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Part I. The Lion of Stargorod

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Сhapter One. Bezenchuk and the Nymphs

There were so many hairdressing establishments and funeral homes in the regional centre of N. that the inhabitants seemed to be born merely in order to have a shave, get their hair cut, freshen up their heads with toilet water and then die. In actual fact, people came into the world, shaved, and died rather rarely in the regional centre of N. Life in N. was extremely quiet. The spring evenings were delightful, the mud glistened like anthracite in the light of the moon, and all the young men of the town were so much in love with the secretary of the communal-service workers' local committee that she found difficulty in collecting their subscriptions.

Matters of life and death did not worry Ippolit Matveyevich Vorobyaninov, although by the nature of his work he dealt with them from nine till five every day, with a half-hour break for lunch.

Each morning, having drunk his ration of hot milk brought to him by Claudia Ivanovna in a streaky frosted-glass tumbler, he left the dingy little house and went outside into the vast street bathed in weird spring sunlight; it was called Comrade Gubernsky Street. It was the nicest kind of street you can find in regional centres. On the left you could see the coffins of the Nymph Funeral Home glittering with silver through undulating green-glass panes. On the right, the dusty, plain oak coffins of Bezenchuk, the undertaker, reclined sadly behind small windows from which the putty was peeling off. Further up, «Master Barber Pierre and Constantine» promised customers a «manicure» and «home curlings». Still further on was a hotel with a hairdresser's, and beyond it a large open space in which a straw-coloured calf stood tenderly licking the rusty sign propped up against a solitary gateway. The sign read: Do-Us-the-Honour Funeral Home.

Although there were many funeral homes, their clientele was not wealthy. The Do-Us-the-Honour had gone broke three years before Ippolit Matveyevich settled in the town of N., while Bezenchuk drank like a fish and had once tried to pawn his best sample coffin.

People rarely died in the town of N. Ippolit Matveyevich knew this better than anyone because he worked in the registry office, where he was in charge of the registration of deaths and marriages.

The desk at which Ippolit Matveyevich worked resembled an ancient gravestone. The left-hand corner had been eaten away by rats. Its wobbly legs quivered under the weight of bulging tobacco-coloured files of notes, which could provide any required information on the origins of the town inhabitants and the family trees that had grown up in the barren regional soil.

On Friday, April 15, 1927, Ippolit Matveyevich woke up as usual at half past seven and immediately slipped on to his nose an old-fashioned pince-nez with a gold nosepiece. He did not wear glasses. At one time, deciding that it was not hygienic to wear pince-nez, he went to the optician and bought himself a pair of frameless spectacles with gold-plated sidepieces. He liked the spectacles from the very first, but his wife (this was shortly before she died) found that they made him look the spitting image of Milyukov, and he gave them to the man who cleaned the yard. Although he was not shortsighted, the fellow grew accustomed to the glasses and enjoyed wearing them.

«Bonjour!» sang Ippolit Matveyevich to himself as he lowered his legs from the bed. «Bonjour» showed that he had woken up in a. good humour. If he said «Guten Morgen» on awakening, it usually meant that his liver was playing tricks, that it was no joke being fifty-two, and that the weather was damp at the time.

Ippolit Matveyevich thrust his legs into pre-revolutionary trousers, tied the ribbons around his ankles, and pulled on short, soft-leather boots with narrow, square toes. Five minutes later he was neatly arrayed in a yellow waistcoat decorated with small silver stars and a lustrous silk jacket that reflected the colours of the rainbow as it caught the light. Wiping away the drops of water still clinging to his grey hairs after his ablutions, Ippolit Matveyevich fiercely wiggled his moustache, hesitantly felt his bristly chin, gave his close-cropped silvery hair a brush and, then, smiling politely, went toward his mother-in-law, Claudia Ivanovna, who had just come into the room.

«Eppole-et», she thundered, «I had a bad dream last night».

The word «dream» was pronounced with a French «r».

Ippolit Matveyevich looked his mother-in-law up and down. He was six feet two inches tall, and from that height it was easy for him to look down on his mother-in-law with a certain contempt.

