Details of the works’ original Russian publications are, in chronological order, as follows. “Quarantine” (“Karantin”) was included in the short story collection The Magic Hat (Shapka-nevidimka), which was published in 1907; “‘She’” (“Ona”) originally appeared in abridged form under the title “Trick of Light” (“Igra sveta”) in the newspaper Nash den’ on February 18 (March 2), 1908, and was first published in its entirety in Priboi’s Literaturno-khudozhestvennyi al’manakh of 1909; “Lanphier Colony” (“Koloniia Lanfier”) was first published in the journal Novyi zhurnal dlia vsekh (Issue 15) in January 1910; “The Devil of the Orange Waters” (“D’iavol oranzhevykh vod”) originally appeared in Soiuz’s Pervyi al’manakh of 1913; “The Poisoned Island” (“Otravlennyi ostrov”) was first published under the title “A Tale of a Far-Distant Ocean” (“Skazka dalekogo okeana”) in the magazine Ogonek (Issue 36) in 1916; “The Heart of the Wilderness” (“Serdtse pustyni”) was first published in the journal Krasnaia niva (Issue 14) in 1923; “The Rat-Catcher” (“Krysolov”) was first published in the journal Rossiia (Issue 3) in 1924; and “Fandango” was first published in the literary almanac Voina zolotom: al’manakh prikliuchenii in 1927.
The translations that follow have been made from the versions of the texts presented in the authoritative Soviet six-volume collected works, Sobranie sochinenii v shesti tomakh, which was prepared under the editorship of Vladimir Rossels and published in Moscow in 1965.
It has been the greatest of pleasures to work with Christine Dunbar and the Russian Library team at Columbia University Press. I should also like to thank Dzmitry Suslau, whose sparkling wit and encouraging feedback bolstered me when my own confidence faltered, and both Irina Steinberg and Julia Sutton-Mattocks, whose sharp eyes and pitch-perfect ears caught more lapses of literary taste than I should care to admit to. I owe a further debt of gratitude to Professor Barry Scherr, without whose invaluable input and thoughtful commentaries this collection would not be the testament to Grin’s remarkable life and career that it is. It is with profound gratitude that I thank each of them, and state that any remaining error or inadequacy in the translation is, of course, mine and mine alone.
QUARANTINE
I.
The garden glittered dazzlingly, dusted all over, from the roots to the treetops, with a transparent, fragrant snow. A green lake of tender young grass stood beneath, penetrated by the hot brilliance burning in the pale-blue sky. Like a cloudburst, this light scattered down, bathing the transparent apple-blossom snow, falling upon its curving features like gold silk on the body of a beauty. White and pink petals, unable to withstand the hot, golden weight, slowly broke away from their cups, floating down, graciously twirling in the crystalline ripples of air. As they fell, they fluttered like moths, silently dappling the serene, tender grass with dots of white.
The air—heady, hot, and pure—luxuriated, basking in the rays of light. The apple and bird cherry trees stood as if spellbound, sleeping under the burden of their white, virgin color. The downy, velvety bumblebees hummed in a low bass, besieging the sweet-scented fortress. Fussing honeybees glistened with dusty bellies, buzzing through the grass, and, darting off suddenly, faded away, a swift black speck amid the pale-blue air. Sparrows called noisily and throatily, as loud as they could, concealed by the dark verdure of the rowans.
The little garden bubbled like a mountain spring, broken by flashes of red-gold in the granite ledges, and, like a web of shadows and light, the reflection of this cheerful triumph flitted over Sergei’s face as he lay there beneath a tree in the pose of a mortally wounded man. His arms and legs were stretched out as widely and freely as possible, his dark hair mingled with the grass, his eyes looked up, and when he closed them, the light penetrated his lashes, casting a reddish shadow that touched his eyelids. Sweet insouciance, full of languid abstraction, entered through every pore in his skin, dandling and enervating him. Not a single identifiable, troubling thought had wormed its way into his head, and he wanted to lie there for a long time, serene, until the red sunset rose behind the black angles of the roofs and made everything dark, damp, and cold.
