CHAPTER 5. There were Doings at Griboedov's The old, two-storeyed, cream-coloured house stood on the ringboulevard, in the depths of a seedy garden, separated from the sidewalk by afancy cast-iron fence. The small terrace in front of the house was pavedwith asphalt, and in wintertime was dominated by a snow pile with a shovelstuck in it, but in summertime turned into the most magnificent section ofthe summer restaurant under a canvas tent. The house was called 'The House of Griboedov' on the grounds that itwas alleged to have once belonged to an aunt of the writer AlexanderSergeevich Griboedov.[1] Now, whether it did or did not belong toher, we do not exactly know. On recollection, it even seems that Griboedovnever had any such house-owning aunt . . . Nevertheless, that was what thehouse was called. Moreover, one Moscow liar had it that there, on the secondfloor, in a round hall with columns, the famous writer had supposedly readpassages from Woe From Wit to this very aunt while she reclined on a sofa.However,
devil knows, maybe he did, it's of no importance. What is important is that at the present time this house was owned bythat same Massolit which had been headed by the unfortunate MikhailAlexandrovich Berlioz before his appearance at the Patriarch's Ponds. In the casual manner of Massolit members, no one called the house TheHouse of Griboedov', everyone simply said 'Griboedov's': 'I spent two hoursyesterday knocking about Griboedov's.' 'Well, and so?' 'Got myself a monthin Yalta.' 'Bravo!' Or: 'Go to Berlioz, he receives today from four to fiveat Griboedov's . . .' and so on. Massolit had settled itself at Griboedov's in the best and cosiest wayimaginable. Anyone entering Griboedov's first of all became involuntarilyacquainted with the announcements of various sports clubs, and with group aswell as individual photographs of the members of Massolit, hanging (thephotographs) on the walls of the staircase leading to the second floor. On the door to the very first room of this
upper floor one could see abig sign: 'Fishing and Vacation Section', along with the picture of a carpcaught on a line. On the door of room no. 2 something not quite comprehensible waswritten: 'One-day Creative Trips. Apply to M. V. Spurioznaya.' The next door bore a brief but now totally incomprehensibleinscription: 'Perelygino'.[2] After which the chance visitor toGriboedov's would not know where to look from the motley inscriptions on theaunt's walnut doors: 'Sign up for Paper with Poklevkina', 'Cashier','Personal Accounts of Sketch-Writers'. . . If one cut through the longest line, which already went downstairs andout to the doorman's lodge, one could see the sign 'Housing Question' on adoor which people were crashing every second. Beyond the housing question there opened out a luxurious poster onwhich a cliff was depicted and, riding on its crest, a horseman in a feltcloak with a rifle on his shoulder. A little lower -- palm trees and abalcony;
on the balcony -- a seated young man with a forelock, gazingsomewhere aloft with very lively eyes, holding a fountain pen in his hand.The inscription: 'Full-scale Creative Vacations from Two Weeks(Story/Novella) to One Year (Novel/Trilogy). Yalta, Suuk-Su, Borovoe,Tsikhidziri, Makhindzhauri, Leningrad (Winter Palace).'[3] Therewas also a line at this door, but not an excessive one -- some hundred andfifty people. Next, obedient to the whimsical curves, ascents and descents of theGriboedov house, came the 'Massolit Executive Board', 'Cashiers nos. 2, 3,4, 5', 'Editorial Board', 'Chairman of Massolit', 'Billiard Room', variousauxiliary institutions and, finally, that same hall with the colonnade wherethe aunt had delighted in the comedy other genius nephew. Any visitor finding himself in Griboedov's, unless of course he was atotal dim-wit, would realize at once what a good life those lucky fellows,the Massolit members, were having, and black envy would immediately
startgnawing at him. And he would immediately address bitter reproaches to heavenfor not having endowed him at birth with literary talent, lacking whichthere was naturally no dreaming of owning a Massolit membership card, brown,smelling of costly leather, with a wide gold border -- a card known to allMoscow. Who will speak in defence of envy? This feeling belongs to the nastycategory, but all the same one must put oneself in the visitor's position.For what he had seen on the upper floor was not all, and was far from all.The entire ground floor of the aunt's house was occupied by a restaurant,and what a restaurant! It was justly considered the best in Moscow. And notonly because it took up two vast halls with arched ceilings, painted withviolet, Assyrian-maned horses, not only because on each table there stood alamp shaded with a shawl, not only because it was not accessible to justanybody coming in off the street, but because in the quality of its fareGriboedov's beat any restaurant
