And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.

  I served in the tsarist army then, and I was a corporal.

  After the February Revolution, now, the boys up and say to me: "We've got a real gem of a regimental doctor. Excuse us, a regular plague. Won't give anybody leave, in spite of the Revolution. It'd be a good thing to get rid of him. It wouldn't be a bad idea," they say, "if you took over this job. Especially," they say, "since all positions are elected now. And we could choose you."

  I say: "Why not? Naturally, elect me. I," I say, "am a man who understands the manifestations of nature. I understand that since the Revolution they're wanting the boys should hurry on home aad have a look-see at what's going on. Kerensky," I say, "that's an artist on the throne, he's been spinning a top to a victorious end. And the doctor is playing his pipe for him, not letting our brothers take a little leave. Elect me doctor—/'// give you leave, almost everybody."

  So, soon after that, they change the regiment's commander, and a lot of line officers, and our Goddam medic. And they issue an order naming me in his place.

  Naturally, the work seemed difficult and mostly confused.

  You just barely listen to a sick man through your tube, and he's whimpering and asking to go home. And if you don't let him go, he's really got it in for the doctor and is almost at his throat.

  It's really a very dumb profession and not without danger for human life.

  And if you give a patient pills—he won't eat them, and he's right away heaving them in the doctor's face and demanding he write him out a discharge.

  Well, for form's sake, you ask—what have you got? But the patient himself, naturally, isn't prepared to name his disease, and in this way he puts the doctor in a blind alley, because the doctor can't know all the diseases by heart and can't write in every passbook simply: typhoid fever or dysentery.

  Others, of course, say: "Write whatever you want, only let me go. Because my heart aches to go have a look how things are getting on at home."

  Well, you write down for him: soul fever; and, with this diet, you let him go.

  But soon this muddleheaded profession is beginning to bore me. So I write myself a pass with the designation: soul fever of the first category.

  I leave the front, and that means that this particular career of mine is over.

  Afterwards fate tosses me here and there, like, if you'll pardon the comparison, a shell on the stormy sea.

  I become a policeman. Then a locksmith, a shoemaker, a blacksmith. I am shoeing horses that kick, milking cows, training mad

  and vicious dogs. I am playing on the stage. I ring up the curtain. And so forth and so on and et cetera.

  This year I'm at the front again in the Red Army defending the Revolution from its many enemies.

  Again I get out of it clean. I occupy the position of instructor in rabbit and poultry breeding. I become a detective in the criminal investigation department. I become a chauffeur. And, from time to time, I write critical pieces and witty articles about the theater and literature.

  So, you have before you a man who has had in his lifetime fifty and possibly even more professions.

  There were certain professions I had that seemed strange and surprising. Before the Revolution, I had one such very strange profession.

  I was in the Crimea then. And I was working on a certain estate. There were four hundred cows. A mass of goats, lots of chickens, and rams enough for the devil. All this created a basis for the development of agricultural activity.

  And they take me on there as a loafer.

  In a word, my job consists of tasting the quality of butter and cheese.

  This butter and cheese was sent abroad on a steamboat. And it was necessary to taste it all so the world bourgeoisie wouldn't choke on goods of poor quality.

  Naturally, if you had the chance to go around tasting butter or cheese, I bet you wouldn't refuse. But if, let's assume, you went around tasting these products from morning to night and every day and throughout the year, you'd start howling like a wolf, and the light would grow dark before your very eyes.

  No, I'd never been trained as a specialist in this business. And I happened on that profession quite by chance.

  I was twenty-three years old then. I just didn't give a damn, and everything was whoop-de-do. And I was just bumming along Crimean roads hoping I'd find work somewhere.

  There I am, walking along the road, and I sniff—smells of a milk economy. At this point, all the more because I hadn't eaten for two days. So I up and went after that sweet smell. I think: I'll stand guard over some cow or other, I'll milk her a bit, and in this way I'll get a little strength back.

