The Twelve Chairs (13 page)

The presidium of the province executive committee mounted the platform.
The  Prince of Denmark  stammered out a  few  phrases to his  fellow writer.
Newsreel cameramen from Moscow were expected any moment.
"Comrades," said Gavrilin, "I declare the official meeting to celebrate
the opening of the Stargorod tramway open."
The  brass   trumpets  sprang  into  action,  sighed,  and  played  the
International right through three times.
"Comrade Gavrilin will now give a report," cried Comrade Gavrilin.
The Prince of Denmark (Flywheel) and the visitor from Moscow both wrote
in their notebooks, without collusion:
"The ceremony opened with a report by Comrade Gavrilin, Chairman of the
Stargorod Communal Services. The crowd listened attentively."
The  two  correspondents were people of completely different types. The
Muscovite was young and  single,  while Flywheel  was burdened  with a large
family and had passed his forties some time ago. One had lived in Moscow all
his life, while the other  had  never been  there. The Muscovite liked beer,
while Flywheel  never  let anything but  vodka pass his  lips.  Despite this
difference  in  character,  age,  habits   and   upbringing,   however,  the
impressions  of  both  the  journalists were  cast  in the  same  hackneyed,
second-hand,  dust-covered  phrases.  Their  pencils  began  scratching  and
another observation was recorded in the notebooks: "On this day of festivity
it is as though the streets of Stargorod have grown wider. . . ."
Gavrilin  began his speech in a  good  and simple  fashion. "Building a
tramway is not like buying a donkey."
A loud guffaw was suddenly heard from Ostap Bender in the crowd; he had
appreciated the remark. Heartened by the response, Gavrilin, without knowing
why himself, suddenly switched to the international situation. Several times
he attempted to bring  his speech back on to  the rails, but, to his horror,
found  he  was  unable to.  The  international  words  just  flowed  out  by
themselves, against the speaker's will. After Chamberlain, to whom  Gavrilin
devoted  half  an hour, the  international  arena was  taken by the American
Senator  Borah;  the  crowd  began to  wilt. Both correspondents wrote: "The
speaker  described  the  international situation in vivid language.  .  . ."
Gavrilin,  now  worked up,  made  some nasty  comments  about  the  Rumanian
nobility  and then turned to  Mussolini. It was only towards the end  of his
speech that he was able to suppress his  second international nature and say
in a good, businesslike way:
"And so, Comrades, I think that the tram about to leave the depot . . .
is  leaving on  whose  account? Yours, of  course, Comrades-and  that of all
workers   who  have  really  worked,  not  from  fear,  Comrades,  but  from
conscience. It  is also  due, Comrades,  to  that honest  Soviet specialist,
Chief Engineer Treukhov. We must thank him as well."
A search  for  Treukhov  was made, but he  was  not to  be  found.  The
representative  of the dairy co-operatives, who had been itching to have his
say, squeezed  through  to the front  of the platform, waved  his hand,  and
began speaking loudly  of  the international  situation. At the  end  of the
speech, both correspondents promptly jotted down, and they  listened  to the
feeble applause: "Loud applause turning into an ovation." They both wondered
whether "turning  into an ovation" wasn't too strong. The Muscovite made  up
his mind to cross it out. Flywheel sighed and left it.
The sun rapidly rolled  down an inclined plane.  Slogans resounded from
the platform, and the band  played a flourish. The  sky  became a vivid dark
blue and the meeting went on and on. Both the speakers and the listeners had
felt  for some time  that something was  wrong, that the meeting had gone on
much too long and that the tramway should be started up as soon as possible.
But they had all become so used to talking that they could not stop.
Treukhov was  finally found. He  was covered with dirt  and took a long
time to wash his face and hands before going on to the platform.
"Comrade Treukhov, chief engineer, will now say a few words," announced
Gavrilin jubilantly. "Well,  say something-I said all the wrong things,"  he
added in a whisper.
