THE ALLIANCE OF THE SWORD AND PLOUGHSHARE

When a woman grows old, many unpleasant things may happen to her: her

teeth may fall out, her hair may thin out and turn grey, she may become

short-winded, she may unexpectedly develop fat or grow extremely thin, but

her voice never changes. It remains just as it was when she was a

schoolgirl, a bride, or some young rake's mistress.

That was why Vorobyaninov trembled when Polesov knocked at the door and

Elena Stanislavovna answered: "Who's that?" His mistress's voice was the

same as it had been in 1899 just before the opening of the Paris Fair. But

as soon as he entered the room, squinting from the glare of the light, he

saw that there was not a trace of her former beauty left.

"How you've changed," he said involuntarily.

The old woman threw herself on to his neck. "Thank you," she said. "I

know what you risk by coming here to see me. You're the same chivalrous

knight. I'm not going- to ask you why you're here from Paris. I'm not

curious, you see."

"But I haven't come from Paris at all," said Ippolit Matveyevich in

confusion.

"My colleague and I have come from Berlin," Ostap corrected her,

nudging Ippolit Matveyevich, "but it's not advisable to talk about it too

loudly."

"Oh, how pleased I am to see you," shrilled the fortune-teller. "Come

in here, into this room. And I'm sorry, Victor Mikhailovich, but couldn't

you come back in half an hour?"

"Oh!" Ostap remarked. "The first meeting. Difficult moments! Allow me

to withdraw as well. May I come with you, dear Victor Mikhailovich?"

The mechanic trembled with joy. They both went off to Polesov's

apartment, where Ostap, sitting on a piece of one of the gates of No. 5

Pereleshinsky Street, outlined his phantasmagoric ideas for the salvation of

the motherland to the dumbstruck artisan. An hour later they returned to

find the old couple lost in reminiscence.

"And do you remember, Elena Stanislavovna?" Ippolit Matveyevich was

saying.

"And do you remember, Ippolit Matveyevich?" Elena Stanislavovna was

saying.

"The psychological moment for supper seems to have arrived," thought

Ostap, and, interrupting Ippolit Matveyevich, who was recalling the

elections to the Tsarist town council, said: "They have a very strange

custom in Berlin. They eat so late that you can't tell whether it's an early

supper or a late lunch."

Elena Stanislavovna gave a start, took her rabbit's eyes off

Vorobyaninov, and dragged herself into the kitchen.

"And now we must act, act, and act," said Ostap, lowering his voice to

a conspiratorial whisper. He took Polesov by the arm. "The old woman is

reliable, isn't she, and won't give us away?"

Polesov joined his hands as though praying.

"What's your political credo?"

"Always!" replied Polesov delightedly.

"You support Kirillov, I hope?"

"Yes, indeed." Polesov stood at attention.

"Russia will not forget you," Ostap rapped out.

Holding a pastry in his hand, Ippolit Matveyevich listened in dismay to

Ostap, but there was no holding the smooth operator. He was carried away. He

felt inspired and ecstatically pleased at this above-average blackmail. He

paced up and down like a leopard.

This was the state in which Elena Stanislavovna found him as she carted

in the samovar from the kitchen. Ostap gallantly ran over to her, took the

samovar without stopping, and placed it on the table. The samovar gave a

peep and Ostap decided to act.

"Madame," he said, "we are happy to see in you . . ."

He did not know whom he was happy to see in Elena Stanislavovna. He had

to start again. Of all the flowery expressions of the Tsarist regime, only

one kept coming to mind-"has graciously commanded". This was out of place,

so he began in a businesslike way.

"Strict secrecy. A state secret." He pointed to Vorobyaninov. "Who do

you think this powerful old man is? Don't say you don't know. He's the

master-mind, the father of Russian democracy and a person close to the

emperor."

Ippolit Matveyevich drew himself up to his splendid height and goggled

in confusion. He had no idea of what was happening, but knowing from

experience that Ostap Bender never did anything without good reason, kept

silent. Polesov was thrilled. He stood with his chin tucked in, like someone

about to begin a parade.

Elena Stanislavovna sat down in a chair and looked at Ostap in fright.