in Moscow up and down, and this fare wasavailable at the most reasonable, by no means onerous, price. Hence there was nothing surprising, for instance, in the followingconversation, which the author of these most truthful lines once heard nearthe cast-iron fence of Griboedov's: 'Where are you dining today, Amvrosy?' 'What a question! Why, here, of course, my dear Foka! ArchibaldArchibaldovich whispered to me today that there will be perch au natureldone to order. A virtuoso little treat!' 'You sure know how to live, Amvrosy!' skinny, run-down Foka, with acarbuncle on his neck, replied with a sigh to the ruddy-lipped giant,golden-haired, plump-cheeked Amvrosy-the-poet. 'I have no special knowledge,' Amvrosy protested, 'just the ordinarywish to live like a human being. You mean to say, Foka, that perch can bemet with at the Coliseum as well. But at the Coliseum a portion of perchcosts thirteen roubles fifteen kopecks, and here -- five-fifty! Besides,
atthe Coliseum they serve three-day-old perch, and, besides, there's noguarantee you won't get slapped in the mug with a bunch of grapes at theColiseum by the first young man who bursts in from Theatre Alley. No, I'mcategorically opposed to the Coliseum,' the gastronome Amvrosv boomed forthe whole boulevard to hear. 'Don't try to convince me, Foka!' 'I'm not trying to convince you, Amvrosy,' Foka squeaked. 'One can alsodine at home.' 'I humbly thank you,' trumpeted Amvrosy, 'but I can imagine your wife,in the communal kitchen at home, trying to do perch au naturel to order in asaucepan! Hee, hee, hee! ... Aurevwar, Foka!' And, humming, Amvrosy directedhis steps to the veranda under the tent. Ahh, yes! ... Yes, there was a time! ... Old Muscovites will rememberthe renowned Griboedov's! What is poached perch done to order! Cheap stuff, my dear Amvrosy! But sterlet, sterlet in a silvery chafingdish, sterlet slices interiaid with crayfish tails and fresh caviar? Andeggs en cocotte
with mushroom puree in little dishes? And how did you likethe fillets of thrush? With truffles? Quail a la genoise? Nine-fifty! Andthe jazz, and the courteous service! And in July, when the whole family isin the country, and you are kept in the city by urgent literary business -on the veranda, in the shade of the creeping vines, in a golden spot on thecleanest of tablecloths, a bowl of soup printanier? Remember, Amvrosy? Butwhy ask! I can see by your lips that you do. What is your whitefish, yourperch! But the snipe, the great snipe, the jack snipe, the woodcock in theirseason, the quail, the curlew? Cool seltzer fizzing in your throat?! Butenough, you are getting distracted, reader! Follow me!. . . At half past ten on the evening when Berlioz died at the Patriarch'sPonds, only one room was lit upstairs at Griboedov's, and in it languishedtwelve writers who had gathered for a meeting and were waiting for MikhailAlexandrovich. Sitting on chairs, and on tables, and even on the two
window-sills inthe office of the Massolit executive board, they suffered seriously from theheat. Not a single breath of fresh air came through the open windows. Moscowwas releasing the heat accumulated in the asphalt all day, and it was clearthat night would bring no relief. The smell of onions came from the basementof the aunt's house, where the restaurant kitchen was at work, they were allthirsty, they were all nervous and angry. The belletrist Beskudnikov - a quiet, decently dressed man withattentive and at the same rime elusive eyes - took out his watch. The handwas crawling towards eleven. Beskudnikov tapped his finger on the face andshowed it to the poet Dvubratsky, who was sitting next to him on the tableand in boredom dangling his feet shod in yellow shoes with rubber treads. 'Anyhow,' grumbled Dvubratsky. "The laddie must've got stuck on the Klyazma,' came the thick-voicedresponse of Nastasya Lukinishna Nepremenova, orphan of a Moscow merchant,who had become a writer