Treukhov wanted to  say a number  of things. About voluntary Saturdays,
the difficulties of his work, and about everything  that  had  been done and
remained to do. And there was  a  lot to be done: the town ought to do  away
with  the  horrible  market;  there  were  covered  glass  buildings  to  be
constructed; a permanent  bridge  could  be built  instead  of  the  present
temporary one, which was swept away each year by the ice drifts, and finally
there was the plan for a very large meat-refrigeration plant.
Treukhov opened  his  mouth and,  stuttering, began.  "Comrades  !  The
international position of our  country . . ." And then he went on  to burble
such boring truisms that the crowd, now listening to its sixth international
speech, lost interest.
It was only when he had finished that Treukhov realized he had not said
a  word  about the tramway.  "It's  a  shame," he said to  himself, "we have
absolutely no idea how to make speeches."
He remembered  hearing a speech by a French Communist at  a  meeting in
Moscow. The Frenchman was talking about the bourgeois press. "Those acrobats
of the pen, those virtuosos of farce, those jackals of the rotary press," he
exclaimed. The first  part of his speech had been delivered in the key of A,
the second in C, and the final part, the pathetique, had been  in the key of
E. His gestures were moderate and elegant.
"But  we  only  make a mess of things," decided Treukhov. "It would  be
better if we didn't talk at all."
It was  completely  dark when the chairman  of  the  province executive
committee  snipped  the  red  tape  sealing  off  the  depot.  Workers   and
representatives of public organizations noisily began taking  their seats in
the  trams.  There  was a  tinkling  of bells and the first tram, driven  by
Treukhov himself, sailed out of the depot to the  accompaniment of deafening
shouts from the crowd and groans from the band. The  illuminated cars seemed
even more dazzling than in the  daytime. They made their way through Gusishe
in  a line;  passing  under the railway bridge, they climbed easily into the
town  and  turned into Greater Pushkin Street. The  band was  in  the second
tramcar; poking their trumpets out  of  the windows they played the Budyonny
march.
Gavrilin,  in a conductor's  coat and with  a bag across his shoulders,
smiled tenderly as he  jumped from one car  to another, ringing the  bell at
the wrong time and handing out invitations to:
on May 1 at 9 p.m.
GALA EVENING
at the COMMUNAL SERVICES WORKERS' CLUB
Programme
1. Report by Comrade Mosin.
2. Award of certificates by the Communal Service Workers' Union.
3. Informal half: grand concert, family supper and bar.
On the  platform of the last car stood Victor Polesov, who had  somehow
or other been included among the guests  of honour. He sniffed the motor. To
his extreme surprise, it looked perfectly all right and seemed to be working
normally. The glass in  the  windows was not  rattling,  and, looking at the
panes closely, he saw that they were padded with rubber. He had already made
several comments to the driver and was now considered by the public to be an
expert on trams in the West.
"The  pneumatic brake isn't  working too well,"  said  Polesov, looking
triumphantly at the passengers. "It's not sucking!"
"Nobody asked  you," replied  the  driver. "It  will no  doubt suck all
right,"
Having  made a  festive round of  the town,  the  cars returned  to the
depot, where a crowd was  waiting for them. Treukhov  was tossed in  the air
beneath the full glare of electric lights. They also tried tossing Gavrilin,
but since he  weighed almost  216 pounds and did not  soar very high, he was
quickly set  down  again. Comrade Mosin and  various  technicians were  also
tossed. Victor  Polesov was then tossed  for the second time  that day. This
time he did not kick  with his  legs, but soared up and down, gazing sternly
and seriously at  the starry sky. As he soared up for the last time, Polesov
noticed that  the person holding him  by the  foot  and laughing nastily was
none other than the  former  marshal of  the  nobility, Ippolit  Matveyevich
Vorobyaninov. Polesov politely freed himself and went a short distance away,
still keeping the marshal in sight. Observing  that Ippolit  Matveyevich and
the  young  stranger  with  him,  clearly an  ex-officer,  were leaving,  he
cautiously started to follow them.