"Are there many of us in the town?" he asked outright. "What's the

general feeling?"

"Given the absence . . ." said Polesov, and began a muddled account of

his troubles. These included that conceited bum, the yard-keeper from no. 5,

the three-eighths-inch dies, the tramway, and so on.

"Good!" snapped Ostap. "Elena Stanislavovna! With your assistance we

want to contact the best people in the town who have been forced underground

by a cruel fate. Who can we ask to come here?"

"Who can we ask! Maxim Petrovich and his wife."

"No women," Ostap corrected her. "You will be the only pleasant

exception. Who else?"

From the discussion, in which Polesov also took an active part, it came

to light that they could ask Maxim Petrovich Charushnikov, a former Tsarist

town councillor, who had now in some miraculous way been raised to the rank

of a Soviet official; Dyadyev, owner of Fastpack; Kislarsky, chairman of the

Odessa Roll Bakery of the Moscow Bun Artel; and two young men who were

nameless but fully reliable.

"In that case, please ask them to come here at once for a small

conference. In the greatest secrecy."

Polesov began speaking. "I'll fetch Maxim Petrovich, Nikesha, and

Vladya, and you, Elena Stanislavovna, be so good as to run down to Fastpack

for Kislarsky."

Polesov sped off. The fortune-teller looked reverently at Ippolit

Matveyevich and also went off.

"What does this mean?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich.

"It means," retorted Ostap, "that you're behind the times."

"Why?"

"Because! Excuse a vulgar question, but how much money do you have?"

"What money?"

"All kinds-including silver and copper."

"Thirty-five roubles."

"And I suppose you intended to recover the entire outlay on the

enterprise with that much money? "

Ippolit Matveyevich was silent.

"Here's the point, dear boss. I reckon you understand me. You will have

to be the master-mind and person close to the emperor for an hour or so."

"Why?"

"Because we need capital. Tomorrow's my wedding. I'm not a beggar. I

want to have a good time on that memorable day."

"What do T have to do?" groaned Ippolit Matveyevich.

"You have to keep quiet. Puff out your cheeks now and then to look

important."

"But that's. . .fraud!"

"Who are you to talk-Count Tolstoy or Darwin? That comes well from a

man who was only yesterday preparing to break into Gritsatsuyev's apartment

at night and steal her furniture. Don't think too much. Just keep quiet and

don't forget to puff out your cheeks."

"Why involve ourselves in such a dangerous business. We might be

betrayed."

"Don't worry about that. I don't bet on poor odds. We'll work it so

that none of them understands anything. Let's have some tea."

While the concessionaires were eating and drinking, and the parrot was

cracking sunflower seeds, the guests began arriving at the apartment.

Nikesha and Vladya came with Victor Mikhailovich. He was hesitant to

introduce the young men to the master-mind. They sat down in a corner and

watched the father of Russian democracy eating cold veal. Nikesha and Vladya

were complete and utter gawks. Both were in their late twenties and were

apparently very pleased at being invited to the meeting.

Charusknikov, the former Tsarist town councillor, was a fat, elderly

man. He gave Ippolit Matveyevich a prolonged handshake and peered into his

face.

Under the supervision of Ostap, the old-timers began exchanging

reminiscences.

As soon as the conversation was moving smoothly, Ostap turned to

Charushnikov. "Which regiment were you in?"

Charushnikov took a deep breath. "I . . . I . . . wasn't, so to speak,

in any, since I was entrusted with the confidence of society and was elected

to office."

"Are you a member of the upper class?"

"Yes, I was."

"I hope you still are. Stand firm! We shall need your help. Has Polesov

told you? We will be helped from abroad. It's only a question of public

opinion. The organization is strictly secret. Be careful!"

Ostap chased Polesov away from Nikesha and Vladya and asked them with

genuine severity: "Which regiment were you in? You will have to serve your

fatherland. Are you members of the upper class? Very good. The West will

help us. Stand firm! Contributions-I mean the organization-will be strictly

secret. Be careful!"

