Even a thing as unstable as weather—why, it’s all fine and dandy, from first page to last. The sun’s shining. Scads of greenery, loads of air. Always warm. You’ve got brass bands playing round the clock. I mean, all that stuff just calms the nerves!
Now let’s take a look at our precious Russian literature. First off, the weather’s a mess. It’s either blizzards or storms. You’ve got the wind blowing in the characters’ faces all the time. And they aren’t exactly agreeable folks, these characters. Always flinging curses at each other. Badly dressed. Instead of merry, joyous adventures, you get all sorts of troubles and misfortunes, or stuff that just puts you to sleep.
No, the author doesn’t agree with this kind of literature. Sure, there might be lots of good and brilliant books in it, and who the hell knows how many profound ideas and various words—but the author just can’t find emotional balance and joy in any of it.
I mean, why is it that the French can depict all these excellent, calming aspects of life and we can’t? Come on, comrades—for pity’s sake! What—is there a shortage of good facts in our life? Are we lacking in light and cheerful adventures? Or are we, in your opinion, low on ravishing heroines?
Come on, dear comrades! It’s all right there, if you look close enough. You’ve got your love. Your happiness. Your success. Ravishing characters. Bright cheerfulness. Family legacies. Baths. Powder-blue underpants. Lottery-Loans that could net you ten thousand rubles. It’s all there for the taking.
So why smear our life in print and thicken the black colors? We see enough boring, awful stuff during these transitional days, so why add to it in literature?
No, the author just can’t see eye to eye with our highbrow literature! Of course, he himself came to these decisive thoughts only recently.
Up until very recently, the author too had given himself over to the most desperate and melancholy ideas, attempting to resolve the most unthinkable questions. Enough. Basta! That’s no road to happiness.
Maybe one really ought to write easily and cheerfully. Maybe one ought to write only about good, happy things—so that the dear paying customer can derive cheerfulness and joy from the written word, not gloom and melancholy.
In the author’s opinion, this is indeed the right way forward.
And now, as the author finishes his composition, he comes to the sad conclusion that the whole book has been written the wrong way.
But what can you do? From this point on, the author undertakes to tell only cheerful, merry, and entertaining stories. Going forward, he renounces all his gloomy thoughts and melancholy moods.
Unfortunately, after poring over his memories of all the events and adventures of recent years, the author must admit, with some embarrassment and confusion, that he can’t seem to recall an especially merry story. All he can think of is one more or less suitable little tale—and even that tale isn’t particularly merry…Still, it may draw a quiet chuckle. In any case, it’ll do for a start. Who knows? Later, something a bit more fun might turn up.
Yes, the author knows his reader through and through. All he wants for his money, this reader, are some cheerful, happy experiences.
Now, your literary critic, your highfalutin author, your Rabindranath Tagore—he’s bound to get all jolly and excited. “See?” he’ll say, rubbing his hands. “See there? Just look at that son of a bitch, pandering to the reader like that. Grab ’im and pound his face to a pulp!”
Dear critics, just hold off on the brawling and face-pounding, will ya? Hang fire, fellas. Let a man say his piece. He’s not pandering to the reader—he simply writes as he sees fit, for the sake of a cheerful idea and the general good. In any case, the author’s worldly wisdom and his many years of experience, as well as the weak state of his health, keep him from entering the critical fray.
And so, after poring over about a dozen and a half stories of every sort, the author has decided to linger on a certain merry, entertaining adventure worthy of the pen of some outstanding French writer.
In this merry adventure, there were many joyous and keen experiences, much cheerfulness and struggle. There were amorous encounters. The weather was autumnal—and not too bad, at that. And the whole tragicomic epic was capped off with a happy ending.
The author doubts he can recall a better story for starters.
Of course, at first glance, the reader won’t detect any particular cheerfulness or joy. But you can’t have wall-to-wall joy. You know full well you’d be bored stiff with wall-to-wall joy.
