The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a little boy taken to be washed.
«She's dropped off. The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed. Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out how much an ice-bag costs».
Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable superiority in such matters.
It was a long way to the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.
It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge from an iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:
«Always in me way, durn em».
In the middle of the square, near the bust of the «poet Zhukovsky, which was inscribed with the words „Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of the Earth“, an animated conversation was in progress following the news of Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The general opinion of the assembled citizens could have been summed up as „We all have to go sometime“ and „What the Lord gives, the Lord takes back“».
The hairdresser «Pierre and Constantine»-who also answered readily to the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the way-once again took the opportunity to air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok.
«Modern science», Andrew Ivanovich was saying, «has achieved the impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his chin. In the old days that usually resulted in blood-poisoning. But they say that nowadays, in Moscow-I don't know whether it's true or not-a freshly sterilized shaving brush is used for every customer». The citizens gave long sighs. «Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Andrew?» «How could there be a different brush for every person? That's a good one!»
Prusis, a former member of the proletariat intelligentsia, and now a private stall-owner, actually became excited.
«Wait a moment, Andrew Ivanovich. According to the latest census, the population of Moscow is more than two million. That means they'd need more than two million brushes. Seems rather curious».
The conversation was becoming heated, and heaven only knows how it would have ended had not Ippolit Matveyevich appeared at the end of the street. «He's off to the chemist's again. Things must be bad». «The old woman will die. Bezenchuk isn't running round the town in a flurry for nothing». «What does the doctor say?»
«What doctor? Do you call those people in the social-insurance office doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!»
«Pierre and Constantine», who had been longing for a chance to make a pronouncement on the subject of medicine, looked around cautiously, and said:
«Haemoglobin is what counts nowadays». Having said that, he fell silent. The citizens also fell silent, each reflecting in his own way on the mysterious power of haemoglobin.
When the moon rose and cast its minty light on the miniature bust of Zhukovsky, a rude word could clearly be seen chalked on the poet's bronze back.
This inscription had first appeared on June 15, 1897, the same day that the bust had been unveiled. And despite all the efforts of the tsarist police, and later the Soviet militia, the defamatory word had reappeared each day with unfailing regularity.
The samovars were already singing in the little wooden houses with their outside shutters, and it was time for supper. The citizens stopped wasting their time and went their way. A wind began to blow.
In the meantime Claudia Ivanovna was dying. First she asked for something to drink, then said she had to get up and fetch Ippolit Matveyevich's best boots from the cobbler. One moment she complained of the dust which, as she put it, was enough to make you choke, and the next asked for all the lamps to be lit.
Ippolit Matveyevich paced up and down the room, tired of worrying. His mind was full of unpleasant, practical thoughts. He was thinking how he would have to ask for an advance at the mutual assistance office, fetch the priest, and answer letters of condolence from relatives. To take his mind off these things, Ippolit Matveyevich went out on the porch. There, in the green light of the moon, stood Bezenchuk the undertaker.
«So how would you like it, Mr. Vorobyaninov?» asked the undertaker, hugging his cap to his chest. «Yes, probably», answered Ippolit Matveyevich gloomily. «Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?» said Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. «Go to the devil! You make me sick!»
«I'm not doin' nothin'. I'm only askin' about the tassels and brocade. How shall I make it? Best quality? Or how?»
«No tassels or brocade. Just an ordinary coffin made of pine-wood. Do you understand?»
Bezenchuk put his finger to his lips to show that he understood perfectly, turned round and, managing to balance his cap on his head although he was staggering, went off. It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed that he was blind drunk.
Ippolit Matveyevich felt singularly upset. He tried to picture himself coming home to an empty, dirty house. He was afraid his mother-in-law's death would deprive him of all those little luxuries and set ways he had acquired with such effort since the revolutiona revolution which had stripped him of much greater luxuries and a grander way of life. «Should I marry?» he wondered. «But who? The militia chief's niece or Barbara Stepanova, Prusis's sister? Or maybe I should hire a housekeeper. But what's the use? She would only drag me around the law courts. And it would cost me something, too!»
The future suddenly looked black for Ippolit Matveyevich. Full of indignation and disgust at everything around him, he went back into the house. Claudia Ivanovna was no longer delirious. Lying high on her pillows, she looked at Ippolit Matveyevich, in full command of her faculties, and even sternly, he thought.
«Ippolit Matveyevich», she whispered clearly. «Sit close to me. I want to tell you something».
Ippolit Matveyevich sat down in annoyance, peering into his mother-in-law's thin, bewhiskered face. He made an attempt to smile and say something encouraging, but the smile was hideous and no words of encouragement came to him. An awkward wheezing noise was all he could produce.
«Ippolit», repeated his mother-in-law, «do you remember our drawing-room suite?»
«Which one?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich with that kind of polite attention that is only accorded to the very sick.
«The one … upholstered in English chintz».
«You mean the suite in my house?»
«Yes, in Stargorod».
«Yes, I remember it very well … a sofa, a dozen chairs and a round table with six legs. It was splendid furniture. Made by Hambs…. But why does it come to mind?»
Claudia Ivanovna, however, was unable to answer. Her face had slowly begun to turn the colour of copper sulphate. For some reason Ippolit Matveyevich also caught his breath. He clearly remembered the drawing-room in his house and its symmetrically arranged walnut furniture with curved legs, the polished parquet floor, the old brown grand piano, and the oval black-framed daguerreotypes of high-ranking relatives on the walls.
Claudia Ivanovna then said in a wooden, apathetic voice:
«I sewed my jewels into the seat of a chair».
Ippolit Matveyevich looked sideways at the old woman.
«What jewels?» he asked mechanically, then, suddenly realizing what she had said, added quickly:
«Weren't they taken when the house was searched?»
«I hid the jewels in a chair», repeated the old woman stubbornly.
Ippolit Matveyevich jumped up and, taking a close look at Claudia Ivanovna's stony face lit by the paraffin lamp, saw she was not raving.
«Your jewels!» he cried, startled at the loudness of his