All agreed to this willingly. And, at a sign from the composer, the dining room broke into friendly applause.
The kitchen personnel did not instantly grasp the meaning of this noise. The scullery maid appeared on the dining-hall threshold. And from behind, the assistant cook, Fediushka, stuck out
his head. Both were smiling, but they looked at the applauding people without understanding what was going on.
The office help ran in. The manager appeared. He immediately joined the crowd and cried out loudly: "Ivan Fomich! We want Ivan Fomich!"
The cook, Ivan Fomich, soon appeared. He was a massive man with a drooping gray mustache. His high chefs cap gave him a rather frightening appearance.
Well, naturally, the cook, Ivan Fomich, was already accustomed to recognition and success, but this ovation noticeably moved and even stunned him with its novelty. For some time he stood silently on the dining-hall threshold and, wiping his sweaty face with his apron, he looked askance at all those around who were standing up and applauding him.
The applause grew stronger. The composer ran over to the piano and played a flourish. And then the cook, Ivan Fomich, came out into the center of the dining room.
Now a complex mixture of emotions played across his face. Pride, agitation, enthusiasm, astonishment—that was what one could read on his features at one and the same time.
The manager raised a hand and, having obtained silence, turned to the cook with a short speech. This is what he said, without any notes: "Dear Ivan Fomich! For a long time your predecessors duped the public with their doubtful culinary doings. And only since you have taken charge has spiritual peace been obtained, an essential prerequisite for health. Allow me, in the name of all the vacationers, to congratulate you and congratulate you again for your high mastery, which, like the sun, has illuminated our modest house of rest!"
Here, amidst wild applause, the manager embraced the cook and kissed him three times on cheek and mustache.
Now it was proposed that the cook make a brief speech in reply. But Ivan Fomich did not seem to be a master of that complicated art. It could have been, however, that excitement had lost him his tongue. One way or another, Ivan Fomich dropped a few meager phrases, from which, however, one could gather the noble quality of his thoughts. Having removed his white cap, and hugging it to his heart, he said: "I tried ... I managed ... I promise to do my best from now on ... I'm deeply grateful for this recognition . . . Thanks . . ."
Amidst stormy applause, music, and shouts of "bravo!" this
encounter between the vacationers and the cook came to an end. Having taken a modest bow, Ivan Fomich withdrew to the kitchen.
No, I was not a witness to the events which followed; but eyewitnesses have informed me with formal precision of what happened soon after.
At five o'clock, the cook, Ivan Fomich, accompanied by his nephew, Fediushka, made his way to the village to some fishermen friends. There, having drunk quite a bit, Ivan Fomich hired a boat with two rowers. He decorated this boat with carpets and shrubs. In the stern, he sat an accordion player who was an acquaintance of his. And in this boat, amidst the sound of music, they rowed along the lake and past the numerous rest homes and sanatoriums.
During this entire aqueous excursion the cook stood up in the boat with his hand on the shoulder of one of the rowers. During this entire excursion (according to eyewitnesses) Ivan Fomich stood like a monument between the carpets and the greenery. And when the accordion player was silent, the assistant cook, Fediushka, immediately began to plink away at his mandolin.
The considerable quantity of wine that the cook had downed, however, brought the expedition to an unexpected mishap. When the rowers turned the boat sharply for a second trip, Ivan Fomich didn't quite manage to keep his feet, and fell overboard. His portly body shook the frail craft, and, scooping up water, it overturned.
Fediushka and the rowers swam to shore. And fishermen fished out the cook and the accordion player and his instrument.
Ivan Fomich had swallowed a large amount of water, and for a long time he lay on the shore almost without moving. The inhabitants of the village wanted to give him artificial respiration, but he wouldn't let them. And along with his drenched nephew Fediushka, he hastened back to his own apartment.
And, there, in his own apartment (as people confirmed) Ivan Fomich drank, ate, and made an uproar until deep into the night.
This extraordinary event became known in our house of rest only the following day, when, instead of the usual excellent breakfast, people were served semolina with cranberry sauce.
At breakfast, the doctor of philological science said to us, smiling a little: "Well, I always said that people need unusual moral fiber to be able to stand up to ardent praise."
The philologist's wife began to expand on her husband's idea for us, and took it upon herself to explain in many, many words,
that praising people was necessary, pedagogically it gave marvelous results; past a certain point, though, she said, sometimes strange and unexpected things happened—like the scandalous event involving our cook. From this it is demonstrable that excessive praise is dangerous for a weak spirit.
The young composer exclaimed with some inner agitation: "No, I do not agree with you! Even the most exalted praise couldn't damage the issue. And I am more than convinced that our cook, when he's recovered from his mishap, will more than exceed himself!"
That day we were fed a dinner obviously prepared by an unskilled hand. And for five days (by no means a short time for vacationers) the dinners were of quite doubtful quality. But toward the end of the week, the vacationers once again could not restrain themselves from demonstrative enthusiasm in the direction of our cook, Ivan Fomich.
And, then, the young composer, while eating his dessert after dinner, said excitedly to the philologist's wife: 'Try these meringues! Ardent praise did not damage the issue in the least. Those honors that we showed the cook have only served to unfold his astonishing mastery!"
