The Plummeting Old Women

by Daniil Kharms

  6. For example, on Kafka and Kharms see the item by Milner-Gulland listed under ‘Further Reading’, p. 101 below.

  7. ‘Aleksey Tolstoy’ is one example of a few texts translated here where no title was available in the original – see also ‘I Had Raised Dust’ – and the practice of using the opening words or some such device for the purpose of identification has been adopted.

  I

  INCIDENTS

  The Plummeting Old Women

  A certain old woman, out of excessive curiosity, fell out of a window, plummeted to the ground, and was smashed to pieces.

  Another old woman leaned out of the window and began looking at the remains of the first one, but she also, out of excessive curiosity, fell out of the window, plummeted to the ground and was smashed to pieces.

  Then a third old woman plummeted from the window, then a fourth, then a fifth.

  By the time a sixth old woman had plummeted down, I was fed up watching them, and went off to Mal’tseviskiy Market where, it was said, a knitted shawl had been given to a certain blind man.

  Four Illustrations of How a New Idea Disconcerts a Man Unprepared for It

  l

  WRITER I’m a writer.

  READER In my opinion you’re shit!

  (The writer stands for a few minutes, shaken by this new idea, and falls down in a dead faint. He is carried out.)

  2

  ARTIST I’m an artist.

  WORKER In my opinion you’re shit!

  (The artist turns as white as a sheet, sways like a thin reed and unexpectedly expires. He is carried out.)

  3

  COMPOSER I’m a Composer.

  VANYA RUBLYOV In my opinion you’re …!

  (The composer, breathing heavily, sank back. He is unexpectedly carried out.)

  4

  CHEMIST I’m a chemist.

  PHYSICIST In my opinion you’re …!

  (The chemist said not another word and collapsed heavily to the floor.)

  A Sonnet

  A surprising thing happened to me: I suddenly forgot which comes first – 7 or 8.

  I went off to the neighbours and asked them what they thought on the subject.

  Just imagine their and my surprise when they suddenly discovered that they too couldn’t recall how to count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 they remembered, but they’d forgotten what followed.

  We all went to the overpriced food shop, the Gastronom on the corner of Znamenskaya and Basseynaya street, and put our quandary to the cashier. The cashier smiled sadly, pulled a little hammer out of her mouth and, twitching her nose a bit, said – I should think seven comes after eight whenever eight comes after seven.

  We thanked the cashier and joyfully ran out of the shop. But then, having thought about the cashier’s words, we got depressed again, since her words seemed to us to be devoid of any sense.

  What were we to do? We went to the Summer Garden and started counting the trees there. But, getting as far as 6, we stopped and began to argue: in the opinion of some, 7 came next, and in the opinion of others – 8.

  We would have argued for ages, but fortunately then some child fell off a park bench and broke both jaw-bones. This distracted us from our argument.

  And then we dispersed homewards.

  The Optical Illusion

  Semyon Semyonovich, with his glasses on, looks at a pine tree and he sees: in the pine tree sits a peasant showing him his fist.

  Semyon Semyonovich, with his glasses off, looks at the pine tree and sees that there is no one sitting in the pine tree.

  Semyon Semyonovich, with his glasses on, looks at the pine tree and again sees that in the pine tree sits a peasant showing him his fist.

  Semyon Semyonovich, with his glasses off, again sees that there is no one sitting in the pine tree.

  Semyon Semyonovich, with his glasses on again, looks at the pine tree and again sees that in the pine tree sits a peasant showing him his fist.

  Semyon Semyonovich doesn’t wish to believe in this phenomenon and considers this phenomenon an optical illusion.

  The Trunk

  A thin-necked man climbed into a trunk, shut the lid behind him and began gasping for breath.

