"But the words inscribed in them are harder than copper and more enduring than the pyramids. Isn't that right? Do you deny it?" Nikita Ivanich chuckled and patted Benedikt on the back like he was coughing. "You too, young man, are a participant! A participant!-you've no business being such a scatterbrain, such an ignoramus, a spiritual Neanderthal, a depressed Cro-Magnon! I detect a spark of humanity even in you! I do. I harbor some hope for you! Your little brain is smoldering," said Nikita Ivanich, continuing to insult him. "Your soul is not devoid of impulses… 'You're destined to know a noble impulse / but won't accomplish anything at all,'" sang Nikita Ivanich in a ghastly voice, like a goat bleating. "But you and I will create something fine, something edifying. You do have a certain creative streak, I think…"
"Nikita Ivanich," Benedikt sniveled, offended. "Why all these words!… You might as well just kick me, I swear, why are you calling me names?"
"Right, then. So, as I said," the old man went on, "I don't have his portrait, but I'll assist you. He wasn't very tall."
"But you said he was a giant," muttered Benedikt, wiping his nose with his sleeve.
"A giant of the spirit. 'His proud head rose higher than…'"
"'… the Alexander column.' I know, I copied it. But we don't know how many yards tall that column was, Nikita Ivanich."
"It doesn't matter, not one little bit! Now, we'll extract him from this log-sorry, but we haven't got any others. The most important thing to me is the bowed head and the arm. Like this." The Stoker showed him. "Look at me. Carve a curly head, a straight nose, and a thoughtful face."
"Was his beard long?"
"No beard."
"None at all?"
"Just on the side, like that. Sideburns."
"Like Pakhom has?"
"Good heavens, no. Fifty times smaller. So: the head, the neck, the shoulders, arms, hands, the arms are the most important. Understood? Bend the elbow."
Benedikt tapped the log with his boot. It rang; the wood was good, light. Dense and dry. Good material.
"Beriawood?"
"What? Who?!?!"
The old man cursed, spat, and sparks flew from his eyes; he didn't explain what enraged him. He turned red and puffed up like a beetroot:
"It's Pushkin! Pushkin! The future Pushkin!"
So who's the real Cro-Magnon? Who's got a newrottick now? You can't do anything with them, these Oldeners. They start shouting at the wrong time, swear in strange words, and push you around for who knows what reason. They're always unhappy: they don't understand a good joke, they don't like our dances or games, they never have a good time like people are supposed to, they're no fun, and all you hear from them is "Oh, horrors!" when there's nothing horrible happening at all.
What's really horrible? Horrible is when the Red Sleigh rides, knock, knock, knock on wood, no, no, no. Not me, don't take me. Or when you think about the Slynx, now that's horror, because then you're alone. Completely alone, there's no one. And it's heading toward you… No!!!-I don't even want to think about it… But what's so horrible about dancing and singing together, or playing leapfrog?
It's a fun game. You invite guests, then you clean up the izba. You scrape the crumbs off the table with your elbow: Hey, mice, come on over here! You push the trash that's piled up in the house under the bed with your boot, and cover it so it doesn't stick out. You smooth the bedclothes, straighten the sheet or blanket or whatever. If the sheet is really dirty, then you wash it. If not-well, it'll do. If there's an embroidered dust ruffle lying around, or a bed curtain, you shake them and lay them out pretty on the stove like they were always there. You light candles all over the place, and don't be stingy, so everything's bright and festive. You rustle up a mountain of hot snacks, and put eve-rvthing out on the table in rows. You set out a jug of mead on the table and put some more at the ready out in the cold pantry. The guests will bring something too, no one goes visiting empty- handed, unless he's a miserable midget or some kind of freakin' nincompoop. You have to bring a gift to the house. So everyone is all clean, combed, and dressed in fresh clothes, whoever has them. Jokes, laughter. First you sit at the table. The table's a sight to behold! Baked mice, poached mice, mice in sauce. Marinated mouse tails, mouse-eye caviar. Pickled mouse tripe also goes well with kvas. Goosefoot rolls. Marshrooms, if they're in season. If a Golubchik is richer, then there's bliny. Really rich tables have sweet rolls. Everyone sits down, says thanks, the mead is poured, the first round is gulped down right away. Now to the second. It goes to your head, starts getting to you. That's right! If it's good rusht, choice rusht, you'll never notice that there's not a lot of food. You've eaten, already put away the third and the fourth-you've forgotten when that was, we're already on the tenth. We smoke, laugh. Gossip some gossip, who was with whom, tell a few shaggy dog stories. If there are women we flirt with them: pinch them, or grab them, have a little feel. We stomp our feet and sing in unison:
Pease porridge hot! Pease porridge cold! Pease porridge in the pot! Nine days old! Some like it hot! Some like it cold! Some like it in the pot! Nine days old!