As soon as everything was over, and Comrade Gavrilin was sitting in his
lilac Fiat  waiting  for Treukhov to  issue final instructions so  that they
could then drive  together  to  the club,  a  Ford  station-wagon containing
newsreel cameramen drove up to the depot gates.
A  man wearing  twelve-sided horn-rimmed  spectacles  and  a sleeveless
leather coat  was  the first to spring nimbly  out  of the vehicle.  A  long
pointed beard grew straight  out of his  Adam's apple. A second man  carried
the camera and kept tripping over a long scarf of the kind that Ostap Bender
usually called chic moderne.  Next  came  assistants,  lights and girls. The
whole group tore into the depot with loud shouts.
"Attention!"  cried the bearded  owner  of the leather coat. "Nick, set
the lights up!"
Treukhov turned crimson and went over to the late arrivals.
"Are you the newsreel reporters?" he asked. "Why didn't you come during
the day? "
"When is the tramway going to be opened? "
"It has already been opened."
"Yes, yes, we are a little late. We came across some good nature shots.
There was loads of work. A sunset! But, anyway,  we'll manage. Nick, lights!
Close-up of  a turning  wheel. Close-up  of  the  feet of  the moving crowd.
Lyuda, Milochka, start walking! Nick, action! Off you go! Keep walking, keep
walking  !  That's  it,  thank  you!  Now we'll  take the  builder.  Comrade
Treukhov?  Would   you   mind,  Comrade   Treukhov?   No,   not  like  that.
Three-quarters. Like this, it's  more original!  Against a tram  . . . Nick!
Action! Say something! "
"I. . . I. . . honestly, I feel so awkward!"
"Splendid! Good! Say something else!  Now you're talking to  the  first
passenger. Lyuda, come into the picture! That's it.  Breathe  deeper, you're
excited!  .  . . Nick! A close-up  of their legs!  Action! That's it. Thanks
very much. Cut! "
Gavrilin clambered  out of the  throbbing Fiat and went  to  fetch  his
missing friend. The producer with the hairy Adam's apple came to life.
"Nick!  Over  here!  A  marvellous character type.  A  worker!  A  tram
passenger.  Breathe  deeper, you're excited! You've  never been  in  a  tram
before. Breathe! "
Gavrilin wheezed malevolently.
"Marvellous!  Milochka, come here! Greetings from  the Communist Youth!
Breathe deeper, you're excited! That's it! Swell! Nick, cut!"
"Aren't you going to film the tramway?" asked Treukhov shyly.
"You see," lowed the leather producer, "the lighting conditions make it
difficult. We'll have to fill in the shots in Moscow. 'Bye-'bye!"
The newsreel reporters disappeared quicker than lightning.
"Well,  let's  go and  relax, pal,"  said  Gavrilin. "What's this?  You
smoking!"
"I've begun smoking," confessed Treukhov. "I couldn't stop myself."
At the family gathering, the hungry Treukhov smoked one cigarette after
another,  drank  three  glasses  of  vodka,  and became hopelessly drunk. He
kissed everyone and  they kissed him. He tried to say  something nice to his
wife, but only burst into laughter. Then he shook Gavrilin's hand for a long
time and said:
"You're a strange one! You should learn to  build railway bridges. It's
a wonderful science, and the  chief thing is that  it's so simple.  A bridge
across the Hudson . . ."
Half an hour later he was  completely gone and made a Philippic against
the bourgeois press.
"Those acrobats of the press, those hyenas of the pen!  Those virtuosos
of the rotary printing machine!" he cried.
His wife took him home in a horse-cab.
"I want to go by tram," he said to his wife.  "Can't you understand? If
there's  a  tramway system, we should use  it.  Why? First, because it's  an
advantage!"
Polesov  followed  the concessionaires, spent  some  time mustering his
courage,  and  finally,  waiting until there was  no  one  about, went up to
Vorobyaninov.
"Good evening, Mr. Ippolit Matveyevich!" he said respectfully.
Vorobyaninov turned pale. "I don't think I know you," he mumbled.
