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  "identity": "D76FDAB0F9D31B265EDDBE77B6B516C844E71E93A720BEF5D892E6039BE4E38D",
  "confirmation": "007F81C6F991EACBAC1754311C10D9E5A332E00200767721829870483C7ECBF8",
  "signing": "0FD6DB8BEA6901A6498D39723EE07661EC22C2A75A15138D5676888BC4ACC4DE",
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    "encrypted": "3032C59A5F6E0D4105B810A9EEAC06437B9E26C020BA3B94033AEEC8577B68BCFC1ACE299CB7FFA02B1D03A1290256187B0D3422651AE31C724BCF3B30589FAA39117426EAF6AAB6",
    "zone": "merch",
    "info": "The Master and Margarita, BOOK 1, ch 5\nby Mikhail Bulgakov, 1891-1940\nTranslated by:\nRichard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky",
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        "domain": "maybe.merch",
        "data": "Chapter 5\nThere were Doings at Griboedov\u2018s.\n The old, two-storeyed, cream-coloured house stood on the ring boulevard, in the\ndepths of a seedy garden, separated from the sidewalk by a fancy cast-iron fence.\nThe small terrace in front of the house was paved with asphalt, and in wintertime\nwas dominated by a snow pile with a shovel stuck in it, but in summertime turned\ninto the most magnificent section of the summer restaurant under a canvas tent.\n The house was called \u2018The House of Griboedov\u2019 on the grounds that it was\nalleged to have once belonged to an aunt of the writer Alexander Sergeevich\nGriboedov. Now, whether it did or did not belong to her, we do not exactly\nknow. On recollection, it even seems that Griboedov never had any such houseowning aunt\u2026\nNevertheless, that was what the house was called. Moreover, one\nMoscow liar had it that there, on the second floor, in a round hall with columns,\nthe famous writer had supposedly read passages from Woe From Wit to this very\naunt while she reclined on a sofa. However, devil knows, maybe he did, it\u2019s of no\nimportance.\n What is important is that at the present time this house was owned by that\nsame Massolit which had been headed by the unfortunate Mikhail Alexandrovich\nBerlioz before his appearance at the Patriarch\u2019s Ponds.\n In the casual manner of Massolit members, no one called the house \u2018The House\nof Griboedov\u2019, everyone simply said \u2018Griboedov\u2019s\u2018: \u2019I spent two hours yesterday\nknocking about Griboedov\u2019s.\u2018 \u2019Well, and so?\u2018 \u2019Got myself a month in Yalta.\u2018 \u2019Bravo!\u2018\nOr: \u2019Go to Berlioz, he receives today from four to five at Griboedov\u2019s\u2026\u2018 and so on.\n Massolit had settled itself at Griboedov\u2019s in the best and cosiest way imaginable.\nAnyone entering Griboedov\u2019s first of all became involuntarily acquainted with the\nannouncements of various sports clubs, and with group as well as individual\nphotographs of the members of Massolit, hanging (the photographs) on the walls of\nthe staircase leading to the second floor.\n On the door to the very first room of this upper floor one could see a big sign:\n\u2018Fishing and Vacation Section\u2019, along with the picture of a carp caught on a line.\n On the door of room no. 2 something not quite comprehensible was written:\n\u2018One-day Creative Trips. Apply to M. V. Spurioznaya.\u2019\n The next door bore a brief but now totally incomprehensible inscription:\n\u2018Perelygino\u2019. After which the chance visitor to Griboedov\u2019s would not know\nwhere to look from the motley inscriptions on the aunt\u2019s walnut doors: \u2018Sign up for\nPaper with Poklevkina\u2019, \u2018Cashier\u2019, \u2018Personal Accounts of Sketch-Writers\u2019\u2026\n If one cut through the longest line, which already went downstairs and out to\nthe doorman\u2019s lodge, one could see the sign \u2018Housing Question\u2019 on a door which\npeople were crashing every second.\n Beyond the housing question there opened out a luxurious poster on which a\ncliff was depicted and, riding on its crest, a horseman in a felt cloak with a rifle on\nhis shoulder. A little lower\u2014palm trees and a balcony; on the balcony\u2014a seated\nyoung man with a forelock, gazing somewhere aloft with very lively eyes, holding a\nfountain pen in his hand. The inscription: \u2018Full-scale Creative Vacations from Two\nWeeks (Story/Novella) to One Year (Novel/Trilogy). Yalta, Suuk-Su, Borovoe,\nTsikhidziri, Makhindzhauri, Leningrad (Winter Palace).