It was difficult to say where his body ended and the earth began. To himself, he seemed to be the very green of the grass, which plunged white threads of roots far down into the intoxicated, friable earth. Twisting and turning, these roots escaped into its very depths, into the cramped, damp darkness of that underground kingdom of worms, beetles, and the gnarled, brown and pink roots of ancient trees that imbibed the vernal moisture. Melting, merging with the greenery and the amber light, Sergei broke into beatific laughter, tightly, concentratedly screwing up his eyes before suddenly opening them again. A blue swell washed directly over them, hot and bright, and in its midst, green, trembling leaves stretched out, upturned.
He turned over onto his side and began to look at the dense, mysterious thicket of brushwood, last year’s brown leaves, and the miscellaneous dross of flora. Trouble was brewing there. Long black beetles resembling cathedral choristers were gadding around all over the place, tumbling over impetuously. Ants being lured into a glass would drag something along, give up, and drag it again, working their hindquarters. A butterfly took a turn around before perching. Wearing a businesslike frown, Sergei stretched out his fingers and took aim at the slowly flickering white wings.
“Oh, pshaw! You’re only little! …”
There came a clap of hands and the grass rustled. Sergei raised his eyebrows and looked around.
“What are you playing at, Dunya? Where’s the little thing gone?”
“I’ve frightened away your butterfly!” the girl explained, and laughing creases twitched across her delicate forehead and the lines of her lips. “I was looking for you, and lo, here you are … Every bit the little boy, Sergei Ivanych … Have you really nothing better to do?”
“Oh, very well, then!” Sergei smiled, still frowning. “Anyway … I’d only have caught it and let it go again, for isn’t it said, ‘Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord’?”
Dunya reached up, clutched a gnarled black branch, and lifted her delicate, classically proportioned face, which was adorned with a light, ruddy tan. And her inquiring black eyes reflected the flutter of the light, and the wind, and the verdure.
“But you thought perhaps it wouldn’t? To be sure, it would praise Him,” she drawled. “It’s so hot. I’ve left a letter for you on the table; the postman just called.”
“Did he indeed?” Sergei found himself asking.
He stood up, reluctantly and sweetly stretching out. The girl’s slight, colorful figure stood before him, as the bended branch trembled and scattered little pieces of white over her head. There were no women like that where he had come from, naive in the natural simplicity of their movements, as simple and strong as the earth. Sergei lowered his eyes toward her delicate round breasts and immediately averted his gaze. Where had this letter come from?
A vague, piercing sensation, strangely reminiscent of toothache, began to throb in him, and suddenly a dreary gray shadow fell over the colors of the green day. With thousands of unseeing glass eyes, a stone city glowered at him, while a motley din assaulted his ears. Dunya smiled, and he smiled back at her out of habit, with the corner of his lips. The sparrows chirped in agitation. The girl let go of the branch, which made a terrific noise as it rushed up.
“I’m going on an outing today,” she announced cheerfully. “There’ll be me, Lina Gorshkova, too, the carpenter’s wife, and even the clerk himself, Dmitry Ivanych … We’ll have a rollicking time of it. Only we’ve no one to row us. But for that, we’d go a long way! …”
“Marvelous,” said Sergei, lost in thought. “What a fine thing, to go for a boat ride …”
“Oh …”
Dunya opened her mouth slightly, intending to say something more, but only placed her hands to her head and smiled inquiringly.
“‘Oh’ what?” echoed Sergei.
“I dare say you won’t care to … B
ut then if all of us … ʼMitry ʼVanych is going to play for us … Bought himself a new accordion just before the spring. With three rows, a lovely deep bass … Just makes you sigh when you hear it …”
The unpleasant feeling of alarm was quickly replaced by the thought that the letter could well be insignificant and not in the least dreadful. Yet he hesitated to go to his room, preferring to talk.
“You’re as kind, Dunya,” said Sergei with a bow, “as you are tall. And yet …”
The girl snorted. Her teeth flashed boldly; dimples fleetingly appeared on her swarthy cheeks.
