The Twelve Chairs (25 page)

As Madame  Gritsatsuyev  was leaving the  block of  offices,  the  more
modest  ranks of employees were  beginning to arrive at  the  House  of  the
Peoples:  there  were messengers, in-and-out girls, duty telephonists, young
assistant accountants, and state-sponsored apprentices.
Among them was Nikifor Lapis,  a  very  young man with  a  sheep's-head
haircut and a cheeky face.
The  ignorant, the stubborn, and those making their first visit  to the
House of the Peoples entered through the front entrance.  Nikifor Lapis made
his  way  into the  building through  the  dispensary. At  the  House of the
Peoples he was completely at home  and knew the  quickest  ways to the oases
where, under the leafy shade of departmental journals, royalties gushed from
clear springs.
First of all, Nikifor went to the snack-bar. The nickel-plated register
made  a  musical  sound  and  ejected  three  checks. Nikifor consumed  some
yoghurt, having opened the paper-covered jar, then a cream puff which looked
like  a miniature flower-bed. He washed  it  all down  with tea. Then  Lapis
leisurely began making the round of his possessions.
His  first  visit  was to the editorial office of the monthly  sporting
magazine Gerasim and  Mumu.  Comrade  Napernikov  had  not yet  arrived,  so
Nikifor moved  on to  the Hygroscopic Herald, the weekly mouthpiece by which
pharmaceutical workers communicated with the outside world.
"Good morning!" said Nikifor. "I've written a marvellous poem."
"What about?" asked the editor  of the literary page. "On what subject?
You know, Trubetskoi, our magazine . . ."
To  give a  more subtle definition  of the essence of  the  Hygroscopic
Herald, the editor gestured with his fingers.
Trubetskoi-Lapis  looked  at  his   white  sailcloth  trousers,  leaned
backward, and said in a singsong voice: "The Ballad of the Gangrene".
'.'That's  interesting," said the hygroscopic  individual. "It's  about
time we introduced prophylaxis in popular form."
Lapis immediately began declaiming:
"Gavrila took to bed with gangrene.
The gangrene made Gavrila sick . . ."
The poem went  on in the same heroic  iambic tetrameter to  relate how,
through ignorance, Gavrila  failed to go to the chemist's  in time  and died
because he had not put iodine on a scratch.
"You're making progress, Trubetskoi," said the editor in approval. "But
we'd like something a bit longer. Do you understand?"
He  began  moving  his fingers, but  nevertheless took  the  terrifying
ballad, promising to pay on Tuesday.
In the magazine Telegraphist's Week Lapis was greeted hospitably.
"A good thing you've come,  Trubetskoi. We need some  verse right away.
But it must be about life, life, and  life.  No lyrical stuff. Do  you hear,
Trubetskoi? Something about the everyday life of post-office workers, but at
the same time . . . Do you get me?"
"Only  yesterday I was thinking about  the everyday life of post-office
workers,  and I concocted the following poem. It's called 'The Last Letter'.
Here it is:
"Gavrila had a job as postman.
Gavrila took the letters round . . ."
The story of Gavrila was contained in seventy-two lines. At the  end of
the  poem, Gavrila, although wounded by a fascist bullet, managed to deliver
the letter to the right address.
"Where does it take place? " they asked Lapis.
It was  a good question.  There  were no fascists in  the  USSR, and no
Gavrilas or members of the post-office union abroad.
"What's  wrong?" asked Lapis. "It takes place here, of course, and  the
fascist is disguised."
"You know, Trubetskoi, you'd do better to write about a radio station."
"Why don't you want the postman? "
"Let's wait a bit. We'll take it conditionally.
The crestfallen Nikifor Trubetskoi-Lapis went back to Gerasim and Mumu.
Napernikov  was already at  his desk. On  the wall  hung  a greatly enlarged
picture of Turgenev with a pince-nez, waders,  and a  double-barrel  shotgun
across his shoulders. Beside Napernikov stood Lapis's rival, a poet from the
suburbs.
The same old story  of Gavrila  was begun again, but this time  with  a
hunting  twist  to  it.  The work  went under  the  title  of "The Poacher's
Prayer".
Gavrila lay in wait for rabbits.
Gavrila shot and winged a doe . . .
"Very  good!"  said  the kindly  Napernikov. "You have surpassed Entich
himself  in  this  poem, Trubetskoi. Only there are one or two things to  be
changed. The first thing is to get rid of the word 'prayer'."
"And 'rabbit'," said the rival.
"Why 'rabbit'?" asked Nikifor in surprise.
"It's the wrong season."
