Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov (Penguin Classics)

by Unknown

  ‘I’d imagined we’d be getting something from your father,’ said Maman Jabotykin, seizing her chance.

  ‘A likely story! We’ll get something from my father the day crayfish start to whistle.’

  ‘And I thought he’d be giving me a real live pony,’ said Petya, looking up at his father.

  ‘A likely story! My father will give you a pony the day crayfish start to whistle.’

  Father was sitting with his feet far apart and his head bent down. His moustache was drooping, as if damp, and his sheep-like eyes were fixed gloomily on one spot.

  Petya glanced at his father and decided this was a safe moment to talk to him.

  ‘Papa, why crayfish?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘When crayfish start to whistle – that’s when everything’s going to happen?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘But when will they start to whistle?’

  The father was about to give a frank answer to his son’s question when he remembered that a father’s duty is always to be strict. He gently cuffed Petya on the back of the head and said, ‘Off you go to bed, piglet.’

  Petya went to his bedroom, but he did not stop thinking about crayfish. On the contrary, the thought of them was now so firmly lodged in his head that nothing else in the world any longer held any interest for him. The rocking horses did not get their tails pulled out; the clockwork soldier’s spring remained unbroken; the clown’s squeak-box remained in its correct place, in the pit of his stomach. Petya’s room, in short, was the abomination of desolation. Because the young master had no time for such trifles. He was pacing about, wondering what could be done to make crayfish hurry up and start whistling.

  He went to the kitchen and asked the advice of Sekletinya the cook. She said, ‘They don’t whistle because they’ve got no lips. The day they grow lips, that’ll be the day they start whistling.’

  Neither she nor anyone else could say any more.

  Petya grew; and as he grew, he pondered this more and more deeply. ‘There really must be a reason,’ he thought, ‘why people say that, when crayfish whistle, your wishes will be granted.’

  If a crayfish’s whistle was merely a symbol of impossibility, then why didn’t people say: ‘When elephants fly’ or ‘When cows chirrup’? No! Hidden within this common saying must lie some profound understanding, the wisdom of the people. It was imperative to look into all this more deeply. Crayfish can’t whistle because they have neither lips nor lungs. Well and good. But surely it was not impossible for science to bring about changes to the organism of the crayfish? Surely, by means of genetic selection and other influences it was possible for science to compel a crayfish to acquire lungs?

  Petya devoted his whole life to this problem. He studied occultism, the better to understand the mystical link between the crayfish’s whistle and human happiness. He researched the constitution of the crayfish, its life, habits, origin and potentials.

  He married, but not happily. He hated his wife for breathing with lungs, which crayfish do not possess. He divorced his wife – and spent the rest of his life in the service of an idea.

  On his deathbed, he said to his son, ‘My son! Listen to my testament. Work for the happiness of your neighbour. Study the crayfish’s physical constitution, research the crayfish, force the little bastard to change his nature. Occult sciences have revealed to me that a true wish, an ardent and sincere human wish, will be granted every time a crayfish whistles. Unless you’re a complete swine, how can you think of anything now except this whistle? Shortsighted little people build hospitals and imagine they’re benefiting their neighbours. That kind of work is of course easier than changing the nature of the crayfish. But we – we are Jabotykins! Generation after generation of us will work at this, and we shall achieve our goal!’

  When he died, his son took it upon himself to continue his father’s work. His grandson did the same, and his great-grandson, finding it difficult to work as a serious scientist in Russia, moved to America. Americans don’t like long names and the great-grandson was soon rechristened. Mister Jabotykin became Mister Jeb, and so this splendid family disappeared from view, forgotten by their Russian relatives.

  Many, many years went by. Much was new in the world, but the overall extent of human happiness had not changed since the day when Petya Jabotykin, while pulling the birch-bark tail off his horse, had asked, ‘Papa, why crayfish?’

  Just as before, people wanted more than they could get; just as before, they suffered, consumed by wishes that could never be fulfilled.