and wrote stories about sea battles under thepen-name of Bos'n George. 'Excuse me!' boldly exclaimed Zagrivov, an author of popular sketches,'but I personally would prefer a spot of tea on the balcony to stewing inhere. The meeting was set for ten o'clock, wasn't it?' 'It's nice now on the Klyazma,' Bos'n George needled those present,knowing that Perelygino on the Klyazma, the country colony for writers, waseverybody's sore spot. 'There's nightingales singing already. I always workbetter in the country, especially in spring.' 'It's the third year I've paid in so as to send my wife with goitre tothis paradise, but there's nothing to be spied amidst the waves,' thenovelist leronym Poprikhin said venomously and bitterly. 'Some are lucky and some aren't,' the critic Ababkov droned from thewindow-sill. Bos'n George's little eyes lit up wim glee, and she said, softening hercontralto: We mustn't be envious, comrades. There's twenty-twodachas[4] in all,
and only seven more being built, and there'sthree thousand of us in Massolit.' 'Three thousand one hundred and eleven,' someone put in from thecorner. 'So you see,' the Bos'n went on, 'what can be done? Naturally, it's themost talented of us that got the dachas . . .' 'The generals!' Glukharev the scenarist cut right into the squabble. Beskudnikov, with an artificial yawn, walked out of the room. 'Five rooms to himself in Perelygino,' Glukharev said behind him. 'Lavrovich has six to himself,' Deniskin cried out, 'and the diningroom's panelled in oak!' 'Eh, that's not the point right now,' Ababkov droned, 'it's that it'shalf past eleven.' A clamour arose, something like rebellion was brewing. They startedtelephoning hated Perelygino, got the wrong dacha, Lavrovich's, found outthat Lavrovich had gone to the river, which made them totally upset. Theycalled at random to the commission on fine literature, extension 950, and ofcourse found no one there. 'He
might have called!' shouted Deniskin, Glukharev and Quant. Ah, they were shouting in vain: Mikhail Alexandrovich could not callanywhere. Far, far from Griboedov's, in an enormous room lit bythousand-watt bulbs, on three zinc tables, lay what had still recently beenMikhail Alexandrovich. On the first lay the naked body, covered with dried blood, one armbroken, the chest caved in; on the second, the head with the front teethknocked out, with dull, open eyes unafraid of the brightest light; and onthe third, a pile of stiffened rags. Near the beheaded body stood a professor of forensic medicine, apathological anatomist and his dissector, representatives of theinvestigation, and Mikhail Alexandrovich's assistant in Massolit, the writerZheldybin, summoned by telephone from his sick wife's side. A car had come for Zheldybin and first of all taken him together withthe investigators (this was around midnight) to the dead man's apartment,where the sealing
of his papers had been carried out, after which they allwent to the morgue. And now those standing by the remains of the deceased were debatingwhat was the better thing to do: to sew the severed head to the neck, or tolay out the body in the hall at Griboedov's after simply covering the deadman snugly to the chin with a black cloth? No, Mikhail Alexandrovich could not call anywhere, and Deniskin,Glukharev and Quant, along with Beskudnikov, were being indignant andshouting quite in vain. Exactly at midnight, all twelve writers left theupper floor and descended to the restaurant. Here again they silendy beratedMikhail Alexandrovich: all the tables on the veranda, naturally, wereoccupied, and they had to stay for supper in those beautiful but airlesshalls. And exactly at midnight, in the first of these halls, somethingcrashed, jangled, spilled, leaped. And all at once a high male voicedesperately cried out 'Hallelujah!' to the music. The famous Griboedov
jazzband struck up. Sweat-covered faces seemed to brighten, it was as if thehorses painted on the ceiling came alive, the lamps seemed to shine withadded light, and suddenly, as if tearing loose, both halls broke into dance,and following them the veranda broke into dance. Glukharev danced with the poetess Tamara Polumesyats, Quant danced,Zhukopov the novelist danced with some movie actress in a yellow dress.Dragunsky danced, Cherdakchi danced, little Deniskin danced with theenormous Bos'n George, the beautiful Semeikina-Gall, an architect, danced inthe tight embrace of a stranger in white canvas trousers. Locals and invitedguests danced, Muscovites and out-of-towners, the writer Johann fromKronstadt, a certain Vitya Kuftik from Rostov, apparendy a stage director,with a purple spot all over his cheek, the most eminent representatives ofthe poetry section of Massolit danced - that is, Baboonov, Blasphemsky,Sweetkin, Smatchstik and Addphina Buzdyak -- young men
