And a furniture museum is not like a widow-it'll be a bit more difficult."
The partners stuffed the pieces of the chair under the bed and, having counted their money (together with the contributions for the children's benefit, they had five hundred and thirty-five roubles), drove to the station to catch the Moscow train.
They had to drive right across the town.
On Co-operative Street they caught sight of Polesov running along the pavement like a startled antelope.
He was being pursued by the yard-keeper from No. 5 Pereleshinsky Street.
Turning the corner, the concessionaires just had time to see the yard-keeper catch him up and begin bashing him.
Polesov was shouting
"Help!" and
"Bum!"
Until the train departed they sat in the gentlemen's to avoid meeting the beloved.
The train whisked the friends towards the noisy capital.
They pressed against the window.
The cars were speeding over Gusishe.
Suddenly Ostap let out a roar and seized Vorobyaninov by the biceps.
"Look, look!" he cried. "Quick!
It's Alchen, that son of a bitch!"
Ippolit Matveyevich looked downward.
At the bottom of the embankment a tough-looking young man with a moustache was pulling a wheelbarrow loaded with a light-brown harmonium and five window frames.
A shamefaced citizen in a mouse-grey shirt was pushing the barrow from behind.
The sun forced its way through the dark clouds, and on the churches the crosses glittered.
"Pashka!
Going to market?"
Pasha Emilevich raised his head but only saw the buffers of the last coach; he began working even harder with his legs.
"Did you see that?" asked Ostap delightedly. "Terrific!
That's the way to work! "
Ostap slapped the mournful Vorobyaninov on the back.
"Don't worry, dad!
Never say die!
The hearing is continued.
Tomorrow evening we'll be in Moscow."
PART II
IN MOSCOW
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A SEA OF CHAIRS
Statistics know everything.
It has been calculated with precision how much ploughland there is in the USSR, with subdivision into black earth, loam and loess.
All citizens of both sexes have been recorded in those neat, thick registers-so familiar to Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov-the registry office ledgers.
It is known how much of a certain food is consumed yearly by the average citizen in the Republic.
It is known how much vodka is imbibed as an average by this average citizen, with a rough indication of the titbits consumed with it.
It is known how many hunters, ballerinas, revolving lathes, dogs of all breeds, bicycles, monuments, girls, lighthouses and sewing machines there are in the country.
How much life, full of fervour, emotion and thought, there is in those statistical tables!
Who is this rosy-cheeked individual sitting at a table with a napkin tucked into his collar and putting away the steaming victuals with such relish?
He is surrounded with herds of miniature bulls.
Fattened pigs have congregated in one corner of the statistical table.
Countless numbers of sturgeon, burbot and chekhon fish splash about in a special statistical pool.
There are hens sitting on the individual's head, hands and shoulders.
Tame geese, ducks and turkeys fly through cirrus clouds.
Two rabbits are hiding under the table.
Pyramids and Towers of Babel made of bread rise above the horizon.
A small fortress of jam is washed by a river of milk.