I saw today?
Vorobyaninov."
In her amazement Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the wall,
continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.
"I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for
the hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly two
people came towards me. One of them seemed familiar; he looked like
Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.
I told them it used to be a girls' secondary school, and later became the
housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said,
Thanks' and went off. Then I saw clearly that it really was Vorobyaninov,
only without his moustache. The other one with him was a fine-looking
fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought. . ."
At that moment Victor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant.
Breaking off what he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind
the dustbin. Into the yard sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped
by the well and began looking round at the buildings. Not seeing Polesov
anywhere, he asked sadly:
"Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"
"I really don't know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."
And with unusual nervousness she hurried off to her apartment, spilling
water from the pail.
The yard-keeper stroked the cement block at the top of the well and
went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:
ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP
was another sign:
METAL WORKSHOP
AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS
under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the
padlock and said with loathing:
"Ugh, that stinker!"
He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up
the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it
to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet,
began creating an unholy row.
"You have thieves in no. 7!" howled the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all
kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a
damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"
During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting
behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a
bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight
of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
"Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"
The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed
with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex
crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed
where they were.
"I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"
While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly
began hauling the fellow off to the police station. He was assisted by Some
young toughs from Fastpack. The yard-keeper put his arms around the
militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.
A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin. There
was a stir among the audience.
"Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. "I'll show you! You
louse!"
But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear. He was
carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove
Repairs" was also taken along as factual evidence. Victor Mikhailovich
bristled with fury for some time.
"Sons of bitches!" he said, turning to the spectators. "Conceited
bums!"
"That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena Stanislavovna from
the window. "Come in here a moment."
She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up
and down the room, began asking him questions.
"But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him,"
said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well. It was the spitting image
of Vorobyaninov."
"Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you
Vorobyaninov."
In her amazement Elena Stanislavovna leaned against the wall,
continuing to hold the full pail of water in mid-air.
"I had gone to the communal-services building to extend my contract for
the hire of the workshop and was going down the corridor when suddenly two
people came towards me. One of them seemed familiar; he looked like
Vorobyaninov. Then they asked me what the building had been in the old days.
I told them it used to be a girls' secondary school, and later became the
housing division. I asked them why they wanted to know, but they just said,
Thanks' and went off. Then I saw clearly that it really was Vorobyaninov,
only without his moustache. The other one with him was a fine-looking
fellow. Obviously a former officer. And then I thought. . ."
At that moment Victor Mikhailovich noticed something unpleasant.
Breaking off what he was saying, he grabbed his can and promptly hid behind
the dustbin. Into the yard sauntered the yard-keeper from no. 5. He stopped
by the well and began looking round at the buildings. Not seeing Polesov
anywhere, he asked sadly:
"Isn't Vick the mechanic here yet?"
"I really don't know," said the fortune-teller. "I don't know at all."
And with unusual nervousness she hurried off to her apartment, spilling
water from the pail.
The yard-keeper stroked the cement block at the top of the well and
went over to the workshop. Two paces beyond the sign:
ENTRANCE TO METAL WORKSHOP
was another sign:
METAL WORKSHOP
AND PRIMUS STOVE REPAIRS
under which there hung a heavy padlock. The yard-keeper kicked the
padlock and said with loathing:
"Ugh, that stinker!"
He stood by the workshop for another two or three minutes working up
the most venomous feelings, then wrenched off the sign with a crash, took it
to the well in the middle of the yard, and standing on it with both feet,
began creating an unholy row.
"You have thieves in no. 7!" howled the yard-keeper. "Riffraff of all
kinds! That seven-sired viper! Secondary education indeed! I don't give a
damn for his secondary education! Damn stinkard!"
During this, the seven-sired viper with secondary education was sitting
behind the dustbin and feeling depressed. Window-frames flew open with a
bang, and amused tenants poked out their heads.
People strolled into the yard from outside in curiosity. At the sight
of an audience, the yard-keeper became even more heated.
"Fitter-mechanic!" he cried. "Damn aristocrat!"
The yard-keeper's parliamentary expressions were richly interspersed
with swear words, to which he gave preference. The members of the fair sex
crowding around the windows were very annoyed at the yard-keeper, but stayed
where they were.
"I'll push his face in!" he raged. "Education indeed!"
While the scene was at its height, a militiaman appeared and quietly
began hauling the fellow off to the police station. He was assisted by Some
young toughs from Fastpack. The yard-keeper put his arms around the
militiaman's neck and burst into tears. The danger was over.
A weary Victor Mikhailovich jumped out from behind the dustbin. There
was a stir among the audience.
"Bum!" cried Polesov in the wake of the procession. "I'll show you! You
louse!"
But the yard-keeper was weeping bitterly and could not hear. He was
carried to the police station, and the sign "Metal Workshop and Primus Stove
Repairs" was also taken along as factual evidence. Victor Mikhailovich
bristled with fury for some time.
"Sons of bitches!" he said, turning to the spectators. "Conceited
bums!"
"That's enough, Victor Mikhailovich," called Elena Stanislavovna from
the window. "Come in here a moment."
She placed a dish of stewed fruit in front of Polesov and, pacing up
and down the room, began asking him questions.
"But I tell you it was him-without his moustache, but definitely him,"
said Polesov, shouting as usual. "I know him well. It was the spitting image
of Vorobyaninov."
"Not so loud, for heaven's sake! Why do you
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