Ippolit Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law.
Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her advanced age gave little hope of any improvement.
She was stingy in the extreme, and it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's poverty which prevented her giving rein to this passion.
Her voice was so strong and fruity that it might well have been envied by Richard the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is well known, horses used to kneel.
Furthermore, and this was the worst thing of all about her, she had dreams.
She was always having dreams.
She dreamed of girls in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid worn by dragoons, caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats who went for walks at night carrying clappers, and knitting-needles which hopped around the room by themselves making a distressing tinkle.
An empty-headed woman was Claudia Ivanovna.
In addition to everything else, her upper lip was covered by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.
Ippolit Matveyevich left the house in rather an irritable mood.
Bezenchuk the undertaker was standing at the entrance to his tumble-down establishment, leaning against the door with his hands crossed.
The regular collapse of his commercial undertakings plus a long period of practice in the consumption of intoxicating drinks had made his eyes bright yellow like a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.
"Greetings to an honoured guest!" he rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov. "Good mornin'."
Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled beaver hat.
"How's your mother-in-law, might I inquire? "
"Mrr-mrr," said Ippolit Matveyevich indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.
"God grant her health," said Bezenchuk bitterly. "Nothin' but losses, durn it."
And crossing his hands on his chest, he again leaned against the doorway.
At the entrance to the Nymph Funeral Home Ippolit Matveyevich was stopped once more.
There were three owners of the Nymph.
They all bowed to Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.
"She's well," replied Ippolit Matveyevich. "The things she does!
Last night she saw a golden girl with her hair down.
It was a dream."
The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly.
These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov on his way, and contrary to his usual practice, he did not arrive at work until the clock on the wall above the slogan
"Finish Your Business and Leave" showed five past nine.
Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache, Ippolit Matveyevich was known in the office as Maciste.* although the real Maciste had no moustache. ( Translator's Note: Maciste was an internationally known Italian actor of the time.)
Taking a blue felt cushion out of a drawer in the desk, Ippolit Matveyevich placed it on his chair, aligned his moustache correctly (parallel to the top of the desk) and sat down on the cushion, rising slightly higher than his three colleagues.
He was not afraid of getting piles; he was afraid of wearing out his trousers-that was why he used the blue cushion.
All these operations were watched timidly by two young persons-a boy and a girl.
The young man, who wore a padded cotton coat, was completely overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink, the clock that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice
"Finish Your Business and Leave".
The young man in the coat had not even begun his business, but he was nonetheless ready to leave.
He felt his business was so insignificant that it was shameful to disturb such a distinguished-looking grey-haired citizen as Vorobyaninov.
Ippolit Matveyevich also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could wait, so he opened folder no. 2 and, with a twitch of the cheek, immersed himself in the papers.
The girl, who had on a long jacket edged with shiny black ribbon, whispered something to the young man and, pink with embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich.
"Comrade," she said, "where do we . . ."
The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly for himself, blurted out:
"Get married!"
Ippolit Matveyevich looked thoughtfully at the rail behind which the young couple were standing.
"Birth?
Death?"
"Get married?" repeated the young man in the coat and looked round him in confusion.
The girl gave a giggle.
Things were going fine.
Ippolit Matveyevich set to work with the skill of a magician.
In spidery handwriting he recorded the names of the bride and groom in thick registers, sternly questioned the witnesses, who had to be fetched from outside, breathed tenderly and lengthily on the square rubber stamps and then, half rising to his feet, impressed them upon the tattered identification papers.
Having received two roubles from the newly-weds "for administration of the sacrament", as he said with a smirk, and given them a receipt, Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height, automatically pushing out his chest (he had worn a corset at one time).
The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his shoulders like epaulettes.