And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.

  36. But there is still one great love, in the course of which a man forgot his revolutionary conscience.

  This refers to the husband of the well-known Mme. Tallien.

  At the time of the French Revolution the chief secretary of the revolutionary council was sent to Bordeaux by Robespierre to arrest the aristocrats who had run off there.

  And, lo and behold, in the prison there, he made the acquaintance of a young woman who had been arrested—Teresa Fontenet. He fell in love with her and let her out of the prison.

  Robespierre, when he learned that Tallien had released a prisoner, ordered her arrested again.

  Then, Tallien, having joined forces with the partisans of Danton, conducted such a struggle against Robespierre that in a short time he was able to overthrow him. And one of the motives for this struggle was undoubtedly his love for Teresa Fontenet.

  Later, Tallien married her, but she soon threw him over and married some kind of prince.

  But this still isn't all that history knows.

  Even beyond this, there have taken place from time to time small events, at first glance little worthy of note, but nevertheless, one can say, events that are literally like the sunlight breaking through the thicket of the forest. This was great love.

  37. * Take, for example, the wives of the Decembrists, brilliant society ladies who gave up everything and voluntarily, though no one had exiled them, followed their husbands to Siberia.

  * The sick Radishchev had been sent off to exile. Not long before this, his wife had died. Then his wife's sister followed him into exile . . .

  * The son of a rich landowner, the brilliant cavalry guard officer Ivashov, loved the governess Camilla, who worked in his family's house. His parents, naturally, refused to let him marry her. But within a year when Ivashov was sent to Siberia for twenty years in the affair of the Decembrists, the young governess voluntarily followed him.

  * The passionately loved wife of the English poet, Robert Browning, died. Bewailing her terribly, the poet placed in her grave the dearest thing he owned—a notebook of his new sonnets.

  True, later, when the poet fell in love again, he managed to get this notebook back, but this is not so important.

  * Napoleon, in the heat of battle, in 1796, wrote to Josephine: "Away from you the world is a desert in which I wander alone. You are the only thought of my whole life."

  * Lassalle wrote to Elena Denniguez: "I have a giant's powers and I multiply them by a thousand in order to conquer you. No one in the world can take you away from me ... I suffer a thousand times more than Prometheus on his rock."

  38. Chernyshevski, in love with his own wife, wrote to ^Tekrasov: "It isn't for world problems that people hustle about, shoot themselves, become drunkards. I have experienced it and

  I know that the poetry of the heart has the same rights as the poetry of thought."

  * The city of Weinsberg was besieged by the enemy. The conquerors permitted the women to leave the city before destroying it. At the same time, they permitted each woman to carry off in her own hands that which was most precious to her. And so, several women carried their valiant husbands in their arms.

  Naturally, this last event is more like a legend. From time to time history loves to invent for the sake of, so to speak, moral equilibrium, something sentimental like that.

  39. From among these sentimental anecdotes, the following is amusing.

  A certain knight, going off to battle, entrusted his wife to a friend of his. The friend fell in love with the wife. The wife fell in love with him. But the oath of loyalty, naturally, was inviolable.

  And so, in order to preserve and prove this loyalty, they sleep in one bed, putting a double-edged sword between them.

  Maybe they really did put this sword between them, and maybe they really did sleep in one bed—we will not deny this historical fact—but as far as the rest of the story is concerned, you must excuse us, we are dubious.

  In all, with this sentimental nonsense, we bring to a close our historical tales.

  This is what history tells of love.

  In all, it tells very little of this emotion. That is to say, yes, this emotion, it would seem, really exists. History, that is to say, has had to deal with this emotion more than once. That is to say, such-and-such historical events and incidents have taken place on this soil. And such-and-such deeds and crimes have been committed.

  But that all this was just something too grandiose for words, in the sense that our poets have sung of it in their tenor voices— well, in that degree, history scarcely knows it at all.