\u2019 There was also a line\nat this door, but not an excessive one some hundred and fifty people.\n Next, obedient to the whimsical curves, ascents and descents of the Griboedov\nhouse, came the \u2018Massolit Executive Board\u2019, \u2018Cashiers nos. 2, 3, 4, 5\u2019, \u2019Editorial\nBoard\u2018, \u2019Chairman of Massolit\u2018, \u2019Billiard Room\u2018, various auxiliary institutions and,\nfinally, that same hall with the colonnade where the aunt had delighted in the\ncomedy of her genius nephew.\n Any visitor finding himself in Griboedov\u2018s, unless of course he was a total dimwit,\nwould realize at once what a good life those lucky fellows, the Massolit\nmembers, were having, and black envy would immediately start gnawing at him.\nAnd he would immediately address bitter reproaches to heaven for not having\nendowed him at birth with literary talent, lacking which there was naturally no\ndreaming of owning a Massolit membership card, brown, smelling of costly leather,\nwith a wide gold border\u2014a card known to all Moscow.\n Who will speak in defence of envy? This feeling belongs to the nasty category,\nbut all the same one must put oneself in the visitor\u2019s position. For what he had\nseen on the upper floor was not all, and was far from all. The entire ground floor of\nthe aunt\u2019s house was occupied by a restaurant, and what a restaurant! It was\njustly considered the best in Moscow. And not only because it took up two vast\nhalls with arched ceilings, painted with violet, Assyrian-maned horses, not only\nbecause on each table there stood a lamp shaded with a shawl, not only because it\nwas not accessible to just anybody coming in off the street, but because in the\nquality of its fare Griboedov\u2019s beat any restaurant in Moscow up and down, and\nthis fare was available at the most reasonable, by no means onerous, price.\n Hence there was nothing surprising, for instance, in the following conversation,\nwhich the author of these most truthful lines once heard near the cast-iron fence\nof Griboedov\u2019s:\n \u2018Where are you dining today, Amvrosy?\u2019\n \u2018What a question! Why, here, of course, my dear Foka! Archibald Archibaldovich\nwhispered to me today that there will be perch au naturel done to order. A\nvirtuoso little treat!\u2019\n \u2018You sure know how to live, Amvrosy!\u2019 skinny, run-down Foka, with a carbuncle\non his neck, replied with a sigh to the ruddy-lipped giant, golden-haired, plumpcheeked Amvrosy-the-poet.\n \u2018I have no special knowledge,\u2019 Amvrosy protested, \u2018just the ordinary wish to live\nlike a human being. You mean to say, Foka, that perch can be met with at the\nColiseum as well. But at the Coliseum a portion of perch costs thirteen roubles\nfifteen kopecks, and here\u2014five-fifty! Besides, at the Coliseum they serve three-dayold\nperch, and, besides, there\u2019s no guarantee you won\u2019t get slapped in the mug\nwith a bunch of grapes at the Coliseum by the first young man who bursts in from\nTheatre Alley. No, I\u2019m categorically opposed to the Coliseum,\u2019 the gastronome\nAmvrosy boomed for the whole boulevard to hear. \u2018Don\u2019t try to convince me, Foka!\u2019\n \u2018I\u2019m not trying to convince you, Amvrosy,\u2019 Foka squeaked. \u2018One can also dine at\nhome.\u2019\n \u2018I humbly thank you,\u2019 trumpeted Amvrosy, \u2018but I can imagine your wife, in the\ncommunal kitchen at home, trying to do perch au naturel to order in a saucepan!\nHee, hee, hee! \u2026 Aurevwar, Foka!\u2019 And, humming, Amvrosy directed his steps to\nthe veranda under the tent.