On he marched, his hands swinging at his sides and his exquisite foreign boots squishing in the mud.
Behind him trudged the completely exhausted Yeremeich. And behind Yeremeich walked Nina Osipovna Arbuzova, holding her skirt high and exposing her skinny, gray-stockinged legs.
4
The Belokopytovs took a room at Katerina Vasilyevna Kolenkorova’s place.
Katerina Vasilyevna was a simple-hearted, kindly old woman, who was, for some strange reason, interested in anything other than political events.
She welcomed the Belokopytovs warmly, saying that she would assign them the very finest room in the house, right next to that of Comrade Yarkin, head of the First State Bakery.
And she led them to that room with a certain air of solemnity.
With some trepidation, inhaling the familiar odor of old provincial housing, Ivan Ivanovich entered a plain wooden mudroom, with many holes in the walls, a clay washing jug hanging from a rope in the corner, and a pile of rubbish on the floor.
Ivan Ivanovich walked through the mudroom with a kind of rapture, curiously examining the clay washing jug, the likes of which he hadn’t seen in years, and proceeded inside. He liked everything about the place right away—the creaking of the floorboards, the thin partitions between the rooms, the dingy little windows, the low ceilings. He liked his room, too, although it was, in fact, not very good—the author would even say disgusting. And yet, for some reason, Nina Osipovna herself seemed to respond favorably to the room, opining that, as far as temporary arrangements went, it was perfectly reasonable.
The author attributes this exclusively to the couple’s exhaustion. In later years, he had occasion to spend a good deal of time in this room, and he has never seen so tasteless a setup—although he himself lives in rather poor conditions, renting a room from people of modest means. With all due respect to the couple, the author is shocked at their taste. There was nothing the least bit attractive about their room. Its yellow wallpaper was peeling off and warping. Its meager furnishings consisted of a plain kitchen table covered with oilcloth, a few chairs, a couch, and a bed. And its only adornment, as it were, was a pair of antlers hung high on the wall. But you can’t get very far on antlers alone.
And so, the Belokopytovs temporarily settled at Katerina Vasilyevna Kolenkorova’s.
They immediately developed a quiet, measured routine. For the first few days they remained indoors, owing to the mud and terrible road conditions. They spent their time tidying up, admiring the antlers, and sharing their impressions.
Ivan Ivanovich was in a cheerful, jocular mood. He would run up to the window to marvel at some heifer or silly chicken pecking at the rubbish in the street, or race into the mudroom and, laughing like a child, splash about under the wash jug, dousing his hands first from one spout, then from the other.
Nina Osipovna—a delicate, coquettish individual—did not share her husband’s enthusiasm for the clay jug. She would smile squeamishly and comment that she, in any case, preferred a real washstand—you know, the kind with a leg or foot pedal: you press it and water comes out. However, she expressed no specific grievances about the jug. On the contrary, she would often say:
“If it’s only temporary, I’m perfectly fine with it—no complaints. A bad bush is better than an open field.”
After her morning wash, Nina Osipovna’s face would look pink, fresh, ten years younger, and she would hurry happily into the room. There she would put on her ballet costume—those panties, you know, with the gauze skirt—and do her exercises before a mirror, squatting gracefully first on one foot, then on the other, then on both at the same time.
Ivan Ivanovich would gaze tenderly at her—at her trifling undertakings—finding, at the same time, that the provincial air had had a positively favorable effect on his wife. She had grown plumper, and her legs were no longer as skinny as they had been in Berlin.
Tired out by her squats, Nina Osipovna would plop down in some armchair or other, and Ivan Ivanovich would stroke her hand gently, telling her of his former life in these parts, of how he had fled eleven years earlier, pursued by the tsarist gendarmes, and of how he had spent his first years in exile. Nina Osipovna would ask her husband many questions, showing a lively interest in the extent of his former wealth and property. Shocked and horrified at how quickly and rashly he had squandered his fortune, she would reproach him angrily and sharply for his foolish carelessness and eccentricity.