And then we start to play. Leapfrog is a good game, lots of fun. It goes like this. We put out the candles so it's dark. You sit or stand wherever you want, and one guy gets up on the stove. He sits there, sits, and then-bam, he jumps down with an ear-splitting yell! If he lands on one of the guests, he'll always knock him over, give him a bruising or pull an arm out of joint or something. If he misses-then he'll hurt himself: his head, or his knee, or elbow, or maybe he'll break a rib: the stove is high. You can hit the stool in the dark-ouch! Or hit your head on the table. If he doesn't crash, he gets back up on the stove. If he's out of the game, the others are impatient: my turn, my turn, I get to jump this time! The squeals, shouts, laughing-you could piss in your pants it's so much fun. Then you light the candles and take a look at the damage. There's even more laughter then: just a few minutes ago Zinovy had an eye-now he doesn't! Gurian over there broke his arm, it's hanging down like a loose strap, what kind of work can he do now?
Of course, if someone hurts me or my body, it's not funny. I get mad, no kidding. But that's if it's me. If it's someone else, it's funny. Why? Because me-that's me; and him-that's not me, it's him. But the Oldeners say: Oh, horrors! How could you! And they don't understand that if everything went their way, no one would ever laugh or have any fun, we'd all just sit at home all gloom and doom and there wouldn't be any adventures, or dancing, or squealing women.
We also play smothers, and that's fun too: you stuff a pillow in someone's face and smother him, and he flails and splutters and when he gets away, he's all red and sweaty, and his hair's sticking out like a harpy's. People rarely die, our guys are strong, they fight, there's a lot of strength in their muscles. Why? Because they work a lot, they plant turnips in the fields, crack stones, gather sheaves, chop trees into logs. There's no need to go insulting us, to say that there's still some brains smoldering in us: our brains are smart enough. We aren't quick, but we figure things out. We've figured out that the beriawood tree is a good tree for pinocchios and buckets, and it makes fine barrels. The elfir is also a wonderful tree, just right for bathhouse switches, and its nuts are tasty, and a lot of other things, but you can't carve a symbol from it because it's got too much resin, it bleeds all sticky. Birch, now, it's nice to look at, but the trunk is thin and crooked, it's hard to carve. The jeopard tree is even thinner, all knots and bumps, in a word: the jeopard tree. The willow won't do, the beantree is stringy, and the grab tree is wet year-round. There are a lot of other kinds when you count them, and we know them all. So now we'll strip the bark, mark the holes with a stone chisel… and whip up an idol before the wedding.
Benedikt sighed, whispered, and spat just like they tell you to -God bless!-and went at the beriawood tree with an ax.
ON
You couldn't see the terem of Olenka's family from the street. The fence was high and deep, with sharp spikes on top. There was a gate in the middle. In the gate was a stone ring. To
one side of the gate was a booth. In the booth was a serf.
When Benedikt proposed to Olenka, he told her he wanted to send matchmakers ahead of him. It was easier that way-the matchmakers would say everything that needed to be said about you, make a deal, settle everything. They'd praise you to the skies behind your back: he's so this and so that, they'd say, and you should see him do this, he's not a man, he's a rose in bloom, a fleet falcon. But Olenka objected: No, no. No matchmakers, we're a modern family… don't send them. Just come yourself. We'll sit and chat of this and that. We'll eat…
He took some presents: a string of mice, a jug of kvas-so as not to go empty-handed-and a bouquet of bluebells.