  – So – said the thin-necked man, gasping for breath – I am gasping for breath in this trunk because I’ve got a thin neck. The lid of the trunk is down and isn’t letting any air in. I shall be gasping for breath, but all the same I won’t open the lid of the trunk. I shall be gradually dying. I shall see the struggle of life and death. The battle which takes place will be an unnatural one, with the chances equal, because under natural conditions death triumphs, and life, doomed to death, merely struggles in vain with the enemy, clinging until the last minute to a futile hope. But in the struggle which will take place now, life will be cognizant of the means of victory: to achieve this life will have to force my hands to open the lid of the trunk. We shall see who will win! Only there’s an awful smell of napthalene. If life triumphs I shall powder all the things in the trunk with makhorka.* So, it has begun: I can’t breathe any more. I’m finished, that’s clear. There’s no saving me now! And there are no lofty thoughts in my head. I’m suffocating!

  – Hey! What’s that then? Something just happened but I can’t make out exactly what. I saw something or heard something …

  – Hey! Something happened again. My God! There’s nothing to breath. It seems I’m dying …

  – And now what’s that then? Why am I singing? My neck seems to be hurting … But where’s the trunk? Why can I see all the things in the room? And I seem to be lying on the floor! But where’s the trunk?

  The man with the thin neck got up from the floor and looked round. The trunk was nowhere around. On the chairs and on the bed lay things which had been pulled out of the trunk, but the trunk was nowhere around.

  The thin-necked man said:

  – So, life has triumphed over death by means unknown to me.

  * cheap, coarse tobacco.

  Kalindov

  Kalindov was standing on tip-toe and peering at me straight in the face. I found this unpleasant. I turned aside but Kalindov ran round me and was again peering at me straight in the face. I tried shielding myself from Kalindov with a newspaper. But Kalindov outwitted me: he set my newspaper alight and, when it flared up, I dropped it on the floor and Kalindov again began peering at me straight in the face. Slowly retreating, I repaired behind the cupboard and there, for a few moments. I enjoyed a break from the importunate stares of Kalindov. But my break was not prolonged: Kalindov crawled up to the cupboard on all fours and peered up at me from below. My patience ran out; I screwed up my eyes and booted Kalindov in the face.

  When I opened my eyes, Kalindov was standing in front of me, his mug bloodied and mouth lacerated, peering at me straight in the face as before.

  (1930)

  The Story of the Fighting Men

  Aleksey Alekseyevich held Andrey Karlovich down in a crushing lock and, having smashed him in the mug, let him go.

  Andrey Karlovich, pale with fury, flung himself at Aleksey Alekseyevich and banged him in the teeth.

  Aleksey Alekseyevich, not expecting such a swift onslaught, collapsed on the floor, whereupon Andrey Karlovich sat astride him, pulled his set of dentures from his mouth and gave Aleksey Alekseyevich such a going over with them that Aleksey Alekseyevich rose from the floor with his face completely mutilated and his nostril ripped open. Holding his face in his hands, Aleksey Alekseyevich ran off.

  Whereas Andrey Karlovich gave his dentures a rub, inserted them in his mouth with a click of the teeth and, having satisfied himself as to the replacement of his dentures, he took stock of his surroundings and, not seeing Aleksey Alekseyevich, set off in search of him.

  Mashkin Killed Koshkin

  Comrade Koshkin danced around Comrade Mashkin.

  Comrade Mashkin followed Comrade Koshkin with his eyes.

  Comrade Koshkin insultingly waved his arms and repulsively shook his legs.

  Comrade
Mashkin put on a frown.

  Comrade Koshkin twitched his belly and stamped his right foot.

  Comrade Mashkin let out a cry and flung himself at Comrade Koshkin.

  Comrade Koshkin tried to run away, but stumbled and was overtaken by Comrade Mashkin.

  Comrade Mashkin struck Comrade Koshkin on the head with his fist.

  Comrade Koshkin let out a cry and fell to his hands and knees.

  Comrade Mashkin put the boot in to Comrade Koshkin under the belly and once more struck him across the skull with his fist.

  Comrade Koshkin measured his length on the floor and died.

  Mashkin killed Koshkin.