  On the contrary, commercial spirits have almost entirely straddled this emotion. And it does not represent any kind of danger for the calm flow of history.

  40. No, this emotion has not hindered people from proceeding along the road along which patiently and in good conscience they go anyway.

  And the historians are right to be telling us in monotonous

  voices about what happened and about how many lumps of soot a bridegroom received in return for this or that feeling of his.

  Well, of course, we have been talking of past centuries. And perhaps things have changed a bit nowadays?

  Unfortunately, we have never been abroad, and therefore we are not in a position to satisfy fully your legitimate curiosity.

  But we are of the opinion that it isn't likely great changes occurred there.

  In all likelihood, or so we think, some marquis or other, with his sonorous name, still shows up as the bridegroom of a three-year-old. And papa pays him a monthly allowance.

  And, in all likelihood, some sort of aging person, having forgotten everything in fhe world, still supports some kind of dancing Zubov and lavishes her favors upon him.

  Everything, one must assume, goes as it once went.

  And as far as we are concerned, well, some substantial changes have come to pass here.

  ON PUSHKIN'S ANNIVERSARY

  FIRST SPEECH ON PUSHKIN

  It is with a feeling of pride, I would like to note, that in these days our house is not being braided into the tail end of events.

  In the first place, we have acquired for six rubles fifty kopecks a single-volume edition of Pushkin for general use. In the second place, a plaster bust of the great poet has been placed in the office of the Tenant's Co-operative Association, which in its turn serves to remind those who don't pay their rent on time of their arrears.

  In addition to this, we have hung an artistic portrait of Pushkin before the main entrance.

  And finally, this meeting speaks for itself.

  Certainly, perhaps it's little, but speaking frankly, our Co-op Association didn't expect there'd be such a bustle. We thought, well, as usual, they will note in the press: there you are, poet of genius, lived in the stern epoch of Nicholas I; well, on the stage, there they'd start some artistic reading excerpts, or they'd sing something from Eugene Onegin.

  But what is happening in our days—frankly speaking, it obliges our Co-op to be careful and to re-examine its position in the realm of creative literature, so we won't be accused of not appreciating poems and so forth.

  Still, you know, it is well that in the sense of the poets, as it is said, God has blessed our house. It is true we have one tenant, Tsaplin, who writes verses, but in addition he's a bookkeeper, and, to top it all off, he's such a lout, I don't mind saying, I'm not even sure whether I should be mentioning him on Pushkin's anniversary. The other day he comes into the Co-op and he's theatening: "I," he yells, "will bury you, you long-tailed devil, if you don't move my stove for me before Pushkin's anniversary. I," he says, "am stifling from the fumes because of that damn stove and I can't write poems." I say: "Even taking into account how delicate relationships with poets are, I can't have your stove

  moved for you in the time specified because our mechanic has taken off." So that's why he's yelling. Hauled off after me.

  Praise be, that among our tenants there aren't still more cadres of writers and such like, you kno
w. If there were, they'd be nagging about stoves like this Tsaplin.

  Well, so what if he can write verses. In that case, I, too, and my seven-year-old nephew can bring some pretensions to bear on the Co-op. At my place, he writes too. And some of his verses aren't at all bad:

  We children like the time when the bird is in the cage;

  But we don't like those folk who against the Five-Year-Plan rage. f

  Seven years old he is, and look how he writes! But still that doesn't mean I want to compare him with Pushkin. Pushkin is one thing, and the stifling tenant Tsaplin is another. A scoundrel like that! You see, my wife is coming in, and he's after me. "I," he yells, "am going to stick your head into my stove right this moment." Well what is this, I ask you?! Here the Pushkin anniversary is approaching, and he's setting my nerves on edge like that.

  Pushkin writes so that his every line is beyond perfection. For a tenant of genius like that, we would move his stove even in the fall. But here we're supposed to be moving it for this Tsaplin — at this, I am thunderstruck.