Ostap   stuck  out   his   right   shoulder  and   went   up   to   the
mechanic-intellectual. "Come on  now, what is  it  that you want  to tell my
friend?"
"Don't be alarmed," whispered Polesov, "Elena Stanislavovna sent me."
"What! Is she here?"
"Yes, and she wants to see you."
"Why?" asked Ostap. "And who are you?"
"I . . . Don't you think anything of the sort, Ippolit Matveyevich. You
don't know me, but I remember you very well."
"I'd   like   to   visit  Elena   Stanislavovna,"   said   Vorobyaninov
indecisively.
"She's very anxious to see you."
"Yes, but how did she find out? "
"I  saw  you in  the  corridor  of the  communal  services building and
thought to myself for  a long time:  'I know that face.'  Then I remembered.
Don't  worry  about anything, Ippolit Matveyevich. It will all be absolutely
secret."
"Do you know the woman?" asked Ostap in a business-like tone.
"Mm . . . yes. An old friend."
"Then we might go  and have  supper with your  old friend. I'm famished
and all the shops are shut."
"We probably can."
"Let's go, then. Lead the way, mysterious stranger."
And  Victor  Mikhailovich,  continually  looking behind  him,  led  the
partners  through   the   back  yards  to  the   fortune-teller's  house  on
Pereleshinsky Street.

When a woman grows old, many unpleasant things may happen to  her:  her
teeth may  fall out, her hair may  thin out and  turn grey, she  may  become
short-winded, she may unexpectedly  develop fat or  grow extremely thin, but
her  voice  never  changes.  It  remains  just as  it was  when  she  was  a
schoolgirl, a bride, or some young rake's mistress.
That was why Vorobyaninov trembled when Polesov knocked at the door and
Elena Stanislavovna  answered:  "Who's that?" His mistress's  voice  was the
same as it had been in 1899 just before the opening  of the Paris Fair.  But
as soon as he entered  the  room, squinting from  the glare of the light, he
saw that there was not a trace of her former beauty left.
"How you've changed," he said involuntarily.
The old woman threw  herself on to his neck. "Thank you,"  she said. "I
know  what you risk by coming  here  to see  me.  You're the same chivalrous
knight.  I'm not  going-  to  ask you  why you're here  from Paris. I'm  not
curious, you see."
"But  I haven't come from Paris  at all," said  Ippolit  Matveyevich in
confusion.
"My colleague  and  I  have come from  Berlin,"  Ostap  corrected  her,
nudging Ippolit Matveyevich, "but it's  not advisable to  talk about it  too
loudly."
"Oh, how pleased I am  to see you," shrilled the  fortune-teller. "Come
in here,  into this room. And I'm sorry, Victor Mikhailovich,  but  couldn't
you come back in half an hour?"
"Oh!" Ostap remarked. "The first meeting.  Difficult  moments! Allow me
to withdraw as well. May I come with you, dear Victor Mikhailovich?"
The  mechanic  trembled  with  joy.  They  both  went off  to Polesov's
apartment, where Ostap, sitting  on a piece of  one of  the gates  of No.  5
Pereleshinsky Street, outlined his phantasmagoric ideas for the salvation of
the motherland to the  dumbstruck artisan.  An  hour  later they returned to
find the old couple lost in reminiscence.
"And do you remember, Elena  Stanislavovna?"  Ippolit  Matveyevich  was
saying.
"And  do you remember,  Ippolit Matveyevich?"  Elena  Stanislavovna was
saying.
"The  psychological moment for supper  seems  to have arrived," thought
Ostap,  and,  interrupting  Ippolit  Matveyevich,  who  was  recalling   the
elections  to  the Tsarist  town council, said: "They  have  a  very strange
custom in Berlin. They eat so late that you can't tell whether it's an early
supper or a late lunch."
Elena  Stanislavovna  gave  a  start,   took   her  rabbit's  eyes  off
Vorobyaninov, and dragged herself into the kitchen.
"And now we must act, act, and act," said Ostap, lowering  his voice to
a conspiratorial whisper.  He took Polesov  by the  arm.  "The  old woman is
reliable, isn't she, and won't give us away?"
