Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics)

by Chandler, Robert

  So what could I do? Not a thing. Life went on.

  After a while my spouse’s mother turns up in our bathroom. Settles in behind the boiler. Straight from the country.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming for a long time,’ she says, ‘of rocking my grandson. You can’t,’ she says, ‘deny me that pleasure.’

  I say:

  ‘I’m not denying it to you. Go on, babushka,’ I say, ‘rock away. What the hell. You can fill up the bath,’ I say, ‘and dive in with your grandson.’

  And I say to the wife:

  ‘Maybe, dear citizen, you’ve got more relatives planning to drop in. Tell me straight away. Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  She says:

  ‘Only my kid brother. He might just come for the Christmas holidays.’

  I left Moscow without waiting for the kid brother. I send money to the family by post.

  First published in 1925

  Translated by Robert Chandler

  THE GALOSH

  It’s easy enough, of course, to lose a galosh in a tram.

  Especially if one side of you’s being squashed and there’s some lout behind you treading on your heel. Suddenly – all gone galosh!

  Losing a galosh is only too simple.

  Mine came off just like that. In the blink, you could say, of an eye.

  I got on to the tram – both galoshes were present. I can still almost see them. I even touched them as I climbed in – just to be sure.

  Yet when I get off – one galosh, I can see, is there on my foot, but the other galosh has gone. My boot is there. And I can see my sock. And my drawers are in place. But no galosh.

  And you can hardly, of course, run after a tram.

  I took off the remaining galosh, wrapped it in newspaper – and off I went. ‘After work,’ I think, ‘I’ll make some inquiries. I can’t let it go just like that. Wherever it is, I must track it down.’

  Straight after work, I began. First I had a word with a tram driver I happen to know.

  He really got my hopes up.

  ‘Count yourself lucky,’ he says, ‘that you lost it on a tram. Any other public place and I wouldn’t be so sure. But on a tram – heavens, your galosh is already as good as found! We have this special office, you see, for lost things. Just go and collect it. It’s as good as found.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘thank you. That’s a weight off my mind. The galosh, you see, is almost new. I’ve only been wearing it a couple of years.’

  The next day I go along to the office.

  ‘Brothers,’ I say, ‘is there any chance I could have my galosh back? It was taken off me in a tram.’

  ‘Certainly,’ they say. ‘What kind of galosh?’

  ‘An ordinary,’ I say, ‘kind of galosh. Size twelve.’

  ‘We’ve got, so they tell me, around twelve thousand size twelves. Tell me some distinguishing features.’

  ‘Its distinguishing features,’ I say, ‘are ordinary enough. The heel, of course, is a bit shabby. And there’s no lining on the inside. The lining wore out.’

  ‘We’ve got, so they tell me, over a thousand galoshes like that. Are there any special distinguishing features?’

  ‘There are,’ I say, ‘special distinguishing features. The toe’s been almost completely ripped off – it’s only just hanging on. And there’s hardly,’ I say, ‘any heel left. It’s been worn down. But the sides,’ I say, ‘aren’t doing badly. They’re still in one piece.’

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ they say. ‘We’ll have a look right away.’

  In no time at all, they come back with my galosh. I feel terribly pleased. Quite overcome. ‘Yes,’ I think, ‘the system’s functioning splendidly. And what men of principle they are,’ I think, ‘to go to such trouble over a single galosh.’

  ‘Eternal thanks,’ I say, ‘till I’m dead and gone. Please let me have it. I’ll put it on straight away. I’m truly grateful.’

  ‘No, dear comrade,’ they say. ‘We can’t let you have it. We can’t be sure,’ they say, ‘whether it was you who lost it.’

  ‘It most certainly was,’ I say, ‘I give you my word of honour.’

  ‘We believe you and you have all our sympathy. And most probably you did indeed lose this very galosh. But we can’t just give it to you. We need certification that you really have lost a galosh. Get this fact verified by your House Management Office1 and then, without unnecessary red tape, we’ll give you back what you have legitimately lost.’

  ‘But brothers,’ I say, ‘dear, blessed comrades, no one in the office knows of this fact. They might not give me certification.’

