Then he ate some bread and salt, and his eyes cheered up a bit.
Late that evening, just before midnight, Pankrat was sitting barefoot on a bench in the poorly lit vestibule, talking to the indefatigable bowler hat on duty and scratching his chest under a calico shirt.
"Honest, it would've been better if he'd done me in..."
"Was he really crying?" asked the bowler hat, inquisitively.
"Honest he was," Pankrat insisted.
"A great scientist," the bowler hat agreed. "A frog's no substitute for a wife, anyone knows that."
"It sure isn't," Pankrat agreed.
Then he paused and added:
"I'm thinking of bringing the wife up here... No sense her staying in the country.
Only she couldn't stand them there reptiles..."
"I'm not surprised, the filthy things," agreed the bowler hat.
Not a sound could be heard from the Professor's study.
The light was not on either.
There was no strip under the door.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Incident at the State Farm
There is no better time of the year than mid-August in Smolensk Province, say.
The summer of 1928 was a splendid one, as we all know, with rains just at the right time in spring, a full hot sun, and a splendid harvest... The apples on the former Sheremetev family estate were ripening, the forests were a lush green and the fields were squares of rich yellow... Man becomes nobler in the lap of nature.
Alexander Se-myonovich too did not seem quite as unpleasant as in the town.
And he wasn't wearing that revolting jacket.
His face had a bronze tan, the unbuttoned calico shirt revealed a chest thickly covered with black hair. He had canvas trousers on.
And his eyes were calmer and kinder.
Alexander Semyonovich trotted excitedly down the colon-naded porch, which sported a notice with the words
"Red Ray State Farm" under a star, and went straight to the truck that had just brought the three black chambers under escort.
All day Alexander Semyonovich worked hard with his assistants setting up the chambers in the former winter garden, the Sheremetevs' conservatory. By evening all was ready.
A white frosted arc lamp shone under the glass roof, the chambers were set up on bricks and, after much tapping and turning of shining knobs, the mechanic who had come with the chambers produced the mysterious red ray on the asbestos floor in the black crates.
Alexander Semyonovich bustled about, climbing up the ladder himself and checking the wiring.
The next day the same truck came back from the station and spat out three boxes of magnificent smooth plywood stuck all over with labels and white notices on a black background that read:
"Vorsicht: Eier!"
"Eggs.
Handle with care!"
"Why have they sent so few?" Alexander Semyonovich exclaimed in surprise and set about unpacking the eggs at once.
The unpacking also took place in the conservatory with the participation of the following: Alexander Semyonovich himself, his unusually plump wife Manya, the one-eyed former gardener of the former Sheremetevs, who now worked for the state farm in the universal post of watchman, the guard doomed to live on the state farm, and the cleaning girl Dunya.
It was not Moscow, and everything here was simpler, more friendly and more homely.
Alexander Semyonovich gave the instructions, glancing avidly from time to time at the boxes which lay like some rich present under the gentle sunset glow from the upper panes in the conservatory.
The guard, his rifle dozing peacefully by the door, was ripping open the braces and metal bands with a pair of pliers.
There was a sound of cracking wood. Clouds of dust rose up.
Alexander Semyonovich padded around in his sandals, fussing by the boxes.
"Gently does it," he said to the guard. "Be careful.
Can't you see it's eggs?"
"Don't worry," croaked the provincial warrior, bashing away happily. "Won't be a minute..."
Wrr-ench. Down came another shower of dust.
The eggs were beautifully packed: first came sheets of waxed paper under the wooden top, next some blotting paper, then a thick layer of wood shavings and finally the sawdust in which the white egg-tops nestled.
"Foreign packing," said Alexander Semyonovich lovingly, rummaging around in the sawdust. "Not the way we do it.
Careful, Manya, or you'll break them."
"Have you gone daft, Alexander Semyonovich," replied his wife. "What's so special about this lot?
Think I've never seen eggs before?
Oh, what big ones!"
"Foreign," said Alexander Semyonovich, laying the eggs out on the wooden table. "Not like our poor old peasant eggs. Bet they're all brahmaputras, the devil take them! German..."
"I should say so," the guard agreed, admitting the eggs.