Polesov joined his hands as though praying.
"What's your political credo?"
"Always!" replied Polesov delightedly.
"You support Kirillov, I hope?"
"Yes, indeed." Polesov stood at attention.
"Russia will not forget you," Ostap rapped out.
Holding a pastry in his hand, Ippolit Matveyevich listened in dismay to
Ostap, but there was no holding the smooth operator. He was carried away. He
felt inspired and ecstatically  pleased at  this above-average blackmail. He
paced up and down like a leopard.
This was the state in which Elena Stanislavovna found him as she carted
in the  samovar from the kitchen. Ostap gallantly  ran over to her, took the
samovar without  stopping, and  placed  it on the table. The samovar  gave a
peep and Ostap decided to act.
"Madame," he said, "we are happy to see in you . . ."
He did not know whom he was happy to see in Elena Stanislavovna. He had
to  start again. Of all the flowery expressions of  the Tsarist regime, only
one kept coming to mind-"has graciously commanded". This was  out  of place,
so he began in a businesslike way.
"Strict secrecy. A  state secret." He pointed  to Vorobyaninov. "Who do
you  think this  powerful old man  is? Don't  say  you don't  know. He's the
master-mind,  the father  of Russian  democracy and  a person  close  to the
emperor."
Ippolit  Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height and goggled
in  confusion. He  had no  idea  of what  was happening,  but  knowing  from
experience that  Ostap Bender never  did anything  without good reason, kept
silent. Polesov was thrilled. He stood with his chin tucked in, like someone
about to begin a parade.
Elena Stanislavovna sat down in a chair and looked at Ostap in fright.
"Are there  many of us in the  town?" he asked  outright.  "What's  the
general feeling?"
"Given the absence .  . ." said Polesov, and began a muddled account of
his troubles. These included that conceited bum, the yard-keeper from no. 5,
the three-eighths-inch dies, the tramway, and so on.
"Good!" snapped  Ostap. "Elena Stanislavovna!  With your  assistance we
want to contact the best people in the town who have been forced underground
by a cruel fate. Who can we ask to come here?"
"Who can we ask! Maxim Petrovich and his wife."
"No women,"  Ostap  corrected  her.  "You  will  be  the only  pleasant
exception. Who else?"
From the discussion, in which Polesov also took an active part, it came
to light that they could ask Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov,  a former Tsarist
town councillor, who had now in some miraculous  way been raised to the rank
of a Soviet official; Dyadyev, owner of Fastpack; Kislarsky, chairman of the
Odessa  Roll  Bakery  of  the  Moscow Bun Artel; and two young  men who were
nameless but fully reliable.
"In that  case,  please  ask them  to  come here at once  for  a  small
conference. In the greatest secrecy."
Polesov  began speaking.  "I'll  fetch  Maxim  Petrovich,  Nikesha, and
Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna,  be so good as to run down to Fastpack
for Kislarsky."
Polesov  sped  off.  The  fortune-teller  looked  reverently at Ippolit
Matveyevich and also went off.
"What does this mean?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.
"It means," retorted Ostap, "that you're behind the times."
"Why?"
"Because! Excuse a vulgar question, but how much money do you have?"
"What money?"
"All kinds-including silver and copper."
"Thirty-five roubles."
"And I  suppose  you  intended  to  recover the  entire outlay  on  the
enterprise with that much money? "
Ippolit Matveyevich was silent.
"Here's the point, dear boss. I reckon you understand me. You will have
to be the master-mind and person close to the emperor for an hour or so."
"Why?"
"Because  we need capital.  Tomorrow's my wedding. I'm  not a beggar. I
want to have a good time on that memorable day."
"What do T have to do?" groaned Ippolit Matveyevich.
"You  have to keep quiet. Puff  out your  cheeks  now and then to  look
important."
"But that's. . .fraud!"
"Who are you  to talk-Count Tolstoy or Darwin?  That comes  well from a
man who was only yesterday preparing to break  into Gritsatsuyev's apartment
at night and steal her furniture.  Don't think too much. Just keep quiet and
don't forget to puff out your cheeks."