"You hear that, Trubetskoi! Change the word 'rabbit' as well."
After transformation the poem bore the title "The Poacher's Lesson" and
the rabbits  were  changed to snipe. It then turned out that  snipe were not
game birds in the summer, either. In its final form the poem read:
Gavrila lay in wait for sparrows.
Gavrila shot and winged a bird . . .
After lunch in the canteen, Lapis set to work again. His white trousers
flashed up  and down the corridor. He entered various editorial offices  and
sold the many-faced Gavrila.
In the Co-operative Flute Gavrila was submitted under the title of "The
Eolean Recorder".
Gavrila worked behind the counter. Gavrila did a trade in flutes . . .
The simpletons in the voluminous magazine The  Forest as It Is bought a
short poem by Lapis entitled "On the Verge". It began like this:
Gavrila passed through virgin forest,
Hacking at the thick bamboo . . .
The last Gavrila for that day  worked in a bakery. He was found a place
in the editorial  office of The Cake Worker. The  poem had the long  and sad
title of "Bread, Standards of Output, and  One's  Sweetheart". The  poem was
dedicated to a mysterious Hina Chlek. The beginning was as epic as before:
Gavrila had a job as baker.
Gavrila baked the cakes and bread . . .
After a delicate argument, the dedication was deleted.
The saddest thing of all  was that  no one gave  Lapis any  money. Some
promised to  pay him  on  Tuesday,  others said Thursday,  or  Friday in two
weeks' time.  He was forced to go  and  borrow money from the enemy camp-the
place where he was never published.
Lapis  went  down to the second floor  and  entered the office  of  the
Lathe. To his misfortune he immediately bumped into Persidsky, the slogger.
"Ah!" exclaimed Persidsky, "Lapsus!"
"Listen,"  said Nikifor Lapis, lowering his  voice. "Let me  have three
roubles. Gerasim and Mumu owes me a pile of cash."
"I'll give you half a rouble. Wait a moment. I'm just coming."
And  Persidsky returned with a dozen employees of the  Lathe.  Everyone
joined in the conversation.
"Well, how have you been making out?" asked Persidsky.
"I've written a marvellous poem!"
"About Gavrila? Something peasanty? 'Gavrila ploughed the fields early.
Gavrila just adored his plough'?"
"Not about Gavrila. That's a pot-boiler," said Lapis defensively. "I've
written about the Caucasus."
"Have you ever been to the Caucasus?"
"I'm going in two weeks."
"Aren't you afraid, Lapis? There are jackals there."
"Takes more than that  to frighten me. Anyway, the ones in the Caucasus
aren't poisonous."
They all pricked up their ears at this reply.
"Tell me, Lapis," said Persidsky, "what do you think jackals are?"
"I know what they are. Leave me alone."
"All right, tell us then if you know."
"Well, they're sort of . . . like . . . snakes."
"Yes, of course,  right as  usual. You  think  a wild-goat's saddle  is
served at table together with the spurs."
"I never said that," cried Trubetskoi. . .
"You didn't say it, you wrote  it. Napernikov told me you tried to palm
off  some doggerel on Gerasim and  Mumu, supposed  to  be about the everyday
life of hunters. Honestly, Lapis, why do you write about things you've never
seen  and haven't the first  idea about? Why  is the peignoir in  your  poem
'Canton' an evening dress? Why?"
"You philistine!" said Lapis boastfully.
"Why is it that  in your poem 'The Budyonny Stakes' the jockey tightens
the hame strap and then gets into the  coach  box? Have you ever seen a hame
strap?"
"Yes."
"What's it like?"
"Leave me alone. You're nuts!" ,
"Have you ever seen a coach box or been to the races?"
"You  don't have to go everywhere!"  cried Lapis. "Pushkin wrote  poems
about Turkey without ever having been there."
"Oh, yes. Erzerum is in Tula province, of course."
Lapis did not appreciate the sarcasm. He  continued heatedly.  "Pushkin
wrote from material he  read. He read the history of the Pugachov revolt and
then wrote about it. It was Entich who told me about the races."
After this masterly defence, Persidsky dragged the resisting Lapis into
the next  room.  The onlookers followed.  On the wall hung a large newspaper
clipping edged in black like an obituary notice.
"Did you write this piece for the Captain's Bridge!"
"Yes, I did."
"I  believe it  was your first attempt  at prose. Congratulations! 'The
waves rolled across the pier and  fell headlong below like a jack.' A lot of
help to the Captain's  Bridge you are!' The Bridge won't forget you for some
time!"
"What's the matter?"
"The matter is . . . do you know what a jack is?"