“How could you? How could you throw money to the wind like that?” she would say, holding back her indignation.
Ivan Ivanovich would shrug his shoulders and try to change the subject.
Sometimes Katerina Vasilyevna would interrupt their conversations. She would enter the room, stand near the door, and, swaying from side to side, relay the latest gossip and tell them about all sorts of changes in town.
Ivan Ivanovich would question her eagerly about his distant relatives and few acquaintances. Learning that most of them had died, while others had gone abroad as political refugees, he would begin to pace the room anxiously, shaking his head. Eventually, Nina Osipovna would take him by the hand and sit him down on a chair, saying that he was getting on her nerves, flitting before her eyes like that.
So passed the first few days, without any worries, alarms, or incidents. Only once, in the evening, after knocking on their door, did their neighbor Yegor Konstantinovich Yarkin come into their room. After introducing himself, he spent a long time enquiring about life abroad, and in the end asked whether the suitcase standing in the corner was for sale.
Learning that the suitcase was not for sale but was just standing there for no good reason, Yegor Konstantinovich left the room, looking somewhat offended and bowing silently to its inhabitants.
Nina Osipovna stared squeamishly at his broad figure and bull-like neck as he exited the room, thinking dolefully that one was unlikely to find a truly refined gentleman in this provincial backwater.
5
Life proceeded on its usual course.
The mud dried a bit and people began bustling up and down the streets—some hurrying about their business, others simply promenading, cracking sunflower seeds, laughing, and peeping into other people’s windows.
From time to time domestic animals would come out into the street and walk in front of the houses with measured steps, nibbling on some grass or pawing at the earth, so as to store up a little fat for the spring.
The highly educated Ivan Ivanovich, who was fluent in Spanish and knew enough Latin to get by, wasn’t the least bit concerned about his prospects. He hoped that, in a few days’ time, he would find appropriate employment and move to a new and better apartment. Talking the matter over with his wife, he would calmly explain that, although his financial circumstances were, at present, strained, the situation would soon improve. Nina Osipovna would beseech him to hurry up, get down to it, and determine where he stood. Ivan Ivanovich relented, promising to do so the very next day.
His first steps, however, did not meet with success. A bit discouraged, he went to some other establishments the following day, but returned glum and slightly agitated. Shrugging his shoulders, he made excuses. It wasn’t as easy as all that, he explained to his wife—a man who knows Latin and Spanish isn’t just handed a decent position.
Every morning he would go out looking for work, but he was always turned away—either because, these employers claimed, there was no suitable position, or because he had no relevant experience.
It should be said that Ivan Ivanovich was given a friendly and attentive reception everywhere he went. All the employers were endlessly curious about his experiences abroad and the possibility of new global shocks—but whenever the conversation turned to work, they would shake their heads and shrug. Their hands were tied, they’d explain, adding that Spanish, that rare and amusing language, was, unfortunately, not in particularly high demand.
Belokopytov stopped mentioning his Spanish. He now gave greater emphasis to his Latin, banking o
n its practical applications. But the Latin too fell on deaf ears. Employers were willing to hear him out—and they even took some interest in the Latin, asking him to recite some ditty or phrase, just for the sound of it—but they saw no practical application for it.
And so Ivan Ivanovich stopped emphasizing his Latin. He now looked for any kind of writing work, and would have settled for a job filing papers, but he was always asked about his skills and his professional experience. Upon hearing that Ivan Ivanovich had no skills or professional experience, employers would take offense, saying that it was wrong to waste busy people’s time.
Here and there, Belokopytov was asked to stop by the following month, but he was given no concrete promises.
Ivan Ivanovich Belokopytov would now come home in a gloomy, depressed state. After a quick, rather lean dinner, he would collapse on the bed in his trousers and turn to face the wall, hoping to avoid any sort of conversation or row with his wife.