Claudia Ivanovna continued: «I dreamed of the deceased Marie with her hair down, and wearing a golden sash».

The iron lamp with its chain and dusty glass toys all vibrated at the rumble of Claudia Ivanovna's voice. «I am very disturbed. I fear something may happen». These last words were uttered with such force that the square of bristling hair on Ippolit Matveyevich's head moved in different directions. He wrinkled up his face and said slowly:

«Nothing's going to happen, Maman. Have you paid the water rates?»

It appeared that she had not. Nor had the galoshes been washed. Ippolit Matveyevich disliked his mother-in-law. Claudia Ivanovna was stupid, and her advanced age gave little hope of any improvement. She was stingy in the extreme, and it was only Ippolit Matveyevich's poverty which prevented her giving rein to this passion. Her voice was so strong and fruity that it might well have been envied by Richard the Lionheart, at whose shout, as is well known, horses used to kneel. Furthermore, and this was the worst thing of all about her, she had dreams. She was always having dreams. She dreamed of girls in sashes, horses trimmed with the yellow braid worn by dragoons, caretakers playing harps, angels in watchmen's fur coats who went for walks at night carrying clappers, and knitting-needles which hopped around the room by themselves making a distressing tinkle. An empty-headed woman was Claudia Ivanovna. In addition to everything else, her upper lip was covered by a moustache, each side of which resembled a shaving brush.

Ippolit Matveyevich left the house in rather an irritable mood. Bezenchuk the undertaker was standing at the entrance to his tumble-down establishment, leaning against the door with his hands crossed. The regular collapse of his commercial undertakings plus a long period of practice in the consumption of intoxicating drinks had made his eyes bright yellow like a cat's, and they burned with an unfading light.

«Greetings to an honoured guest!» he rattled off, seeing Vorobyaninov. «Good mornin'».

Ippolit Matveyevich politely raised his soiled beaver hat. «How's your mother-in-law, might I inquire?» «Mrr-mrr», said Ippolit Matveyevich indistinctly, and shrugging his shoulders, continued on his way.

«God grant her health», said Bezenchuk bitterly. «Nothin' but losses, durn it». And crossing his hands on his chest, he again leaned against the doorway.

At the entrance to the Nymph Funeral Home Ippolit Matveyevich was stopped once more. There were three owners of the Nymph. They all bowed to Ippolit Matveyevich and inquired in chorus about his mother-in-law's health.

«She's well», replied Ippolit Matveyevich. «The things she does! Last night she saw a golden girl with her hair down. It was a dream».

The three Nymphs exchanged glances and sighed loudly.

These conversations delayed Vorobyaninov on his way, and contrary to his usual practice, he did not arrive at work until the clock on the wall above the slogan «Finish Your Business and Leave» showed five past nine.

Because of his great height, and particularly because of his moustache, Ippolit Matveyevich was known in the office as Maciste. Аlthough the real Maciste had no moustache. (Translator's Note: Maciste was an internationally known Italian actor of the time.)

Taking a blue felt cushion out of a drawer in the desk, Ippolit Matveyevich placed it on his chair, aligned his moustache correctly (parallel to the top of the desk) and sat down on the cushion, rising slightly higher than his three colleagues. He was not afraid of getting piles; he was afraid of wearing out his trousers-that was why he used the blue cushion.

All these operations were watched timidly by two young persons-a boy and a girl. The young man, who wore a padded cotton coat, was completely overcome by the office atmosphere, the chemical smell of the ink, the clock that was ticking loud and fast, and most of all by the sharply worded notice «Finish Your Business and Leave». The young man in the coat had not even begun his business, but he was nonetheless ready to leave. He felt his business was so insignificant that it was shameful to disturb such a distinguished-looking grey-haired citizen as Vorobyaninov. Ippolit Matveyevich also felt the young man's business was a trifling one and could wait, so he opened folder no. 2 and, with a twitch of the cheek, immersed himself in the papers. The girl, who had on a long jacket edged with shiny black ribbon, whispered something to the young man and, pink with embarrassment, began moving toward Ippolit Matveyevich.

«Comrade», she said, «where do we…»

The young man in the padded coat sighed with pleasure and, unexpectedly for himself, blurted out:

«Get married!»