"Of course I know. Leave me alone."
"How do you envisage a jack? Describe it in your own words."
"It. . . sort of. . . falls."
"A  jack  falls. Note  that,  everyone. A jack  falls headlong. Just  a
moment, Lapis, I'll bring you half a rouble. Don't let him go."
But this time, too, there  was  no  half-rouble forthcoming.  Persidsky
brought back the twenty-first volume of the Brockhaus encyclopaedia.
"Listen! 'Jack: a machine for lifting heavy weights. A simple jack used
for lifting carriages, etc., consists of  a mobile toothed bar gripped  by a
rod which is turned by means of a lever'  . . . And here . . . 'In 1879 John
Dixon set  up  the  obelisk  known  as Cleopatra's Needle by means  of  four
workers  operating  four  hydraulic  jacks.' And  this  instrument, in  your
opinion, can fall  headlong? So  Brockhaus  has deceived humanity  for fifty
years?  Why do you write such rubbish instead of  learning? Answer!" "I need
the money."
"But you never have any. You're always trying to cadge half-roubles."
"I bought  some furniture and  went through  my budget."  "And how much
furniture did you  buy? You get paid for your pot-boilers as much as they're
worth-a kopek."  "A kopek be damned. I bought a  chair at an auction which-"
"Is sort of like a snake? "
"No,  from a palace. But I had some bad  luck. Yesterday when I arrived
back from-"
"Hina Chlek's," cried  everyone present in one voice. "Hina!  I haven't
lived with Hina for years. I was returning from a discussion on  Mayakovsky.
I went in. The window was open. I felt at once something had happened."
"Dear,  dear,"  said  Persidsky,  covering his face  with his hands. "I
feel, Comrades, that Lapis's greatest masterpiece has been stolen.  'Gavrila
had a job as doorman; Gavrila used to open doors.'"
"Let  me finish.  Absolute vandalism! Some  wretches  had got into  the
apartment  and  ripped open the entire chair covering. Could anyone lend  me
five roubles for the repairs?"
"Compose  a  new  Gavrila  for  the repairs. I'll  even  give  you  the
beginning. Wait  a moment.  Yes, I know.  'Gavrila hastened  to the  market,
Gavrila  bought  a rotten chair.' Write it down  quickly. You can make  some
money on that in  the Chest-of-Drawers Gazette.  Oh, Trubetskoi, Trubetskoi!
Anyway, why  are you called Trubetskoi? Why don't you  choose a better name?
Niki for Dolgoruky. Or Nikifor  Valois. Or,  still  better, Citizen Niki-for
Sumarokov-Elston. If  ever you  manage to get some easy  job,  then you  can
write three  lines for Gerasim right away and you  have a marvellous way  to
save  yourself. One piece of rubbish is signed Sumarokov, the second Elston,
and the third Yusupov. God, you hack!"

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  the
light-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 tiny
Moscow 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 past
Ippolit 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 Count
Alexei Bulanov, the famous hermit hussar, he would  probably have hailed the
old 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  of
sanitation, and on account of which he  had not received for  six months the
apron 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?"
"Pussy," replied Ippolit Matveyevich with a snicker.
"That's more like it. So look, Pussy, see what's wrong with my back. It
hurts between the shoulder-blades."
Ostap pulled the cowboy shirt over  his head. Before Pussy Vorobyaninov
was  revealed the broad back of a provincial Antinous;  a back of enchanting
shape, 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,  Pussy,  and  what  risks  I  run  for  your  chairs.  These
arithmetical figures were branded  on me by the huge self-falling pen with a
No. 86 nib. I should point out to you that the damned pen fell on my back at
the very moment  I inserted  my hands  inside the chief  editor's chair. But
you! You can't do anything right! Who was it messed up Iznurenkov's chair so
that 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 do
that. Look after your health. Take me,  on the other hand. I got the widow's
chair.  I got the two Shukin chairs.  It was me who finally got Iznurenkov's
chair. It was me who went to the newspaper office and to  Lapis's. There was
only one chair that you managed to run down,  and that was  with the help of
your holy enemy, the archbishop."
Silently  walking  up and down in his bare  feet, the technical adviser
reasoned with the submissive Pussy.
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 in
the Columbus  Theatre  were a sure bet, but the theatre was about to make  a
trip  down the  Volga  aboard  the lottery  ship,  S.S.  Scriabin,  and  was
presenting the premiere of The Marriage that  day as the last  production of
the  season. The partners had to decide whether to stay in  Moscow and  look
for the chair lost in the wilds of Kalanchev Square, or  go on tour with the
troupe. 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."
