"Ilf and Petrov. The Twelve Chairs" - читать интересную книгу автора

chin. In the old days that usually resulted in blood-poisoning. But they say
that nowadays, in Moscow-I don't know whether it's true or not-a freshly
sterilized shaving brush is used for every customer." The citizens gave long
sighs. "Aren't you overdoing it a bit, Andrew? " "How could there be a
different brush for every person? That's a good one!"
Prusis, a former member of the proletariat intelligentsia, and now a
private stall-owner, actually became excited.
"Wait a moment, Andrew Ivanovich. According to the latest census, the
population of Moscow is more than two million. That means they'd need more
than two million brushes. Seems rather curious."
The conversation was becoming heated, and heaven only knows how it
would have ended had not Ippolit Matveyevich appeared at the end of the
street. "He's off to the chemist's again. Things must be bad." "The old
woman will die. Bezenchuk isn't running round the town in a flurry for
nothing." "What does the doctor say? "
"What doctor? Do you call those people in the social-insurance office
doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!"
"Pierre and Constantine", who had been longing for a chance to make a
pronouncement on the subject of medicine, looked around cautiously, and
said:
"Haemoglobin is what counts nowadays." Having said that, he fell
silent. The citizens also fell silent, each reflecting in his own way on the
mysterious power of haemoglobin.
When the moon rose and cast its minty light on the miniature bust of
Zhukovsky, a rude word could clearly be seen chalked on the poet's bronze
back.
This inscription had first appeared on June 15, 1897, the same day that
the bust had been unveiled. And despite all the efforts of the tsarist
police, and later the Soviet militia, the defamatory word had reappeared
each day with unfailing regularity.
The samovars were already singing in the little wooden houses with
their outside shutters, and it was time for supper. The citizens stopped
wasting their time and went their way. A wind began to blow.
In the meantime Claudia Ivanovna was dying. First she asked for
something to drink, then said she had to get up and fetch Ippolit
Matveyevich's best boots from the cobbler. One moment she complained of the
dust which, as she put it, was enough to make you choke, and the next asked
for all the lamps to be lit.
Ippolit Matveyevich paced up and down the room, tired of worrying. His
mind was full of unpleasant, practical thoughts. He was thinking how he
would have to ask for an advance at the mutual assistance office, fetch the
priest, and answer letters of condolence from relatives. To take his mind
off these things, Ippolit Matveyevich went out on the porch. There, in the
green light of the moon, stood Bezenchuk the undertaker.
"So how would you like it, Mr. Vorobyaninov?" asked the undertaker,
hugging his cap to his chest. "Yes, probably," answered Ippolit Matveyevich
gloomily. "Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?" said
Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. "Go to the devil! You make me sick!"
"I'm not doin' nothin'. I'm only askin' about the tassels and brocade.
How shall I make it? Best quality? Or how?"