“And yet,” Sergei continued, “I couldn’t possibly. Much to my regret … I’ll be writing letters, this and that … So thank you for the invitation but, all the same, my apologies.”
“Oh well, as you wish. I only meant the rowing … Our gallant gentlemen are so unconscionably lazy … We’ll have to row them, these devils! …”
She smiled crossly, and her pretty face grew stiff and awkward.
“Shall I really not go?” thought Sergei. “Why shouldn’t I? They’ll be squealing, splashing water around, singing and pinching each other. ʼMitry ʼVanych will provide the music. Still, you’ll likely feel awkward. No, truly …”
At this point, however, he envisaged the boat, the girl sitting beside him, and mentally sensed the close proximity of her slender, tantalizing body.
“No, it would be awkward,” he told himself again, anxiously recalling the letter. And with that, his desire for something youthful and lighthearted was extinguished.
“Come!” said Dunya. “I’ll put on the samovar and carve up some meat …”
The girl turned and nimbly floated off. Between a gap in an old gray fence, which served as a garden gate, she turned and disappeared. A minute later, from a little white log cabin, her shriek came flying out, accompanied by spanking and the desperate crying of a child.
II.
Sergei climbed the porch stairs and stepped into the twilight cool of the vestibule. Just outside the low, worn doors leading to his room, blocking it with her body and bent over, Dunya was holding her little five-year-old sister Sanka by the arm as the latter tried desperately to sit down on the floor. The child was giving out a piercing scream and kicking its filthy little bare feet in every direction; its dress was bespattered with fresh wet mud. Noticing Sergei, Sanka immediately calmed down, sobbing and hostilely examining “uncle’s” figure with her puffy red eyes. Dunya stepped aside, lifting her tense, perspiring face.
“Look! Just look what she’s done! Do you see this? You’re my torment of torments! I’ve never seen anything like it … It’s a punishment sent from God! …”
Hurriedly tucking in her skirt, which had come undone, she shot a glance at Sergei and again set about dealing with Sanka, who had begun to wail even more loudly and desperately. The young man opened the door and entered his room.
After the humid heat of spring and its dappled brilliance, it was pleasant for the eyes to rest as they met the walls; it was easier to breathe, too. A billowing white curtain covered the window; through its patterned net could be glimpsed the vague outline of a dusty, lighted street and little buildings with brickwork on the ground floor and gray roofs that looked like hats. Here and there the cheap, variegated wallpaper was hidden by lurid oleographs under glass in narrow black frames. Atop the ragged green baize of an open gaming table lay several books brought by Sergei and a writing set speckled with ink stains. Four canary-painted chairs stuck out around the table and a dresser, while on the floor there trailed a grimy canvas runner.
Sitting in its broad envelope, the letter loomed blue on the table. Sergei picked it up and, for some while, with an unsettled feeling of vexed impatience, examined the jagged, undistinguished handwriting of the address. An old desire to clarify both to himself and to others the result of these two months of voluntary banishment flared up again, only to be broken by a feeling of vague, halting fear. Somewhat alarmed, as if this simple blue envelope had borne and hurled in his face those old, fiery thoughts that he had left behind in the city and, in so doing, broken the uncomplicated sequence of spring days, Sergei tore open the letter and extracted the slim, crisp leaf of paper. Having impatiently skimmed through the inevitable, conventional text, the mask of its true meaning, he lit a candle in a green copper candleholder and brought the paper to the flame, heating its clean, uninscribed side. It curled up, yellowed, and disintegrated in parts, but it remained stubbornly silent, like a man unwilling to betray a secret entrusted to him. And only then, when Sergei’s fingers had begun to ache from the heat of the flame and he wanted to take them away, did brown marks begin to appear on the paper. They snaked and twisted, and, before the last letter had been dressed in flesh and blood, Sergei already knew that tomorrow some fateful person would arrive, and after that he would have to go off and die.