Everything was going right. But he was nervous. What would happen?
He went up to the gate and stood there. The serf came out of the booth, irritated.
"Who do you want?"
"I'm Olga Kudeyarovna's co-worker."
"By appointment?"
"By appointment."
"Wait here."
The serf returned to the booth and rustled some bark for a long time.
"What's your name?"
Benedikt told him. The serf rustled something again.
"Go in."
He opened a small gate in the fence and Benedikt entered. There was another fence about five yards from the first. And another booth with a serf, even more irritated than the first.
"Who do you want?"
"I'm Olga Kudeyarovna's co-worker."
"What've you got there?"
"Presents."
"Hand over the presents."
"Why… how… I was invited, how can I go without presents?"
"Hand over the presents and sign here." The serf didn't even seem to hear Benedikt. He unrolled the bark and wrote: "Mice -one dozen ordinary household. Kvas, small wooden jug- one. Blue wildflowers-one bunch."
Benedikt suddenly balked. He got mad. "I won't hand over the flowers!!! You have no right!!! I was personally invited by Olga Kudeyarovna!!!"
Before signing, he crossed out "flowers."
The serf thought for a moment. "Go to the dogs. Go on, get outta here."
How mean he put it-"to the dogs." But he let him in. They let him through the second fence-and then there was a third. Two serfs rose from the bench at the third gate and without saying a word, bad or good, they patted Benedikt all over. They wanted to see if he had hidden something in his pants or under his shirt. But the only extra thing he had was a tail.
"Go on."
Benedikt thought there would be another fence, but no, there wasn't, instead an enormous garden opened up with trees and flowers and all kinds of huts and sheds and little paths of yellowish sand. At the back of the garden stood the terem. Benedikt hadn't been really scared before, but now he was petrified: he'd never seen such wealth and magnificence. His heart thudded and his tail wagged back and forth, back and forth. His eyes clouded over. He didn't remember how they led him into the house.
The serfs brought him and left him alone in a room. Some time passed and he heard a scraping sound behind the doors. There was more scraping, the doors opened-and He Himself came out. Olenka's Papa. The owner of all this. His future father-in-law.
He smiled. "Welcome. We're expecting you. Benedikt Karp-ich? My name is Kudeyar Kudeyarich."
And he looked at him. Benedikt looked back. But he couldn't move-his legs seemed rooted to the floor.
Kudeyar Kudeyarich was big-that is, long and tall. His neck was long, and his head was small. The top of his head was sort of bald, and around his bald spot there was a pale crown of fair hair. He had no beard, and a long, sticklike mouth, whose corners seemed to turn down. He kept opening and closing his mouth as though he wasn't used to breathing and had decided he'd try it out every which way. His eyes were round and yellow, like firelings, and at the bottom of his eyes there seemed to be a light burning.
He was wearing a big white shirt, unbelted. His britches were wide, even wider at the bottom. He wore plain old house lapty on his feet.
"Why are you standing there, Benedikt Karpich? Come and sit down at the table."
He took Benedikt by the elbow and moved him into another chamber. The table was set. Wooow! There was so much food! From one end to the other-bowls and more bowls, all kinds of dishes, pots and plates! Countless pies, bliny, pancakes, twist rolls, pretzels, colored noodles! And peas! And sheaves of pickled horsetail set in the corners! And the marshrooms… bucket-fuls, brimming over, any minute they would jump off the edge. And whole birds, tiny ones wrapped in dough: the legs stuck out at one end and the head at the other! And in the middle of the table-a roast. Whoa, a goat! They've got a whole goat on the table, and they had to raise that goat too! So the serfs had been right to take away his gifts: what was he doing with a bunch of mice when there was a whole goat!
Olenka sat at the table all decked out, her cheeks rouged, her eyes lowered. That's the way Benedikt saw her in his visions, sitting like that: wearing a white blouse, her neck wound with beads, her hair combed smoothly, a ribbon on her brow! And as soon as Benedikt entered the dining room, Olenka blushed even redder. She didn't lift her eyes, but smiled to herself.