"Why  involve  ourselves in  such  a  dangerous business. We  might  be
betrayed."
"Don't worry  about that.  I don't  bet on poor  odds. We'll work it so
that none of them understands anything. Let's have some tea."
While the concessionaires were eating and drinking,  and the parrot was
cracking sunflower seeds, the guests began arriving at the apartment.
Nikesha and  Vladya came with  Victor Mikhailovich. He was  hesitant to
introduce the young men to the master-mind. They  sat  down in a  corner and
watched the father of Russian democracy eating cold veal. Nikesha and Vladya
were complete and utter  gawks.  Both were  in their late twenties and  were
apparently very pleased at being invited to the meeting.
Charusknikov, the former  Tsarist  town councillor, was a fat,  elderly
man. He gave Ippolit Matveyevich a prolonged handshake  and  peered into his
face.
Under  the  supervision  of  Ostap,  the  old-timers  began  exchanging
reminiscences.
As  soon  as the  conversation was moving  smoothly,  Ostap  turned  to
Charushnikov. "Which regiment were you in?"
Charushnikov  took a deep breath. "I . . . I . . . wasn't, so to speak,
in any, since I was entrusted with the confidence of society and was elected
to office."
"Are you a member of the upper class?"
"Yes, I was."
"I hope you still are. Stand firm! We shall need your help. Has Polesov
told you?  We will  be helped from abroad.  It's only a  question of  public
opinion. The organization is strictly secret. Be careful!"
Ostap chased Polesov away  from Nikesha and Vladya and  asked them with
genuine severity: "Which regiment were you in? You  will have  to serve your
fatherland.  Are you  members of  the upper class? Very good. The West  will
help us. Stand firm! Contributions-I mean the organization-will  be strictly
secret. Be careful!"
Ostap was on  form. Things seemed to be going well. Ostap led the owner
of Fastpack into a corner as soon as Elena Stanislavovna had introduced him,
advised  him to  stand firm, inquired  which  regiment he had served in, and
promised  him   assistance   from  abroad   and   complete  secrecy  of  the
organization.  The first  reaction of the owner of Fastpack was a  desire to
run away from the conspiratorial apartment as soon as possible. He felt that
his firm was too solvent to  engage in such a risky business.  But  taking a
look at Ostap's athletic figure, he hesitated and began thinking: "Supposing
. . . Anyway, it all depends on what kind of sauce this thing will be served
with."
The tea-party conversation livened up. Those initiated religiously kept
the secret and chatted about the town.
Last to arrive was citizen  Kislarsky, who, being neither a  member  of
the upper class nor a former guardsman, quickly sized up the situation after
a brief talk with Ostap.
"Stand firm!" said Ostap instructively.
Kislarsky promised he would.
"As a representative of private enterprise, you cannot ignore the cries
of the people."
Kislarsky saddened sympathetically.
"Do  you  know who  that is  sitting there?"  asked Ostap,  pointing to
Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Of course," said Kislarsky. "It's Mr. Vorobyaninov."
"That,"  said  Ostap,  "is  the  master-mind,  the  father  of  Russian
democracy and a person close to the emperor."
Two years' solitary confinement at best, thought  Kislarsky,  beginning
to tremble. Why did I have to come here?
"The  secret  Alliance of the  Sword and Ploughshare," whispered  Ostap
ominously.
Ten years, flashed through Kislarsky's mind.
"You can leave, by the way, but I warn you, we have a long reach." I'll
show  you, you son of a bitch, thought  Ostap. You'll not get away from here
for less than a hundred roubles.
Kislarsky became like marble.  That  day he had had  such a good, quiet
dinner of  chicken gizzards  and soup  with nuts, and  knew nothing  of  the
terrible "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare". He stayed. The words "long
reach" made an unfavourable impression on him.