Ostap was on form. Things seemed to be going well. Ostap led the owner

of Fastpack into a corner as soon as Elena Stanislavovna had introduced him,

advised him to stand firm, inquired which regiment he had served in, and

promised him assistance from abroad and complete secrecy of the

organization. The first reaction of the owner of Fastpack was a desire to

run away from the conspiratorial apartment as soon as possible. He felt that

his firm was too solvent to engage in such a risky business. But taking a

look at Ostap's athletic figure, he hesitated and began thinking: "Supposing

. . . Anyway, it all depends on what kind of sauce this thing will be served

with."

The tea-party conversation livened up. Those initiated religiously kept

the secret and chatted about the town.

Last to arrive was citizen Kislarsky, who, being neither a member of

the upper class nor a former guardsman, quickly sized up the situation after

a brief talk with Ostap.

"Stand firm!" said Ostap instructively.

Kislarsky promised he would.

"As a representative of private enterprise, you cannot ignore the cries

of the people."

Kislarsky saddened sympathetically.

"Do you know who that is sitting there?" asked Ostap, pointing to

Ippolit Matveyevich.

"Of course," said Kislarsky. "It's Mr. Vorobyaninov."

"That," said Ostap, "is the master-mind, the father of Russian

democracy and a person close to the emperor."

Two years' solitary confinement at best, thought Kislarsky, beginning

to tremble. Why did I have to come here?

"The secret Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare," whispered Ostap

ominously.

Ten years, flashed through Kislarsky's mind.

"You can leave, by the way, but I warn you, we have a long reach." I'll

show you, you son of a bitch, thought Ostap. You'll not get away from here

for less than a hundred roubles.

Kislarsky became like marble. That day he had had such a good, quiet

dinner of chicken gizzards and soup with nuts, and knew nothing of the

terrible "Alliance of the Sword and Ploughshare". He stayed. The words "long

reach" made an unfavourable impression on him.

"Citizens," said Ostap, opening the meeting, "life dictates its own

laws, its own cruel laws. I am not going to talk about the aim of our

gathering-you all know it. Our aim is sacred. From everywhere we hear cries.

From every corner of our huge country people are calling for help. We must

extend a helping hand and we will do so. Some of you have work and eat bread

and butter; others earn on the side and eat caviar sandwiches. All of you

sleep in your own beds and wrap yourselves in warm blankets. It is only the

young children, the waifs and strays, who are not looked after. These

flowers of the street, or, as the white-collar proletarians call them,

'flowers in asphalt', deserve a better lot. We must help them, gentlemen of

the jury, and, gentlemen of the jury, we will do so."

The smooth operator's speech caused different reactions among the

audience.

Polesov could not understand his young friend, the guards officer.

"What children?" he wondered. "Why children?"

Ippolit Matveyevich did not even try to understand. He was utterly sick

and tired with the whole business and sat there in silence, puffing out his

cheeks.

Elena Stanislavovna became melancholy. Nikesha and Vladya gazed in

devotion at Ostap's sky-blue waistcoat.

The owner of Fastpack was extremely pleased. Nicely put, he decided.

With that sauce I might even contribute some money. If it's successful, I

get the credit. If it's not, I don't know anything about it. I just helped

the children, and that's all.

Charushnikov exchanged a significant look with Dyadyev and, giving the

speaker his due for conspiratorial ability, continued rolling pellets of

bread across the table.

Kislarsky was in seventh heaven. What a brain, he thought. He felt he

had never loved waifs and strays as much as that evening.

"Comrades," Ostap continued, "immediate help is required. We must tear

these children from the clutches of the street, and we will do so. We will

help these children. Let us remember that they are the flowers of life. I

now invite you to make your contributions and help the children-the children

alone and no one else. Do you understand me? "

Ostap took a receipt book from his side pocket.

"Please make your contributions. Ippolit Matveyevich will vouch for my

authority."

Ippolit Matveyevich puffed out his cheeks and bowed his head. At this,

even the dopey Nikesha and Vladya, and the fidgety mechanic, too, realized

the point of Ostap's allusions.

"In order of seniority, gentlemen," said Ostap. "We'll begin with dear

Maxim Petrovich."

