Sentimental Tales

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Sentimental Tales Page 18

by Mikhail Zoshchenko


  He slept badly, tossing, turning, and bellowing so loudly that the photographer was forced, on two separate occasions, to yell Volodin’s name in order to stifle his bellows.

  8

  Well, brother of mercy Sypunov, that rough and uncultured character, actually did manage to get his paws on a bottle of sulfuric acid.

  He placed it on the windowsill and gave the two sisters a brief lecture on the benefits of this liquid.

  “A small splash can’t do any harm,” he said to the sisters, acting out both roles in the splashing scene. “No need to go heavy at the eyes, of course, but the nose and other elements can stand a little disturbance. What’s more, since the victim’s mug is bound to turn red, he’ll be a less attractive gentleman, so the girls will stop throwing themselves at him. Then he’ll have simply no choice but to return to his stall, like a good little boy. The court, of course, will find various circumstances and assign conditional parole.”

  Margarita Gopkis stood there moaning, sighing, and wringing her hands, saying that if it was really necessary to splash someone, she’d rather splash the whiskered, swarthy little wench who had ruined her happiness.

  However, accepting the notion that they would never get Volodin to return with an unspoiled mien, she moaned again and agreed, saying that, for humanitarian reasons, they should at least dilute the poisonous liquid.

  The brother of mercy thundered with his voice and banged the bottle on the windowsill, saying that, now that she’d mentioned it, they might as well splash both the damned bastards, who were plucking on his last nerve and disturbing his temper. And he’d be happy to splash some third bastard, to boot—for example, the swarthy gal’s ma. What right did she have to let her daughter run loose like that, knocking about with an occupied man?

  As for diluting the liquid, well, that just wouldn’t fly. Chemistry is an exact science, requiring a definite composition. He didn’t have the book-learning to fool around with scientific formulas.

  This whole family scene was shrouded by the sobs of the younger sister, Lola, who foresaw major new commotions.

  The author hastens to reassure his dear readers that nothing too terribly serious came of this scene. Things ended if not altogether well, then well enough. But the commotion did cause an enormous fright. And our friend Volodin was made to sup sorrow by the bucketful.

  The next day, after shaving his face and powdering his damaged ear, Volodin went out into the street and hurried off to see his moppet.

  He walked down the street and gesticulated wildly, talking aloud to himself.

  He was thinking up all sorts of tricky questions to ask her, which would reveal the young lady’s secret, sordid little game.

  She was impoverished, dependent on her ma, wishing to secure her position. But she was sorely mistaken. She should know that he hadn’t a kopeck to his name. What she saw is what she’d get. A tie and a pair of trousers. What’s more, he was out of work, with no prospects for the future. His photographic business brought him nothing—except for the unbearable expense of pencils and erasers. He only did it out of friendship and courtesy to the photographer Patrikeyev, who had ceded him his couch and reception room.

  He would say this to her and see what was what. He walked quickly, noticing no one, hearing nothing.

  Suddenly he saw his former spouse, Margarita Gopkis, at the corner, by a vacant lot. She was coming his way.

  Volodin turned deathly pale and walked slowly toward Margarita, as if under a spell, never taking his eyes off her.

  At a distance of three paces, Margarita quietly shouted something and, with an upward wave of the hand, splashed Volodin with acid.

  It was a great distance, and the vial had a narrow neck, so only a few drops landed on Volodin’s suit.

  Volodin dashed aside, hollering shrilly and slapping his face with his palms, wishing to confirm that his visage was unscathed.

  Assured of a successful outcome, he turned around and lunged at Margarita Gopkis, who stood by the fence like a shadow. Volodin grabbed her by the throat and started shaking her, striking her head against the fence and shouting some incoherent phrases.

  This all transpired on a deserted back street, down which Volodin was in the habit of walking to meet his moppet.

  Nevertheless, people began to gather from other streets, peering curiously, trying to make out the spectacle they were about to see.