  ‘Yes, they will,’ they say. ‘It’s their job. What else are they there for?’

  I took one more look at the galosh and left.

  The next day I went to the Head of our Office.

  ‘Give me,’ I say, ‘a document. Or my galosh is as good as gone.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘but did you really lose it? Or are you pulling a fast one? Maybe you just want to get your hands on an item of footwear?’

  ‘I swear to God,’ I say, ‘that I lost it.’

  ‘I can’t, it goes without saying, take your word for it. Now if,’ he says, ‘you could bring me certification from the tram depot that you have lost a galosh, then I could give you your document. As it is, I can’t do a thing.’

  ‘But they just sent me to you.’

  ‘In that case,’ he says, ‘write me a statement.’

  ‘What shall I write?’

  ‘Write,’ he says, ‘that on such and such a date a galosh went missing. And so on… And I undertake to remain at the above address until the matter has been cleared up.’

  I wrote the statement. The following day I received official certification.

  I went off with this certification to the office. And there, just imagine, without fuss or red tape, they gave me my galosh.

  But once I had the galosh on my foot I felt still more overcome. Yes, I say to myself, the system well and truly functions! Can you imagine people taking such time and trouble over my galosh in some backward country? No, they’d have just thrown it out of the tram – simple as that. Here, though, I’ve got it back in less than a week. Quite a system!

  Only trouble is, with all the to-ing and fro-ing that week, I lost the first galosh. I’d been carrying it under my arm all the time wrapped in newspaper and I couldn’t remember where I’d left it. Not on a tram – that was the problem. It was a real shame I didn’t leave it on a tram – where was I to look for it?

  But I’ve got the other galosh. I keep it on my chest of drawers.

  Any time I feel low, I just look at this galosh and I feel light-hearted and carefree. Quite, I say to myself, a system!

  First published in 1927

  Translated by Robert Chandler

  THE HAT

  Only now can one totally understand and grasp the great strides with which, in the last ten years, we have advanced forward.

  Take any aspect of our life – nothing to be seen but total development and happy success.

  And I, my brothers, as a former transport worker, can see very evidently what, for instance, has been achieved on this really rather important front.

  Trains run backwards and forwards. Rotten sleepers are removed. Signals are repaired. Whistles give the right whistles. Travelling has become truly pleasant and satisfactory.

  Whereas in the past! Back in 1918! You travelled, you travelled, and then – total standstill. And the engine driver, up at the head of the train, is shouting: ‘Brothers! Come here!’

  So the passengers gather.

  And the driver says to them:

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t, brothers, for reasons of fuel, keep going. Those of you with an interest in further travel,’ he says, ‘should jump down from your carriages. And run along into the forest to collect firewood.’

  Well, the passengers aren’t too happy. They fuss and grumble about this kind of new innovation, but soon enough they’re deep in the forest. Chopp
ing and sawing.

  They saw up a yard of firewood and we move off. The wood, needless to say, is green. Hisses like hell and our progress is halting.

  And I remember another incident. In 1919. We were moving modestly along towards Leningrad… We stop in the middle of nowhere. Then – reverse drive. And we come to a standstill.

  The passengers ask:

  ‘Why have we stopped? And why all that way in reverse? Do we, dear God, need firewood? Is the driver looking for birch trees? Is it an upsurge of banditry?’

  The fireman explains:

  ‘There’s been an unfortunate incident. The driver’s hat’s blown off. He’s gone to look for it.’

  Passengers got off the train. Settled down on the embankment.

  Suddenly they see the driver, coming out of the forest. Downcast. Pale. Shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I can’t find it. The devil knows where it’s blown.’

  They move the train back another five hundred yards. The passengers are divided into search parties.

  About twenty minutes later some man with a sack shouts out:

  ‘Here it is, you devils! Look!’

  And there it is. The engine driver’s hat. Hanging up on a bush.

  The driver put his hat on, tied it with string to one of his buttons so it wouldn’t blow off again, and began getting up steam.

  And half an hour later we were safely on our way.

  Yes. Transport was in a totally bad state.