  But then newspapers started publishing a strange announcement: ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Prepare yourselves! The work of many generations is nearing completion! The joint-stock company “Mister Jeb and Co.” wishes to announce that on December 25th of this year a crayfish will whistle for the first time and this will result in the most heartfelt wish of every one person in a hundred (1 per cent) being granted. Prepare yourselves!’

  At first this announcement attracted little attention. ‘Probably it’s just some kind of swindle,’ people thought. ‘These American companies are all the same. They promise miracles – and in the end they all turn out just to be promoting some new kind of shoe polish.’

  But the nearer it came to the promised date, the more interest this American venture began to evoke. People were shaking their heads and saying that it was anybody’s guess: they’d have to wait and see.

  And when the story was taken up by journalists, when newspapers began to print portraits of the great inventor and photographs of every corner of his laboratory, no one any longer felt ashamed to admit that they believed in the coming miracle.

  Soon the newspapers were even showing a picture of the crayfish that was promising to whistle. It looked more like a district police officer from the southwest of Russia than like a cold-blooded animal. Goggly eyes, a jaunty moustache and a generally dashing expression. It was wearing a kind of knitted jacket with laces, and either its tail was hidden in something like cotton wool or else it didn’t have one at all.

  This image enjoyed great popularity. It appeared on postcards in the most fantastic colours – green with light-blue eyes, lilac with gold specks, and so on. The crayfish’s portrait could be seen on the label of a new brand of rowanberry vodka. There was a new Russian airship that was the same shape as the crayfish and moved only backwards. And no lady with any self-respect would think of wearing a hat that wasn’t adorned with a pair of crayfish claws.

  That autumn ‘Mister Jeb and Co.’ issued their first shares, which shot up in value so fast that even the most stolid of dealers began to speak of them in a respectful whisper.

  Time passed; time sped; time flew. At the beginning of October, forty-two different gramophone firms sent representatives to America, to record the sound of the crayfish’s whistle and broadcast this sound throughout the world.

  Nobody stayed in bed on the morning of 25 December. Many people had been up all night, doing complicated calculations and arguing about how many seconds would have to pass before a whistle in America could affect life on our own meridian. Some said that it would take no longer than it takes to transmit electricity. Others retorted that an astral current was quicker than an electric current, and that since this was clearly a matter of astral currents, rather than any other kind of current, then it followed that … and so on …

  From eight in the morning the streets were swarming with people. Mounted policemen were affably keeping the crowds in order, gently backing into them with the hindquarters of their horses, and the crowds for their part were buzzing with joyful anticipation.

  It was announced that, as soon as the first telegram arrived, a cannon would be fired.

  People waited excitedly. The young were exultant and ecstatic, laying plans for their radiant future. Sceptics grumbled and said it would be better to go home and have breakfast, since it was quite obvious that nothing whatsoever was going to happen and wasn’t it really rather silly to keep on fooling about like this?<
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  At precisely two in the afternoon came the clear, resonant boom of a cannon, answered by thousands of joyful Oohs and Aahs.

  But then came something unforeseen and rather strange, an event that no one could recognize – or wanted to recognize – as a link in a chain by which each and every one of them was bound: a certain, tall, stout colonel suddenly began to swell up in a very odd way. As if deliberately, he inflated like an elongated balloon. His coat split, ripping apart along the back seam, and then the colonel, as if glad to have overcome an unpleasant obstacle, burst with a loud pop, spattering in all directions.

  The crowd reeled back. People screamed. People took to their heels: what on earth was happening?

  A pale little soldier gave a crooked smile, his lips trembling. He scratched behind one ear and gave a helpless shrug: ‘All right – get out the handcuffs! It’s me what did it! I wished a curse on him, I wished he’d pop it!’

  But no one listened to the soldier or laid a finger on him. By then everyone was staring in horror at an attenuated old lady in a fox-fur cloak who had suddenly begun to let out wild howls. Spinning round like a top, she was sinking into the earth right in front of their eyes.

  ‘The bitch – the earth’s swallowed her up!’ someone mumbled by way of farewell.