  A hundred years have passed and still Pushkin's verses call forth our astonishment. But, if you'll excuse me, where will Tsaplin be a hundred years from now? Such a rascal! ... Or if this Tsaplin had been alive a hundred years ago? I can imagine what he would have been like in those days and in what form he would have come down to the present!

  Speaking frankly, I would have been a Dantfes to this Tsaplin, and I'd have drilled him full of lead. My second would have said: "Shoot at him once" But I would have let go with all five bullets, because I don't like scoundrels.

  Great poets of genius die before their time, but this scoundrel Tsaplin remains, and he's still around to wear out our nerves.

  However, it is fitting that we move his stove, so that a hundred .years from now they will not reproach us with lack of sympathy for poetry.

  SECOND SPEECH ON PUSHKIN

  Of course, dear comrades, I am not a historian of literature. I permit myself to approach this great occasion, simply, as it is said, in a human sense.

  Such a clean-breasted approach, I submit, brings the image of the great poet closer to us.

  And, so, a hundred years separate us from him! Time really flies incredibly swiftly!

  The German war, as is well known, began twenty-three years ago. That is, from the time it began to Pushkin's time was not a hundred years, but in all only seventy-seven.

  And I was born, imagine, in 1879. That means I was even closer to the great poet. Not that I could see him, but, as it is said, there were but forty years in all between us.

  My grandmother now, still more clearly, was born in 1836. That is, Pushkin could have seen her and even taken her up in his arms. He might have cooed over her and, what's more, she might have wept in his arms, not realizing who it was that was holding her.

  Of course, it isn't likely that Pushkin cooed over her, all the more since she lived in Kaluga, and Pushkin, it seems, never lived there; but one can still permit oneself this rousing possibility, the more so, it seems, since he might very well have taken a trip to Kaluga to see some friends there.

  My father, on the other hand, was born in 1850. But Pushkin by that time, alas, was no longer, or else he might even have cooed over my father.

  But my great-grandmother now, he might really and truly have taken up in his arms. Just imagine, she was born in 1763, so that the great poet could easily have gone to her parents and demanded that they let him hold her and coo over her . . . Although, on the other hand, by 1837 she was, if you like, sixty years old and a little over, so that, frankly speaking, I don't really know how they went about it and how they managed to arrange things . . . It could be that it was she who cooed over him . . . But that which is for us covered by the darkness of the unknown, probably posed no difficulty for them, and they got along beautifully as far as who cooed over whom and who rocked whom is concerned. And if she really was an old woman of sixty at that time, then,

  of course, it's absurd even to think that someone was cooing over her. It means rather that she herself was doing the cooing over somebody.

  And, perhaps, cradling him and singing him lyric songs, she, unaware of it herself, aroused poetic feelings in him and, perhaps, along with his famous nurse Anna Radionovna, inspired him in the composition of several different poems.

  As far as Gogol and Turgenev are concerned, practically all of my relatives might have cooed over them, since still less time separated them from these. In general, I will say this: children— the ornament of our life, and a happy childhood—this, as it is said, is a great and by no means unimportant problem, which has been resolved in our days. Kindergartens, nurseries, waiting rooms for mothers and children in our railroad stations—these are worthy tokens of one and the same enterprise . . . Ah, yes, now what was I talking about? Och—about Pushkin. Well, now, I'll tell you—Pushkin ... A century to commemorate. And, soon, you see, other glorious jubilees will take place—Turgenev, Lermontov, Tolstoi, Maikov, and so forth and so forth. Time will come for spiels on them, too. And this is right, if they've earned it.

  Of course, we will not be lingering on the biographical facts of the poet's life: it's well known to all. It isn't a secret that the poet had a seven-room apartment, a coach, a footman, two maids. Moreover, they paid for his verses by the line in chervontsi. And they republished them regularly. And Nicholas I, seeing all this, got angry and jealous.