  Aleksey Tolstoy

  Ol’ga Forsh went up to Aleksey Tolstoy and did something. Aleksey Tolstoy also did something.

  At this point Konstantin Fedin and Valentin Stenich leapt outside and got down to looking for a suitable stone. They didn’t find a stone but they found a spade. Konstantin Fedin cracked Ol’ga Forsh one across the chops with this spade.

  Then Aleksey Tolstoy stripped off and, going out on to the Fontanka, began to neigh like a horse. Everyone said – there goes a major contemporary writer, neighing. – And nobody touched Aleksey Tolstoy.

  (1934)

  What They Sell in the Shops These Days

  Koratygin came to see Tikakeyev but didn’t find him in.

  At that time Tikakeyev was at the shop buying sugar, meat and cucumbers.

  Koratygin hung about by Tikakeyev’s door and was just thinking of scribbling a note when he suddenly looked up and Tikakeyev himself was coming, carrying in his arms an oilskin bag.

  Koratygin spotted Tikakeyev and shouted:

  – I’ve been waiting a whole hour for you!

  – That’s not true – said Tikakeyev – I’ve only been out of the house twenty-five minutes.

  – Well, I don’t know about that – said Koratygin – except that I’ve already been here a whole hour.

  – Don’t tell lies – said Tikakeyev – you should be ashamed to lie.

  – My dear fellow! – said Koratygin – Be so good as to be a little more particular with you expressions.

  – I consider … – began Tikakeyev, but Koratygin interrupted him:

  – If you consider … – he said, but at this point Tikakeyev interrupted Koratygin and said:

  – A fine one you are!

  These words put Koratygin into such a frenzy that he pressed a finger against one of his nostrils and through his other nostril blew snot at Tikakeyev.

  Then Tikakeyev pulled the biggest cucumber out of his bag and hit Koratygin across the head with it.

  Koratygin clutched at his head with his hands, fell down and died.

  That’s the size of the cucumbers sold in the shops these days!

  There Once Was a Man

  There once was a man whose name was Kuznetsov. He left his house to go to a shop to buy some carpenter’s glue so as to stick a stool.

  When Kuznetsov was walking past an unfinished house, a brick fell off the top and hit Kuznetsov on the head.

  Kuznetsov fell, but straight away jumped to his feet and felt over his head. On Kuznetsov’s head a huge lump had come up.

  Kuznetsov gave the lump a rub and said:

  – I, citizen Kuznetsov, left the house to go to the shop to… to… to…. Oh, what on earth’s happened? I’ve forgotten why I was going to the shop!

  At this point a second brick fell off the roof and again Kuznetsov was struck on the head.

  – Akh! – cried Kuznetsov, clutching at his head and feeling a second lump on his head.

  – A likely story! – said Kuznetsov. – I, citizen Kuznetsov, left the house to go to… to go to… to go to… where was I going!

  Then a third brick fell from the top on to Kuznetsov’s head. And on Kuznetsov’s head a third lump came up.

  – Oh heck! – yelled out Kuznetsov, snatching at his head. – I, citizen Kuznetsov, left the… left the…left the cellar? No. Left the boozer? No! Where did I leave?

  A fourth brick fell from the roof, hit Kuznetsov on the back of the head and a fourth lump come up on Kuznetsov.

  – Well, now then! – said Kuznetsov, scratching the back of his head. – I… I… I… Who am I? I seem to have forgotten what my name is…. A likely story! Whatever’s my name? Vasiliy Petukhov? No. Nikolay Sapogov? No. Panteley Rysakov? No. Well, who the hell am I?

  But then a fifth brick fell off the roof and so struck Kuznetsov on the back of the head that Kuznetsov forgot everything once and for all and, crying ‘Oh, oh, oh!’, ran off down the street.

  If you wouldn’t mind! If anyone should meet a man in the street with five lumps on his head, please remind him that his name is Kuznetsov and that he has to buy some carpenter’s glue and repair a broken stool.

