But our lady, disillusioned in the artist's domestic character, fell in love with a certain physiologist. As far as Nicholas is concerned, it seems he has no more romances now but buries himself entirely in his work. Nevertheless, he sometimes meets Sonechka, and on his day off he often takes little trips with her into the country.
The young woman of today does not like to hear diminutives. She doesn't like to hear about her "little mouth" or "little hands" or "little feet."
It makes her angry. And it can even, I think, produce an explosion.
A certain person put it to me this way: "What the devil does that mean, 'little feet.' I," she says, "take solid size nines, but you," she says, "have it all your own way. You're a scoundrel," she says, "and not a man. You," she says, "are ruining my life with your stupid sentimentality."
To put it frankly, I was quite taken aback at such words.
She says: "In the old days," she says, "spoiled ladies or countesses or such used to adore sentimentality like that in their boudoirs. But I," she says, "I spit on men like you."
"There you are," says I, "thank you. How," says I, "am I to interpret your words."
How, indeed, interpret her words, when she never called me once on the phone from that time on, and, when she met me in passing, never even said hello.
But it's true: the young women of today like something bold, heroic. They, I have noticed, are not pleased by anything run-of-the-mill. They would like a man to be a flyer, or, to stretch a point, at least an airplane mechanic. Then they blossom forth, and you can't recognize them.
But it would be interesting to ask them: What do you think, should every man be a flyer or an airplane mechanic?
Naturally, I'm not saying that the profession of airplane mechanic isn't, to a certain degree, an amazing one, or that it doesn't evoke various emotions in the beholder. Only, as I said before, it's impossible for everybody without exception to go flying around in the sky.
Some have to occupy more modest posts on the ground, in offices and so forth.
Then they also like cinema operators. Here, already it might
be said that nobody knows why. The guy turns a little crank and thinks he's Napoleon.
Arctic explorers also evoke feminine admiration. Well, there's ice there. Snow. Northern lights. Just think!
Generally speaking, I've been married four times, and none of my wives ever exactly did a little dance for me. Well, the first two ran off with airplane mechanics. The third got together with a cinema operator. Well, as it is said, that's the way things go. But the fourth marriage really surprised me with its unexpectedness. And I, as the citizen who went through all this, feel obliged to warn other men against making similar marriages.
I was acquainted .with a certain person. And decided to marry her. But I warned her honorably: "Keep in mind," says I, "I don't go fluttering around the sky. And for your pleasure," I say, "I can scarcely be expected to jump off the roof in a parachute just any old time. So that if you are enamored with the flying profession, then I, as it is said, have no further questions for you. And then we will withdraw the question of marriage."
She says: "Profession plays no part. And as far as flyers are concerned, I am indifferent to them. Only one thing matters to me, and that is that our union* should be, up to a certain point, a free one. I do not approve of the stifling of personality. Before you came along," she says, "I was married for seven years, and my husband wouldn't even let me go to the theater with anyone. And I would like our marriage to be based on comradely circumstances. And if, for example, you happen to be attracted to someone, I will say nothing to you. And if I should meet someone who struck my fancy, you would not reproach me either. Then our marriage will have greater endurance, founded as it will be on the intelligent understanding of two loving hearts. And as far as my husband having some insignificant profession, why, that's all to the better. At least he'll know his place, and not demand the impossible from me."
I say to her: "I am getting married for the fourth time," I say. "As for intelligent understanding, I've had a lot of experience. One," says I, "doesn't like to hear diminutives. Another," says I, "runs off with a cinema operator. Now, you," says I, "propose something else to me. But," says I, "since you've taken my heart, let it be as you wish."
So, you see, naturally, we get married and live in various apartments. And everything goes well with us, and we are very close to
each other. But, suddenly, within a week, she is attracted to a certain acquaintance of hers who has come back from the Arctic.
She says to me, according to our agreement: "If you wish, let us separate. But if you still have some feelings for me, then stick to our conditions. All the more so since my friend is leaving on an expedition again soon, and then you and I will make out together just like before."
So I, like a fool, am expecting him to leave in a couple months or so. And finally our neighbor-lady says: "You'll wait in vain You're through: she'll never come back to you."
But another month passes and suddenly my wife returns with these words: "I've left him for good, you see. The more so since he's gone off on one of his northern trips."
I say: "But now certain obstacles have arisen on my side. I," I say, "have been having an affair with our neighbor. But if you have any feelings left for me, then," says I, "Fm agreed to break off with her."
And so I began to break off with our neighbor. And just when I had broken off with her, I look: after a month of quiet domestic life, my wife has again run off, this time with a friend and fellow explorer of the guy who left for the Arctic. For some reason they left this polar gent behind. And she was attracted to him. And began to live with him.
So I, according to our conditions, am waiting a few months when suddenly I find out that she's about to have a child by him.
I say to her: "It's an interesting marriage we've got. These polar explorers," I say, "these airplane mechanics, and cinema operators are literally dragging me off my feet."