While praising the meringues, the philologist's wife stuck to her own opinion. She said that ardent praise was more dangerous for an inexperienced apprentice than for a first-class master. Inexperienced apprenticeship, after excessive praise, often remained stunted in its growth, considering that it didn't have any farther to go. Or spirits drooped with the first failure. And, then, there's the pursuit of forgetfulness in a glass of liquor.
The young composer leaped up from the table in order to give her some reply, but the philologist's wife continued without a pause: "And even for a first-class master," she said, "there's a certain danger here. Excessive praise often lulls conscience to sleep, rouses pride, and hinders a critical attitude to his own work. For this reason, even a first-class master—let's say an artist of the word—sometimes botches his mastery. He becomes a half-baked preacher, a bigot, an hysteric, and sometimes even an unstrung decadent."
The philologist's wife spoke long and volubly on this theme and concluded her speech with the following words: "Of course, such corruption can't befall our first-class cook. Ardent praise only upset his moral equilibrium for a short time. Judging by the
meringues, it's all over and done with, to everybody's satisfaction. And now, apparently, our cook can be praised again without risking any more unpleasant surprises."
The doctor of philological science did not take part in this conversation, and, only at the very end, did he say to the composer in an elevated tone: "Moral fortitude, young man, is quite necessary in any profession, including the culinary business here, and especially music, which is so often accompanied by applause."
To this the young composer gave no reply, and with the unstrung pace of a man surfeited with honors and applause, he left the building.
IN THE BATHHOUSE
The extensive dressing room is tastefully constructed and even not without beauty. There are carpet mattings on the floor. There are clean covers on the couches. At the entrance, there is a buffet with a centerpiece of flowers.
On the couch opposite me, there is a youngish father and his six-year-old son. While clumsily dressing the boy, the young father now and then proffers some instruction on the rules of behavior. In the tone of a stern teacher, he says to him: "Don't snuffle; take your handkerchief out of your pocket. . . Don't wiggle your foot in the air while papa's taking your pants off! . . ."
These scenes of an educational nature did not occupy my imagination too fully, and I began to look at the attendant whose appearance surprised me. He was a young fellow of blossoming appearance, no more than twenty-two years old. He wore sport shoes, striped trousers, and a white Russian blouse, belted with a bunched braid.
The work the fellow did was the very simplest. He takes back the zinc basin from those who have just finished washing, opens the linen closet with his key, and, waiting for the next customer, walks up and down the dressing room, looking wearily at the surface of the couches.
I felt like asking the young attendant how and why he had chosen such a career, so much more suitable for superannuated or exhausted lives. The following headlong events, however, prevented me from turning to the attendant with this question.
A short, solid man, who had just finished washing, entered the dressing room. His face was good-natured, almost gay. Through the gray stubble of a long unshaven face, flickered a soft hyper-tonic blush. His belly was enormous—it sagged with the weight of the no-less-than thirty tons of food it must have, in its time, taken in—and hung down heavily. On the belly, a surgical scar of ancient origin flashed whitely.
The old man, apparently, had been pawed more than once in the cruel embraces of life, but one sensed that he was still firmly attached to the world by the simple pleasure it offered.
Entering the dressing room with a zinc basin in his hands, the old man paused at the entrance, darting his eyes about in search of the young attendant. Streams of water flowed from his stout shoulders. A cloudlet of light steam hovered over the small bald spot on his gray head. The old man, apparently, had washed himself well, and now he was eager to get dressed as soon as possible.
Not finding the attendant, who was standing near the buffet, the old man called in a fluent tenor: "Hey, who opens the lockers around here?"
The young attendant moved hastily over to the old man and, having opened the necessary locker, stepped aside.
The old man did not linger around the open locker for long, and, having picked up his clothes, moved over to the couch in order to dress himself. But at this point, before reaching the couch, he tripped over the carpet matting and almost fell. The old man did not manage to hang on to his load and it slipped out of his arms to the floor.
In addition to the old man's linen, there lay a large package wrapped in newspaper. This package, which hit the floor hard, came undone, and all that it contained spilled out on the carpet matting. And what it contained.Avas hundred-ruble notes, stoutly tied with bands from the bank, on each one of which was stamped the number—10,000.
There were no less than twenty such packets. In addition to this, there was one odd packet of hundred-ruble notes. Some of the notes from this packet were lifted by the draft and flew toward the couch across the room.
The young attendant, clasping his hands together, shouted in a frightened voice: "Money!"
Hastily collecting the dispersed packet, the old man said with displeasure to the attendant: "All right, money. What's there to blow about? Never seen any before?"
The young attendant, nervously gripping his white blouse, remained in wide-eyed astonishment.
"A heap like that I have never seen. Where did you get it all from, pop?"
"Well, you spend your life in such an out-of-the-way place," the old man answered, already with a certain irritation, having fioticed that the bathhouse customers were watching his hurried activities from all sides.
"No, really, comrade, where did you get such a pile of money?"
the young father asked sternly. He had been moving in the direction of getting washed, with his naked son in tow, but had held back at the last moment and, to the child's annoyance, had sat down again on the couch.
