Michail Bulgakov
translation: Kathleen Gook-Horujy

THE FATEFUL EGGS
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CHAPTER X. Catastrophe

In the editorial office of Izvestia the lights were shining brightly, and the fat duty editor was laying out the second " column with telegrams "Around the Union Republics". One galley caught his eye. He looked at it through his pince-nez;

and laughed, then called the proof-readers and the maker-up and showed them it. On the narrow strip of damp paper they read:

"Grachevka, Smolensk Province. A hen that is as big as a horse and kicks like a horse has appeared in the district. It has bourgeois lady's feathers instead of a tail."

The compositors laughed themselves silly.

"In my day," said the duty editor, chuckling richly, "when I was working for Vanya Sytin on The Russian Word they used to see elephants when they got sozzled. That's right. Now it's ostriches."

The compositors laughed.

"Yes, of course, it's an ostrich," said the maker-up. "Shall we put it in, Ivan Vonifatievich?"

"Are you crazy?" the editor replied. "I'm surprised the secretary let it through. It was written under the influence alright."

"Yes, they must have had a drop or two," agreed the compositors, and the maker-up removed the ostrich report from the desk.

So it was that Izvestia came out next day containing, as usual, a mass of interesting material but no mention whatsoever of the Grachevka ostrich. Decent Ivanov, who was conscientiously reading Izvestia in his office, rolled it up and yawned, muttering: "Nothing of interest," then put on his white coat. A little later the Bunsen burners went on in his room and the frogs started croaking. In Professor Persikov's room, however, there was hell let loose. The petrified Pankrat Stood stiffly to attention.

"Yessir, I will," he was saying.

Persikov handed him a sealed packet and told him:

"Go at once to the head of the Husbandry Department, and tell him straight that he's a swine. Tell him that I said so. And give him this packet."

"That's a nice little errand and no mistake," thought the pale-faced Pankrat and disappeared with the packet.

Persikov fumed angrily.

"The devil only knows what's going on," he raged, pacing up and down the office and rubbing his gloved hands. "It's making a mockery of me and zoology. They're bringing him pile upon pile of those blasted chicken eggs, when I've been waiting two months for what I really need. America's not that far away! It's sheer inefficiency! A real disgrace!" He began counting on his fingers. "Catching them takes, say, ten days at the most, alright then, fifteen, well, certainly not more than twenty, plus two days to get them to London, and another one from London to Berlin. And from Berlin it's only six hours to get here. It's an utter disgrace!"

He snatched up the phone in a rage and began ringing someone.

Everything in his (...)

(......)