  But the spectacle was coming to an end. Worried lest he be dragged off to the police station, Volodin stopped shaking his madam and quickly set off for home, without so much as glancing over his shoulder.

  He was shocked and agitated. His teeth were chattering in a tattoo.

  He returned home almost at a run and locked himself inside the apartment.

  Needless to say, he couldn’t very well go see his moppet in this state.

  He was shivering with fever. His legs trembled and his teeth rattled.

  Volodin lay on the couch for a while. Then he began to pace about the room, glancing fearfully through the window and listening closely to every noise.

  And he didn’t leave the house all day, fearing that the brother of mercy might finish him off in the yard or make a cripple out of him, breaking his arms and ribs.

  He spent the day in mortal anguish, eating nothing. He only drank water in mind-boggling amounts, cooling and dousing his inner heat.

  And all that night, never once shutting his eyes, he pondered the situation that had taken shape, trying to find some decent and inoffensive way out. And he did find a way out, coming to the conclusion that he needed to reach a truce with his former wife and her guardian angel, comrade Sypunov. He, for his part, would not press charges of attempted murder, while they, in exchange, would not beat him to death.

  With that settled, his thoughts leapt to another, no less important front, and he began to contemplate, for the hundredth time, what new, decisive words he would utter to his moppet, so as to ensure that he was getting a real person brimming with selfless affection, not some cunning dame with her practical little tricks. He would stop at nothing to achieve this end, regardless of the difficulties and costs. Yes, he would declare himself unemployed and, at first, work for his photographer on the sly, in order to make sure, once and for all, that the young lady was free of calculations and internal considerations.

  Volodin already pictured the scenes in his mind: after turning up his jacket collar and diligently drawing the curtains over the windows, he would retouch photographs in secret, tirelessly, day and night. He saw himself working like this for a whole month, or two months, or even a year, putting all the money aside, without spending a kopeck. Then, when he was finally sure of his moppet, he would lay the pile of money at her feet, begging forgiveness for this deed and trial.

  And the young lady, with tears in his eyes, would, quite possibly, push his money away—saying, you know, what’s the use, who needs so much money, it spoils relations and such.

  And that would mark the start of unclouded happiness, of a marvelous, incomparable life.

  Tears of joy showed in Volodin’s eyes when he imagined such an outcome. He would revolve on his couch vigorously, making all the springs squeak and wiping his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

  But then his mind would return to his troubles—to the face-pounding and all the recent gloomy goings-on.

  At those moments he would literally grow cold. Fearing in hindsight for his pristine appearance, he would leap up from the couch and run over to the mirror, seeking to reassure himself as to the safety of his face, or over to his suit, in order to examine the singed fabric.

  It was a restless, difficult night. He only got a little sleep toward morning.

  And in the morning he set out hastily, gray-faced and bleary-eyed, to arrange his affairs. First he would visit his young lady, so as to proceed, as quickly as possible, with the implementation of his plan. Then he would throw in the towel and enter into negotiations with his dear old relatives.

  Stepping out into the stairw
ell, Volodin began brushing his boots, as was his habit, polishing them with a piece of velvet to a dazzling sheen.

  He had already brushed one boot, when suddenly, probably due to the cold of the stairwell, he hiccupped. He hiccupped once, then again, and then, after a few seconds, a few more times.

  After clearing his throat and engaging in a brief, stimulating gymnastic exercise, Volodin set about vigorously rubbing his other boot. But since the hiccups refused to go away, he went into the kitchen, took a piece of sugar, and set about sucking it, anticipating that it would be downright awkward to speak to a loved one with such a speech impediment.

  And still the hiccups refused to go away. He now hiccupped regularly, like a machine, after definite intervals of time lasting a half-minute each.

  Slightly flustered by this new, unexpected obstacle, which hindered him from seeing his loved one, he began to pace about the room, singing cheerful and comic songs at the top of his voice so as not to succumb to his inner anxiety and anguish.

