"You will have!
But I don't guarantee she will be the loveliest girl on earth.
I don't even know whether she will be kind.
Be prepared for anything.
You will have children."
"I don't like children."
"You will."
"You frighten me, citizen mattress."
"Shut up, you fool.
You don't know everything.
You'll also obtain credit from the Moscow woodworking factory."
"I'll kill you, mattress!"
"Puppy!
If you dare to, the neighbours will denounce you to the housing authority."
So every Sunday lucky people cruise around Moscow to the joyful sound of mattresses.
But that is not the only thing, of course, which makes a Moscow Sunday.
Sunday is museum day.
There is a special group of people in Moscow who know nothing about art, are not interested in architecture, and do not like historical monuments.
These people visit museums solely because they are housed in splendid buildings.
These people stroll through the dazzling rooms, look enviously at the frescoes, touch the things they are requested not to touch, and mutter continually:
"My, how they used to live!"
They are not concerned with the fact that the murals were painted by the Frenchman Puvis de Chavannes.
They are only concerned with how much they cost the former owner of the house.
They go up staircases with marble statues on the landings and try to imagine how many footmen used to stand there, what wages were paid to them, and how much they received in tips.
There is china on the mantelpiece, but they disregard it and decide that a fireplace is not such a good thing, as it uses up a lot of wood.
In the oak-panelled dining-room they do not examine the wonderful carving.
They are troubled by one thought: what used the former merchant-owner to eat there and how much would it cost at present prices.
People like this can be found in any museum.
While the conducted tours are cheerfully moving from one work of art to another, this kind of person stands in the middle of the room and, looking in front of him, sadly moans:
"My, how they used to live!"
Liza ran along the street, stifling her tears.
Her thoughts spurred her on.
She was thinking about her poor, unhappy life.
"If we just had a table and two more chairs, it would be fine.
And we'll have a primus in the long run.
We must get organized."
She slowed down, suddenly remembering her quarrel with Nicky.
Furthermore, she felt hungry.
Hatred for her husband suddenly welled up in her.
"It's simply disgraceful," she said aloud.
She felt even more hungry.
"Very well, then, I know what I'll do."
And Liz blushingly bought a slice of bread and sausage from a vendor.
Hungry as she was, it was awkward eating in the street.
She was, after all, a mattress-owner and understood the subtleties of life.
Looking around, she turned into the entrance to a large two-storeyed house.
Inside, she attacked the slice of bread and sausage with great avidity.
The sausage was delicious.
A large group of tourists entered the doorway.
They looked at Liza by the wall as they passed.