  Behind the fence, I see, there's a shed. In all probability, I think, the cows are there. I hopped over the fence. I go up to the

  shed. I see—no cows there, but lots of cheeses lying around. I just wanted to pinch a hunk of cheese—and suddenly the foreman walks in.

  "You," he says, "one of our workers?"

  No, I wasn't especially embarrassed. I think—I'll make out all right. There's nobody around, and the fence isn't far away. So I answer with a certain amount of cheek: "No, I'm not a worker here. But I have hopes along those lines."

  He says: "Would you mind explaining, then, why you picked up that cheese?"

  I say, not without cheek: "Well, you know, I wanted to try this cheese. Seems to me it's a little sour to the taste. You don't know how to make it, and you should be careful."

  I see the foreman has even gotten a bit upset because of my words. I notice he doesn't even grasp what it's all about.

  He says: "How's that? What do you mean, sour? What are you anyway, a specialist in milk economy or what?"

  I thought he was joking, playing cat-and-mouse games with me, to work his temper up and really let me have one. And I say: "You guessed it. In milk economy I am the first specialist of the city of Moscow. And I simply can't walk past these milk products without trying them."

  Suddenly the foreman smiles, shakes both my hands, and says: "Golubchik!"

  He says: "Golubchik, if you are a specialist, I'm willing to pay you an enormous salary, only be so kind as to start work soon. In a few days, a foreign boat is going to be arriving here, we've got to send off our freight; but to sort out our goods, we need someone to test them. And I've been given to understand that the foreign bourgeoisie will choke on inferior products, and then unpleasantness would be inevitable. And, as luck would have it, our one specialist has come down with cholera. And now he categorically refuses to test anything."

  I said: "If you like. What needs to be done?"

  He says: "Six hundred and twenty casks of butter have got to be tested, and a thousand cheeses."

  My stomach was quivering with hunger and amazement, so I answered: "If you like. What's all this talk? Just bring me a loaf of bread, and I'll set to, right now, with the greatest pleasure. I," i say, "have long dreamed of finding myself a profession like this —going around testing here and there."

  And I think in my heart: I'll eat my fill, then let them make a pancake out of me. And, God knows, they won't be able to—111 take off on my own well-nourished legs.

  "Well," I say, "bring the loaf here, I'm in a hurry to get to work. Once something catches ahold of me, I've got to be at it right away. Bring the bread, or I'll get bored without my profession to practice."

  I see—the foreman is looking at me with distrust.

  He says: "I'm beginning to doubt that you're the best specialist in milk economy in the world. They test milk products without bread, and without anything, otherwise there's no way of telling what kind it really is, or judging the taste."

  Here I see that I've slipped, but I say: "Sure, I know that. And you're pretty thick-skinned if you don't get it. I don't want the bread to eat, but I need it to put it in contact with these two products, and then I can see how sour they are, and when I test them I won't make a mistake about how spoiled they are. This," I say, "is the latest method used abroad. I," I say, "am surprised at your ignorance and isolation from Europe."


  At this point, they show me around, here and there, ceremoniously. They sign me up. They dress me in white overalls, and they say: "All right, let's go to the casks."

  But my heart's in my heels from fear, and my feet are hardly moving.

  So, we went to the casks, but at this point luck comes to my rescue, and the foreman is called away on some urgent task. I gave a sigh of relief. I say to the workers: "Help me out, brothers. I don't know the least little thing about this business. So tell me quick—what do you taste the butter with, your finger or some special kind of silver?"

  So, the workers laugh at me, they die laughing; nevertheless, they tell me what I have to do, and, more important, what I have to say.

  So, the foreman arrives; I've put blinders on him. I let slip various special phrases, I taste in the correct way. I see—the man has practically blossomed out because of my high qualifications.

  And so, toward evening, having fed my fill, I decided not to leave this well-nourished position. And so I stayed.

