventure. In a word,first rate!"

 Without waiting for Ippolit Matveyevich to pull on his jacket, Ostap

ran to the corridor. Vorobyaninov joined him on the landing. Excitedlyshooting questions at one another, they both hurried along the wet streetsto Kalanchev Square. They did not even think of taking a tram.

 "You're dressed like a navvy," said Ostap jubilantly. "Who goes about

like that, puss*? You should have starched underwear, silk socks, and, ofcourse, a top hat. There's something noble about your face. Tell me, wereyou really a marshal of the nobility?"

 Pointing out the chair, which was standing in the chess-room, and

looked a perfectly normal Hambs chair, although it contained such untoldwealth, Ostap pulled Ippolit Matveyevich into the corridor. There was no oneabout. Ostap went up to a window that had not yet been sealed for the winterand drew back the bolts on both sets of frames.

 "Through this window," he said, "we can easily get into the club at any

time of the night. Remember, puss*, the third window from the frontentrance."

 For a while longer the friends wandered about the club, pretending to

be railway-union representatives, and were more and more amazed by thesplendid halls and rooms.

 "If I had played the match in Vasyuki," said Ostap, "sitting on a chair

like this, I wouldn't have lost a single game. My enthusiasm would haveprevented it. Anyway, let's go, old man. I have twenty-five roubles. Weought to have a glass of beer and relax before our nocturnal visitation. Theidea of beer doesn't shock you, does it, marshal? No harm. Tomorrow you canlap up champagne in unlimited quantities."

 By the time they emerged from the beer-hall, Bender was thoroughly

enjoying himself and made taunting remarks at the passers-by. He embracedthe slightly tipsy Ippolit Matveyevich round the shoulders and saidlovingly:

 "You're an extremely nice old man, puss*, but I'm not going to give you

more than ten per cent. Honestly, I'm not. What would you want with all thatmoney? "

 "What do you mean, what would I want?" Ippolit Matveyevich seethed with

rage.

 Ostap laughed heartily and rubbed his cheek against his partner's wet

sleeve.

 "Well, what would you buy, puss*? You haven't any imagination.

Honestly, fifteen thousand is more than enough for you. You'll soon die,you're so old. You don't need any money at all. You know, puss*, I don'tthink I'll give you anything. I don't want to spoil you. I'll take you on asa secretary, puss* my lad. What do you say? Forty roubles a month and allyour grub. You get work clothes, tips, and national health. Well, is it adeal?"

 Ippolit Matveyevich tore his arm free and quickly walked ahead. Jokes

like that exasperated him. Ostap caught him up at the entrance to the littlepink house. "Are you really mad at me?" asked Ostap. "I was only joking.You'll get your three per cent. Honestly, three per cent is all you need,puss*."

 Ippolit Matveyevich sullenly entered the room. "Well, puss*, take three

per cent." Ostap was having fun. "Come on, take three. Anyone else would.You don't have any rooms to rent. It's a blessing Ivanopulo has gone to Tverfor a whole year. Anyway, come and be my valet. . . an easy job."

 Seeing that Ippolit Matveyevich could not be baited, Ostap yawned

sweetly, stretched himself, almost touching the ceiling as he filled hisbroad chest with air, and said:

 "Well, friend, make your pockets ready. We'll go to the club just

before dawn. That's the best time. The watchmen are asleep, having sweetdreams, for which they get fired without severance pay. In the meantime,chum, I advise you to have a nap."

 Ostap stretched himself out on the three chairs, acquired from

different corners of Moscow, and said, as he dozed off:

 "Or my valet . . . a decent salary. No, I was joking. . . . The

hearing's continued. Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury."

 Those were the smooth operator's last words. He fell into a deep,

refreshing sleep, untroubled by dreams.

 Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the street. He was full of

desperation and cold fury. The moon hopped about among the banks of cloud.The wet railings of the houses glistened greasily. In the street theflickering gas lamps were encircled by halos of moisture. A drunk was beingthrown out of the Eagle beer-hall. He began bawling. Ippolit Matveyevichfrowned and went back inside. His one wish was to finish the whole businessas soon as possible.