Maxim Petrovich fidgeted and forced himself to give thirty roubles. "In

better times I'd give more," he declared.

"Better times will soon be coming," said Ostap. "Anyway, that has

nothing to do with the children who I am at present representing."

Nikesha and Vladya gave eight roubles. "That's not much, young men."

The young men reddened. Polesov ran home and brought back fifty. "Well

done, hussar," said Ostap. "For a car-owning hussar working by himself

that's enough for the first time. What say the merchants?"

Dyadyev and Kislarsky haggled for some time and complained about taxes.

Ostap was unmoved. "I consider such talk out of place in the presence

of Ippolit Matveyevich."

Ippolit Matveyevich bowed his head. The merchants contributed two

hundred roubles each for the benefit of the children.

"Four hundred and eighty-five roubles in all," announced Ostap. "Hm . .

. twelve roubles short of a round figure."

Elena Stanislavovna, who had been trying to stand firm for some time,

went into the bedroom and brought back the necessary twelve roubles in a

bag.

The remaining part of the meeting was more subdued and less festive in

nature. Ostap began to get frisky. Elena Stanislavovna drooped completely.

The guests gradually dispersed, respectfully taking leave of the organizers.

"You will be given special notice of the date of our next meeting,"

said Ostap as they left. "It's strictly secret. The cause must be kept

secret. It's also in your own interests, by the way."

At these words, Kislarsky felt the urge to give another fifty roubles

and not to come to any more meetings. He only just restrained himself.

"Right," said Ostap, "let's get moving. Ippolit Matveyevich, you, I

hope, will take advantage of Elena Stanislavovna's hospitality and spend the

night here. It will be a good thing for the conspiracy if we separate for a

time, anyway, as a blind. I'm off."

Ippolit Matveyevich was winking broadly, but Ostap pretended he had not

noticed and went out into the street. Having gone a block, he remembered the

five hundred honestly earned roubles in his pocket.

"Cabby! " he cried. "Take me to the Phoenix."

The cabby leisurely drove Ostap to a closed restaurant.

"What's this! Shut?"

"On account of May Day."

"Damn them! All the money in the world and nowhere to have a good time.

All right, then, take me to Plekhanov Street. Do you know it?"

"What was the street called before? " asked the cabby.

"I don't know."

"How can I get there? I don't know it, either."

Ostap nevertheless ordered him to drive on and find it.

For an hour and a half they cruised around the dark and empty town,

asking watchmen and militiamen the way. One militiaman racked his brains and

at length informed them that Plekhanov Street was none other than the former

Governor Street.

"Governor Street! I've been taking people to Governor Street for

twenty-five years."

"Then drive there!"

They arrived at Governor Street, but it turned out to be Karl Marx and

not Plekhanov Street.

The frustrated Ostap renewed his search for the lost street, but was

not able to find it. Dawn cast a pale light on the face of the moneyed

martyr who had been prevented from disporting himself.

"Take me to the Sorbonne Hotel!" he shouted. "A fine driver you are!

You don't even know Plekhanov! "

Widow Gritsatsuyev's palace glittered. At the head of the banquet table

sat the King of Clubs-the son of a Turkish citizen. He was elegant and

drunk. All the guests were talking loudly.

The young bride was no longer young. She was at least thirty-five.

Nature had endowed her generously. She had everything: breasts like

watermelons, a bulging nose, brightly coloured cheeks and a powerful neck.

She adored her new husband and was afraid of him. She did not therefore call

him by his first name, or by his patronymic, which she had not managed to

find out, anyway, but by his surname-Comrade Bender.

Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting on his cherished chair. All through the

wedding feast he bounced up and down, trying to feel something hard. From

time to time he did. Whenever this happened, the people present pleased him,

and he began shouting "Kiss the bride" furiously.

Ostap kept making speeches and proposing toasts. They drank to public

education and the irrigation of Uzbekistan. Later on the guests began to

depart. Ippolit Matveyevich lingered in the hall and whispered to Bender:

"Don't waste time, they're there."

"You're a moneygrubber," replied the drunken Ostap. "Wait for me at the

hotel. Don't go anywhere. I may come at any moment. Settle the hotel bill

and have everything ready. Adieu, Field Marshal! Wish me good night!"

