Well, in an artistic sense, too, our house is miraculously shaped. There are various stucco moldings: garlands, little circles. And somehow this soothes the gaze.
Under the garlands, the heads of horses are molded. And it's attractive to look at them, again and again.
To top it all off, beginning at the third floor and extending upward, two columns stand, for some reason, and, as the saying goes, to eat they don't ask.
Properly speaking, these two columns, as it were, might have no reason for being there. Because in any case the function of columns is to support something somewhere. But these columns, in a way, as it were, are not even supporting anything. And if you go into it at all, it turns out that the house is even supporting them. But even that is to the good, that the house is supporting them. In any case, the art of antiquity does not collapse.
And, if it did, such a mass of brick would collapse with it, that I thank you for Greek architecture.
But it's already the third year now that everything is going splendidly, and this is yet another indication of how staunchly the Hellenic art is maintained among us.
Our courtyard has considerable originality of structure. It, too, if you will, is on an ancient model. But there's already something of a Roman feeling here. In part it recalls the Roman baths or the small inner courtyards of Pompeii for domestic needs.
The small measure of the courtyard did not, however, hinder the architect in his striving to endow it with something extraordinary. In the middle of the yard, there is a large fountain. There is a pond of sorts, and, in the center, a plaster feminine figure with a jug. And on this it is fairly entertaining to look when you tiptoe lightly out the door in the evening.
No, in an artistic sense, our architect mobilized all his forces to the maximum. He might even have tried a little less. If you stop to think, the people who decorate these houses are bringing to them a new way of life.
Generally, if you're speaking about architecture, it's a big minus when, while they're putting up modern buildings, our architects are for some reason thinking about ancient Greece. It's a good thing it's not Egypt yet!
No, I repeat, I am not against columns that are supporting something there. But somehow it goes against my grain when it's the other way round.
ROSE-MARIE
An inhabitant of the village F., a certain comrade Lebedev, was thinking of having his child baptized.
Before this time, he had somehow been against religion. He didn't go to church. He had nothing to do with church activities. And even to the contrary—having advanced views, he had even belonged at one time to the atheists' club.
But in this season a daughter was born unto him. And so he was thinking of having her baptized.
Closer to the truth, it was his wife, that mother of little spirit, who put him up to this. And it wasn't even his wife, as much as her shortsighted parents, who set the tone for the whole thing. Inasmuch as they began to nag: "Och, you see, it's not nice if you don't baptize her, you see, suddenly she'll grow up, or, on the contrary, she will die and she'll be unbaptized and what then?"
Well, the frivolous conversations of politically backward people.
But Lebedev surprisingly did not want to baptize his daughter. Nevertheless, when they went at him, his spirit shook. And since the man had inner conflicts, he gave his consent. He put it this way to them: "Okay. Baptize her. Only I don't want there should be such a fuss about this problem. I am absolutely free to dispose of my own world outlook. If I want, I baptize; if I don't want, I don't baptize. But such conversations are being started here: talk, talk, talk. You see, I've baptized a dog's nose, turned back, you see, to the services of the church. You see, they'll say, it's not for nothing his father worked in bygone days for a house owner as senior gatekeeper."
At this, his wife said to him that if he himself weren't dragging around so about this matter of baptizing his daughter, then there'd be no fuss at all about this problem.
And so, the parents arranged things with the priest, for him to baptize their daughter. And for a five-ruble note that worthy one took upon himself to do this and designated a day and an hour for them.
And, meanwhile, the parents registered their child in the Registration Bureau under the name of Rose, received a certificate, and on the appointed day appeared in church for the baptism.
On that particular day they were baptizing another child there. And our friends, waiting their turn, stood and watched how it was done.
And Lebedev, being himself of an antireligious orientation and having, so to speak, a critical view of all that pertained to the church, simply could not remain silent And all the time he kept needling the priest with his biting remarks.
No matter what the priest does, Lebedev snickers mockingly, and says to him, practically at his elbow: "Well, that's laying it on a bit thick," he says ... or, "Well, what will they think of next? . . ." Or, glancing at the priest's reddish foliage, he suddenly says: "There wasn't a single redhead among the saints . . . But this one's got red hair."
This latter remark evoked laughter among the relatives. So that the priest even interrupted the baptism for a moment and scowled angrily at everyone.
And when he took up the Lebedev infant, Lebedev partly lost his sense of measure and openly began to chisel away at the priest with his mocking remarks.
And he even said: "Now, look, whiskers, see to it my kid doesn't catch cold, thanks to your baptism. I'll scorch your temple for you if she does."
The priest's hands were even trembling when he heard this.
He said to Lebedev: "Listen, I don't understand you. If you came here to bait me, I'm surprised at you. Have you considered within you what you are doing? At the very moment when I'm holding your daughter in my arms, instead of purifying prayer, anger against you rises in my spirit and bad language, and what kind of a send-off will I give your daughter into life? Why, maybe now her whole life will wither, or maybe she will be struck deaf and dumb."
