The Twelve Chairs / Двенадцать стульев. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Seems rather curiousВ».

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. В«He's off to the chemist's again. Things must be badВ». В«The old woman will die. Bezenchuk isn't running round the town in a flurry for nothingВ». В«What does the doctor say?В»

В«What doctor? Do you call those people in the social-insurance office doctors? They're enough to send a healthy man to his grave!В»

В«Pierre and ConstantineВ», who had been longing for a chance to make a pronouncement on the subject of medicine, looked around cautiously, and said:

В«Haemoglobin is what counts nowadaysВ».

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.

В«So how would you like it, Mr. Vorobyaninov?В» asked the undertaker, hugging his cap to his chest. В«Yes, probablyВ», answered Ippolit Matveyevich gloomily. В«Does the Nymph, durn it, really give good service?В» said Bezenchuk, becoming agitated. В«Go to the devil! You make me sick!В»

В«I'm not doin' nothin'.