  (1 November 1935)

  They Call Me the Capuchin

  They call me the Capuchin. For that I’ll tear the ears off whomsoever it may be necessary, but meanwhile I get no peace from the fame of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Why did he have to know everything? How to swaddle infants and how to give young girls in marriage! I would also like to know everything. In fact I do know everything, except that I am not so sure of my theories. About infants, I certainly know that they should not be swaddled at all – they should be obliterated. For this I would establish a central pit in the city and would throw the infants into it. And so that the stench of decomposition should not come from the pit, it could be flooded every week with quicklime. Into the same pit I would stick all Alsatian dogs. Now, about giving young girls in marriage. That, in my view, is even simpler: I would establish a public hall where, say, once a month all the youth would assemble. All of them between seventeen and thirty-five would have to strip naked and parade up and down the hall. If anyone fancied someone, then that pair would go off into a corner and there examine each other in detail. I forgot to say that they would all have to have a card hanging from the neck with their name, surname and address. Then, a letter could be sent to whomever was to someone’s taste, to set up a more intimate aquaintance. Should any old man or woman intervene in these matters, I would propose killing them with an axe and dragging them off to the same place as the infants – to the central pit.

  I would have written more on my current theories, but unfortunately I have to go to the shop for tobacco. When walking on the street, I always take with me a thick knotty stick. I take it with me in order to batter any infants who may get under my feet. That must be why they called me the Capuchin. But just you wait, you swine, I’ll skin your ears yet!

  (12 October 1938)

  The Artist and the Clock

  Serov, an artist, went to the Obvodny Canal. Why did he go there? To buy some india-rubber. What did he want india-rubber for? To make himself a rubber band. And what did he want a rubber band for? In order to stretch it. That’s what for. And what else? This is what else: the artist Serov had broken his clock. The clock had been going well, but he picked it up and broke it. What else? Nothing else. Nothing, this is it, in a nutshell! Keep your filthy snout out when it’s not needed! And may the Lord have mercy on us!

  Once there lived an old woman. She lived and loved, until she got burnt up in her stove. Served her right, too! The artist Serov, at least, was of that opinion …

  Huh! I would write some more, but the ink-pot has suddenly gone and disappeared.

  (22 October 1938)

  I Had Raised Dust

  I had raised dust. Children were running after, me, tearing their clothing. Old men and old women fell from roofs. I whistled, I roared, my teeth chattered and I clattered like an iron bar. Lacerated children raced after me and, falling behind, broke their thin legs in their awful haste. Old men and old women were skipping around me. I rushed on! Filthy, rachitic children, looking like toadstools, got tangled under my feet. Running was hard going. I kept remembering things and once I even almost fell into the soft mush of old men and women floundering on the ground. I jumped, snapped a few heads off toads
tools and trod on the belly of a thin old woman, who at this emitted a loud crunch and softly muttered – They’ve worn me out. – Not looking back, I ran on further. Now under my feet was a clean and smooth pavement. Occasional streetlamps lit my way. I ran up to the bath-house. The welcoming bath-house flickered in front of me and the cosy but stifling bath-house steam was already in my nostrils, ears and mouth. Without undressing, I ran straight through the changing-room, then past the taps, the tubs and the planks, to the shelf. A hot white cloud surrounds me, I hear a weak but insistent sound. I seem to be lying down.

  And at this point, a mighty relaxation stopped my heart.

  (1 February 1939)

  The Red-Haired Man

  (or ‘Blue Notebook No. 10’)

  There was a red-haired man who had no eyes or ears. Neither did he have any hair, so he was called red-haired theoretically.

  He couldn’t speak, since he didn’t have a mouth. Neither did he have a nose.

  He didn’t even have any arms or legs. He had no stomach and he had no back and he had no spine and he had no innards whatsoever. He had nothing at all! Therefore there’s no knowing whom we are even talking about.

  In fact it’s better that we don’t say any more about him.

  (1937)