  The profession seemed stupid and confused. One had to taste butter with such a special, long, thin spoon. Had to scoop the

  butter from the bottom of the cask and taste it. And if it's a little spoiled or lacking a little something, or there's an extra fly or something, or it's a little salty—it has to be junked, so as not to arouse displeasure among the world-wide bourgeoisie.

  Well, all at once, naturally, I couldn't tell the difference— all the butter tasted pretty good to me. But after awhile I learned, and even started bawling out the foreman, who was thoroughly pleased that he had found me. And he even wrote the owner a letter, where he spun out a lot of stories about himself and asked for a raise or some kind of badge for excellent service.

  So, you see, I was naturally quite pleased with my profession during those first days. As it was, when you'd had enough cheese, you could try the butter for awhile. Better, I think, if there never had been such a job on this planet.

  Later I see—everything is not as it should be.

  After two weeks, I began to suffer, and already to dream of parting with all this.

  Because by day you are testing fats, and you don't lay eyes on anything. You'd like to eat something, but haven't the stomach for it. And inside you feel miserable, and life seems boring and confused.

  And with all this, it was strictly forbidden to drink. Impossible to take any wine or vodka in your mouth. Because alcohol kills the taste, so you'd do a bad job and quality would go to pot.

  Briefly speaking, after two weeks, I would lie down after work with my stomach up, and I would lie in the sun without moving, hoping it's hot rays would sweat out the superfluous fat, and I might once again feel like walking, strolling, eating borsch and cutlets, and so forth.

  Now, I had a friend in those regions. A certain excellent Georgian. Name of Misha. A quite remarkable man, and a spiritual comrade. And he too was a degustator, a taster. Only in another line. He tested wines.

  In the Crimea, there were wine cellars like that—belonging to a local government department. And that's where he was testing.

  And his thoroughly confused profession was even worse than mine.

  He wasn't even allowed to eat. From morning to night he tested

  ine, and it was only in the evening he had a right to eat anything.

  I suffered from fats, and didn't feel like taking anything in

  my mouth. And I wasn't allowed to drink. And appetite I did not have.

  But with him, just the opposite. He was bursting with wine. From early morning, he is slurping various Crimean wines and scarcely can walk—and it's reached a point where the light is no longer dear to him.

  So, by and by, we'd meet in the evening—me, stuffed; him, drunk—and we'd see our friendship is coming to a dead end. Neither of us wants to talk about anything. He wants to eat; I, on the contrary, want to drink. Our common interests are few, and there's a vile taste in the mouth. So we sit like idiots and stare out into the steppe. But there's nothing in the steppe. And over our heads—heaven and the stars. But somewhere, maybe, life goes on, full of happiness and joy . . .

  So, once, I say to him: "Misha," I say, "we've got to go. Even though I've got a contract till fall, I just won't make it. I am refusing to eat butter. It lowers my human dignity. I'm taking off, I'm going to swipe a cheese and let my fat-assed foreman see me do it."

  He says: "It's not a good idea to leave before fall. No work to be found now. We've got to think up something more original. Give me time. I'll think of something. Hunger makes me very inventive."

  And so, once, he says to me: "You know what, why don't we exchange professions for awhile. I'll test butter and you test wine. Let's work it like that for a week or two, and then we'll change back again. And then again. That way, we'll have a kind of balance. And the main thing is, we'll rest, since those bloody devils won't give us any vacation and just keep us feeding and drinking without stop."

  I am quite delighted with these words, but I express some doubt as to whether our foremen will permit it.

  He says: "I'll see if I can work it."

  So he takes me by the hand and leads me to his foreman in the wine department.

  "Here," he says, "this short, experienced gentleman can easily replace me for two weeks. My aunt has come to see me from Tiflis, and I'm interested in having a look at her. And he'll be testing for me and looking after our interests."

  The foreman says: "Okay. Show him the kind of wines we have around here and what he has to do. And come back in two weeks.