  But today, even if a passenger – let alone a mere hat – were blown off, we wouldn’t stop more than a minute.

  Because time is precious. We must keep moving.

  First published in 1927

  Translated by Robert Chandler

  LEONID IVANOVICH DOBYCHIN (1894–1936)

  Born in the small town of Ludza in what is now Latvia, Dobychin grew up in Daugavpils.1 His father, a doctor, died young; his mother was a midwife. He studied economics at the St Petersburg Polytechnic (1911–14). From 1918 he worked as a statistician in another small town, Bryansk, living until 1927 in a single room which he shared with four relatives. In 1934 Dobychin succeeded in moving to Leningrad; this, however, did little to lessen a sense of isolation that was probably compounded by his homosexuality – the Soviet Union was a homophobic society.

  Dobychin’s stories and The Town of N., a short novel written in the voice of a child, have been compared to James Joyce’s Dubliners, which Dobychin had probably read.2 Important political events are reflected in the work of both writers, but only in so far as they impinge on the everyday lives of ordinary people. Like Joyce, Dobychin writes with unusual precision and delicacy; his minimalism, however, is such as to make even Dubliners seem wordy.

  Much of Dobychin’s work is satirical, and it is not surprising that his two volumes of stories were harshly criticized – as was The Town of N., first published in 1935. In March 1936 Dobychin was attacked as a ‘class enemy’ during a meeting at the Leningrad House of Writers. Shortly afterwards, he appears to have committed suicide.

  Though far from well-known, Dobychin was admired during his lifetime by members of both of the most interesting Leningrad literary groupings: the ‘Serapion Brothers’ and the OBERIU (Association for Real Art) (see pp. 200 and 296). The poet Korney Chukovsky was the first editor to publish Dobychin’s work. During the fifty years after his death, Dobychin was almost, but not entirely, forgotten. One writer who helped to keep his name alive was Venyamin Kaverin; in each of the volumes of memoirs he published during the 1970s and 1980s, Kaverin included a different example of Dobychin’s work, thus managing to return several complete stories to the reader long before Dobychin was finally republished in 1989, in the series ‘The Forgotten Book’ According to the contemporary poet Dmitry Prigov, only three Soviet writers brought something new into Russian prose: Dobychin, Platonov and Zoshchenko.

  I have chosen three of Dobychin’s simpler and more lyrical stories.

  MEDICAL AUXILIARY

  A man got off the train, took out a small mirror and turned his head from side to side. The telegraphist, who had been waiting by the bell, ran up to him.

  ‘The doctor’s assistant?’ she asked – and, like a child, stood looking at him. He raised his eyebrows, which met on the bridge of his nose, and glanced condescendingly.

  ‘Med-aux,’ – he bowed.

  It was slippery going. He took her arm.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.

  The tiny fountain by the station was full, and spray flew on the wind beyond the cement basin.

  ‘This way.’ There were dark sheds on three sides, the puddles were rippled. Grass showed through the ice. They ran up the stairs, took off their coats in the kitchen and hung them on the door.

  It was warm in the little room. Mother was breathing behind a screen.

  ‘Shall I wake her?’ said the telegraphist, on tiptoe, after she had looked.

  ‘No,’ he said with a gracious wave of his hands. ‘My train’s not for a long time. Let her sleep.’ Turning round, she slipped off to the kitchen and clattered the samovar.

  Cyclamen were flowering in a pot. The med-aux sniffed. Beneath the window was a path, straw had been scattered about. Beyond the wattle fence lay snow, and sticking up through the snow were beet tops.

  They drank tea and quietly talked about the town.

  ‘An interesting life,’ enthused the med-aux. ‘Mary Pickford1 acts splendidly.’

  He looked into the stove and, half-smiling, fell into thought. His eyebrows were slightly raised. A hair, missed by the razor, gleamed beneath his lip.

  They moved to the sofa and sat in shadow. It was warm from the stove. The samovar kept going quiet, then hissing again.

  ‘Jenny Jugo’s2 a brunette,’ declared the med-aux, enthralled by his own words. ‘She’s the image of you.’

