Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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Persikov crowned with unexpected fame made his way along Mokhovaya to the
neon clock by the Manege. Here, engrossed in his thoughts and not looking
where he was going, he collided with a strange, old-fashioned man and banged
his fingers painfully against the wooden holster hanging from the man's
belt.
"What the devil!" squealed Persikov. "My apologies!" "Pardon me!"
replied an unpleasant voice in return, and they managed to disentangle
themselves in the mass of people. The Professor continued on his way to
Prechistenka, putting the incident out of his head straightaway.
Whether or not the Lefortovo veterinary vaccinations were effective,
the Samara quarantine teams efficient, the strict measures taken with regard
to buyers-up of eggs in Kaluga and Voronezh adequate and the work of the
Special Moscow Commission successful, is not known, but what is known is
that a fortnight after Persikov's last meeting with Alfred there was not a
single chicken left in the Republic. Here and there in provincial back-yards
lay plaintive tufts of feathers, bringing tears to the eyes of the owners,
and in hospital the last gluttons recovered from diarrhea and vomiting
blood. The loss in human life for the whole country was not more than a
thousand, fortunately. There were also no large-scale disturbances. True, in
Volokolamsk someone calling himself a prophet announced that the commissars,
no less, were to blame for the chicken plague, but no one took much notice
of him. A few policemen who were confiscating chickens from peasant women at
Volokolamsk market got beaten up, and some windows in the local post and
telegraph office were smashed. Fortunately, the efficient Volokolamsk
authorities took measures as a result of which, firstly, the prophet ceased
his activities and, secondly, the telegraph windows were replaced.