And so, the author will try to narrate, in truthful and cheerful tones, a merry adventure that very recently transpired with Sergey Petrovich Petukhov.
2
Sergey Petrovich Petukhov never went to work on Sundays. On these days of rest and cheerful merriment, Sergey Petrovich would get up late—say, around ten, if not closer to eleven. I mean, just imagine!
Today, however, it wasn’t even ten when Sergey Petrovich awoke sweetly in his bed, turned onto his other side, and smiled happily at the approaching morning.
His was the smile of a young, healthy organism, as yet unpawed by doctors. His was the smile of a youth who had seen wonderful dreams, bright prospects, and cheerful horizons during the night.
And indeed, that night Sergey Petrovich had had the pleasure of seeing himself as some sort of young, wealthy dandy. He didn’t remember exactly what he had witnessed, but some pretty little mugs, prancing little ladies, light, inoffensive conversations, and luminous smiles had woven themselves into his joyous dreams—happy pictures of youth and fortune.
Sergey Petrovich patted his yawning mouth with the palm of his hand and sat up in bed.
A fairly clean nightgown of thin cotton clung tightly to his high chest and strong young shoulders.
Sergey Petrovich sat on the bed for a long time, hugging his knees and contemplating what he had seen in his dream.
And under the sway of this dream, as well as, perhaps, the sun’s shining into the room, Sergey Petrovich began to long for an easy and carefree life, or some kind of fun and merry adventure. He wanted, as it were, to continue his fortunate dream.
He wanted to live in a spacious and cheerful room, no less than seven square meters in size. In his mind, he was already covering the room’s floor with fluffy Persian carpets and furnishing it with expensive grand and not-so-grand pianos.
Now he saw himself with a beautiful, rather comely maiden on his arm. He pictured them entering a cafe, where he would drink thick cocoa with Viennese rusks, pay for everything with his own money, and then stagger out into the street.
Sergey Petrovich sighed, cast a calm gaze round his unimaginative lodgings, and suddenly jumped out of bed with a sharp movement.
He jumped out of bed, splashed some water on his face under the tin washing jug, combed his tousled head, and began to tie his tie in front of a small pocket mirror he had tacked up on the wall.
He spent quite some time fiddling with his tie, then with his boots, polishing them to the most desperate splendor. It took him just as long to get his hat to sit right. At last, fully dressed, combed, and lightly perfumed with mint drops, he went out into the street.
It was a wonderful, calm morning in the middle of an Indian summer. Scads of greenery and air, and the sun was so bright it nearly blinded Sergey Petrovich for a moment. A brass band blasting away in the distance—some public figure’s funeral.
Sergey stood by the house for a while, twirling his walking stick in his hand, and then set off down the avenue with a light dancing step.
Sergey Petukhov was twenty-five years old. He was young and healthy. He had strong, powerful muscles, large, well-turned features, and beautiful gray eyes with lashes and brows to match. The women he passed in the street glanced with obvious pleasure at his bulging figure, his full, round cheeks, and his trousers, which were freshly ironed and not excessively stained. Sergey Petrovich greeted each woman with a screwed-up eye. From time to time he would turn to watch one of them recede down the street, clearly po
ndering something or other. He walked slowly and breathed deeply. Occasionally he would whistle some cheerful tune. Every once in a while he would stop next to some girl in front of a storefront and look at her sideways, as if appraising and comparing her with the outstanding young ladies he had seen during the night.
Suddenly Sergey turned and followed a certain passing maiden with his eyes.
“Katyusha Chervyakova in the flesh,” thought Sergey Petrovich, and, after standing still a little while, took off after her.
Soon he caught up with the maiden, gasping a bit. He wanted to cover her eyes from behind with a cheerful, playful gesture, and then ask, in a false tone: “Who’s got you by the eyes?” But suddenly he remembered that his hands weren’t especially clean at the moment—that he had spent part of the morning polishing his boots, and that the poisonous, turpentiny odor of blacking could hardly have faded during his five-minute walk. Sergey decided not to go through with his plan. Instead, he merely came up very close to the girl, tugged at her arm, stamped his feet in a jocular fashion, and exclaimed:
“Hey, don’t you move!”