  After pacing for about an hour, he sat down on the edge of the couch and suddenly realized, with horror, that his hiccups had not only failed to subside but, on the contrary, had grown thicker and more sonorous; it was only that the intervals between the contractions had increased to nearly two minutes in length.

  And during these intervals Volodin sat motionless, almost holding his breath, fearfully awaiting the next throat spasm. And when the hiccup came, he’d leap up, throwing his hands in the air and staring straight ahead with dead, otherworldly eyes, seeing nothing.

  Volodin languished in this state until two in the afternoon, then finally divulged his misfortune to his cohabitant, the photographer. The photographer Patrikeyev gave a careless laugh and called the matter a mere trifle and sheer nonsense, which he himself experienced on an almost daily basis. Upon hearing these words, Volodin gathered the remnants of his courage and went off to see his Olya Sisyaeva.

  He hiccupped the whole way, shuddering from head to toe and shrugging off any notion of propriety.

  To make things worse, just as he approached the young lady’s home, he began to hiccup so frequently and vigorously that passersby kept turning around and calling him a braying ass and other insulting words.

  After summoning the girl with a knock on her window, Volodin prepared for his decisive explanation—sad to say, having plumb forgotten, on account of his new misfortune, all his cunning questions.

  Apologizing for his purely nervous hiccups, which were no doubt caused by a light cold and anemia, Volodin planted an elegant kiss on Olya’s hand, hiccupping once or twice during this uncomplicated process.

  Thinking that grief had driven him to drink, Olya Sisyaeva blinked her lashes, preparing a severe rebuke. But he, thinking more about his disease, babbled incoherent words to the effect that he was an unemployed individual, who had no capital to his name save this one tie and pair of trousers. And that being the case, Olya should say, straightaway, whether she was willing to marry such a fellow, who was destined to a miserable fate, and with whom she might have to walk the streets of the world, as with a blind man, begging for sustenance. Did she really love him no matter what—or what?

  Olya Sisyaeva, blushing slightly, said that it was, unfortunately, rather late to be asking questions of that sort. Especially since she was, as she had learned yesterday, expecting, and so it was rather odd and foolish to expect her to listen to such speeches. A husband was a husband—and his duty was to feed his future family, come what may.

  Struck by this new discovery and having received no decisive response to his thoughts and doubts, Volodin, dumfounded, completely lost the thread of his plan and stared at the young lady in amazement, hiccupping from time to time.

  Then he grabbed her by the hands and asked her to tell him, at the very least, whether she loved him and was taking this step willingly.

  And the girl, smiling prettily, said that, of course, no doubt, she did love him, but that he needed to seek serious medical treatment for his nervous hiccups—she didn’t see herself marrying a man with such a strange defect.

  And so they bade adieu and parted, with her full of confidence, and with him full of indecision and even despair, because he had failed to determine, once and for all, the young lady’s feelings.

  9

  It was very strange and surprising, but Volodin’s hiccups wouldn’t go away.

  After returning home, he went to bed early, harboring the secret hope that, come morning, all would be well and he would resume his simple, marvelous human life. But upon waking he discovered that his misfortune was still with him. True, he hiccupped more seldom now, about once every three minutes, but hiccup he did, with no sign of relief.

  Without rising from the couch, and turning cold at the thought that this malady would linger for the rest of his life, Volodin spent all day and night on his back, only dashing to the kitchen every so often to drink a glass of cold water.

  The next morning, after raising his head from the pillow and determining that his hiccups still hadn’t gone away, Volodin lost all heart. He stopped resisting nature. Meekly surrendering to fate, he lay like a corpse, his body occasionally shuddering beneath the burden of his nervous hiccups.

  The photographer Patrikeyev, disturbed by his tenant’s strange condition, took serious fright lest he be saddled with an invalid, who’d just lie there, hiccupping round the clock, thereby scaring off clients and visitors.

  Without a word to Volodin, he raced off to that fateful creature, Olya Sisyaeva, in order to invite her to the sufferer’s bedside, wishing thereby to absolve himself, as quickly as possible, of any moral and material responsibilities and concerns for the man’s care.