"Citizens,"  said  Ostap, opening  the meeting, "life dictates  its own
laws,  its  own cruel  laws. I am not going to  talk about  the  aim of  our
gathering-you all know it. Our aim is sacred. From everywhere we hear cries.
From every corner of our huge  country people are calling for help.  We must
extend a helping hand and we will do so. Some of you have work and eat bread
and butter;  others earn on the side  and eat  caviar sandwiches. All of you
sleep in your own beds and wrap yourselves in warm blankets. It  is only the
young  children, the waifs  and  strays,  who  are not  looked  after. These
flowers of  the  street,  or, as the white-collar  proletarians  call  them,
'flowers in asphalt', deserve a better lot. We must help  them, gentlemen of
the jury, and, gentlemen of the jury, we will do so."
The  smooth  operator's  speech  caused different  reactions  among the
audience.
Polesov  could  not understand  his  young friend,  the guards officer.
"What children?" he wondered. "Why children?"
Ippolit Matveyevich did not even try to understand. He was utterly sick
and tired with the whole business and sat there in silence, puffing out  his
cheeks.
Elena Stanislavovna  became  melancholy.  Nikesha  and  Vladya gazed in
devotion at Ostap's sky-blue waistcoat.
The  owner  of Fastpack was extremely pleased. Nicely put,  he decided.
With that  sauce I might even contribute some  money. If  it's successful, I
get the  credit. If it's not,  I don't know anything about it. I just helped
the children, and that's all.
Charushnikov  exchanged a significant look with Dyadyev and, giving the
speaker his  due  for  conspiratorial ability, continued rolling  pellets of
bread across the table.
Kislarsky was in seventh heaven. What a brain,  he thought. He  felt he
had never loved waifs and strays as much as that evening.
"Comrades," Ostap continued, "immediate help is required.  We must tear
these  children from the clutches  of the street, and we will do so. We will
help  these children. Let us remember that they are  the  flowers of life. I
now invite you to make your contributions and help the children-the children
alone and no one else. Do you understand me? "
Ostap took a receipt book from his side pocket.
"Please make your contributions. Ippolit Matveyevich will  vouch for my
authority."
Ippolit Matveyevich puffed out his cheeks  and bowed his head. At this,
even the dopey Nikesha and Vladya, and the fidgety  mechanic, too,  realized
the point of Ostap's allusions.
"In  order of seniority, gentlemen," said Ostap. "We'll begin with dear
Maxim Petrovich."
Maxim Petrovich fidgeted and forced himself to give thirty roubles. "In
better times I'd give more," he declared.
"Better  times will soon  be  coming,"  said  Ostap. "Anyway,  that has
nothing to do with the children who I am at present representing."
Nikesha and Vladya gave eight roubles. "That's not much, young men."
The young men reddened. Polesov ran home  and brought back fifty. "Well
done, hussar,"  said  Ostap. "For  a  car-owning  hussar working by  himself
that's enough for the first time. What say the merchants?"
Dyadyev and Kislarsky haggled for some time and complained about taxes.
Ostap was unmoved. "I consider such talk  out of  place in the presence
of Ippolit Matveyevich."
Ippolit  Matveyevich bowed  his  head.  The merchants  contributed  two
hundred roubles each for the benefit of the children.
"Four hundred and eighty-five roubles in all," announced Ostap. "Hm . .
. twelve roubles short of a round figure."
Elena Stanislavovna, who  had been trying to stand firm for some  time,
went into  the  bedroom and  brought back the necessary twelve roubles  in a
bag.
The remaining part of the meeting was more subdued  and less festive in
nature. Ostap began to get frisky.  Elena Stanislavovna drooped  completely.
The guests gradually dispersed, respectfully taking leave of the organizers.
"You  will be  given special notice  of the date  of our next meeting,"
said Ostap  as they left. "It's  strictly  secret. The  cause must  be  kept
secret. It's also in your own interests, by the way."
At these words,  Kislarsky  felt the urge to give another fifty roubles
and not to come to any more meetings. He only just restrained himself.
"Right,"  said  Ostap, "let's get moving.  Ippolit Matveyevich,  you, I