Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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excitedly, looking now through the observation windows at the side, now
through the wide ventilation hatches overhead. "You'll see. Eh? Don't you
think so?"
"You know what, Alexander Semyonovich," said Dunya, smiling. "The men
in Kontsovka think you're the Antichrist. They say your eggs are from the
devil. It's a sin to hatch eggs with machines. They want to kill you."
Alexander Semyonovich shuddered and turned to his wife. His face had
gone yellow.
"Well, how about that? Ignorant lot! What can you do with people like
that? Eh? We'll have to fix up a meeting for them, Manya. I'll phone the
district centre tomorrow for some Party workers. And I'll give 'em a speech
myself. This place needs a bit of working over alright. Stuck away at the
back of beyond..."
"Thick as posts," muttered the guard, who had settled down on his
greatcoat in the conservatory doorway.
The next day was heralded by some strange and inexplicable events. In
the early morning, at the first glint of sunlight, the groves, which usually
greeted the heavenly body with a strong and unceasing twitter of birds, met
it with total silence. This was noticed by absolutely everybody. It was like
the calm before a storm. But no storm followed. Conversations at the state
farm took on a strange and sinister note for Alexander Semyonovich,
especially because according to the well-known Kontsovka trouble-maker and
sage nicknamed Goat Gob, all the birds had gathered in flocks and flown away
northwards from Sheremetevo at dawn, which was quite ridiculous. Alexander
Semyonovich was most upset and spent the whole day putting a phone call
through to the town of Grachevka. Eventually they promised to send him in a
few days' time two speakers on two subjects, the international situation and
the question of Volunteer-Fowl.
The evening brought some more surprises. Whereas in the morning the