Ippolit Matveyevich did so and went back to the Sorbonne to worry.

Ostap turned up at five in the morning carrying the chair. Vorobyaninov

was speechless. Ostap put down the chair in the middle of the room and sat

on it.

"How did you manage it? " Vorobyaninov finally got out.

"Very simple. Family style. The widow was asleep and dreaming. It was a

pity to wake her. 'Don't wake her at dawn!' Too bad! I had to leave a note.

'Going to Novokhopersk to make a report. Won't be back to dinner. Your own

Bunny.' And I took the chair from the dining-room. There aren't any trams

running at this time of the morning, so I rested on the chair on the way."

Ippolit Matveyevich flung himself towards the chair with a burbling

sound.

"Go easy," said Ostap, "we must avoid making a noise." He took a pair

of pliers out of his pocket, and work soon began to hum. "Did you lock the

door?" he asked.

Pushing aside the impatient Vorobyaninov, he neatly laid open the

chair, trying not to damage the flowered chintz.

"This kind of cloth isn't to be had any more; it should be preserved.

There's a dearth of consumer goods and nothing can be done about it."

Ippolit Matveyevich was driven to a state of extreme irritation.

"There," said Ostap quietly. He raised the covering and groped among

the springs with both his hands. The veins stood out like a "V" on his

forehead.

"Well?" Ippolit Matveyevich kept repeating in various keys. "Well?

Well?"

"Well and well," said Ostap irritably. "One chance in eleven . . ." He

thoroughly examined the inside of the chair and concluded: "And this chance

isn't ours."

He stood up straight and dusted his knees. Ippolit Matveyevich flung

himself on the chair. The jewels were not there. Vorobyaninov's hands

dropped, but Ostap was in good spirits as before.

"Our chances have now increased."

He began walking up and down the room.

"It doesn't matter. The chair cost the widow twice as much as it did

us."

He took out of his side pocket a gold brooch set with coloured stones,

a hollow bracelet of imitation gold, half-a-dozen gold teaspoons, and a

tea-strainer.

In his grief Ippolit Matveyevich did not even realize that he had

become an accomplice in common or garden theft.

"A shabby trick," said Ostap, "but you must agree I couldn't leave my

beloved without something to remember her by. However, we haven't any time

to lose. This is only the beginning. The end will be in Moscow. And a

furniture museum is not like a widow-it'll be a bit more difficult."

The partners stuffed the pieces of the chair under the bed and, having

counted their money (together with the contributions for the children's

benefit, they had five hundred and thirty-five roubles), drove to the

station to catch the Moscow train.

They had to drive right across the town.

On Co-operative Street they caught sight of Polesov running along the

pavement like a startled antelope. He was being pursued by the yard-keeper

from No. 5 Pereleshinsky Street. Turning the corner, the concessionaires

just had time to see the yard-keeper catch him up and begin bashing him.

Polesov was shouting "Help!" and "Bum!"

Until the train departed they sat in the gentlemen's to avoid meeting

the beloved.

The train whisked the friends towards the noisy capital. They pressed

against the window. The cars were speeding over Gusishe.

Suddenly Ostap let out a roar and seized Vorobyaninov by the biceps.

"Look, look!" he cried. "Quick! It's Alchen, that son of a bitch!"

Ippolit Matveyevich looked downward. At the bottom of the embankment a

tough-looking young man with a moustache was pulling a wheelbarrow loaded

with a light-brown harmonium and five window frames. A shamefaced citizen in

a mouse-grey shirt was pushing the barrow from behind.

The sun forced its way through the dark clouds, and on the churches the

crosses glittered.

"Pashka! Going to market?"

Pasha Emilevich raised his head but only saw the buffers of the last

coach; he began working even harder with his legs.

"Did you see that?" asked Ostap delightedly. "Terrific! That's the way

to work! "

Ostap slapped the mournful Vorobyaninov on the back.

"Don't worry, dad! Never say die! The hearing is continued. Tomorrow

evening we'll be in Moscow."

PART II

Date: 2015-01-02; view: 817