You're just like your daughter," shouted Ippolit Matveyevich loudly. And no longer concerned for the fact that he was at the bedside of a dying woman, he pushed back his chair with a crash and began prancing about the room.
"I suppose you realize what may have happened to the chairs?
Or do you think they're still there in the drawing-room in my house, quietly waiting for you to come and get your jewellery? " The old woman did not answer.
The registry clerk's wrath was so great that the pince-nez fell of his nose and landed on the floor with a tinkle, the gold nose-piece glittering as it passed his knees.
"What?
Seventy thousand roubles' worth of jewellery hidden in a chair!
Heaven knows who may sit on that chair!"
At this point Claudia Ivanovna gave a sob and leaned forward with her whole body towards the edge of the bed.
Her hand described a semi-circle and reached out to grasp Ippolit Matveyevich, but then fell back on to the violet down quilt.
Squeaking with fright, Ippolit Matveyevich ran to fetch his neighbour.
"I think she's dying," he cried.
The agronomist crossed herself in a businesslike way and, without hiding her curiosity, hurried into Ippolit Matveyevich's house, accompanied by her bearded husband, also an agronomist.
In distraction Vorobyaninov wandered into the municipal park.
While the two agronomists and their servants tidied up the deceased woman's room, Ippolit Matveyevich roamed around the park, bumping into benches and mistaking for bushes the young couples numb with early spring love.
The strangest things were going on in Ippolit Matveyevich's head.
He could hear the sound of gypsy choirs and orchestras composed of big-breasted women playing the tango over and over again; he imagined the Moscow winter and a long-bodied black trotter that snorted contemptuously at the passers-by. He imagined many different things: a pair of deliriously expensive orange-coloured panties, slavish devotion, and a possible trip to Cannes.
Ippolit Matveyevich began walking more slowly and suddenly stumbled over the form of Bezenchuk the undertaker.
The latter was asleep, lying in the middle of the path in his fur coat.
The jolt woke him up. He sneezed and stood up briskly.
"Now don't you worry, Mr Vorobyaninov," he said heatedly, continuing the conversation started a while before. "There's lots of work goes into a coffin."
"Claudia Ivanovna's dead," his client informed him.
"Well, God rest her soul," said Bezenchuk. "So the old lady's passed away. Old ladies pass away . . . or they depart this life. It depends who she is.
Yours, for instance, was small and plump, so she passed away. But if it's one who's a bit bigger and thinner, then they say she has departed this life. . . ."
"What do you mean 'they say'?
Who says?"
"We say.
The undertakers. Now you, for instance. You're distinguished-lookin' and tall, though a bit on the thin side.
If you should die, God forbid, they'll say you popped off.
But a tradesman, who belonged to the former merchants' guild, would breathe his last.
And if it's someone of lower status, say a caretaker, or a peasant, we say he has croaked or gone west.
But when the high-ups die, say a railway conductor or someone in administration, they say he has kicked the bucket.
They say:
'You know our boss has kicked the bucket, don't you?' "
Shocked by this curious classification of human mortality, Ippolit Matveyevich asked:
"And what will the undertakers say about you when you die?"
"I'm small fry.
They'll say, 'Bezenchuk's gone', and nothin' more."
And then he added grimly:
"It's not possible for me to pop off or kick the bucket; I'm too small.
But what about the coffin, Mr Vorobyaninov?
Do you really want one without tassels and brocade? "
But Ippolit Matveyevich, once more immersed in dazzling dreams, walked on without answering.
Bezenchuk followed him, working something out on his fingers and muttering to himself, as he always did.
The moon had long since vanished and there was a wintry cold.
Fragile, wafer-like ice covered the puddles.
The companions came out on Comrade Gubernsky Street, where the wind was tussling with the hanging shop-signs.
A fire-engine drawn by skinny horses emerged from the direction of Staropan Square with a noise like the lowering of a blind.
Swinging their canvas legs from the platform, the firemen wagged their helmeted heads and sang in intentionally tuneless voices:
"Glory to our fire chief,
Glory to dear Comrade Pumpoff!"