The old man did not reply. Collecting the money in the torn newspaper, he was still crawling along the floor and was wetter now than he had been before.
A solid wall of customers formed around the old man. All were silent, not knowing what to say or how to behave in such an extraordinary instance.
But then, shoving people aside, a small thinnish man with a dark face and sharp spiny eyes under thick dark eyebrows arrived at the place of activity. He was still not quite dressed. His unbuttoned shirt revealed a narrow chickenlike chest. Lilac braces dangled from his scraggy rear-end.
They say that all the evil of the world comes from small thinnish men. It's possible that this is a slight exaggeration, but in the given instance the thinnish man in the next few moments displayed all the shadowy aspects of this type of person, of which he was a striking example.
Stepping forward, he said in a truculent tone to the old man: "Where's the money from? Just answer quickly, so you don't have time to think up a lie!"
Wiping himself with a bath towel, the old man replied caustically: "And you, peewee, who needs you here? Button up your shirt before you start talking to people. Could be I find it repulsive seeing you undressed."
These words did not divert the undersized customer. On the contrary, he came up closer to the old man and said in a hissing tone: "We'll see about that yet. We'll see who gets buttoned first, and who gets to go where when he's through here! Answer to the group—where'd you get this money?"
And, here, the thin man lifted his hand in a broad demagogic gesture as though gathering all of the bathhouse society around himself.
But even this classical gesture did not frighten the old man. Putting on his shirt, he shouted angrily at the thin man: "Get away from me! Or I'll pick you up by the pants and throw you out of the hall!"
This dreadful outburst took the wind out of the thin person's sails. Continuing to fuss, however, he said softly, turning to the
bathhouse group: "People are not in the habit of taking such sums with them, either to the barbershop or to the bathhouse. And if he brought it with him—that means he wanted to hide this money from someone or destroy the traces of his illegal activities."
The young attendant exclaimed innocently: "It's likely he cornered loans at a cheap rate of interest and made hundreds of thousands on them!"
The thin man hissed through his teeth: "But it's not excluded that the money may be counterfeit... Where's the administration here?"
Swiftly flinging a black jacket around himself, the thin man moved toward the staircase, shouting back: "Don't let anyone out of the bathhouse!"
The owner of the money, seeing all the fuss, waved his hand with some indignation and even frowned.
The young father said sternly to his naked son, who had grown chilly and had begun to whimper: "Remember well, Icarus: people who steal or who deceive mama and papa are the most unworthy people on our planet. They slow down the progress of our time."
Icarus whimpered even more loudly and did not answer his father. The young attendant, who couldn't tear himself away, stared at the owner of the money, who was dressing himself without haste. Having probably come to the conclusion that the old man didn't look like a swindler, the attendant asked him once again: "No, really now, pop. Tell me, no kidding, where did you get all that money?"
Smiling, the old man answered the fellow: "This money, my friend, I earned by my own labor. I saved it up."
"Well, but how did you earn it? Doing what?" the attendant asked eagerly, and, sitting down beside the old man on the couch, he said in an intimate tone: "Take me, now, pop. I'm from the country. I've only had three years of school. I'm still not used to the city. I'd like to make a little money, but I don't know where to start. Tell me, pop! Explain to an orphan how you managed to bring this off in the city?"
The owner of the money laughed gaily till the tears came
, and, then, wiping his eyes with the tail of his clean shirt, he said: "You'll hardly get rich in your post at the bathhouse. Where is there space for a falcon to spread his wings?"
Getting excited, the young attendant said: "That's just it, pop!
Where can I just stretch out a little bit? Here I am, walking around the dressing room as though I had the pox ... So do me the favor, tell me how you made your fortune. With whom, for example, did you work?"
"I'm a locksmith by profession," the old man answered. "But once in a while I work as a mechanic. I worked at this job in the coal mines. After that I moved over to oil wells."
"And how much did they pay you for that?"
The old man answered without haste: "You've got to keep in mind, young man, where I was working. It was a long way from here. I was in the Far East and in Sakhalin—and I got time-and-a-half extra."
"What did this come to a month?"
"It was about three and a half in round figures. I spent a thousand, not allowing myself anything I didn't need, and two and a half went into my savings account. So, you see, in eight years I saved quite a bit."
The attendant moved his lips soundlessly, adding up the figures in his head. And having arrived at the sum, exclaimed loudly: "You saved two hundred and forty thousand!"
The crowd around the old man and the attendant diminished greatly. Many who had perceived that the case had evaporated left to wash and to dress. One of those who was leaving said with astonishment: "Such a sum the old devil saved up—a quarter million!"
The young attendant, whose stormy feelings had now reached their limit, leaped up from the couch and exclaimed to the old man: "But why did you give up a spot like that, pop? My God, I would have stayed a hundred years!"
Lacing up his boots, the old man replied without haste: "The doctors found I had high blood pressure. They ordered me back to Russia. So I arrived today by the Siberian express."
The bathhouse manager appeared in the doorway. This was a middle-aged woman in a dark cloth suit. On her jacket lapel hung a medal.
And Other Stories Of Communist Russia Page 22