Lebedev says: "Well, if you go corrupting my daughter on me, Til tear your hide off you, just keep that in mind."
The priest says: "You know what? Better wrap your whelp up in the blanket and get out of the temple. And I'll give you back your five-spot and we'll part on good terms. Better that, than I should be hearing such squalor."
Here his relatives began to check Lebedev: "You see, really,
button your lip; you see, you should wait till you get out of the temple before you let yourself go; you see, don't lead the priest on, or he'll drop your daughter on the floor, if that's what you want. Look, his hands are shaking and his knees are bending."
And so, although inner conflicts tore at Lebedev, he restrained himself and did not answer the priest in kind. He only said to him: "Well, okay, okay. I won't any more. Get on with the baptism, longhair."
At this point the priest began to pronounce the words of the ceremony. Then he turned to Lebedev and said: "What name shall I pronounce? What did you call your daughter?"
Lebedev says: "We called her Rose."
The priest says: "So that's it!—Ah, how much trouble you've given me with your visit. It isn't enough that you baited me. Now it's explained to me that you've given your infant a name like that. Rose—why, that's a Jewish name. And I refuse to baptize her with a name like that. Wrap her up in the blanket and take yourself out of the temple."
Lebedev, who'd lost all control of himself, says: "Now that's better yet. First he threatens the child with withering, then he ups and refuses to baptize her. But this name is from the word 'rose'—that means it's a plant, a flower. It's another thing, for example, Rosalie Semenovna—she's the cashier from the cooperative. There I won't argue: it's a Jewish name. But here you can't refuse to baptize my child that way."
The priest says: "Wrap your child in the blanket. I won't baptize her at all. Among the saints I don't find any such name."
The relatives say to the priest: "Listen, we've registered her in the Registration Bureau under that name. Wha
t in the name of God are you making trouble about?"
Lebedev says: "I told you so. There's a priest for you. He goes against the Registration Bureau. And now it's clear to all what kind of a lousy political world outlook he has."
The priest, seeing that the relatives won't leave and won't take the child away, began to disrobe himself. He took off his brocaded gown. And here they all saw that he's now going around in trousers and high boots. And in this sacrilegious mode he goes up to the images and snuffs the candles. And he wants to spill the water out of the font.
But in the temple, among others, there was a certain person who had just arrived. This person had been in the neighborhood
on business for the co-operative. And now it so happened that, just for something to do, he wandered into the church, just to see what was going on and how things were there these days.
And now this person took to speech, and he says: "I'm against these ceremonies, understand, and I'm even surprised at the darkness of the local inhabitants, but since the child's already wrapped up and his parents are burning with the desire to christen her, then you just have to go through with it, no matter what. And in order to get you out of the position you're in, I would suggest calling your child by a double name. For example, you call her Rose; why not just add Marie. So instead you'll have Rose-Marie. And there's even an operetta by that name, which indicates that it exists in Europe."/
The priest says: "Among the saints I don't find any double names. And I'm even surprised that you're trying to lead me astray with this. If you like, I will call her Marie. But Rose—I wouldn't even think of pronouncing it."
Lebedev says: "Well, devil take him. Let him call her Marie then. We'll adjust it later."
The priest put on his robe again and rapidly, in the course of five minutes, went through the whole church operation.
Lebedev conversed with the visiting person and thanked him for seeing to it that the priest's activities did not go unremarked. So that everything blew over quite pleasantly.
But Lebedev's hopes that there might not be a fuss around this problem turned out to be unjustified. As you see, this story even broke into print. And not in vain. Don't go to churches if your world outlook tells you no. But if it should be you've already entered the temple—behave yourself, and don't bait the priest with stupid remarks.
THE STORY OF MY ILLNESS
In the spring of '38, the magazine Krokodil suggested I write an article on certain defects of our regional hospitals.
By way of material they presented me with a couple dozen letters from readers which had been received by that journal and by the staffs of the Moscow newspapers.
The task of writing this article could be carried out in two ways: either write the usual journalistic article, listing the names and addresses of the guilty administrators, or—a comic sketch.
I chose the second way. Before the reader is an imaginary regional hospital, where, in the context of caricature, the authentic defects enumerated in the readers' letters are strewn.
Such a way of carrying out the task will achieve its goal in no less a degree than a concrete list of names and addresses. Further investigation has shown that many of the defects depicted in our comic sketch have been opportunely corrected.
Some of the shortcomings of the hospitals have, however, remained to this day.
Frankly speaking, I prefer to be ill at home.
Oh, I wouldn't say that it isn't brighter in the hospital and more cultivated. And perhaps they do watch the calories of your diet more closely. But you know how the saying goes: "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."
But they took me to the hospital with typhoid fever. The people at home thought that in this way they'd lighten my unbelievable sufferings.
Only they did not achieve their goal, inasmuch as I got stuck into some kind of special hospital, where everything did not entirely please me.
In any case, they carted off the sick man, they are writing his name down in a book, when suddenly he reads a sign on the wall: "Corpses Distributed from 3 to 4."