of unknownprofession, in crew cuts, with cotton-padded shoulders, danced, someone veryelderly danced, a shred of green onion stuck in his beard, and with himdanced a sickly, anaemia-consumed girl in a wrinkled orange silk dress. Streaming with sweat, waiters carried sweating mugs of beer over theirheads, shouting hoarsely and with hatred: 'Excuse me, citizen!' Somewherethrough a megaphone a voice commanded: 'One Karsky shashlik! Two Zubrovkas!Home-style tripe!' The high voice no longer sang, but howled 'Hallelujah!'The clashing of golden cymbals in the band sometimes even drowned out theclashing of dishes which the dishwashers sent down a sloping chute to thekitchen. In short - hell. And at midnight there came an apparition in hell. A handsome dark-eyedman with a dagger-like beard, in a tailcoat, stepped on to the veranda andcast a regal glance over his domain. They used to say, the mystics used tosay, that there was a time when the handsome man wore not a tailcoat but awide leather
belt with pistol butts sticking from it, and his raven hair wastied with scarlet silk, and under his command a brig sailed the Caribbeanunder a black death flag with a skull and crossbones. But no, no! The seductive mystics are lying, there are no CaribbeanSeas in the world, no desperate freebooters sail them, no corvette chasesafter them, no cannon smoke drifts across the waves. There is nothing, andthere was nothing! There is that sickly linden over there, there is thecast-iron fence, and the boulevard beyond it ... And the ice is melting inthe bowl, and at the next table you see someone's bloodshot, bovine eyes,and you're afraid, afraid . . . Oh, gods, my gods, poison, bring me poison!.. . And suddenly a word fluttered up from some table: 'Berlioz!!' The jazzbroke up and fell silent, as if someone had hit it with a fist. 'What, what,what, what?!!' 'Berlioz!!!' And they began jumping up, exclaiming... Yes, a wave of grief billowed up at the terrible news about MikhailAlexandrovich.
Someone fussed about, crying that it was necessary at once,straight away, without leaving the spot, to compose some collective telegramand send it off immediately. But what telegram, may we ask, and where? And why send it? And where,indeed? And what possible need for any telegram does someone have whoseflattened pate is now clutched in the dissector's rubber hands, whose neckthe professor is now piercing with curved needles? He's dead, and has noneed of any telegrams. It's all over, let's not burden the telegraph wiresany more. Yes, he's dead, dead . . . But, as for us, we're alive! Yes, a wave of grief billowed up, held out for a while, but then beganto subside, and somebody went back to his table and -- sneakily at first,then openly - drank a little vodka and ate a bite. And, really, can one letchicken cutlets de volatile perish? How can we help Mikhail Alexandrovich?By going hungry? But, after all, we're alive! Naturally, the grand piano was locked, the ja2z band dispersed,
severaljournalists left for their offices to write obituaries. It became known thatZheldybin had come from the morgue. He had installed himself in thedeceased's office upstairs, and the rumour spread at once that it was he whowould replace Berlioz. Zheldybin summoned from the restaurant all twelvemembers of the board, and at the urgently convened meeting in Berlioz'soffice they started a discussion of the pressing questions of decorating thehall with columns at Griboedov's, of transporting the body from the morgueto that hall, of opening it to the public, and all else connected with thesad event. And the restaurant began to live its usual nocturnal life and wouldhave gone on living it until closing time, that is, until four o'clock inthe morning, had it not been for an occurrence which was completely out ofthe ordinary and which struck the restaurant's clientele much more than thenews of Berlioz's death. The first to take alarm were the coachmen[5] waiting at thegates of
the Griboedov house. One of them, rising on his box, was heard tocry out: 'Hoo-ee! Just look at that!' After which, from God knows where, a little light flashed by thecast-iron fence and began to approach the veranda. Those sitting at thetables began to get up and peer at it, and saw that along with the littlelight a white ghost was marching towards the restaurant. When it came rightup to the trellis, everybody sat as if frozen at their tables, chunks ofsterlet on their forks, eyes popping. The doorman, who at that moment hadstepped out of the restaurant coat room to have a smoke in the yard, stampedout his cigarette and made for the ghost with the obvious intention ofbarring its way into the restaurant, but for some reason did not do so, andstopped, smiling stupidly. And the ghost, passing through an opening in the trellis, steppedunhindered on to the veranda. Here everyone saw that it was no ghost at all,but Ivan Nikolaevich Homeless, the much-renowned poet.