  And now we've got quite a business on our hands. Instead of table wines we've just sent a load of 'Alikote' off to Moscow. Sheer disorder."

  So then I, for my part, take Misha by the hand and bring him to my fat-assed foreman.

  "Here," I say, "this tall, experienced gentleman can easily replace me for two weeks. My aunt has come to see me from Tiflis, and I'm interested in having a look at her and having some chats with her about this and that."

  The foreman says: "Okay. Show him what's what around here and come back in two weeks. We've got a mess on our hands just now. Instead of creamery butter, we've sent off sour cream to Persia. The Persians might be offended and won't want to eat it."

  So we started on our new jobs.

  I test wine. And Misha tests butter.

  But here we get into a lot of nonsense and confusion.

  On the very first day, Misha eats so much butter and cheese that he comes down with cramps. And I, after my first twenty swallows of unaccustomed drink, got so woozy that I had a run-in with Misha's foreman. And I wanted to heave him into a wine cask because he said bad words about my friend.

  So the next day they gave me riiy hat and ordered me to pack off.

  And they settled accounts with Misha and ordered him to pack off too.

  So we meet, and we laugh. We think—spit on it. We rested a couple of days, and now we can once again take up our trade.

  But here it turned out that both our foremen smelled a rat and discovered our little trick, and the kind of two weeks we had in mind, and the kind of aunt we had in Tiflis, and the kind of experience we had.

  They both call us in. They yell at us terrible loud and order us to pack off.

  No, we were not especially sorry. I took a cheese and Misha some wine. And, all the way, we went and sang songs. And later we got some other work.

  Soon after that the war broke out. Then, the Revolution. And I lost track of my friend.

  ^Vnd it isn't long ago I find out that he's living in the Caucasus and has a good, remarkable, command position.

  And I dream of going to see him. I dream of meeting him and talking to him and saying: "How about it, old boy!"

  Och, he's likely to be glad to see me! Maybe he'll say the same to me: "How about it, old boy!" And he'll have them serve me up the best shashlik.

  Then he and I will eat and reminisce together about what we were and what we've become.

  LOVE

  1. Lo
, when Lady Death approaches our pillow with inaudible football, exclaims "Aha!" and begins to make off with our treasured and heretofore charming life—in all likelihood we will then regret, above all else, the loss of a certain emotion, which at this point we must give up.

  2. Of all the marvelous manifestations and sensations strewn about us by the lavish hand of nature, we will indubitably, or so I think, most regret being cut off from love.

  And, speaking in the tongue of poetic metaphor, while it is taking leave of this world, our departed soul will be beating and clamoring and begging to go back, and abasing itself, saying it still hasn't seen everything there is to see, and that it would like to have just one more look at this phenomenon.

  But this is nonsense. It has seen everything. And these are only empty excuses which, more than anything else, depict the extreme majesty of our emotions and desires.

  3. Certainly, there are, in addition to this, various exceptional and worthy experiences and sensations, concerning which we would also, in all likelihood, heave bitter sighs of regret when it came time for leave-taking.

  Without a doubt, we would regret not hearing the music of chamber and symphony orchestras, not going to sea in a steamer (for example), not going out to pick fragrant lilies of the valley in the forest. It would be most sad for us to leave our glorious work, and not to lie on the seashore with the aim of resting.

  Yes, these are all glorious things, and we would certainly regret all of them when it came time for leave-taking. And maybe we would even weep. But concerning love, rather special and most bitter tears would be shed. And when we bid farewell to this emotion, in all likelihood, the whole world will fade before us in its majesty, and will seem to us empty, cold, and of but tittle interest.

  As a certain poet once said:

  Love ornaments life, Love is nature's charm . . . I am inwardly convinced, All that replaces love is naught.

  So, you see, the French poet Mussel said that all is naught in comparison with this emotion. But, of course, he was in part mistaken. Of course, he was overdoing it.