Meanwhile, she’d be jumping around in front of the mirror in her panties and pink gauze like a complete idiot, stamping her feet and throwing her skinny arms in the air, her sharp elbows flying every which way.
Sometimes she would try to start a row, heaping all sorts of unpleasant business on Ivan Ivanovich’s head, and expressing her indignation at the fact that he had brought her here, from abroad, to live such a dull, insipid life. But Ivan Ivanovich, feeling and knowing himself to be guilty, kept silent. Only once did he respond, saying that he didn’t understand a thing, and that he himself had been deluded about the Spanish language and about his whole life. He had counted on getting a decent position, but everything kept falling through—because, as it turned out, he was completely unskilled, unable to do anything. This had simply never occurred to him before. It turned out he had received a foolish and senseless upbringing, preparing him for the rich, prosperous life of a landowner and master of the house. And now, when he had nothing to his name—he was reaping that upbringing’s rewards.
Nina Osipovna burst into tears, saying that things couldn’t go on this way, that something had to give—after all, they owed money to everyone, even to their dear old landlady, Katerina Vasilyevna. Then, asking her not to cry, Ivan Ivanovich suggested that she sell the suitcase, even if they had to sell it to their neighbor Yegor Konstantinovich Yarkin.
And that is precisely what she did. She personally took the suitcase to Yarkin’s room, sat there for a long time, and returned with money in hand and a new spring in her step.
From that point on there were no more rows. Or rather, whenever Ivan Ivanovich anticipated a row, he would put on his hat and go out into the street. And every time he passed through the mudroom, he would hear his neighbor Yegor Konstantinovich talking to Nina Osipovna through the wall, offering her a piece of bread or a cheese sandwich.
Ivan Ivanovich would walk through the gate and stand in the ditch by the side of the road, staring sadly down the long street. Sometimes he would sit perfectly still on a bench near the front garden, hugging his knees and glancing anxiously at the passersby.
People would walk down the street, hurrying about their business. Some old woman carrying a basket or a bag would examine Ivan Ivanovich curiously, then move on, looking back ten or fifteen times. A gang of little boys would run past, sticking out their tongues or slapping him on the knee and scurrying off.
Ivan Ivanovich observed all this with a sad smile, reflecting for the hundredth time on one and the same thing—on his own life in comparison with those of others, trying to isolate some kind of difference or some terrible reason for his unhappiness.
Every once in a while a group of workers from the textile factory would saunter past Belokopytov with their harmonica, jokes, and songs. And then Belokopytov would perk up and gaze at them for a long time, listening to their loud, joyous songs, shouts, and cheers.
And on those days—those days of sitting in the ditch—it seemed to Ivan Ivanovich that he shouldn’t have come to this town, to this street. But where should he have gone instead? He had no idea. And so he would make his way home, more worried and stooped than before, dragging his feet along the ground.
6
Ivan Ivanovich lost heart altogether. The ecstasy he had felt upon arrival now gave way to silent anguish and apathy.
He was somehow frightened of life, about which, it turned out, he knew nothing. It now seemed to him that life was some kind of deadly struggle for the right to exist. And so—in mortal anguish, sensing that the very continuation of his life was at stake—he sifted through his store of knowledge and abilities, as well as the means of applying them. Unfortunately, after poring over everything he knew, he came to the sad conclusion that he knew nothing. He spoke Spanish, played the harp, had some familiarity with electricity and could, for example, install an electric bell—but here, in this town, all those skills appeared to be unnecessary, and were even regarded as somewhat odd and amusing. No one laughed in his face, but he would receive smiles of sympathy, as well as sly, mocking glances; and then he would cower, walk away, and try to avoid people.
By sheer force of habit, he still went out every day, at the usual hour, to look for work. Steadily, trying to walk as slowly as possible, he would, just as before, utter his requests in an almost mechanical manner, without the slightest trepidation. He would be told to come back in a month, and was at times simply and curtly denied.