  Huddling up and tucking her legs beneath her, the telegraphist said nothing. Her half-closed eyes were darkened by pupils that had dilated, as if from atropine.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ said the med-aux, looking closely. ‘You’ve caught a cold. Spring’s played a trick on you.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, and her teeth chattered. ‘Perhaps, the ventilation pane…’

  He looked round and gave a little shake of his head. ‘It’s closed. Put your coat on. I’ll give you a sudorific. You must look after yourself, dress properly. Before you go out – eat.’ She stood and began washing the dishes, knocking them against the bowl. The med-aux got to his feet, walked about on tiptoe, took some music off a little table, looked at the title and began humming a romance. Mother woke up.

  First published in 1930

  Translated by Robert Chandler

  THE FATHER

  The cross on the airman’s grave was a propeller. Here and there lay interesting paper wreaths. A potbellied church with smashed windows peeped out from behind the maples. There was a circular bench round a linden tree.

  The father and his boys were walking through the cemetery to the river. Mother was buried behind the bushes, where the hops grew. ‘We’ll go to her afterwards,’ said the father, ‘or we’ll be late for the waves.’

  There was the sound of a hooter. ‘Quick!’ shouted the boys. ‘Quick!’ the father walked faster. They all began to run. Over the gate stood an angel, cut from a sheet of tin. In their hurry, they forgot to stop and, looking upwards, admire it.

  They ran down the little path; the hooter sounded again. ‘We’ll be late,’ urged father. Hearts pounded, heads too.

  Throwing off their jackets, they reached the bank and, pulling legs out of trousers, dropped to the ground: they’d made it. There was a rumbling to their right, the smoke drew nearer, and from behind the bushes appeared the ship’s white prow. They jumped up, danced about, waved their hats. The majestic captain was giving orders. The paddlewheel churned, foam hissed, the wake seethed. They squatted down; on the deck were women, watching. Looking sideways at the women, they put their hands between their knees an
d squeezed them together.

  ‘Smack!’ went the first wave. ‘Quick!’ – they all leaped in.

  The river was like a sea. ‘Ooh!’ people cried, and leaped up and down. ‘Ooh!’ cried father, holding the boys in his arms and jumping. ‘Ooh, ooh!’ cried the boys, flinging their arms round his neck and squealing.

  The waves stopped. Father, hooting like a steamer, crawled on all fours through the water. The boys rode on him. Then he washed, and the boys took turns scrubbing his back, like grownups. Standing up again, he looked himself over and checked his muscles: in the evening he was seeing Lyubov Ivanovna. ‘But at least I’m not a bad father,’ he thought.

  They walked back slowly. ‘Otherwise,’ said father, ‘why get in the water at all?’ Climbing back up the path took a long time. They blew dandelions and tore petals off daisies. They turned and looked down again. Cows were walking along the bank, mirrored in the river. Sometimes they mooed. Lights were being lit at the river-station; they glimmered. The sun set. There were not yet any stars. The angel over the gate had gone dark.

  ‘You wait here,’ father said by the linden tree. ‘I’ll be back.’ They sat down, taking off their caps, and held hands. A mosquito whined.

  Bushes turned black, blurring together. Tops of crosses poked out above them. The hops glowed. Father stopped and stood with his hat off. He had come because of Lyubov Ivanovna and was at a loss for words: what could he say, and how? The little boys felt frightened. Under the ground lay the dead. Someone might look out from the broken window of the church, an arm might reach out. It was good when father came back.

  Soft with dust, the streets were pleasant to walk on. Here and there were street lamps. The stalls were lit up. In yards women were talking to sedate cows that had returned with the herd. Firemen had struck up a waltz in the town garden. Father bought a cigar and two spice cakes. Silent, they enjoyed them.

  First published in 1931

  Translated by Robert Chandler

  PLEASE DO

  The vet charged two roubles. The medicine was seventy kopeks. It did no good. ‘Go and see the babka,’1 said the women. ‘She’ll help.’ Seleznyova locked the gate and, in a woollen shawl, tucking her hands up her cuffs, hunched, squat, in a long skirt and felt boots, set off.