He was barefoot, in a torn, whitish Tolstoy blouse, with a paper iconbearing the image of an unknown saint pinned to the breast of it with asafety pin, and was wearing striped white drawers. In his hand IvanNikolaevich carried a lighted wedding candle. Ivan Nikolaevich's right cheekwas freshly scratched. It would even be difficult to plumb the depths of thesilence that reigned on the veranda. Beer could be seen running down on tothe floor from a mug tilted in one waiter's hand. The poet raised the candle over his head and said loudly: 'Hail, friends!' After which he peeked under the nearest table andexclaimed ruefully: 'No, he's not there!' Two voices were heard. A basso said pitilessly: That's it. Delirium tremens.' And the second, a woman's, frightened, uttered the words: 'How could the police let him walk the streets like that?' This Ivan Nikolaevich heard, and replied: They tried to detain me twice, in Skaterny and here on Bronnaya, but Ihopped over
the fence and, as you can see, cut my cheek!' Here IvanNikolaevich raised the candle and cried out: 'Brethren in literature!' (Hishoarse voice grew stronger and more fervent.) 'Listen to me everyone! He hasappeared. Catch him immediately, otherwise he'll do untold harm!' 'What? What? What did he say? Who has appeared?' voices came from allsides. The consultant,' Ivan replied, 'and this consultant just killed MishaBerlioz at the Patriarch's Ponds.' Here people came flocking to the veranda from the inner rooms, a crowdgathered around Ivan's flame. 'Excuse me, excuse me, be more precise,' a soft and polite voice saidover Ivan Nikolaevich's ear, 'tell me, what do you mean "killed"? Who killed?' 'A foreign consultant, a professor, and a spy,' Ivan said, lookingaround. 'And what is his name?' came sofdy to Ivan's ear. That's just it - hisname!' Ivan cried in anguish. 'If only I knew his name! I didn't make outhis name on his visiting card ... I only remember
the first letter, "W", hisname begins with "W"! What last name begins with "W"?' Ivan asked himself,clutching his forehead, and suddenly started muttering: 'Wi, we, wa ... Wu... Wo ... Washner? Wagner? Weiner? Wegner? Winter?' The hair on Ivan's headbegan to crawl with the tension. 'Wolf?' some woman cried pitifully. Ivan became angry. 'Fool!' he cried, seeking the woman with his eyes. "What has Wolf gotto do with it? Wolf's not to blame for anything! Wo, wa . .. No, I'll neverremember this way! Here's what, citizens: call the police at once, let themsend out five motor cycles with machine-guns to catch the professor. Anddon't forget to tell them that there are two others with him: a longcheckered one, cracked pince-nez, and a cat, black and fat ... And meanwhileI'll search Griboedov's, I sense that he's here!' Ivan became anxious, pushed away the people around him, started wavingthe candle, pouring wax on himself, and looking under the
tables. Heresomeone said: 'Call a doctor!' and someone's benign, fleshy face, cleanshaven and well nourished, in horn-rimmed glasses, appeared before Ivan. 'Comrade Homeless,' the face began in a guest speaker's voice, 'calmdown! You're upset at the death of our beloved Mikhail Alexandrovich . ..no, say just Misha Berlioz. We all understand that perfectly well. You needrest. The comrades will take you home to bed right now, you'll forget. . .' 'You,' Ivan interrupted, baring his teeth, "but don't you understandthat the professor has to be caught? And you come at me with yourfoolishness! Cretin!' 'Pardon me. Comrade Homeless!...' the face replied, blushing,retreating, and already repentant at having got mixed up in this affair. 'No, anyone else, but you I will not pardon,' Ivan Nikolaevich saidwith quiet hatred. A spasm distorted his face, he quickly shifted the candle from hisright hand to his left, swung roundly and hit the compassionate face