 He went back into the room, looked grimly at the sleeping Ostap, wiped

his pince-nez and took up the razor from the window sill. There were stillsome dried scales of oil paint on its jagged edge. He put the razor in hispocket, walked past Ostap again, without looking at him, but listening tohis breathing, and then went out into the corridor. It was dark and sleepyout there. Everyone had evidently gone to bed. In the pitch darkness of thecorridor Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly smiled in the most evil way, and feltthe skin creep on his forehead. To test this new sensation he smiled again.He suddenly remembered a boy at school who had been able to move his ears.

 Ippolit Matveyevich went as far as the stairs and listened carefully.

There was no one there. From the street came the drumming of a carthorse'shooves, intentionally loud and clear as though someone was counting on anabacus. As stealthily as a cat, the marshal went back into the room, removedtwenty-five roubles and the pair of pliers from Ostap's jacket hanging onthe back of a chair, put on his own yachting cap, and again listenedintently.

 Ostap was sleeping quietly. His nose and lungs were working perfectly,

smoothly inhaling and exhaling air. A brawny arm hung down to the floor.Conscious of the second-long pulses in his temple, Ippolit Matveyevichslowly rolled up his right sleeve above the elbow and bound awafer-patterned towel around his bare arm; he stepped back to the door, tookthe razor out of his pocket, and gauging the position of the furniture inthe room turned the switch. The light went out, but the room was still litby a bluish aquarium-like light from the street lamps.

 "So much the better," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. He approached the back of the chair and, drawing back his hand with the

razor, plunged the blade slantways into Ostap's throat, pulled it out, andjumped backward towards the wall. The smooth operator gave a gurgle like akitchen sink sucking down the last water. Ippolit Matveyevich managed toavoid being splashed with blood. Wiping the wall with his jacket, he stoletowards the blue door, and for a brief moment looked back at Ostap. His bodyhad arched twice and slumped against the backs of the chairs. The light fromthe street moved across a black puddle forming on the floor.

 What is that puddle? wondered Vorobyaninov. Oh, yes, it's blood.

Comrade Bender is dead.

 He unwound the slightly stained towel, threw it aside, carefully put

the razor on the floor, and left, closing the door quietly.

 Finding himself in the street, Vorobyaninov scowled and, muttering "The

jewels are all mine, not just six per cent," went off to Kalanchev Square.

 He stopped at the third window from the front entrance to the railway

club. The mirrorlike windows of the new club shone pearl-grey in theapproaching dawn. Through the damp air came the muffled voices of goodstrains. Ippolit Matveyevich nimbly scrambled on to the ledge, pushed theframes, and silently dropped into the corridor.

 Finding his way without difficulty through the grey pre-dawn halls of

the club, he reached the chess-room and went over to the chair, bumping hishead on a portrait of Lasker hanging on the wall. He was in no hurry. Therewas no point in it. No one was after him. Grossmeister Bender was asleep forever in the little pink house.

 Ippolit Matveyevich sat down on the floor, gripped the chair between

his sinewy legs, and with the coolness of a dentist, began extracting thetacks, not missing a single one. His work was complete at the sixty-secondtack. The English chintz and canvas lay loosely on top of the stuffing.

 He had only to lift them to see the caskets, boxes, and cases

containing the precious stones.

 Straight into a car, thought Ippolit Matveyevich, who had learned the

facts of life from the smooth operator, then to the station, and on to thePolish frontier. For a small gem they should get me across, then . . .

 And desiring to find out as soon as possible what would happen then,

Ippolit Matveyevich pulled away the covering from the chair. Before his eyeswere springs, beautiful English springs, and stuffing, wonderful pre-warstuffing, the like of which you never see nowadays. But there was nothingelse in the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich mechanically turned the chair insideout and sat for a whole hour clutching it between his legs and repeating ina dull voice:

 "Why isn't there anything there? It can't be right. It can't be." It

was almost light when Vorobyaninov, leaving everything as it was in thechess-room and forgetting the pliers and his yachting cap with the goldinsignia of a non-existent yacht club, crawled tired, heavy and unobservedthrough the window into the street.