To begin with, he read the solid, even letters with absolute dispassion, registering them automatically in his mind and assembling them into words. When, however, they came to an end and stopped in the whole formidable nakedness of their significance, he braced himself and gritted his teeth, ready to repel an imminent blow. Only now did Sergei realize with absolute clarity and certainty that this could not and must not take place. There, where the brain, stupefied and ablaze, makes promises, and the border between life and death dissolves in the fierce heat of fitful struggle—that is where there is a truth, a logic all of its own. While there, where you want to live, where you want to eat, drink, kiss life, gathering up its littlest crumbs like precious stones—there, perhaps, there is no truth, no logic, but the sun, the body, and joy.
In a corner, where the tattered wallpaper was beginning to peel, a distant road drew into view, with people, street lamps, and shop signs. Horses and carriages thronged the street. Someone was coming … Someone pale, with a clammy, cold sweat on his brow and a tempest in his heart, raised his hand, while everything around him roared with thundering, terrible laughter and collapsed …
Outside, sparrows were chirping in greedy, importunate bursts. Hurtling carts clattered, and an axe was chopping. A distant city rose up before his eyes, surrounded by a forest of chimneys and flocks of carriages. Noisy, breathing heavily, it laughed in Sergei’s face—a ringing, metallic laugh, pervaded by a dark, fantastical flight of burning thought.
There, in the middle of this seething, frenzied fever of nerves, an enormous weblike mechanism of living tissue forged tirelessly in hundreds and thousands of hearts waves of feelings and emotions, surrounding Sergei with the mysterious, mute force of impulse. But just as then, his exhausted soul had been keen to reckon with the executioners of life, so now it was plain and simple that he had no intention of dying—he did not want it, nor could he bring himself to want it.
Never had he forgotten the bright, human side of life, and his lust for it had grown as his weary, overwrought body, full of hot, powerful blood, ate its fill and relaxed. The days passed—and he lived. The sun rose—and he washed himself and smiled at the sun. He inhaled the fresh, intoxicating air, himself growing intoxicated, and everything seemed heady and gay. The earth revealed itself to him day after day, fragrant, mighty, and green. His body grew big and heavy, full of vague desires.
It was so simple and good, and he wanted it to remain like this forever: plain to see, good, and simple.
Friends and acquaintances—or those whom he took to be friends and acquaintances—now reminded him of those droll, vocal little sparrows. While they just hopped around, making noise, trying to shout down life, life resounded all around them, quivering and resplendent. Alongside this picture flashed pale, haggard, harassed faces, hungry eyes, brains eternally starving, hearts turned everlastingly to stone in pain and suffering. Now he could clearly see hoards of heads, mountains of books, and sparse, uncomfortable rooms that recalled the faces of old maids. He set the past on rickety, feeble legs and looked on. The colors washed away, the shades faded, but the contours remained the same, sharp and angular. They had
been inscribed in blood—both in his own and in that of others. Only the figures of women and girls—vibrant and bright—softened the background, as flowers do the iconostasis of a church. Thus also do the lines of a great poet, taken as an epigraph for a scholarly work, leave their fragrant trace in those terse, heavy pages …
And so the tireless, angry zeal he bore for his faith heaved, ready to collapse under the whole arsenal of sharpened, stinging, and wounding arguments. While farther on, in gloom-covered corners, vermin crept and a melancholy wailing droned out, fusing into one single stream tears of impotence, the sighing of a slave, dull, swinish malice, and a bloody, childish absence of comprehension …
All of a sudden, Sergei felt crushed, disgusted, and wretched. Worried, listening to the hurried, enigmatic whisper of blood, he stood there, hesitating for a long while, unconsciously ready to break his train of thought with a decision. And finally it occurred to him, what was hidden inside, perhaps there, where a strong body in the prime of life indignantly refused the chill of death. This brief thought was expressed in three words: “Under no circumstances!”
And although after this he felt calmer and more carefree, he was still annoyed at himself and regretted something. Annoyed because he too, like so many others, had turned out to be capable of constructing beautiful, brave deeds in his mind. In times of acute, nervous enthusiasm for an imaginary exploit, how pleasant it is to die a hero and at the same time rejoice that you are alive.
Fandango and Other Stories Page 3