\n Ahh, yes! \u2026 Yes, there was a time! \u2026 Old Muscovites will remember the\nrenowned Griboedov\u2018s! What is poached perch done to order! Cheap stuff, my dear\nAmvrosy! But sterlet, sterlet in a silvery chafing dish, sterlet slices interlaid with\ncrayfish tails and fresh caviar? And eggs en cocotte with mushroom pur\u00e9e in little\ndishes? And how did you like the fillets of thrush? With truffles? Quail \u00e0 la\ng\u00e9noise? Nine-fifty! And the jazz, and the courteous service! And in July, when the\nwhole family is in the country, and you are kept in the city by urgent literary\nbusiness on the veranda, in the shade of the creeping vines, in a golden spot on\nthe cleanest of tablecloths, a bowl of soup printanier? Remember, Amvrosy? But\nwhy ask! I can see by your lips that you do. What is your whitefish, your perch!\nBut the snipe, the great snipe, the jack snipe, the woodcock in their season, the\nquail, the curlew? Cool seltzer fizzing in your throat?! But enough, you are getting\ndistracted, reader! Follow me!\u2026\n At half past ten on the evening when Berlioz died at the Patriarch\u2019s Ponds, only\none room was lit upstairs at Griboedov\u2018s, and in it languished twelve writers who\nhad gathered for a meeting and were waiting for Mikhail Alexandrovich.\n Sitting on chairs, and on tables, and even on the two window-sills in the office\nof the Massolit executive board, they suffered seriously from the heat. Not a single\nbreath of fresh air came through the open windows. Moscow was releasing the\nheat accumulated in the asphalt all day, and it was clear that night would bring\nno relief. The smell of onions came from the basement of the aunt\u2019s house, where\nthe restaurant kitchen was at work, they were all thirsty, they were all nervous\nand angry.\n The belletrist Beskudnikov a quiet, decently dressed man with attentive and at\nthe same time elusive eyes\u2014took out his watch. The hand was crawling towards\neleven. Beskudnikov tapped his finger on the face and showed it to the poet\nDvubratsky, who was sitting next to him on the table and in boredom dangling his\nfeet shod in yellow shoes with rubber treads.\n \u2018Anyhow,\u2019 grumbled Dvubratsky.\n \u2018The laddie must\u2019ve got stuck on the Klyazma,\u2019 came the thick-voiced response\nof Nastasya Lukinishna Nepremenova, orphan of a Moscow merchant, who had\nbecome a writer and wrote stories about sea battles under the pen-name of Bos\u2019n\nGeorge.\n \u2018Excuse me!\u2019 boldly exclaimed Zagrivov, an author of popular sketches, \u2018but I\npersonally would prefer a spot of tea on the balcony to stewing in here. The\nmeeting was set for ten o\u2019clock, wasn\u2019t it?\u2018\n \u2018It\u2019s nice now on the Klyazma,\u2019 Bos\u2019n George needled those present, knowing\nthat Perelygino on the Klyazma, the country colony for writers, was everybody\u2019s\nsore spot. \u2018There\u2019s nightingales singing already. I always work better in the\ncountry, especially in spring.\u2019\n \u2018It\u2019s the third year I\u2019ve paid in so as to send my wife with goitre to this paradise,\nbut there\u2019s nothing to be spied amidst the waves,\u2019 the novelist Ieronym Poprikhin\nsaid venomously and bitterly.\n \u2018Some are lucky and some aren\u2019t,\u2018 the critic Ababkov droned from the windowsill.\n Bos\u2019n George\u2019s little eyes lit up with glee, and she said, softening her contralto:\n \u2018We mustn\u2019t be envious, comrades. There\u2019s twenty-two dachas in all, and\nonly seven more being built, and there\u2019s three thousand of us in Massolit.\u2019\n \u2018Three thousand one hundred and eleven,\u2019 someone put in from the corner.\n \u2018So you see,\u2019 the Bos\u2019n went on, \u2018what can be done? Naturally, it\u2019s the most\ntalented of us that got the dachas\u2026\u2019\n \u2018The generals!\u2019 Glukharev the scenarist cut right into the squabble.\n Beskudnikov, with an artificial yawn, walked out of the room.\n \u2018Five rooms to himself in Perelygino,\u2019 Glukharev said behind him.\n \u2018Lavrovich has six to himself,\u2019 Deniskin cried out, \u2018and the dining room\u2019s\npanelled in oak!\u2019\n \u2018Eh, that\u2019s not the point right now,\u2019 Ababkov droned, \u2018it\u2019s that it\u2019s half past\neleven.\u2019\n A clamour arose, something like rebellion was brewing. They started\ntelephoning hated Perelygino, got the wrong dacha, Lavrovich\u2018s, found out that\nLavrovich had gone to the river, which made them totally upset. They called at\nrandom to the commission on fine literature, extension 930, and of course found\nno one there.\n \u2018He might have called!\u2019 shouted Deniskin, Glukharev and Quant.\n Ah, they were shouting in vain: Mikhail Alexandrovich could not call anywhere.\nFar, far from Griboedov\u2018s, in an enormous room lit by thousand-watt bulbs, on\nthree zinc tables, lay what had still recently been Mikhail Alexandrovich.\n On the first lay the naked body, covered with dried blood, one arm broken, the\nchest caved in; on the second, the head with the front teeth knocked out, with\ndull, open eyes unafraid of the brightest light; and on the third, a pile of stiffened\nrags.\n Near the beheaded body stood a professor of forensic medicine, a pathological\nanatomist and his dissector, representatives of the investigation, and Mikhail\nAlexandrovich\u2019s assistant in Massolit, the writer Zheldybin, summoned by\ntelephone from his sick wife\u2019s side.\n A car had come for Zheldybin and first of all taken him together with the\ninvestigators (this was around midnight) to the dead man\u2019s apartment, where the\nsealing of his papers had been carried out, after which they all went to the\nmorgue.\n And now those standing by the remains of the deceased were debating what was\nthe better thing to do: to sew the severed head to the neck, or to lay out the body\nin the hall at Griboedov\u2019s after simply covering the dead man snugly to the chin\nwith a black cloth?\n No, Mikhail Alexandrovich could not call anywhere, and Deniskin, Glukharev\nand Quant, along with Beskudnikov, were being indignant and shouting quite in\nvain. Exactly at midnight, all twelve writers left the upper floor and descended to\nthe restaurant. Here again they silently berated Mikhail Alexandrovich: all the\ntables on the veranda, naturally, were occupied, and they had to stay for supper in\nthose beautiful but airless halls.\n And exactly at midnight, in the first of these halls, something crashed, jangled,\nspilled, leaped. And all at once a high male voice desperately cried out \u2018Hallelujah!\u2019\nto the music. The famous Griboedov jazz band struck up. Sweat-covered faces\nseemed to brighten, it was as if the horses painted on the ceiling came alive, the\nlamps seemed to shine with added light, and suddenly, as if tearing loose, both\nhalls broke into dance, and following them the veranda broke into dance.\n Glukharev danced with the poetess Tamara Polumesyats, Quant danced,\nZhukopov the novelist danced with some movie actress in a yellow dress.\nDragunsky danced, Cherdakchi danced, little Deniskin danced with the enormous\nBos\u2019n George, the beautiful Semeikina-Gall, an architect, danced in the tight\nembrace of a stranger in white canvas trousers. Locals and invited guests danced,\nMuscovites and out-of-towners, the writer Johann from Kronstadt, a certain Vitya\nKuftik from Rostov, apparently a stage director, with a purple spot all over his\ncheek, the most eminent representatives of the poetry section of Massolit danced\u2014\nthat is, Baboonov, Blasphemsky, Sweetkin, Smatchstik and Adelphina\nBuzdyak young men of unknown profession, in crew cuts, with cotton-padded\nshoulders, danced, someone very elderly danced, a shred of green onion stuck in\nhis beard, and with him danced a sickly, anaemia-consumed girl in a wrinkled\norange silk dress.\n Streaming with sweat, waiters carried sweating mugs of beer over their heads,\nshouting hoarsely and with hatred: \u2018Excuse me, citizen!\u2019 Somewhere through a\nmegaphone a voice commanded: \u2018One Karsky shashlik! Two Zubrovkas! Homestyle tripe!\u2019\nThe high voice no longer sang, but howled \u2018Hallelujah!\u2019 The clashing of\ngolden cymbals in the band sometimes even drowned out the clashing of dishes\nwhich the dishwashers sent down a sloping chute to the kitchen. In short hell.