Ippolit Matveyevich looked thoughtfully at the rail behind which the young couple were standing.

«Birth? Death?»

«Get married?» repeated the young man in the coat and looked round him in confusion.

The girl gave a giggle. Things were going fine. Ippolit Matveyevich set to work with the skill of a magician. In spidery handwriting he recorded the names of the bride and groom in thick registers, sternly questioned the witnesses, who had to be fetched from outside, breathed tenderly and lengthily on the square rubber stamps and then, half rising to his feet, impressed them upon the tattered identification papers. Having received two roubles from the newlyweds «for administration of the sacrament», as he said with a smirk, and given them a receipt, Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height, automatically pushing out his chest (he had worn a corset at one time). The wide golden rays of the sun fell on his shoulders like epaulettes. His appearance was slightly comic, but singularly impressive. The biconcave lenses of his pince-nez flashed white like searchlights. The young couple stood in awe.

«Young people», said Ippolit Matveyevich pompously, «allow me to congratulate you, as they used to say, on your legal marriage. It is very, very nice to see young people like yourselves moving hand in hand toward the realization of eternal ideals. It is very, ve-ery nice!»

Having made this address, Ippolit Matveyevich shook hands with the newly married couple, sat down, and, extremely pleased with himself, continued to read the papers in folder no. 2. At the next desk the clerks sniggered into their inkwells. The quiet routine of the working day had begun. No one disturbed the deaths-and-marriages desk. Through the windows citizens could be seen making their way home, shivering in the spring chilliness. At exactly midday the cock in the Hammer and Plough cooperative began crowing. Nobody was surprised. Then came the mechanical rattling and squeaking of a car engine. A thick cloud of violet smoke billowed out from Comrade Gubernsky Street, and the clanking grew louder. Through the smoke appeared the outline of the regional-executive-committee car Gos. No. 1 with its minute radiator and bulky body. Floundering in the mud as it went, the car crossed Staropan Square and, swaying from side to side, disappeared in a cloud of poisonous smoke. The clerks remained standing at the window for some time, commenting on the event and attempting to connect it with a possible reduction in staff. A little while later Bezenchuk cautiously went past along the footboards. For days on end he used to wander round the town trying to find out if anyone had died.

The working day was drawing to a close. In the nearby white and yellow belfry the bells began ringing furiously. Windows rattled. Jackdaws rose one by one from the belfry, joined forces over the square, held a brief meeting, and flew off. The evening sky turned ice-grey over the deserted square.

It was time for Ippolit Matveyevich to leave. Everything that was to be born on that day had been born and registered in the thick ledgers. All those wishing to get married had done so and were likewise recorded in the thick registers. And, clearly to the ruin of the undertakers, there had not been a single death. Ippolit Matveyevich packed up his files, put the felt cushion away in the drawer, fluffed up his moustache with a comb, and was just about to leave, having visions of a bowl of steaming soup, when the door burst open and Bezenchuk the undertaker appeared on the threshold.

«Greetings to an honoured guest», said Ippolit Matveyevich with a smile. «What can I do for you?»

The undertaker's animal-like face glowed in the dusk, but he was unable to utter a word.

«Well?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich more severely.

«Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?» said the undertaker vaguely. «Can they really satisfy customers? Why, a coffin needs so much wood alone».

«What?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

«It's the Nymph…. Three families livin' on one rotten business. And their materials ain't no good, and the finish is worse. What's more, the tassels ain't thick enough, durn it. Mine's an old firm, though. Founded in 1907. My coffins are like gherkins, specially selected for people who know a good coffin».

«What are you talking about? Are you crazy?» snapped Ippolit Matveyevich and moved towards the door. «Your coffins will drive you out of your mind».

Bezenchuk obligingly threw open the door, let Vorobyaninov go out first and then began following him, trembling as though with impatience.

«When the Do-Us-the-Honour was goin', it was all right There wasn't one firm, not even in Tver, which could touch it in brocade, durn it. But now, I tell you straight, there's nothin' to beat mine. You don't even need to look».

Ippolit Matveyevich turned round angrily, glared at Bezenchuk, and began walking faster. Although he had not had any difficulties at the office that day, he felt rotten.

