Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov (Penguin Classics)

by Unknown

  Looking cool and indifferent, he was sitting beside her at a table, and he seemed to be either writing or sketching something on a scrap of paper just under her nose. These words or signs evidently agitated her. She kept blushing and looking around: had anyone seen anything? She would grab the pencil from the young man and quickly cross out what he had written. Then she would wait tensely while he lazily scribbled something else. And then she would get agitated again and snatch back the pencil.

  Something about this degenerate young man was so horrible, so deeply disturbing that I said to myself, ‘Can there, anywhere in the world, be a woman so idiotic as to allow that creature to come anywhere near her? A woman who would trust that man in any way, let alone be attracted to such a repulsive little reptile?’

  In less than a fortnight I proved to be just such a woman myself.

  I would prefer not to dwell on this disgusting chapter of my life.

  Harry Edvers was a ‘poet and composer’. He composed little songs, which he half-read, half-sang, always to the same tune.

  His real first name and patronymic were Grigory Nikolayevich. I never discovered his surname. I remember I once had a visit from the police (this was later, under the Bolshevik regime) to ask if a certain Grigory Ushkin was hiding in my apartment. But I don’t know for sure if it was him they were inquiring about.

  This Harry entered my life as simply and straightforwardly as if he were just entering his room in a hotel, opening it with his own key.

  Needless to say, it was in the ‘Stray Dog’ that we first became acquainted.

  I was on stage part of that evening, and I sang Kuzmin’s little song, ‘Child, don’t reach out in spring for the rose’.4 At the time it was still very much in vogue. At the end of the first phrase someone in the audience sang out, ‘Rose lives in Odessa.’

  It had been someone sitting at the same table as Harry. As I was on my way back to my seat, Harry got to his feet and followed me. ‘Please don’t take offence,’ he said. ‘That was Yurochka – he was just playing the fool. But you really shouldn’t be singing Kuzmin. You should have been singing my ‘Duchesse’.

  And so it began.

  Within two weeks I had had my hair cropped and dyed auburn, and I was wearing a black velvet gentleman’s suit. A cigarette between my fingers, I was singing the drivel Harry had made up:

  A pale boy composed of papier-mâché

  Was now the favourite of the blue princess.

  He had a certain je-ne-sais-quel cachet

  Betokening voluptuous excess.

  I would raise my eyebrows, shake the ash from my cigarette and go on:

  The princess had the bluest, sweetest soul,

  A dainty, pear-like soul – a true Duchesse –

  A soul to savour, then to save and seal,

  A soul for lovers of vraie délicatesse.

  And so on, and so on.

  Harry listened, gave his approval, made corrections.

  ‘You must have a rose in your buttonhole – some quite extraordinary, unnatural rose. A green rose. Huge and hideous.’5

  Harry had his retinue of followers, an entire court of his own. All of them green, unnatural and hideous. There was a green-faced slip of a girl, a cocaine addict. There was some Yurochka or other, ‘whom everybody knew’. There was a consumptive schoolboy and a hunchback who played quite wonderfully on the piano. They all shared strange secrets that bound them together. They were all agitated about something or other, all suffering some kind of torment and, as I now realize, often just making mountains out of molehills.

  The schoolboy liked to wrap himself up in a Spanish shawl and wear ladies’ shoes with high heels. The green-faced girl used to dress as a military cadet.

  It is not worth describing all this in detail. These people really don’t matter; they’re neither here nor there. I mention them merely to give you some idea of the circles into which I had descended.

  At the time I was living in furnished accommodation on Liteiny Prospekt. Harry moved in with me.

  He latched on to me in a big way. I still don’t know whether he truly fancied me or whether he just thought I was rich. Our relationship was very strange. Green and hideous. I don’t propose to tell you about it now.

  The strangest thing of all is that when I was with him, I felt repelled by him. I felt a sharp sense of disgust, as if I were kissing a corpse. But I was unable to live without him.