Pussy'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 have
sixty roubles left. How much have you? Oh,  I forgot. At your age a maiden's
love is so expensive! I decree  that we go  together to the premiere  of The
Marriage.  Don't forget  to  wear tails. If the  chairs  are still there and
haven't been sold  to  pay  social-security  debts,  we  can leave tomorrow.
Remember,  Vorobyaninov,  we've now reached the  final act of the  comedy My
Mother-in-Low's  Treasure.  The  Finita  la  Comedia  is  fast  approaching,
Vorobyaninov. Don't gasp, my old friend. The call of the footlights!  Oh, my
younger  days!  Oh,  the  smell  of  the wings!  So many memories!  So  many
intrigues 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  the
beauty  and drank  tea  with  it  at little  round tables in  the yards. But
spring's span of life had ended and it could not reach the people. And it so
much wanted to be at the Pushkin monument where  the  young men were already
strolling about in their jazzy caps, drainpipe trousers, "dog's-delight" bow
ties, and boots.
Mauve-powdered  girls circulated  between the  holy  of  holies  of the
Moscow Consumers'  Union  and the  'Commune'  cooperative.  The  girls  were
swearing audibly. This was the hour when pedestrians slowed down their pace,
though not because Tverskaya Street was becoming crowded. Moscow horses were
no better than the Stargorod ones. They stamped their hooves just as much on
the edges of the roadway.  Cyclists  rode  noiselessly by  from their  first
large  international  match  at the Young Pioneer stadium. The ice-cream man
trundled along his green trolley full of May Thunder ice-cream, and squinted
timorously  at the militiaman; but the latter was chained to the spot by the
flashing 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 on
skewers were being  roasted in  full  view of the street in the  tiny eating
plates. Hot, appetizing fumes rose up to the bright sky. The sound of string
music  was  wafted from beer halls, small restaurants, and the 'Great Silent
Film' 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 sixteenth
row."
"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."
"Pussy,  you're  vulgar.  In  every well-built  theatre there  are  two
windows.  Only  courting  couples  and wealthy heirs  go  to the  box-office
window. The other citizens (they make up the majority, you  may observe)  go
straight 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 the
manager's  window, however,  there  was great activity. A colourful line had
formed. Young men in fashioned jackets and trousers of the same cut (which a
provincial could never have dreamed of owning) were confidently waving notes
from  friendly   directors,  actors,  editors,  theatrical  costumiers,  the
district  militia  chief,  and other  persons  closely  connected  with  the
theatre,  such as members of the theatre and film  critics' association, the
'Poor Mothers' Tears' society, the school council of the Experimental Circus
Workshop, and some extraordinary name,  like Fortinbras at Umslopogas. About
eight 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  my
galoshes 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  the
time  and  rang with the  obstinacy  of a  tram trying  to pass  through the
Smolensk 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 to
have 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 clear
eyes 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, while
he 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 on
bottles, Esmarch douches, saxophones, and large bass drums. A flute whistled
and 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.  Searching
around with his eyes, he perceived some plyboard  triangles hanging from the
ceiling  and painted the primary colours of  the spectrum.  There  "were  no
doors or blue muslin  windows. Beneath  the  multicoloured triangles  danced
young  ladies in  large hats  from black  cardboard. The clinking of bottles
brought forth  Podkolesin, who  charged  into the  crowd riding on  Stepan's
back. Podkolesin was arrayed in courier's dress. Having dispersed  the young
ladies 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  British
Parliament, 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  heard
saying 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  dressed
as  hotel doormen  passed  by,  carrying torches.  Then  Kochkarev  arrived,
apparently  on a  camel. This  could  only  be  judged  from  the  following
dialogue.
"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  our
chairs 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 the
entire width of the theatre, the  terrifying orchestra  let out such a noise
that she nearly  fell off  into the audience.  But on the stage she balanced
perfectly. She was  wearing flesh-coloured  tights and a bowler. Maintaining
her  balance  by  means of  a green parasol  on which  was  written  "I want
Podkolesin",  she stepped along  the wire and everyone below immediately saw
that her  feet were dirty. She leaped from the wire straight  on to a chair,
whereupon  the Negroes, Podkolesin, Kochkarev in a  tutu, and the matchmaker
in a  bus driver's uniform all turned backward  somersaults. Then they had a
five-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 mast
with 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 both
dived  into  the  fried eggs served  by Podkolesin,  who  had turned into  a
footman.  Kochkarev  and  Fekla  sang  ditties  about  Chamberlain  and  the
repayment he hoped to extort from Germany. The Esmarch douches played a hymn