The three owners of the Nymph were standing by their establishment in the same positions in which Ippolit Matveyevich had left them that morning. They appeared not to have exchanged a single word with one another, yet a striking change in their expressions and a kind of secret satisfaction darkly gleaming in their eyes indicated that they had heard something of importance.

At the sight of his business rivals, Bezenchuk waved his hand in despair and called after Vorobyaninov in a whisper: «I'll make it thirty-two roubles». Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and increased his pace. «You can have credit», added Bezenchuk. The three owners of the Nymph said nothing. They sped after Vorobyaninov in silence, continually doffing their caps and bowing as they went.

Highly annoyed by the stupid attentions of the undertakers, Ippolit Matveyevich ran up the steps of the porch more quickly than usual, irritably wiped his boots free of mud on one of the steps and, feeling strong pangs of hunger, went into the hallway. He was met by Father Theodore, priest of the Church of St. Frol and St. Laurence, who had just come out of the inner room and was looking hot and bothered. Holding up his cassock in his right hand, Father Theodore hurried past towards the door, ignoring Ippolit Matveyevich.

It was then that Vorobyaninov noticed the extra cleanliness and the unsightly disorder of the sparse furniture, and felt a tickling sensation in his nose from the strong smell of medicine. In the outer room Ippolit Matveyevich was met by his neighbour, Mrs. Kuznetsov, the agronomist. She spoke in a whisper, moving her hand about.

«She's worse. She's just made her confession. Don't make a noise with your boots».

«I'm not», said Ippolit Matveyevich meekly. «What's happened?»

Mrs. Kuznetsov sucked in her lips and pointed to the door of the inner room: «Very severe heart attack».

Then, clearly repeating what she had heard, added: «The possibility of her not recovering should not be discounted. I've been on my feet all day. I came this morning to borrow the mincer and saw the door was open. There was no one in the kitchen and no one in this room either. So I thought Claudia Ivanovna had gone to buy flour to make some Easter cake. She'd been going to for some time. You know what flour is like nowadays. If you don't buy it beforehand …»

Mrs. Kuznetsov would have gone on for a long time describing the flour and the high price of it and how she found Claudia Ivanovna lying by the tiled stove completely unconscious, had not a groan from the next room impinged painfully on Ippolit Matveyevich's ear. He quickly crossed himself with a somewhat feelingless hand and entered his mother-in-law's room.

Сhapter Two. Madame Petukhov's Demise

Claudia Ivanovna lay on her back with one arm under her head. She was wearing a bright apricot-coloured cap of the type that used to be in fashion when ladies wore the «chanticleer» and had just begun to dance the tango.

Claudia Ivanovna's face was solemn, but expressed absolutely nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

«Claudia Ivanovna!» called Ippolit Matveyevich.

His mother-in-law moved her lips rapidly, but instead of the trumpet-like sounds to which his ear was accustomed, Ippolit Matveyevich only heard a groan, soft, high-pitched, and so pitiful that his heart gave a leap. A tear suddenly glistened in one eye and rolled down his cheek like a drop of mercury.

«Claudia Ivanovna», repeated Vorobyaninov, «what's the matter?»

But again he received no answer. The old woman had closed her eyes and slumped to one side.

The agronomist came quietly into the room and led him away like a little boy taken to be washed.

«She's dropped off. The doctor didn't say she was to be disturbed. Listen, dearie, run down to the chemist's. Here's the prescription. Find out how much an ice-bag costs».

Ippolit Matveyevich obeyed Madame Kuznetsov, sensing her indisputable superiority in such matters.

It was a long way to the chemist's. Clutching the prescription in his fist like a schoolboy, Ippolit Matveyevich hurried out into the street.

It was almost dark, but against the fading light the frail figure of Bezenchuk could be seen leaning against the wooden gate munching a piece of bread and onion. The three Nymphs were squatting beside him, eating porridge from an iron pot and licking their spoons. At the sight of Vorobyaninov the undertakers sprang to attention, like soldiers. Bezenchuk shrugged his shoulders petulantly and, pointing to his rivals, said:

«Always in me way, durn em».