Yikes!
And on the other side of the dining room another door opened and his mother-in-law came in. Rather, floated in: the woman was wide as a house, half of her was in the dining room saying hello while the other half hadn't even made it through the door, you had to wait.
"And this," his father-in-law said, "is our wife, Fevronia. One of the oldest families, descended from the French."
"That's the family legend," said his mother-in-law.
Benedikt bowed with one hand, presented the bouquet of bluebells with the other, and fell at his mother-in-law's feet.
"The vittles are getting cold," said his mother-in-law. "Eat up, don't be shy."
They sat down on the benches. Benedikt opposite Olenka, Father- and Mother-in-law side by side.
"Help yourself," said his mother-in-law.
Benedikt felt shy again: how could he restrain himself? If he took a lot they'd think: "Oh, what a glutton! Probably can't ever feed him enough!" And if he took too little, they'd think: "Oh, what a weak son-in-law! Probably can't even drive a nail in." Should he take a little meat pie? He stretched out a hand for the pie, and everyone looked at his hand. He jerked it back.
"We like to eat a lot," said his mother-in-law. And she served herself. So did Kudeyar Kudeyarich. And Olenka. Benedikt stretched out his hand again-to the pancakes. Everyone stared again. He jerked it back once more.
They chewed.
"So," said his father-in-law, "it seems you want to get married."
"I do."
They chewed in silence some more. For the third time Benedikt thought of helping himself to something, but as soon as he'd raised his hand they all stared at it! A fire seemed to flare in the father's eyes. What was going on?
"Getting married is serious business… When I married my wife, Fevronia, that's what I told her: This is serious business."
"That's right, we ate a lot at the wedding," said the mother.
"We ate very well at the wedding," said the father.
Was this a hint? Benedikt's tail began to tap lightly against the bench from anxiety.
"Why aren't you eating?" said the mother again.
Oh, well, what would be would be. He reached out, grabbed a goat leg and plopped it down on his plate, and added noodles on top. And horsetail. As soon as he'd done it, a light flared in all their eyes again, like a lantern.
"So that means you want to join our family," said the father.
"I do."
"Not afraid of family problems, then, are you? Running a house is harder than catching a mouse, as the saying goes."
"I'm not afraid. I'm handy at a lot of things."
"A lot of things?"
"Uh huh."
Something scrabbled under the table. Must be a mouse.
"And what if it's serious business?"
; "I'm ready. Sure."
"Oh ho!"
Once again it grew lighter around the table. Benedikt made himself lift his head and look-there was definitely something shining in the father's eyes. As though a fireling was glowing. And in the dining room-the evening had already turned to twilight-rays of light shone from his eyes. Like from a torch, if you look at it through a fist: you roll your hand up in a fist and look through it. Like a moonlit path. The father was looking at his plate, and even though it was twilight, you could see everything on it. When he looked at the table-it was like it was lit up by fire. When he looked at Benedikt he gave off even more light, so bright that Benedikt blinked and jerked his head away.
Olenka said, "Papa, control yourself."
Benedikt stole a sideways glance at the mother: she gave off the same rays. And Olenka, too. Only weaker.
There was a scrabbling sound under the table again. And Benedikt's tail tapped harder than ever.
"Help yourself to more," said the mother. "Our family likes to eat a lot."
"One of the oldest families, descended from the French," affirmed the father.
"Have some more noodles."
"Thank you kindly."
"Now, you aren't having any bad thoughts, are you?" asked the father.
"What kind of thoughts?"
"All kinds of bad thoughts-Freethinking or malice aforethought of any kind…"
"I don't have any thoughts like that," said Benedikt in a fright.
"How about murder most foul?"
"What kind of murder?"
"Who knows… Maybe you're thinking: I'll marry, get my father- and mother-in-law out of the way, and take all their property for myself?"
"Goodness, how could you-"
"No? You aren't thinking: If I could just do away with them and take their place, I could feast my fill day in and day out?"
"What are you talking about?… Why?… Kudeyar Kudeyarich! Why, I-"
"Papa," said Olenka again, "control yourself."
The Slynx Page 14