She says: "If you wish—wait till he no longer loves me or till the child grows up a bit. And then we will continue our conditions. But if you don't wish—do as you like. In general," she says, "you've been devouring me with your eternal whining, and you're never satisfied. I," she says, "don't depend on you. My heart advises me which contemporary men I should love and which I should hate. Not only," she says, "do you not wear the badge 'Ready for Labor and Defense!' but you just barely passed the first-aid course and for laughs. I'm not saying that you should be a Voroshilov sharpshooter or that you should go exploring somewhere in the north. It isn't these professions," she says, "that are dragging you off your feet. It's simply your unattractive character, so far removed from our contemporary life. There are no million-
aires nowadays, and such likes can't cover up their wretchedness with capital. So it's necessary to improve your character if you want to earn a woman's love."
I say: "First, one doesn't like me to use diminutives; now, another bears another man's children. And to top it all, reads me lectures yet."
Suddenly she opens the door to the neighboring room and yells out diminutives: "Vanichka, this type here has started making scandals for us again. And although he's my husband, I wish you'd heave him to the devil. On his account," she says, "I feel I'm about to break out in hysterics."
And, suddenly, the friend of that guy who went off to the Arctic steps into the room. Real healthy-looking, tempered by the north wind. And to top it all, he's a parachutist, with a badge.
"Young man," says he, "why are you making trouble?"
I said good-bye to him and left with the intention of writing all this down so that other nonflying men might take warning against getting themselves into such an airtight hole, as it is said.
Personally, I'm against such free marriages. I'm in favor of a stronger kind of marriage based on mutual emotion. But where to find this emotion if I have never even seen a parachute? And have never lived in the far Norths
I guess I'll ju
st have to try and be a hero, so I can compare favorably to the rest of the population.
PERSONAL LIFE
Once upon a time I am walking along the street, when, suddenly, I notice that women do not look at me.
Time was when you used to go out on a street like that, flashy as a beaver, as it is said, they'd look at you, send glances through the air, sympathetic smiles, chuckles, and grimaces.
But at this point, suddenly, I see—nothing of the kind!
Well, now, think I, that's too bad! After all, I think, a woman does play a certain role in personal life.
A certain bourgeois economist, or maybe he was a chemist, once expressed an original idea to the effect that not only our personal life, but whatever we do, is for women. And struggle, fame, wealth, honor, change of apartments, and the purchase of an overcoat, and so forth and so on—all this is done for the sake of a woman.
Well, no doubt he exaggerated it a bit, he was talking through his hat to amuse the bourgeoisie; but, as far as personal life is concerned, I am completely in agreement with this.
I agree that a woman plays a certain role in personal life.
After all, suppose, as it happens, you go to a movie; it's not so offensive to look at a bad picture. Well, you take a little hand in yours, you say a few silly words—all this embellishes contemporary art and the meagerness of personal life.
So now you can understand how I was feeling when I noticed, once upon a time, that women are not looking at me!
I think, what the devil? Why won't the old gals give me a glance? How come? What do they want?
So I go home, and right away I'm looking in the mirror. There, I see, standing out in bold relief, a shabby physiognomy. And a wan expression. And no color plays on the cheeks.
"Aha, now I get it!" says I to myself. "I've got to take better care of myself. I've got to put some oomph into my tired blood."
So I quickly go out and do some shopping.
I buy butter and sausage. I buy cocoa and so forth.
All this I eat; I drink and feed almost without stopping. And in a short time I get back that fresh, indefatigable look.
And in this aspect, I go flineurizing down the boulevards. However, I am noticing, that just like before, the women do not look at me.
"Aha," I say to myself, "maybe I've developed a rotten walk? Maybe I haven't been getting enough exercise? Maybe I don't have enough muscles of the kind the ladies usually admire."
Then I buy a hanging trapeze. I buy a ring and weights and a special kind of bar.
I twist myself around all these rings and bits of apparatus like a regular son of a bitch. Every morning I chin myself on the bar-Free of charge, I chop wood for my neighbors.
Finally I sign up for a sports club. I row and punt. I go swimming till November. In doing this, I almost drowned once. I foolishly dove into a deep place, but without reaching bottom I was beginning to blow bubbles, not being able to swim very well.
For half a year, I pursue this thorny path. I submit my life to danger. Twice I clank my head, falling off the trapeze.
I bear all this in manly fashion and one fine day, tanned and taut as a spring, I go forth on the street, that I may intercept a by-now-almost-forgotten approving feminine smile.
But once again I fail to find this smile.
Then I begin to sleep with my window open. The fresh air invigorates me. The color begins to play in my cheeks. My face turns pink and red. And even assumes a kind of lilac shade.
With my lilac physiognomy I go, once, to the theater. And in the theater, like one possessed, I circle around the feminine audience, evoking jeers and catcalls and coarse remarks from the men, and even some pushes and shoves in the chest.
And as a result I see two or three pitiful smiles, such as I don't get many of.
There, in the theater, I go up to the big mirror and I stand admiring my tautened figure, the chest of which now measures thirty-five inches.
I flex my arms and take a stance, and I spread my legs, now this way, now that.
I am sincerely astonished at that fastidiousness on the part of women . . . What the devil do they want anyway?