 "It can't be right," he kept repeating, having walked a block away. "It

can't be right."

 Then he returned to the club and began wandering up and down by the

large windows, mouthing the words: "It can't be right. It can't be."

 From time to time he let out a shriek and seized hold of his head, wet

from the morning mist. Remembering the events of that night, he shook hisdishevelled grey hair. The excitement of the jewels was too much for him; hehad withered in five minutes. "There's all kinds come here!" said a voice byhis ear,

 He saw in front of him a watchman in canvas work-clothes and poor

quality boots. He was very old and evidently friendly.

 "They keep comin'," said the old man politely, tired of his nocturnal

solitude. "And you, comrade, are interested. That's right. Our club's kindof unusual."

 Ippolit Matveyevich looked ruefully at the red-cheeked old man. "Yes, sir," said the old man, "a very unusual club; there ain't another

like it."

 "And what's so unusual about it?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, trying to

gather his wits.

 The little old man beamed at Vorobyaninov. The story of the unusual

club seemed to please him, and he liked to retell it.

 "Well, it's like this," began the old man, "I've been a watchman here

for more'n ten years, and nothing like that ever happened. Listen, soldierboy! Well, there used to be a club here, you know the one, for workers inthe first transportation division. I used to be the watchman. A no-good clubit was. They heated and heated and couldn't do anythin'. Then ComradeKrasilnikov comes to me and asks, 'Where's all that firewood goin'?' Did hethink I was eatin' it or somethin"? Comrade Krasilnikov had a job with thatclub, he did. They asked for five years' credit for a new club, but I don'tknow what became of it. They didn't allow the credit. Then, in the spring,Comrade Krasilnikov bought a new chair for the stage, a good soft'n."

 With his whole body close to the watchman's, Ippolit Matveyevich

listened. He was only half conscious, as the watchman, cackling withlaughter, told how he had once clambered on to the chair to put in a newbulb and missed his footing.

 "I slipped off the chair and the coverin' was torn off. So I look round

and see bits of glass and beads on a string come pouring out."

 "Beads?" repeated Ippolit Matveyevich. "Beads!" hooted the old man with delight. "And I look, soldier boy, and

there are all sorts of little boxes. I didn't touch 'em. I went straight toComrade Krasilnikov and reported it. And that's what I told the committeeafterwards. I didn't touch the boxes, I didn't. And a good thing I didn't,soldier boy. Because jewellery was found in 'em, hidden by the bourgeois. .. ."

 "Where are the jewels?" cried the marshal. "Where, where?" the watchman imitated him. "Here they are, soldier boy,

use your imagination! Here they are."

 "Where?" "Here they are!" cried the ruddy-faced old man, enjoying the effect.

"Wipe your eyes. The club was built with them, soldier boy. You see? It'sthe club. Central heating, draughts with timing-clocks, a buffet, theatre;you aren't allowed inside in your galoshes."

 Ippolit Matveyevich stiffened and, without moving, ran his eyes over

the ledges.

 So that was where it was. Madame Petukhov's treasure. There. All of it.

A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks, as Ostap SuleimanBertha Maria Bender used to say.

 The jewels had turned into a solid frontage of glass and ferroconcrete

floors. Cool gymnasiums had been made from the pearls. The diamond diademhad become a theatre-auditorium with a revolving stage; the ruby pendantshad grown into chandeliers; the serpent bracelets had been transformed intoa beautiful library, and the clasp had metamorphosed into a creche, a gliderworkshop, a chess and billiards room.

 The treasures remained; it had been preserved and had even grown. It

could be touched with the hand, though not taken away. It had gone into theservice of new people. Ippolit Matveyevich felt the granite facing. Thecoldness of the stone penetrated deep into his heart.

 And he gave a cry. It was an insane, impassioned wild cry-the cry of a vixen shot through

the body-it flew into the centre of the square, streaked under the bridge,and, rebuffed everywhere by the sounds of the waking city, began fading anddied away in a moment. A marvellous autumn morning slipped from the wetroof-tops into the Moscow streets. The city set off on its daily routine.