  Volodya Katkov came back on leave. He rushed in to my apartment, full of joy and excitement. He exclaimed at my red hair. ‘Why on earth? What a one you are! Still, you really are awfully sweet!’

  He turned me around, to look at me from all sides. It was clear that he really liked me. ‘Lyalechka, I’m only here for a week, and I’m going to spend every day of it with you. I’ve got a lot to say to you. It can’t be put off any longer.’

  And then in came Harry. He didn’t even knock. And I could see that he took an immediate dislike to Volodya. He must have felt jealous. And so he sprawled out in an armchair and began nonchalantly doing something he had never done before: addressing me with extreme familiarity, not as vy but as ty.

  Volodya must have felt very confused indeed. For a long time he kept silently looking from me to Harry, and then from Harry to me again. Then he stood up decisively, straightened his field jacket and said goodbye.

  It greatly upset me to see him leaving like this, but I too had been confused by Harry’s rudeness. There was nothing I could think of to say, and I was unable to prevent Volodya from leaving. There had, I felt, been a terrible misunderstanding, but it seemed utterly impossible to do anything to put it right.

  Volodya didn’t call again. Nor did I expect him to. I felt that he had gone away, that his heart had gone away, forever.

  Then came a period of isolation.

  In spite of everything he had done to avoid this, Harry was about to be sent to the Front. He went to Moscow to make representations.

  I was on my own for more than a month.

  It was an anxious time for me, and I had no money. I wrote to my aunt in Smolensk province, but I received no answer.

  Eventually, Harry returned. Entirely transformed. Tanned and healthy-looking, wearing a classy sheepskin coat, trimmed with astrakhan, and with a tall Caucasian hat, also astrakhan.

  ‘Have you come from the Front?’

  ‘In a way,’ he answered. ‘Russia needs not only sacrificial cannon fodder but also brains. I’m supplying the army with motorized vehicles.’

  Harry’s brain may have been working magnificently, and it may have been needed by Russia, but he was still short of money.

  ‘I need ready cash. Can you really not get hold of any for me? Are you really that lacking in patriotism?’

  I told him about my misfortunes and about my aunt. He seemed interested and asked for her address. After hurrying about the city for a few days, he set off again. I had discovered by then that the secret of his new weather-beaten ‘soldierly’ look was contained in two little pots of pink and ochre powder. To give him his due, this really did make him look very handsome.

  By this time the mood of our little world of aesthetes had turned distinctly counter-revolutionary. Before leaving, Harry had composed a new little ditty for me:

  My heart hangs on a little white ribbon.

  White, white, white – remember the colour white!

  I was now wearing a white dress when I performed; we were all pretending to be countesses or marquises. The song was received well. So was I.

  Soon after Harry had left, Zina Katkova came back unexpectedly from the Front. She at once began telling me a story I found terribly upsetting.

  ‘Our field hospital,’ she said, ‘had been set up on the edge of a forest. There was a great deal to do, but we had to leave the next morning. We were being rushed off our feet. At one moment I went out for a smoke – and suddenly there was a young soldier calling my name. Who do you think it was? It was Tolya. Tolya the Dog. “Forgive me, darling,” I say, “
I’m in a desperate rush.” “But I just want to know how things are with Lyalechka,” he answers. “She isn’t in trouble, is she? For the love of God, tell me everything you know.” But just then I heard someone shouting for me. “Wait, Tolya,” I say. “The moment I’ve got this done I’ll be straight back.” “All right,” he says, “I’ll wait for you by this tree. We certainly won’t be going anywhere before tomorrow.” And so I rushed back to my wounded. It was a terrible night. The Germans had got the range of our position, and at dawn we had to pack in a hurry. We didn’t lie down for even a minute. I got a bit behind with everything and I had to run to get to our roll call. It was a miserable morning – endless grey drizzle. I’m running along – and suddenly – oh Lord! What do I see? Tolya standing by a tree, all grey and ashen. He had been waiting for me all night long. He looked so pitiful. His eyes were sunken, as if staring out from under the earth. And the man was smiling! Probably he’ll be killed soon. Just think – he had been standing there all night long in the rain! Just to hear news of you! And I couldn’t even stop for one moment. There was no time for anything. He thrust a slip of paper at me with his address. I shouted over my shoulder, “Don’t worry about Lyalya. I think she’s getting married soon.” And then I worried I’d done the wrong thing. I might have upset him. Who knows?’

