Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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surprise and set about unpacking the eggs at once. The unpacking also took
place in the conservatory with the participation of the following: Alexander
Semyonovich himself, his unusually plump wife Manya, the one-eyed former
gardener of the former Sheremetevs, who now worked for the state farm in the
universal post of watchman, the guard doomed to live on the state farm, and
the cleaning girl Dunya. It was not Moscow, and everything here was simpler,
more friendly and more homely. Alexander Semyonovich gave the instructions,
glancing avidly from time to time at the boxes which lay like some rich
present under the gentle sunset glow from the upper panes in the
conservatory. The guard, his rifle dozing peacefully by the door, was
ripping open the braces and metal bands with a pair of pliers. There was a
sound of cracking wood. Clouds of dust rose up. Alexander Semyonovich padded
around in his sandals, fussing by the boxes.
"Gently does it," he said to the guard. "Be careful. Can't you see it's
eggs?"
"Don't worry," croaked the provincial warrior, bashing away happily.
"Won't be a minute..."
Wrr-ench. Down came another shower of dust.
The eggs were beautifully packed: first came sheets of waxed paper
under the wooden top, next some blotting paper, then a thick layer of wood
shavings and finally the sawdust in which the white egg-tops nestled.
"Foreign packing," said Alexander Semyonovich lovingly, rummaging
around in the sawdust. "Not the way we do it. Careful, Manya, or you'll
break them."
"Have you gone daft, Alexander Semyonovich," replied his wife. "What's
so special about this lot? Think I've never seen eggs before? Oh, what big
ones!"
"Foreign," said Alexander Semyonovich, laying the eggs out on the
wooden table. "Not like our poor old peasant eggs. Bet they're all