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