  This story of Zina’s greatly disturbed me. I was in a bad way and I needed the friendship of a good man. And where would I find a better man than Tolya? I felt moved. I even asked for his address and tucked the slip of paper away.

  After that visit I really felt I didn’t like Zina any longer. First, she had grown ugly and coarse. Second (and really, no doubt, I should have put this first), she treated me very coldly. More than that, she went out of her way to show her complete lack of interest in me and my whole manner of life. It was the first time, for example, that she had seen me with short red hair, but for some reason she behaved as if this wasn’t in the least surprising or interesting. I naturally found this hard to believe. How could she not want to know why I had suddenly cut my hair short? It was obvious that her apparent lack of interest in how I looked was simply a way of expressing contempt for me and my dissipated life – as if, from her exalted heights, she barely even noticed my foolish antics.

  She did not even ask whether I was still having singing lessons, or what I was up to in general. To get my own back, I did my best to wound her: ‘I just hope the war comes to an end soon. Otherwise you’ll lose every last semblance of humanity. You’ve become a real old harridan.’

  I then gave a mannered smile and added, ‘I for my part still acknowledge art alone. Your deeds will all pass away, since no one needs them. Art, however, is eternal.’

  Zina looked at me with a certain bewilderment and left soon afterwards. No doubt, she wanted nothing more to do with me.

  That evening I wept for a long time. I was burying my past. I understood for the first time that all the paths I had taken, all the paths I had followed to reach my present position, had been entirely destroyed – blown up like railway track behind the last train of a retreating army.

  ‘And what about Volodya?’ I thought bitterly. ‘Is that how a true friend behaves? He didn’t ask any questions; he didn’t find out anything for sure; he just took one look at Harry, turned round and left. If they all think I’ve gone mad, that I’ve lost my way, then why don’t they come closer and help instead of just walking away? Why don’t they support me and try to make me see reason? How can they be so cool and indifferent? How, at such a black and terrible time, can they abandon someone they were once close to?’

  ‘Very virtuous they all are!’ I carried on. ‘And they certainly make sure their virtue gets noticed. But is it really so very praiseworthy? How many temptations are there going to be for a woman with a face like Zina’s? And Volodya’s always been cold and narrow-minded. His petty little soul’s as straight and narrow as they come. When did he last feel intoxicated by music or poetry? How much more I love my dear Harry, my dear and dissolute Harry, with his tender little song:

  My heart hangs on a little white ribbon.

  White, white, white – remember the colour white!

  They would say this is rubbish. They would rather have Nekrasov – and his plodding, four-square poems in praise of civic virtue.’

  My green and hideous monsters now seemed nearer and dearer to me than ever.

  They understood everything. They were my family.

  But this new family of mine was now disappearing too. The cocaine addict was now fading away in a hospital. Yurochka had been packed off to the Front. The consumptive schoolboy had volunteered for the cavalry, because ‘he had fallen in love with a golden horse’ and could no longer bear being with people.

  ‘I’ve ceased to understand people or have any feelings for them,’ he kept saying.

  From Harry’s large retinue there remained only the hunchback.

  He used to play ‘Waves of the Danube’6 on a beaten-up piano in a tiny cinema grandiloquently called ‘The Giant of Paris’ – and he was slowly starving to death.

  This was a very difficult time for me. I was kept going only by my anger towards those who had wronged me and by my overwrought and carefully nurtured tenderness towards my one and only Harry.

  At last, Harry returned.

  He found me in a very anxious state. I greeted him so joyfully that he was positively embarrassed. He hadn’t realized I could be like this.