In the middle of the square, near the bust of the «poet Zhukovsky, which was inscribed with the words „Poetry is God in the Sacred Dreams of the Earth“, an animated conversation was in progress following the news of Claudia Ivanovna's stroke. The general opinion of the assembled citizens could have been summed up as „We all have to go sometime“ and „What the Lord gives, the Lord takes back“».

The hairdresser «Pierre and Constantine»-who also answered readily to the name of Andrew Ivanovich, by the way-once again took the opportunity to air his knowledge of medicine, acquired from the Moscow magazine Ogonyok.

«Modern science», Andrew Ivanovich was saying, «has achieved the impossible. Take this for example. Let's say a customer gets a pimple on his 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?»

«No tassels or brocade. Just an ordinary coffin made of pine-wood. Do you understand?»

Bezenchuk put his finger to his lips to show that he understood perfectly, turned round and, managing to balance his cap on his head although he was staggering, went off. It was only then that Ippolit Matveyevich noticed that he was blind drunk.

Ippolit Matveyevich felt singularly upset. He tried to picture himself coming home to an empty, dirty house. He was afraid his mother-in-law's death would deprive him of all those little luxuries and set ways he had acquired with such effort since the revolutiona revolution which had stripped him of much greater luxuries and a grander way of life. «Should I marry?» he wondered. «But who? The militia chief's niece or Barbara Stepanova, Prusis's sister? Or maybe I should hire a housekeeper. But what's the use? She would only drag me around the law courts. And it would cost me something, too!»

The future suddenly looked black for Ippolit Matveyevich. Full of indignation and disgust at everything around him, he went back into the house. Claudia Ivanovna was no longer delirious. Lying high on her pillows, she looked at Ippolit Matveyevich, in full command of her faculties, and even sternly, he thought.

«Ippolit Matveyevich», she whispered clearly. «Sit close to me. I want to tell you something».

Ippolit Matveyevich sat down in annoyance, peering into his mother-in-law's thin, bewhiskered face. He made an attempt to smile and say something encouraging, but the smile was hideous and no words of encouragement came to him. An awkward wheezing noise was all he could produce.

«Ippolit», repeated his mother-in-law, «do you remember our drawing-room suite?»

«Which one?» asked Ippolit Matveyevich with that kind of polite attention that is only accorded to the very sick.

«The one … upholstered in English chintz».

«You mean the suite in my house?»

«Yes, in Stargorod».

«Yes, I remember it very well … a sofa, a dozen chairs and a round table with six legs. It was splendid furniture. Made by Hambs…. But why does it come to mind?»

Claudia Ivanovna, however, was unable to answer. Her face had slowly begun to turn the colour of copper sulphate. For some reason Ippolit Matveyevich also caught his breath. He clearly remembered the drawing-room in his house and its symmetrically arranged walnut furniture with curved legs, the polished parquet floor, the old brown grand piano, and the oval black-framed daguerreotypes of high-ranking relatives on the walls.

Claudia Ivanovna then said in a wooden, apathetic voice:

«I sewed my jewels into the seat of a chair».

Ippolit Matveyevich looked sideways at the old woman.

«What jewels?» he asked mechanically, then, suddenly realizing what she had said, added quickly:

«Weren't they taken when the house was searched?»

«I hid the jewels in a chair», repeated the old woman stubbornly.

Ippolit Matveyevich jumped up and, taking a close look at Claudia Ivanovna's stony face lit by the paraffin lamp, saw she was not raving.

«Your jewels!» he cried, startled at the loudness of his own voice. «In a chair? Who induced you to do that? Why didn't you give them to me?»

«Why should I have given them to you when you squandered away my daughter's estate?» said the old woman quietly and viciously. Ippolit Matveyevich sat down and immediately stood up again.

His heart was noisily sending the blood coursing around his body. He began to hear a ringing in his ears.

«But you took them out again, didn't you? They're here, aren't they?»

The old woman shook her head.

«I didn't have time. You remember how quickly and unexpectedly we had to flee. They were left in the chair… the one between the terracotta lamp and the fireplace».

«But that was madness! 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 nosepiece 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: