The Master and Margarita

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.