\n And at midnight there came an apparition in hell. A handsome dark-eyed man\nwith a dagger-like beard, in a tailcoat, stepped on to the veranda and cast a regal\nglance over his domain. They used to say, the mystics used to say, that there was\na time when the handsome man wore not a tailcoat but a wide leather belt with\npistol butts sticking from it, and his raven hair was tied with scarlet silk, and\nunder his command a brig sailed the Caribbean under a black death flag with a\nskull and crossbones.\n But no, no! The seductive mystics are lying, there are no Caribbean Seas in the\nworld, no desperate freebooters sail them, no corvette chases after them, no\ncannon smoke drifts across the waves. There is nothing, and there was nothing!\nThere is that sickly linden over there, there is the cast-iron fence, and the\nboulevard beyond it\u2026 And the ice is melting in the bowl, and at the next table you\nsee someone\u2019s bloodshot, bovine eyes, and you\u2019re afraid, afraid\u2026 Oh, gods, my\ngods, poison, bring me poison!\u2026\n And suddenly a word fluttered up from some table: Berlioz!!\u2018 The jazz broke up\nand fell silent, as if someone had hit it with a fist. \u2019What, what, what, what?!!\u2018\n\u2019Berlioz!!!\u2018 And they began jumping up, exclaiming ...\n Yes, a wave of grief billowed up at the terrible news about Mikhail\nAlexandrovich. Someone fussed about, crying that it was necessary at once,\nstraight away, without leaving the spot, to compose some collective telegram and\nsend it off immediately.\n But what telegram, may we ask, and where? And why send it? And where,\nindeed? And what possible need for any telegram does someone have whose\nflattened pate is now clutched in the dissector\u2019s rubber hands, whose neck the\nprofessor is now piercing with curved needles? He\u2019s dead, and has no need of any\ntelegrams. It\u2019s all over, let\u2019s not burden the telegraph wires any more.\n Yes, he\u2019s dead, dead\u2026 But, as for us, we\u2019re alive!\n Yes, a wave of grief billowed up, held out for a while, but then began to subside,\nand somebody went back to his table and\u2014sneakily at first, then openly\u2014drank a\nlittle vodka and ate a bite. And, really, can one let chicken cutlets de volaille\nperish? How can we help Mikhail Alexandrovich? By going hungry? But, after all,\nwe\u2019re alive!\n Naturally, the grand piano was locked, the jazz band dispersed, several\njournalists left for their offices to write obituaries. It became known that Zheldybin\nhad come from the morgue. He had installed himself in the deceased\u2019s office\nupstairs, and the rumour spread at once that it was he who would replace Berlioz.\nZheldybin summoned from the restaurant all twelve members of the board, and at\nthe urgently convened meeting in Berlioz\u2019s office they started a discussion of the\npressing questions of decorating the hall with columns at Griboedov\u2018s, of\ntransporting the body from the morgue to that hall, of opening it to the public, and\nall else connected with the sad event.\n And the restaurant began to live its usual nocturnal life and would have gone\non living it until closing time, that is, until four o\u2018clock in the morning, had it not\nbeen for an occurrence which was completely out of the ordinary and which struck\nthe restaurant\u2019s clientele much more than the news of Berlioz\u2019s death.\n The first to take alarm were the coachmen waiting at the gates of the\nGriboedov house. One of them, rising on his box, was heard to cry out:\n \u2018Hoo-ee! Just look at that!\u2019\n After which, from God knows where, a little light flashed by the cast-iron fence\nand began to approach the veranda. Those sitting at the tables began to get up\nand peer at it, and saw that along with the little light a white ghost was marching\ntowards the restaurant. When it came right up to the trellis, everybody sat as if\nfrozen at their tables, chunks of sterlet on their forks, eyes popping. The doorman,\nwho at that moment had stepped out of the restaurant coat room to have a smoke\nin the yard, stamped out his cigarette and made for the ghost with the obvious\nintention of barring its way into the restaurant, but for some reason did not do so,\nand stopped, smiling stupidly.