The girl, grown deathly pale, shrank back in fright. She must have assumed that some fool was rolling a cart out from a yard, or that some roughneck had some designs on her. But when she saw Sergey Petrovich, she burst out laughing. Holding hands, the two of them guffawed like children. They literally couldn’t utter a single word for ten whole minutes, on account of these laughing fits.
Then, having calmed down a bit, he asked her where she was going. When he learned that she was merely out for a stroll, he took her by the hand and dragged her along with him.
Sergey Petrovich had encountered this girl often enough, but he had never thought about her or called her to mind. Now, however—under the sway of his light, cheerful dream and the invigorating weather—Sergey felt a certain yearning, a kind of amorous flutter in his breast.
He took firm hold of her hand and led her triumphantly through the town, as if inviting passersby to gaze upon this continuation of his dream.
Katyusha Chervyakova, who was accustomed to seeing Sergey Petrovich in a rather gloomy humor, his lower lip protruding petulantly, was decidedly perplexed. She didn’t know what happy bug had bitten her beau. But, being jolly and joyful by nature, she bolstered his cheerful, playful state of mind. She talked all sorts of nonsense, and he, choking with laughter and youth, grunted like a hog for the whole street to hear.
Youth, beauty, and the wonderful weather had suddenly bound the two into a fine little pair: they both felt the incipient pangs of love, passion, or something to that effect.
And when they were saying their goodbyes at her gate, Sergey Petrovich began to plead excitedly for another meeting, the sooner the better. He told her that his life was passing quickly, without any special experiences or adventures. He said he was extremely lonely. Loneliness was bending him out of shape. He wished to get as close to Katyusha Chervyakova as possible. Would she accompany him to the cinema at the corner of Kirpichny Lane at seven that night? They would go to the first show, where, sitting side by side, they would watch the drama and mull over, to the sound of the music, what they ought to do next—walk around town or drop in somewhere.
After a bit of wavering for the sake of appearances—saying that she needed to hem her mama’s sheets, count her linens, or some such—the girl nevertheless consented quickly, fearing that her beau might change his mind about the movies.
They bid each other a very pleasant, simple goodbye and parted. But Sergey stayed at the gate a moment longer, glanced inside, issued a cheerful snap at the dog that had begun barking at him, and went home to breakfast.
And a hearty breakfast it was. Three scrambled eggs with onions and horseradish. A piece of bologna. Butter. Sergey Petrovich’s appetite for bread was insatiable. His hostess had failed to take that into account.
“A fine thing, life,” Sergey muttered, eating his scrambled eggs.
3
The author himself doesn’t know what’s most significant, most, so to speak, magnificent in our lives—what, generally speaking, makes existence worthwhile.
Maybe it’s service to the fatherland. Maybe it’s service to the people and all that sort of tempestuous ideology. Maybe that’s it. Yes, that’s probably it. But in the private realm, in the everyday scheme of things, there are, apart from these lofty ideas, other, humbler little notions. And it is these, in large part, that make our lives interesting and attractive.
The author doesn’t know a thing about these little notions and has no intention of confusing simple, undercultured minds with his own foolish pronouncements on that score. No, the author has no clue as to what’s most attractive in our lives.
And yet, on occasion, it seems to the author that, discounting tasks of public significance, love takes center stage. It seems to him that love is the most attractive activity.
I mean, let’s say you’re walking about town. It’s late. Evening time. Streets are empty. And suppose you’re really down in the dumps—maybe you lost your shirt in a card game, or maybe it’s just a bad case of Weltschmerz.
So you’re walking and walking, and everything seems so damned bad, so damned rotten that you’re just about ready to hang yourself on the first street lamp you see, if it’s lit.