  This complicated the poet's life at court, the more so, since, just among ourselves, Tamara, of course, betrayed him . . . No, I mean, it seems Pushkin's was Natalia, not Tamara . . . Why, yes, Natalia. That was Lermontov's—Tamara ... But, you know, I usually get them mixed up ... Pushkin and Lermontov—for me they are, as it were, a single whole. And that's why I don't make distinctions as to which was which. All the more since they are both poets of genius. And both, in our days, enjoy the singular attention of society.

  In general, just among ourselves, at some other time you might A ,ven be surprised why there should be such an extraordinary ittitude to poets. As to singers, for example, well, I wouldn't jay that our attitude is bad exactly, but they simply aren't regarded in the same way as poets.

  But they too, as it is said, are talents. And they too catch hold of the spirit. And they touch our emotions. And so on ...

  Moreover, several of our singers perform at charity concerts without pay. And all the same, as it is said, they contribute a mighty bit to the matter of developing the arts, the influence of which on society is immense and indubitable ...

  Now what was I talking about? . . . Ah, yes—about Pushkin. Well, now, so I'll tell you: the influence of Pushkin on us is immense and indubitable. This was a great poet of genius. And it is fitting to grieve that he does not now live among us. We would carry him in our arms and we would arrange a fabulous life for the poet, if, of course, we knew that from him would emerge Pushkin. As it happens, we contemporaries are hoping for our own, we arrange an excellent life for them, give automobiles and apartments, and then it turns out that this one isn't Pushkin, nor that one either. You can't, as it is said, get blood from a stone ... In general, it's a dark profession, God alone knows what they're up to. Somehow singers give more pleasure. They sing, and right away it's obvious what kind of voice they have.

  And so, concluding my speech on the poet of genius, I would like to remark that, after the refreshments, there will be an artistic concert.

  (Loud applause. All rise and move to the buffet.)

  HOUSES AND PEOPLE

  I've decided to write a little pamphlet about those buildings which are now being raised for our habitation.

  In any case, people spend a large part of their life at home. And even if it were for this reason alone, it would be permissible to focus society's attention on such a problem of no little importance.

  I will tell briefly of that house in which I, as it is said, have the good fortune to live.

  The house in which I now live is a very solid contemporary house of recent constr
uction.

  In the architectural sense, it is a very attractive building. It was built enthusiastically and not without spirit.

  Every apartment has a balcony. The windows are wide. And the sun pours in a mighty flow, without difficulty, into the tiny comfortable little apartments. Everywhere there are bathtubs, dustbins. The staircase is quite appealing, but, unfortunately, a little narrow. So that pianos have had to be lifted up through the windows, a fact which has, in its turn, undoubtedly led to a slight lowering of the level of musical culture.

  A composer of ours who had taken an apartment on the fifth floor suffered unspeakably when the object of his creative endeavor was stretched on the tightrope.

  And really it was somehow unnatural. The more so since there was an awful lot of yelling when they began to put his musical instrument on the block. A groan went up, especially when they began to shove it through the window from outside. I tell you, that was a musical moment.

  But the process ended successfully, which in any case does honor to the architect who was conscious of the fact that small windows would be a deathblow to composers.

  One way or another, the piano was successfully installed in the dwelling. And the composer at once began to pound on it, so that the tenants on the fourth floor ran off at a gallop to complain to

  the house manager, since it seems that the sound carried rather amazingly well.

  No, these fourth-floor tenants were unmusical people. You might think the sounds of a piano would hearten them. They were listening to music! Now I, for example, can distinctly hear the kitten sneeze in my neighbor's room. And I don't go running around complaining about these sounds. Because I understand very well why it sneezes. It's because our window frames are askew, the doors are crooked, there's a draft from all the cracks in the parquet floor. So the animal has caught a cold, and it's sneezing.

  Toward spring, when the weather gets a little warmer, it will stop sneezing.

  But these are trifles, nonsense. Not on these apartment-house bagatelles was the main attention of the architect concentrated. One must assume that his main task was to shape a building as beautiful as possible.