\n And the ghost, passing through an opening in the trellis, stepped unhindered on\nto the veranda. Here everyone saw that it was no ghost at all, but Ivan Nikolaevich\nHomeless, the much-renowned poet.\n He was barefoot, in a torn, whitish Tolstoy blouse, with a paper icon bearing the\nimage of an unknown saint pinned to the breast of it with a safety pin, and was\nwearing striped white drawers. In his hand Ivan Nikolaevich carried a lighted\nwedding candle. Ivan Nikolaevich\u2019s right cheek was freshly scratched. It would\neven be difficult to plumb the depths of the silence that reigned on the veranda.\nBeer could be seen running down on to the floor from a mug tilted in one waiter\u2019s\nhand.\n The poet raised the candle over his head and said loudly:\n \u2018Hail, friends!\u2019 After which he peeked under the nearest table and exclaimed\nruefully: \u2018No, he\u2019s not there!\u2019\n Two voices were heard. A basso said pitilessly:\n \u201cThat\u2019s it. Delirium tremens.\u2018\n And the second, a woman\u2018s, frightened, uttered the words:\n \u2018How could the police let him walk the streets like that?\u2019\n This Ivan Nikolaevich heard, and replied:\n \u2018They tried to detain me twice, in Skaterny and here on Bronnaya, but I hopped\nover the fence and, as you can see, cut my cheek!\u2019 Here Ivan Nikolaevich raised the\ncandle and cried out: \u2018Brethren in literature!\u2019 (His hoarse voice grew stronger and\nmore fervent.) \u2018Listen to me everyone! He has appeared. Catch him immediately,\notherwise he\u2019ll do untold harm!\u2019\n \u2018What? What? What did he say? Who has appeared?\u2019 voices came from all sides.\n \u2018The consultant,\u2019 Ivan replied, \u2018and this consultant just killed Misha Berlioz at\nthe Patriarch\u2019s Ponds.\u2019\n Here people came flocking to the veranda from the inner rooms, a crowd\ngathered around Ivan\u2019s flame.\n \u2018Excuse me, excuse me, be more precise,\u2019 a soft and polite voice said over Ivan\nNikolaevich\u2019s ear, \u2018tell me, what do you mean \u201ckilled\u201d? Who killed?\u2019\n \u2018A foreign consultant, a professor, and a spy,\u2019 Ivan said, looking around.\n \u2018And what is his name?\u2019 came softly to Ivan\u2019s ear.\n \u2018That\u2019s just it his name!\u2019 Ivan cried in anguish. \u2018If only I knew his name! I\ndidn\u2019t make out his name on his visiting card ... I only remember the first letter,\n\u201cW\u201d, his name begins with \u201cW\u201d! What last name begins with \u201cW\u201d?\u2019 Ivan asked\nhimself, clutching his forehead, and suddenly started muttering: \u2018Wi, we, wa \u2026\nWu \u2026 Wo \u2026 Washner? Wagner? Weiner? Wegner? Winter?\u2019 The hair on Ivan\u2019s\nhead began to crawl with the tension.\n \u2018Wolf?\u2019 some woman cried pitifully.\n Ivan became angry.\n \u2018Fool!\u2019 he cried, seeking the woman with his eyes. \u2018What has Wolf got to do with\nit? Wolf\u2019s not to blame for anything! Wo, wa\u2026 No, I\u2019ll never remember this way!\nHere\u2019s what, citizens: call the police at once, let them send out five motor cycles\nwith machine-guns to catch the professor. And don\u2019t forget to tell them that there\nare two others with him: a long checkered one, cracked pince-nez, and a cat, black\nand fat\u2026 And meanwhile I\u2019ll search Griboedov\u2019s, I sense that he\u2019s here!\u2018\n Ivan became anxious, pushed away the people around him, started waving the\ncandle, pouring wax on himself, and looking under the tables. Here someone said:\n\u2018Call a doctor!\u2019 and someone\u2019s benign, fleshy face, clean shaven and well\nnourished, in horn-rimmed glasses, appeared before Ivan.\n \u2018Comrade Homeless,\u2019 the face began in a guest speaker\u2019s voice, \u2018calm down!\nYou\u2019re upset at the death of our beloved Mikhail Alexandrovich \u2026 no, say just\nMisha Berlioz. We all understand that perfectly well. You need rest. The comrades\nwill take you home to bed right now, you\u2019ll forget\u2026\u2019\n \u2018You,\u2019 Ivan interrupted, baring his teeth, \u2018but don\u2019t you understand that the\nprofessor has to be caught? And you come at me with your foolishness! Cretin!\u2019\n \u2018Pardon me, Comrade Homeless!