on theear. Here it occurred to them to fall upon Ivan - and so they did. Thecandle went out, and the glasses that had fallen from the face wereinstantly trampled. Ivan let out a terrible war cry, heard, to thetemptation of all, even on the boulevard, and set about defending himself.Dishes fell clattering from the tables, women screamed. All the while the waiters were tying up the poet with napkins, aconversation was going on in the coat room between the commander of the brigand the doorman. 'Didn't you see he was in his underpants?' the pirate inquired coldly.'But, Archibald Archibaldovich,' the doorman replied, cowering, 'how could I not let him in, if he's a member of Massolit?' 'Didn't yousee he was in his underpants?' the pirate repeated. 'Pardon me, ArchibaldArchibaldovich,' the doorman said, turning purple, 'but what could I do? Iunderstand, there are ladies sitting on the veranda . . .' 'Ladies have nothing to do with it, it makes no difference
to theladies,' the pirate replied, literally burning the doorman up with his eyes,'but it does to the police! A man in his underwear can walk the streets ofMoscow only in this one case, that he's accompanied by the police, and onlyto one place -- the police station! And you, if you're a doorman, ought toknow that on seeing such a man, you must, without a moment's delay, startblowing your whistle. Do you hear? Do you hear what's going on on theveranda?' Here the half-crazed doorman heard some sort of hooting coming from theveranda, the smashing of dishes and women's screams. 'Now, what's to be done with you for that?' the freebooter asked. The skin on the doorman's face acquired a typhoid tinge, his eyes wentdead. It seemed to him that the black hair, now combed and parted, wascovered with flaming silk. The shirt-front and tailcoat disappeared and apistol butt emerged, tucked into a leather belt. The doorman picturedhimself hanging from the fore-topsail yard. His eyes
saw his own tonguesticking out and his lifeless head lolling on his shoulder, and even heardthe splash of waves against the hull. The doorman's knees gave way. But herethe freebooter took pity on him and extinguished his sharp gaze. 'Watch out, Nikolai, this is the last time! We have no need of suchdoormen in the restaurant. Go find yourself a job as a beadle.' Having saidthis, the commander commanded precisely, clearly, rapidly: 'Get Panteleifrom the snack bar. Police. Protocol. A car. To the psychiatric clinic.' Andadded: 'Blow your whistle!' In a quarter of an hour an extremely astounded public, not only in therestaurant but on the boulevard itself and in the windows of houses lookingon to the restaurant garden, saw Pantelei, the doorman, a policeman, awaiter and the poet Riukhin carry through the gates of Griboedov's a youngman swaddled like a doll, dissolved in tears, who spat, aiming precisely atRiukhin, and shouted for all the boulevard to hear: 'YOU bastard! ... You
bastard!...' A truck-driver with a spiteful face was starting his motor. Next to hima coachman, rousing his horse, slapping it on the croup with violet reins,shouted: 'Have a run for your money! I've taken 'em to the psychics before!' Around them the crowd buzzed, discussing the unprecedented event. Inshort, there was a nasty, vile, tempting, swinish scandal, which ended onlywhen the truck carried away from the gates of Griboedov's the unfortunateIvan Nikolaevich, the policeman, Pantelei and Riukhin.
