The Governor General.
Last Friday.
All night.
And right next to him, I recall, was the chief of police in patterned breeches.”
“Oh, how nice!” said the old man.
“And have you, by any chance, dreamt of His Majesty’s visit to the city of Kostroma?”
“Kostroma?
Yes, I had that dream.
Wait, wait, when was that?
Ah yes, February third of this year.
His Majesty was there, and next to him, I recall, was Count Frederiks, you know . . . the Minister of the Imperial Court.”
“Oh my!” the old man became excited. “Why are we standing here?
Please, please come in.
Forgive me, you’re not a Socialist, by any chance?
Not a party man?”
“Of course not,” said Ostap good-naturedly.
“Me, a party man?
I’m an independent monarchist.
A faithful servant to his sovereign, a caring father to his men.
In other words, soar, falcons, like an eagle, ponder not unhappy thoughts . . .”
“Tea, would you like some tea?” mumbled the old man, steering Bender towards the door.
The little house consisted of one room and a hallway.
Portraits of gentlemen in civilian uniforms covered the walls.
Judging by the patches on their collars, these gentlemen had all served in the Ministry of Education in their time.
The bed looked messy, suggesting that the owner spent the most restless hours of his life in it.
“Have you lived like such a recluse for a long time?” asked Ostap.
“Since the spring,” replied the old man.
“My name is Khvorobyov.
I thought I’d start a new life here.
And you know what happened?
You must understand . . .”
Fyodor Nikitich Khvorobyov was a monarchist, and he detested the Soviet regime.
He found it repugnant.
He, who had once served as a school district superintendent, was forced to run the Educational Methodology Sector of the local Proletkult.
That disgusted him.
Until the end of his career, he never knew what Proletkult stood for, and that made him detest it even more.
He cringed with disgust at the mere sight of the members of the local union committee, his colleagues, and the visitors to the Educational Methodology Sector.
He hated the word “sector.”
Oh, that sector!
Fyodor Nikitich had always appreciated elegant things, including geometry. Never in his worst nightmares would he imagine that this beautiful mathematical term, used to describe a portion of a circle, could be so brutally trivialized.
At work, many things enraged Khvorobyov: meetings, newsletters, bond campaigns.
But his proud soul couldn’t find peace at home either.
There were newsletters, bond campaigns, and meetings at home as well.
And Khvorobyov’s acquaintances talked exclusively about vulgar things: remuneration (what they called their salaries), Aid to Children Month, and the social significance of the play The Armored Train.
He was unable to escape the Soviet system anywhere.
Even when Khvorobyov walked the city streets in frustration he would overhear detestable phrases, like:
“. . .
So we determined to remove him from the board . . .”
“. . .
And that’s exactly what I told them: if you insist on the PCC, we’ll appeal to the arbitration chamber!”