On some occasions, when he was driven to dull despair, Ivan Ivanovich would reproach people angrily, demanding work and assistance posthaste, laying out his services to the state and telling the story of the more-or-less mink coat he had given to the exiled girl student.
He would drag himself around town all day long, and toward evening, half-starved and grimacing, he would wander aimlessly from street to street, house to house, trying to delay, to put off returning home.
Now and then he would cover the whole town on foot, simply going and going without halting anywhere. Passing the outskirts, he would find himself in the open field, cross the “Dog’s Grove,” and walk into the woods, where he would wander around until dusk and only then return home.
He would enter his room with his eyes closed, knowing that Nina Osipovna was sitting motionless to his left, near the mirror, staring at him nastily or through tears.
He avoided conversation, avoided seeing her at all, staying in the house as little as possible and only at night.
But one day he himself broke the silence.
He said that everything had gone to hell, that he was turning himself over to the hands of fate, and that she, Nina Osipovna, could, if necessary, dispose of his property as she saw fit. What he had in mind was the remaining suitcase and a few items of his foreign wardrobe.
Catching wind of this through the thin partition, Yegor Konstantinovich Yarkin walked into the couple’s room and announced that he was happy to meet their wishes, but categorically refused to purchase the suitcase.
“Suitcases—nothing but suitcases,” Yegor Konstantinovich complained. “Don’t you have anything else to offer?”
Learning that they had, he began to examine certain items, including a pair of trousers, bringing them close to his eyes. Peering at the trousers against the light, he found fault with them, denigrating their quality.
Nina Osipovna—enlivened and, for some reason, excited—joked with Yegor Konstantinovich, slapping him lightly on the hand or sitting gracefully on the arm of his chair and shaking her skinny leg.
In the end, Yegor Konstantinovich politely bid them good day and stepped out, taking the items of clothing and leaving a sum of money.
The next few days were calm and quiet. But at the end of that week, Ivan Ivanovich, who had left the house early in the morning, returned at noon, quite shaken and aglow. He had found a job. This whole time he had been looking for some kind of silly intellectual writing work, but it turned out there were other options!
At any rate, he happened to run into an old friend in the street. After solicitously inquiring about and learning
of Ivan Ivanovich’s maddening situation, the man clutched at his head, pondering what he could do to help his comrade as quickly as possible. Somewhat abashed, he said that he could, at least temporarily, set Ivan Ivanovich up at one of the consumer cooperatives.
But this would only be temporary—for an individual as erudite as Ivan Ivanovich required a position suitable to his stature.
Ivan Ivanovich leapt at the offer with unrestrained joy, saying that he accepted the job sight unseen, that this sort of work was positively to his liking, and that he wouldn’t want any sort of problematic changes. After agreeing to everything, Ivan Ivanovich dashed home. There, tugging at Katerina Vasilyevna’s and his wife’s hands, he spoke breathlessly about his new position.
Quickly, right on the spot, he laid out a whole philosophical system concerning the need to adapt—concerning the straightforward, primitive nature of life, and the fact that every person, endowed with the right to live, is obliged, like any living thing, like any animal, to alter his or her spots with the changing times. What need had he of stupid intellectual work? Here was a wonderful profession, which would furnish him with a new zest for life! Who needs all that Spanish, all those sophisticated minds, and so on.
Babbling in confused, garbled sentences, breaking off in the middle of words and jumping from thought to thought, he sought to prove his theory. Nina Osipovna listened to him without understanding a thing, nervously smoking cigarette after cigarette.
The author surmises that Ivan Ivanovich Belokopytov, knocked slightly off balance by strong emotions, had in mind that great scientific theory of protective coloration—of so-called mimicry—in accordance with which a bug crawling on a stem has the same color as the stem, so that some bird doesn’t peck at him, having taken him for a breadcrumb.
Sentimental Tales Page 6