They'd murder each other, take off with as many lids as they could carry-some would have heart attacks from lugging the load, and afterward they'd sit in their izbas looking at what they'd got, and wouldn't know what to do with them. What do you cover with them? This one's too big, and that one's too little, they don't fit anything. They'd turn them over and over, smash them in disappointment, and throw them out in the backyard under the fence.

No, you can't do things that way with us.

So Varsonofy Silich, figuring all this out, taking stock, thinking deep, decided not to give out any lids. Better for the people and for the lids.

And he thought: If you boil soup without a lid it will come out thicker, it kind of settles down. It's tastier.

He also thought: Since there aren't any lids, everyone will have a secret longing: If only I had a lid for my pot! Life is better when you've got a dream, and sleep is sweeter.

Now that's governmental thinking.

That's why Varsonofy Silich lives rich, he's got a two-story terem with onion domes, he built a porch around the top floor, it's called a gallery, and serfs walk around and around the gallery -to scare everyone-keeping watch to make sure there isn't any evil intent toward the owner, to make sure no one's wanting to go and throw a rock at his house or something worse…

In the courtyard there are different services and trades; barns, warehouses, a sty for Degenerators, barracks where the serfs live. There are tons and tons of serfs: mouse-catching serfs, flour-grinding serfs, kvas-brewing serfs, marshroom gatherers, horsetailers, as many as you like. There are floor-washing serf-girls, spinners and weavers, and there's one special woman who just makes snowballs, rolls them in crushed fireling flour, and serves them at meals, and Varsonofy Silich partakes of them.

One time Benedikt got to see Varsonofy Silich in all his glory. Benedikt was walking along and some Lesser Murzas were blocking off the road-"Halt, don't pass"-barking at the Golubchiks and warming some backsides with spikes-"Don't get pushy." Then the plank gates opened, bells clanked, Degenera-tors stomped their felt boots, a sleigh creaked-maaaaama!- and there was Varsonofy Silich himself sitting in the sleigh like a great mountain. The people were happy, they tossed their hats in the air, and bowed low: "Good day, and Long May You Live, Varsonofy Silich, our dear provider, and the same to your wife, and your children as well! What would we have to eat and drink without you, our dearest one, sweet golden light of our lives!"

Everyone shouted this at him-Benedikt too-so that he would soften a bit, the Herod, and add more food next time- some lard, perhaps, or turnips and horsetail for holidays-and not eat everything up himself.

But Benedikt had never seen Fyodor Kuzmich in the flesh. And he didn't dare hope to.

And then today, the most ordinary February day you could pick, a gray, dull, powdery blizzard day with a boding north wind -blowing and sweeping the snow powder from the roofs down your collar, freezing the Golubchiks' necks and painting their ears the color of poppies-in a word, it was an ordinary, everyday sort of day, today! Today! A sleigh drove up to the Work Izba, and in it were Heralds all decked out in belts and hats and sleeves and leggings, they were wearing everything you could possibly imagine-and they made an announcement: Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, desires to honor your izba with a luminous visitation.

And in the Work Izba, wouldn't you know it, all the stoves had gone out that morning. The night Stokers, instead of tending to the kindling and blowing on the fire, got drunk on rusht, or maybe kvas, or maybe they snorted a bunch of bog bilberry- though that's Freethinking-and slept through everything. When they rubbed their eyes open they raced to the stoves- but there was only cold ashes, and even those had gone and blown out through the chimney pipes.

What a ruckus! There was such a hullabaloo of choice cuss words-you normally wouldn't hear so many in a whole year.

But what to do? Nothing. They ran to the neighboring Work Izba for fire, but they wouldn't give it to them. You didn't give us any last time, so we won't give you any now. "Housekeeping Is Everyone's Business, Figure It Out Yourself." What do we care that you're official; we're even more official than you. Get out, get out of here, you goats' asses! Or else we'll beat the fish out of you.

So our people ran off empty-handed, and now here come the Heralds. Our people got scared, mad, they almost started bawling; some were wringing their hands, some pissed on themselves out of fear. Konstantin Leontich, who sits in the corner near the window, lost his senses for a time; he started screaming, "I see, I see a column, incorporeal, luminous, horrendous, humongous, with eyes fourscore in number, and in that pillar there's a spinning, and a flowing, and wings, and a beast heading in all four directions."

And what do you know, the bosses went berserk and ran in all four directions shouting and hollering: Where's Nikita Iva-nich, the Head Stoker? Bring Nikita Ivanich here immediately!

And Benedikt got worked up with all the others, he ran around till his temples pounded and he saw dark spots before his eyes: Nikita Ivanich! Where is Nikita Ivanich! Right here, right now, what an event, good Lord, it's maybe once a century Fyodor Kuzmich decides to show himself to the people, Glo-rybe! Once in a blue moon he comes out of his terem, his bright terem adorned with sharp spires, eaves trimmed with carved curlicues, crimson onion domes painted with young rusht, decorated with whorls, embellished with frillery and frippery! Lord-a-miiiighty!… What joy, fear, joy! I… where should I… Lordy! Where is Nikita Ivanich, the old… damn him… Doesn't he understand?

The Heralds jumped off their sleigh and went about setting up their stuff. They unfurled rug runners, ornamented and woven, throughout the whole izba: a rug on the porch, and leading from the porch; in the wink of an eye they trampled down the snow around the izba and laid out a sort of half circle of bear skin. Such a grand sight, you could die now with no regrets. Vasiuk the Earful fell to the ground with all his ears and listened: Are they coming? Then he cried out: "I hear them! They're coming!" Right away you could see a sort of white cloud trembling in the distance: snowdust flew up. The cloud grew, headed our way, and people almost fainted, but to no account; it was only the Lesser Murzas, riding by to make an impression, as if to say, you can start trembling now.

They rode on by, scaring the people for no good reason. Then some time passed. Suddenly-hark!-it sounded like stone bells were ringing. The birds startled and everything died down, and then it was like a great snowstorm was moving toward us, full of twisting windwhirls. Everyone stood on the porch-the lazy Stokers and all the Scribes. Benedikt caught a glimpse of Olenka, the cooks from the Food Izba, passersby, everyone ran out to see. They all crowded around, fell down on their faces, and Benedikt with them, so that when the retinue arrived and got out of the sleigh, exactly what happened and what kind of ceremony or fuss there was-Benedikt couldn't tell. He could only hear his heart thumping in his ears: thub-dub, thub-dub. He came to when they kicked him to get up out of the snowdrift and herded him into the izba to pay obeisance. Inside it even seemed warmer: how beautiful, everything covered with rugs, even the stools. Rugs on the benches, the windows festooned with transparent lace, all the garbage swept into a corner and covered with bark so you couldn't see it, though it did stink a little. But horrors, there were candles everywhere, only none were lit. No fire. No Nikita Ivanich. Someone nudged Benedikt in the back: Sit down, Golubchik, Fyodor Kuzmich doesn't like it when people stand. Benedikt sat down, rooted to the spot, and watched.