I am admiring myself in this large mirror and suddenly I notice that I am not very well dressed. I will say directly—badly, and $ven improperly dressed. The trousers, too short, with bags at the knees, induce horror in me and even a shudder.
But I am literally dumfounded when I look at my lower extremities, a description of which would be out of place in creative literature.
"Ah, now I get it!" I say to myself. "That is what is ruining my personal life—I dress badly."
Depressed, I return home on halting legs, promising myself to change my habits of dress.
And so, in short order, I get myself a new wardrobe. Out of a lilac curtain, I get myself a jacket made in the latest fashion. I buy myself Oxford breeches, sewn out of two riding habits.
I walk in this outfit as in a globe of air, regretting such a fashion but wearing it to best advantage.
I buy myself an overcoat, with broad shoulders, at the market. And, once, on my day off, I go out on the Tver Boulevard.
I go out on the Tver Boulevard, and I step along like a performing camel. I walk here and there, I turn my shoulders, and I do little dance steps with my feet.
The women are looking at me askance with a mixed feeling of amazement and horror.
The men—they are looking less askance. They are making various remarks, the coarse and uncultivated remarks of people who do not understand the situation in its entirety.
Then and there I hear some phrases: "My God, what a scarecrow! Just look how that bastard has gotten himself up!"
They are heaping snickers, they are laughing at me.
I walk along the boulevard as through enemy troops, hoping for I don't know what.
And suddenly at the Pushkin Memorial I noticed a well-dressed lady who is looking at me with infinite tenderness and even flirting.
I smile in response and seat myself on the bench opposite.
A well-dressed lady with still some traces of faded beauty is looking at me steadily. Her eyes slide admiringly along my attractive figure and along my face, on which is written everything good.
I bow my head, shrug my shoulders, and, ideologically, I am admiring the harmonious philosophical system of that bourgeois economist concerning the value of women.
Then I turn to the lady again, whom I now notice is following my every movement with unblinking eyes.
Then I am beginning somehow to be a little afraid of those unblinking eyes. I don't even congratulate myself on my progress.
And already I feel like leaving. And already I feel like skirting the Memorial so as to sit down in a trolley and go somewhere where eyes are looking more in the direction of the outskirts and where there is no such unblinking public.
But, suddenly, this attractive lady approaches me and says: "Excuse me, honored sir ... It's quite awkward for me," she says, "to talk about it, but you see, my husband had an overcoat, just like that one, stolen on him. Would you please be so kind as not to refuse to show me the lining."
Well now, naturally, I think, it would be awkward for her to begin an acquaintance without rhyme or reason.
I throw open my coat, and in the process I make the biggest, tightest chest I can. ,
Glancing at the lining, the lady lets out with a heart-rending shriek and begins to yell. Well, now, naturally, it's her overcoat! The stolen coat which this scoundrel (me, that is) is now wearing on his shoulders.
Her moans are shattering my eardrums. I am ready to sink through the earth, overcoat, new breeches, and all.
We go to the police station, where they draw up a statement of the case. They ask me questions, and I answer them honestly.
But when they ask me how old I am, I give the figure, and suddenly, on account of this almost three-digit number, I begin to tremble.
"Ah, there you have the reason they didn't look at me!" I tell myself. "Fve simply gr
own old. And I wanted to blame the insufficiencies of my personal life on my wardrobe."
I give up the stolen overcoat which I had bought at the market, and, lightly dressed, with a disturbed spirit, I go out on the street.
"Well, okay, I'll make do!" I tell myself. "My personal life will consist of labor. I will work. I will help people. A woman isn't the only light in the window."
I begin to poke fun at the words of the bourgeois scholar.
"It's all lies!" I tell myself. "Idle fabrications! Typical Western nonsense!"
I laugh. I spit to the right and to the left. And I turn my eyes away from approaching women.
MY PROFESSIONS
I don't know how many different professions there are. An intellectual friend of mine told me that on our planet there were, in all, three hundred and ninety professions.
Well, undoubtedly he was exaggerating, but in all likelihood there really are about a hundred professions.
No, I have not tried all hundred, but fifty professions, now, I have really experienced.
So you have before you a man who has experienced in his own right fifty professions.
It's interesting, the things I've been.
No, I certainly have never been any kind of economist, chemist or pyrotechnician, sculptor, and so forth. No, I have never been an academician or professor of anatomy or algebra or French. I will not conceal from you the fact that there are many intellectual positions I have not occupied, that I have never looked into telescope tubes to see the different cosmic phenomena, planets and comets, nor have I ever trudged along the highway with a surveyor's instrument. I have never built bridges nor the edifices along them, in which embassies would be lodged. Nor have I burdened my brain by mathematically calculating the number of white corpuscles in the blood.
These professions—why, I wouldn't conceal it from you—I have not experienced. I never had the education that would have been needed for these, nor the necessary knowledge of foreign languages. The more so, since I was partly illiterate before the Revolution. I could read a little, but I was never so bold as to attempt to write.
And Other Stories Of Communist Russia Page 13