I don't know how other patients felt about it, but I jumped right back on my feet when I read that sign. The important thing
is: I have a high temperature, and, in all, it may be that life is just barely managing to keep itself warm in my organism, and maybe it's hanging by a hair—and suddenly I happen to read a sign like that.
I said to the man who was registering me: "Why," I say, "comrade orderly, do you go around hanging up such vulgar signs? In any case," I say, "patients don't find it attractive to read such things."
The orderly, or intern or whatever he was, was surprised to hear me speak to him like that, and he says: "Look: a patient, he can hardly walk, his fever's so high, steam is practically coming out of his mouth, and still," he says, "he's going around making criticisms. If," he says, "you get better, then you'll have a chance to criticize. And if not, we'll distribute you from three to four, as the sign says, and then you'll know what it's all about."
I wanted to lash out at this orderly, but inasmuch as I had a high temperature, 103.8,1 didn't pick a fight with him. I only said to him: "As you please, you enema pipe, I'll get better, so you'll answer to me for your loutishness. Is it proper," I say, "for a patient to hear such speeches? This," I say, "morally undermines their strength."
The orderly was surprised that a patient who was so sick has it out with him so freely, and at once he changed the subject. And at this moment a nurse came running up.
"Come along, patient," she says, "to the washtub."
These words also made me flinch.
"It would be better," I say, "if you didn't call it a washtub, but a bath. This," I say, "is prettier, and makes the patient feel better. And I," I say, "am not a horse that they should be washing me up."
The sister of mercy says: "Why should a patient," she says, "notice all these trifling details? It's likely," she says, "that you won't get better if your nose pricks up at everything."
At this point, she led me to the bath and ordered me to undress ...
And so I began to undress, and suddenly I see in the bath under the water some kind of head is emerging. And suddenly I see that there is, as it were, an elderly woman sitting in the bath, in mil likelihood one of the patients.
I say to the nurse: "Where have you taken me, you dogs, to
the ladies' bath? Someone is already swimming around here," I say.
The nurse says: "Why, there's a sick old woman sitting here. Don't pay any attention to her. She has a high temperature and doesn't react to anything. So don't you worry, and just go ahead and undress. And in time we'll haul the old woman out of the bath and fill it up with fresh water for you."
I say: "The old woman doesn't react, but maybe / still react. And it's pretty unpleasant for me to watch somebody splashing around in the bath like that."
Suddenly, the intern shows up again.
"I am seeing such a squeamish patient for the first time," he says. "This doesn't please him and that isn't good enough for him. A dying old woman is splashing around a bit, and he's expressing pretensions. And her temperature's maybe 104 degrees, and she's in no position to take anything into account; everything she sees, she sees as through a sieve. And in any case she wouldn't bear the sight of you in this world for a superfluous five minutes. No," he says, "I much prefer patients who come to us unconscious. Then at least everything is to their taste, they are satisfied with everything, and they don't go around presenting us with scientific reproaches."
At this point, the splashing old woman raises her voice: "Take me," she says, "out of the water. Or," she says, "I'll get out myself and steam all of you up."
At this point they carted off the old woman and ordered me to get undressed.
And while I was undressing, they swiftly let in hot water and ordered me to get in.
And knowing my character, they no longer tried to argue with me but kept saying "yes, yes, yes" to everything. Only after bathing they g
ave me an immense nightgown, not at all my size. I thought they were deliberately trying to palm this outfit off on me, but then I saw that this was a normal occurrence with them. The little patients as a rule were in large nightshirts, and the big ones in little nightshirts.
And my outfit even seemed a little better than the others. On my nightshirt the "Patient" stamp was on the sleeve and didn't spoil the over-all appearance, but on some patients the stamp was on the back, and on others on the chest, and this was morally degrading to human self-respect.
But, inasmuch as my temperature was going steadily up, I didn't stop to argue about these things.
But they put me in a small ward, where about thirty patients of various kinds were lying. Some, from the look of them, were very ill. But some, on the contrary, were getting better. Some were whistling. Others were playing chess. Still others wandered about the wards and were reading the charts at the head of the beds.
I raised a shout so the chief doctor would come, but, instead, this very same intern showed up again. But I was in a weakened condition. At the sight of him, I finally lost consciousness.
I think, in all likelihood, it was about three days before I came to.
The nurse says ta me: "Well," she says, "you certainly have nine lives. You," she says, "have been through all kinds of experiences. We even put you near an open window accidentally, and then you started to get better unexpectedly. And now," she says, "if you don't catch anything from your neighbors," she says, "we can sincerely congratulate you on your recovery."
Nevertheless, my organism was not subjected to any other illnesses, and it was only just before I left that I came down with a children's disease—whooping cough.
The nurse says: "You must have gotten this infection from the neighboring wing. That's our children's section. And in all likelihood you incautiously ate off the same tray that a child with whooping cough had been eating off. That's why you came down with it."
All in all, the organism mended itself, and once again I began to get better.
And Other Stories Of Communist Russia Page 18