  The crowd was seized by a mad panic. Not knowing where to turn, everyone began to run. People were knocked to the ground; people trampled on one another. Two women, choking on their own tongues, let out a death rattle, and an old man began to wail over their bodies: ‘Chastise me, O Orthodox brothers. My women are dead and I shall be locked up in prison for the rest of my days!’

  A nightmarish evening was followed by a ghastly night. Nobody slept. Everyone was remembering their own black wishes and anticipating the fulfilment of the wishes of others.

  People were dying like flies. The only person in the entire world to benefit from the crayfish’s whistle was a little girl in Northern Guinea; her head cold cleared up thanks to a wish from her aunt, who was fed up with her endless sneezing. Every other good wish (if indeed there were any such wishes) was evidently too feeble and half-hearted to be granted by the crayfish’s whistle.

  The end was approaching rapidly. Humanity would have perished utterly but for the greed of Mister Jeb and Co. Wanting to ramp the price of their shares still higher, they exhausted the crayfish, forcing the creature, by means of special pills and electrical stimulation, to let out a whistle that was beyond its strength.

  The crayfish croaked it.

  On its tombstone (the prize-winning work of a famous sculptor) were carved the words: ‘Here lies the crayfish that whistled – the property of “Mister Jeb and Co.” – a crayfish that satisfied human souls and fulfilled their most ardent wishes. Pray never, never awake again!’

  A Little Fairy Tale

  Everyone was busy at home and Grisha was allowed to go out for a walk on his own. But only on one condition: that he didn’t go too far into the forest. He didn’t speak French well and he had been at this French dacha for only three days. How would he be able to ask anyone the way if he got lost? It was best to be careful.

  And so, on this condition, he was allowed out.

  But Grisha was not a particularly obedient boy, and he always thought he knew better than anyone else what he should and shouldn’t do.

  And so, when he came to the first trees, he calmly turned off the path and went straight into the densest part of the forest.

  The trees grew close together. And between them, twining around the trunks, were thick brambles. There were moments when Grisha found it hard to fight his way through.

  He had eaten his fill of blackberries and he had ripped his stockings and torn all his clothes very badly. He was beginning to wonder how to get back to the path when he realized that, to his right, the forest seemed to be thinning out a little. Yes, he could see more light over there. It must be the way back to the path.

  He struggled through the undergrowth and came out into the open.

  But instead of getting back to the path, he found himself in a small glade.

  In the middle of this glade was an old moss-covered tree stump. Beside it flowed a small gurgling brook, half-hidden by forget-me-nots.

  Grisha felt tired. He sat down on the grass, leaned back against a little mound and even closed his eyes.

  ‘First I’ll have a proper rest,’ he said to himself. ‘Then I’ll find my way back to the path. What’s the hurry? When I get back, I’ll just get a caning because of my stockings and the state of my clothes and because why did you have to go into the forest when we told you not to?’

  Grisha closed his eyes.

  A cricket in the grass sang, ‘Grrrree-eesh! Grrrree-eesh!’

  A bee buzzed by. It was as if someone had twanged a string: ‘Dzzz-oon.’

  From somewhere in the bushes a bird asked, ‘Soo-oon? Soo-oon?’

  And then, as if imitating its own song, it repeated, ‘Oo-oon? Oo-oon?’

  And then, articulating the words with absolute clarity, some kind of pipe or flute sang out:

  Deep, deep in the forest,

  Between blue forget-me-nots,

  I’ll catch you on my hook,

  Hook you on my line.

  And soon, stranger, soon

  You’ll be dancing to my pipe,

  Dancing to my tune.

  This surprised Grisha, but by then he was feeling too drowsy even to open his eyes.

  Then there seemed to be someone laughing. And then a loud click as something landed smack in the middle of Grisha’s forehead.

  A hazelnut!

  A fresh, green hazelnut, still wrapped in its outer leaves.

  Grisha looked round – but no one was there.

  This was getting stranger and stranger. Where had the hazelnut come from? There was nothing near him except a tree stump, forget-me-nots and dense brambles.