  His behaviour was enigmatic. He kept disappearing for days on end. It seemed he really was buying and selling something.

  After bustling about for a couple of weeks, he decided that we must move to Moscow: ‘Petersburg is a dead city. Moscow’s seething with life. There are cafés springing up everywhere. You can sing there. You can read poems. One way or another you can earn a few roubles.’

  Moscow also apparently offered more scope for his own new commercial activities.

  We packed up and moved.

  Life in Moscow really did turn out to be more animated, more exciting and more fun. There were a lot of people I knew from Petersburg. It was a familiar world and I found my place in it easily.

  Harry kept on disappearing somewhere or other. He seemed preoccupied and I saw very little of him.

  And he forbade me, incidentally, to sing his ‘Little White Ribbon’. Forbade me. He didn’t ask me not to sing it – he forbade me. And he seemed very angry: ‘How can you not understand that that song has now become superfluous, superficial and utterly inappropriate?’

  And he also happened to ask several times whether I knew the address of Volodya Katkov. I put this down to jealousy on his part.

  ‘He’s somewhere in the south, isn’t he, with the Whites?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And he’s not meaning to come here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And none of his family are here?’

  ‘No.’

  He was strangely inquisitive.

  Just what Harry was doing with himself was hard to understand. It seemed he was once again selling or supplying something. The good thing was that every now and then he would bring back some ham, flour or butter. Those were hungry days.

  Once, as I was going down Tverskaya Street, I caught sight of a shabby figure that looked at me intently and then hurried across to the other side of the road. I felt I had seen this person before. I went on looking. It was Kolya Katkov! Volodya’s younger brother, the comrade of my dog Tolya. Why hadn’t Kolya said anything? He had clearly recognized me. Why had he been in such a hurry to slip away?

  I told Harry about this encounter. For some reason my story made him very agitated. ‘How can you not understand?’ he said. ‘He’s a White officer. He doesn’t want to be noticed.’

  ‘But what’s he doing here in Moscow? Why isn’t he with the White Army?’

  ‘They must have sent him here on some mission. How stupid of you not to have stopped him!’

  ‘But you just said he doesn’t want to
be noticed!’

  ‘Makes no difference. You could have asked him back. We could have sheltered him here.’

  I was touched by Harry’s generosity. ‘Harry, wouldn’t you have felt scared to be sheltering a White officer?’

  He blushed a little. ‘Not in the least,’ he muttered. ‘If you see him again, you really must bring him back with you. Yes, you really must!’

  So Harry was capable of heroic deeds! More than that, he was even eager for a chance to prove his heroism!

  It was a hot, sultry summer. A peasant woman who traded apples ‘from under her coat’ suggested I go and live in her dacha just outside Moscow. I moved in with her.

  Now and again Harry made an appearance. On one occasion he brought some of his new friends along too.

  They were the same young Wildean poseurs as before. Green faces; the eyes of cocaine addicts. Harry too had recently taken to snorting a fair amount.

  Most of his conversations with these new friends of his were about business.

  Soon afterwards someone I knew showed up. He was from Smolensk province, from near our family home, and he brought me a strange little letter from my aunt.

  ‘I’ve been carrying this letter around for the last two months,’ he said. ‘I tried to find you in Petersburg, but I’d given up all hope. It seemed I was never going to find you. Then, quite by chance, I met an actress who told me your address.’

  ‘Evidently my letters aren’t reaching you,’ my aunt wrote. ‘But at least the money is in your hands now, and it’s a comfort to me to know this. I like your husband very much. He seems very enterprising – a man with a future.’

  What all this meant was quite beyond me. What husband? What money? And just what was it my aunt found so comforting?

  Harry appeared.

  ‘Harry,’ I said, ‘I’ve just received a letter from my aunt. She says she’s glad the money is in my hands now.’

  I stopped, because I was struck by the look on his face. He was blushing so intensely that it had brought tears to his eyes. Finally I grasped what had happened: Harry had gone to see my aunt and had introduced himself as my husband – and the silly old woman had given him my money!