Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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huffily by the door, holding his rifle between his knees. What with all the
worry Alexander Semyonovich did not have lunch until nearly two. After lunch
he slept for an hour or so in the cool shade on the former She-remetev
ottoman, had a refreshing drink of the farm's kvass and slipped into the
conservatory to make sure everything was alright. The old watchman was lying
on his stomach on some bast matting and staring through the observation
window of the first chamber. The guard was keeping watch by the door.
But there was a piece of news: the eggs in the third chamber, which had
been switched on last, were making a kind of gulping, hissing sound, as if
something inside them were whimpering.
"They're hatching out alright," said Alexander Semyonovich. "That's for
sure. See?" he said to the watchman.
"Aye, it's most extraordinary," the latter replied in a most ambiguous
tone, shaking his head.
Alexander Semyonovich squatted by the chambers for a while, but nothing
hatched out. So he got up, stretched and announced that he would not leave
the grounds, but was going for a swim in the pond and must be called if
there were any developments. He went into the palace to his bedroom with its
two narrow iron bedsteads, rumpled bedclothes and piles of green apples and
millet on the floor for the newly-hatched chickens, took a towel and, on
reflection, his flute as well to play at leisure over the still waters. Then
he ran quickly out of the palace, across the farmyard and down the
willow-lined path to the pond. He walked briskly, swinging the towel, with
the flute under his arm. The sky shimmered with heat through the willows,
and his aching body begged to dive into the water. On the right of Feight
began a dense patch of burdock, into which he spat en passant. All at once
there was a rustling in the tangle of big leaves, as if someone was dragging