  He stretched, then closed his eyes again.

  Bang!

  Another hazelnut, also smack in the middle of his forehead. This time it really hurt.

  Grisha leaped to his feet. He turned round. Looking at him from out of the tree stump were two quick, bright eyes. They were gleaming; it was as if they were laughing. Grisha looked more closely. There, hiding inside the tree stump, was a very small man.

  He was a strange little man – entirely naked. He looked sunburnt, brown all over. His legs were shaggy, as if he were wearing thick woollen stockings and had pulled them up above his knees. He had thick lips and two tufts of hair sticking up over his forehead. He was looking straight at Grisha, and it seemed as if he might burst into laughter any moment. He seemed to be shaking all inside him. And it was almost impossible to look at this little man without laughing oneself. Grisha could feel a tickling in his throat, and his legs were starting to twitch.

  Not taking his eyes off Grisha, the little man suddenly put a small green pipe to his lips. And the pipe began to sing. It sang the following words:

  The bear, the goat and her kids,

  The vixen and her cubs,

  The wolf and the blind mole –

  Caught now on my hook,

  Hooked now on my line.

  And soon, stranger, soon

  You’ll be dancing too,

  Pirouetting to my pipe,

  Dancing to my tune.

  Grisha was astonished. ‘Are you Russian?’ he asked.

  The little man laughed.

  ‘You’ll be dancing too!’

  ‘So you’re Russian, are you?’

  The little man removed the pipe from his lips.

  ‘I’m not Russian,’ he said. ‘I’m internashional.’

  This annoyed Grisha. ‘You’re making fun of me. We’ve been taught every nation in the world – and there isn’t any nation called internashional!’

  But the little man didn’t take offence. He didn’t seem in the least bothered by Grisha’s reply. He just narrowed his eyes and thought for a moment. ‘So you’re Russian, are you?’ he said.
‘Excellent. You can do me a great service, and in return I’ll show you the way out of the forest.’

  ‘All right,’ said Grisha. ‘What you want me to do?’

  The little man thought, scratched one of his feet against the other and said, ‘A relative of mine’s come on a visit. From Russia. She’s a refugee. Heaven knows what she’s after, I can’t make head or tail of anything she says. It’s a nightmare. You go and have a word with her! Maybe the two of you will be able to understand each other.’

  The little man led Grisha through the forest. Anyone would have thought he was walking about his own apartment. He knew every twist and turn of the way. He knew which bough to slip underneath, which tree stump to walk round, which bush marked a fork to the left or the right.

  After maybe a long time – or maybe a short time – the little man led Grisha into a dense hazel thicket. He parted the branches. Grisha saw an ant hill. And sitting on top of this ant hill was an old woman. Her hair was dishevelled and she was dressed in rags. Her fingers ended in claws, like the claws of a crow, and her face was all hidden behind a great mat of hair.

  Grisha looked at the woman, and somehow he felt scared.

  He did not move. He did not speak.

  The old woman shook her hair. All of a sudden, like the wind in a chimney, she boomed out: ‘Seems I can smell the smell of a Russian!’

  She parted her great mat of hair. Now he could see her big green eyes, her hooked nose and the yellow fang jutting out of her mouth.

  Grisha shook from head to toe and howled, ‘Baba Yaga!’

  He wanted to run away, but terror rooted him to the spot.

  But Yaga was smiling, her yellow fang wobbling about.

  ‘Good day,’ she said, ‘my fine warrior! You’re lucky I’ve lost my appetite or I’d have you for supper. Why are you gawking at me like that? I’m in an extremely difficult position here, and there isn’t even anyone I can have a moan to. This here shyster doesn’t understand a thing I say.’ Yaga pointed one thumb over her shoulder, towards the little man who had brought Grisha there, and spat on the ground. ‘And everything I owned has gone to the winds. The government even requisitioned my copper mortar. If it weren’t for my broomstick, I’d never have got away at all. I’m just grateful for old Leshy!1 He serves at that Enlightenment Commissariat of theirs and he managed to sort me out a visa.’2