And suddenly—a window. The light in it is red or pink. It’s got curtains, too. So now you stand there, staring at this window from afar, and feel all your petty worries and concerns leaving you, and a smile spreads across your face.
And now it all seems like something beautiful and magnificent—the pink light, the little couch in the window, the silly amorous goings-on.
It all seems somehow basic, unshakable—given once and for all.
Ah, reader! Ah, my dear paying customer! Are you familiar with that precious feeling of love, with genuine amorous flutters and heart troubles? Don’t you find that to be the most precious, most attractive element in our lives?
The author asserts once again: he himself does not claim this to be the case. No, he decidedly does not. He hopes that there is something even better and more beautiful in life. It’s just that, from time to time, he can see nothing higher than love.
The author, unfortunately, hasn’t received much love from women. In fact, he can’t even recall whether he’s had a single kiss in pink lighting. In all likelihood, he hasn’t. The young author’s youth passed during those turbulent days of revolution, when there wasn’t much lighting of any kind, except for the rising sun. People ate oats then. Rough food, that—fit for a horse. It certainly doesn’t arouse subtle romantic desires or make you long for a pink lantern.
But none of this depresses the author—none of it weakens his vigorous love of life and his sense that love is, perhaps, a very grand and attractive activity.
Although Sergey Petrovich Petukhov was younger than the author, he had exactly the same thoughts and precisely the same considerations regarding life and love. He had the same understanding of life as the author, who has been schooled by the experience of living.
And on that famous morning, on that clear Sunday, Sergey Petrovich, having enjoyed his hearty breakfast, lolled about on his bed for an hour and a half, indulging in amorous dreams. He was contemplating the amorous adventure upon which he was embarking, repeating in his mind those clever, cheerful, and energetic words he had spoken to the girl earlier that morning. And he was also thinking that love might go a long way toward brightening his boring and lonely life.
Stretching his legs on the back of the bed, Sergey Petrovich impatiently counted the hours remaining until seven o’clock, when he would sit with his young lady at the cinema. There, to the music of the bravura baby grand and the chatter of the projector, he would speak in a quiet and energetic whisper of the unexpected tenderness that had suddenly overcome him.
It had just struck two.
“Almost six hours of waiting,” muttered our impatient hero.
But suddenly, jumping out of bed like a sho
t, he began to pace quickly about the room, muttering curses and kicking at the chairs and stools that stood in the way of his careless steps.
I mean, really. Why lie about like a son of a bitch? One must act quickly.
At the moment Sergey Petrovich was, in a manner of speaking, without money. The salary he had received a week ago was long gone, expended on all kinds of everyday needs and requirements, and now all our hero had in his pocket were four kopecks of copper and one three-kopeck stamp.
Sergey Petrovich had this firmly in mind when he had spoken to the girl about the cinema. But he hadn’t wished to roil his own blood at the time, wondering where he would borrow this, in effect, petty amount. He had decided to think it over at home. But now he’d been lolling about on his matrasses for two hours straight, without taking a single step!
Without a jacket, in shirtsleeves, Sergey Petrovich rushed into the room next door. He wanted to borrow the money he needed from his neighbor, with whom he really did maintain sort of friendly relations. But the neighbor said that he simply couldn’t lend Sergey Petrovich the money that day. He believed in Sergey Petrovich’s good intentions of returning the money, but, unfortunately, he himself only had two rubles left till payday, and he needed them all. On top of that, he generally refrained from giving loans, considering the practice risky and absolutely stupid.
Sergey Petrovich rushed into the kitchen. He begged the landlady to save him from disaster. But the landlady refused, dryly and obdurately, saying that she herself barely made ends meet, and that, unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten around to buying a machine on which she could print as many rubles and twenty-kopeck pieces as she wanted.
Severely crestfallen and even a little agitated, Sergey Petrovich trudged back to his room and again lay down on the bed. He began to ponder methodically where he could get his hands on the requisite dough. It was, in effect, a small amount—seventy kopecks at most.
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