\u2026\u2019 the face replied, blushing, retreating, and\nalready repentant at having got mixed up in this affair.\n \u2018No, anyone else, but you I will not pardon,\u2019 Ivan Nikolaevich said with quiet\nhatred.\n A spasm distorted his face, he quickly shifted the candle from his right hand to\nhis left, swung roundly and hit the compassionate face on the ear.\n Here it occurred to them to fall upon Ivan\u2014and so they did. The candle went\nout, and the glasses that had fallen from the face were instantly trampled. Ivan let\nout a terrible war cry, heard, to the temptation of all, even on the boulevard, and\nset about defending himself. Dishes fell clattering from the tables, women\nscreamed.\n All the while the waiters were tying up the poet with napkins, a conversation\nwas going on in the coat room between the commander of the brig and the\ndoorman.\n \u2018Didn\u2019t you see he was in his underpants?\u2019 the pirate inquired coldly.\n \u2018But, Archibald Archibaldovich,\u2019 the doorman replied, cowering, \u2018how couldI not\nlet him in, if he\u2019s a member of Massolit?\u2019\n \u2018Didn\u2019t you see he was in his underpants?\u2019 the pirate repeated.\n \u2018Pardon me, Archibald Archibaldovich,\u2019 the doorman said, turning purple, \u2018but\nwhat could I do? I understand, there are ladies sitting on the veranda\u2026\u2019\n \u2018Ladies have nothing to do with it, it makes no difference to the ladies,\u2019 the\npirate replied, literally burning the doorman up with his eyes, \u2018but it does to the\npolice! A man in his underwear can walk the streets of Moscow only in this one\ncase, that he\u2019s accompanied by the police, and only to one place\u2014the police\nstation! And you, if you\u2019re a doorman, ought to know that on seeing such a man,\nyou must, without a moment\u2019s delay, start blowing your whistle. Do you hear? Do\nyou hear what\u2019s going on on the veranda?\u2019\n Here the half-crazed doorman heard some sort of hooting coming from the\nveranda, the smashing of dishes and women\u2019s screams.\n \u2018Now, what\u2019s to be done with you for that?\u2019 the freebooter asked.\n The skin on the doorman\u2019s face acquired a typhoid tinge, his eyes went dead. It\nseemed to him that the black hair, now combed and parted, was covered with\nflaming silk. The shirt-front and tailcoat disappeared and a pistol butt emerged,\ntucked into a leather belt. The doorman pictured himself hanging from the foretopsail\nyard. His eyes saw his own tongue sticking out and his lifeless head lolling\non his shoulder, and even heard the splash of waves against the hull. The\ndoorman\u2019s knees gave way. But here the freebooter took pity on him and\nextinguished his sharp gaze.\n \u2018Watch out, Nikolai, this is the last time! We have no need of such doormen in\nthe restaurant. Go find yourself a job as a beadle.\u2019 Having said this, the\ncommander commanded precisely, clearly, rapidly: \u2018Get Pantelei from the snack\nbar. Police. Protocol. A car. To the psychiatric clinic.\u2019 And added: \u2018Blow your\nwhistle!\u2019\n In a quarter of an hour an extremely astounded public, not only in the\nrestaurant but on the boulevard itself and in the windows of houses looking on to\nthe restaurant garden, saw Pantelei, the doorman, a policeman, a waiter and the\npoet Riukhin carry through the gates of Griboedov\u2019s a young man swaddled like a\ndoll, dissolved in tears, who spat, aiming precisely at Riukhin, and shouted for all\nthe boulevard to hear:\n \u2018You bastard! \u2026 You bastard!\u2026\u2019\n A truck-driver with a spiteful face was starting his motor. Next to him a\ncoachman, rousing his horse, slapping it on the croup with violet reins, shouted:\n \u2018Have a run for your money! I\u2019ve taken \u2019em to the psychics before!\u2018\n Around them the crowd buzzed, discussing the unprecedented event. In short,\nthere was a nasty, vile, tempting, swinish scandal, which ended only when the\ntruck carried away from the gates of Griboedov\u2019s the unfortunate Ivan Nikolaevich,\nthe policeman, Pantelei and Riukhin. \n",
        "ttl": 3600
      }
    ]
  }
}