  He came to her and begged her to go with him, saying that if her boyfriend wasn’t exactly on his last legs, he was definitely in a very strange condition. He needed help straightaway.

  The maiden, abashed by her fiancé’s exceptional disease, couldn’t quite express her sadness and anxiety. Nevertheless, she immediately agreed to pay the sick man a visit.

  Somewhat flustered by the room’s penurious and uncomfortable appearance and by the meagerness of its holdings, the young lady stopped in the doorway, at first unable to work up the courage to approach the sufferer.

  Catching sight of the young lady, the sufferer leapt up from the couch, but then lay down again, quickly covering his tattered underthings.

  The young lady dragged a stool over to the couch and sat down on it, gazing sadly as her boyfriend was jerked hither and thither by his disease.

  News of a man who’d been hiccupping for three days straight had caused a bit of a stir among the local population of nearby houses. And rumors of an amorous drama had intensified people’s curiosity. The apartment became the site of a genuine pilgrimage, which no single photographer had the power to stop. Everyone wanted to witness how the bride would treat her fiancé, what she would tell him, and how he, with his hiccups, would respond to her.

  And lo and behold, here was our brother of mercy Sypunov, rubbing elbows with the other citizens—though he didn’t risk entering the room, so as not to frighten the sufferer.

  As both next of kin and a medical worker, he held forth authoritatively, before a crowd of curious onlookers, on the condition of the patient, explaining what was happening and what was what.

  Needless to say, he hadn’t expected such an outcome. Oh, yes, he had certainly put a fright into the fellow, no doubt about that—but he had been motivated by a sense of justice, and by his bonds of kinship with Margarita Gopkis, who would, after all, be left without a mate in her declining years.

  However, all these melancholy scenes of disease had touched him deeply. Moreover, he had total consideration for the feeling of love. And so, needless to say, he’d no longer let anyone lay a finger on his former relative, Nikolay Petrovich Volodin. As for dear Margarita, well, in a pinch, she’d just have to spend her life on her own somehow. The disease, for its part, was most likely a purely nervous ailment resulti
ng from the common cold. Why, in their hospital, all sorts of ailments resulted from the common cold—but don’t you worry, many survived.

  The photographer Patrikeyev, fearing that he might, in all the hubbub, be robbed of his photographic accessories, raised a cry. He urged the public to disperse, or he would summon the police and put a stop to this disgraceful scene by force.

  Upon receiving a directive from the photographer, the brother of mercy commenced pushing and shoving the importunate public, brandishing a tripod and goading the visitors toward the kitchen and the stairs. He asked them cordially to disperse posthaste, without provoking him to take more decisive action.

  In view of this disgraceful scene, this crying shame, this full airing of their dirty laundry, mademoiselle Olya Sisyaeva began to prattle, saying that they ought to take the patient to the hospital or, at the very least, summon the municipal doctor, who could amputate the excessive public.

  Among the visitors there was, incidentally, one, so to speak, former intellectual, a certain Abramov, who declared that this wasn’t a matter for doctors—a doctor would only diddle them out of three rubles and make such a mess of things that they’d never set the sick man right.

  Far better, the man suggested, to let him undertake an experiment, which would blast this disease at its root.

  This certain Abramov did not bear the title of doctor or scientist, but he had a deep understanding of many questions and loved to cure citizens of all sorts of diseases and sufferings with the help of his home remedies.

  He said he had an all too clear picture of the malady. That it amounted to an improper movement of the organism. And that it was necessary to interrupt this movement as quickly as possible. Especially since each organism has, so to speak, its own inertia, and once it gets going, well, good luck stopping it. This, he said, is the cause of almost all our diseases and ailments. And it must, he said, be treated vigorously, with a powerful shock to the organism, followed by another jolt, in reverse—because the organism, he said, worked blindly, not knowing in which direction its wheels were spinning or what its work would produce.

 

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