Radical Shadows

by Bradford Morrow

  “Squawk, squawk, squawk!” the geese called out, craning their necks, peering at Olya from the side.

  “Here goosey-goose, here goosey-goose!” Olya shouted, and reached out to touch a little gosling.

  The gosling was quite bright for its age. It ran from Olya’s approaching fingers straight to its daddy, a very large foolish-looking gander, and seemed to complain to him. The gander spread his wings. Naughty Olya reached out to touch some other goslings. At that moment something terrible happened: the gander lowered his neck to the ground and, hissing like a snake, marched fiercely towards Olya. Olya squealed and retreated, the gander close at her heels. Olya looked back, squealed even louder and went completely white. Her pretty, girlish face was twisted with terror and despair. It was as if she were being chased by three hundred devils.

  I rushed to help her, and banged the gander on the head with my walking stick. The damn gander still managed to quickly snap at the hem of her dress. With wide eyes and terror-stricken face, trembling all over, Olya fell into my arms.

  “You’re such a coward!” I said to her.

  “Thrash that goose!” she moaned, and burst into tears.

  Suddenly I no longer saw naiveté or childishness in her frightened little face—but idiocy! Ma chère, I cannot abide faint-heartedness! I cannot imagine being married to a faint-hearted, cowardly woman! The gander ruined everything. After calming Olya down, I went home. I couldn’t get that expression of hers—cowardly to the point of idiocy—out of my mind. In my eyes, Olya had lost all her charm. I dropped her.

  SECOND INCIDENT

  As you know, my friend, I am a writer. The gods ignited within my breast the sacred flame, and I have seen it as my duty to take up the pen! I am a high priest of Apollo! Every beat of my heart, every breath I take, in short—I have sacrificed everything on the altar of my muse. I write and I write and I write … take away my pen, and I’m dead! You laugh! You do not believe me! I swear most solemnly that it is true!

  But as you surely know, ma chère, this world of ours is a bad place for art. The world is big and bountiful, but a writer can find no place for himself in it! A writer is an eternal orphan, an exile, a scapegoat, a defenseless child! I divide mankind into two categories: writers and enviers! The former write, and the latter die of jealousy and spend all their time plotting and scheming against them. I have always fallen prey, and always will, to these plotters! They have ruined my life! They have taken over the writing business, calling themselves editors and publishers, striving with all their might to ruin us writers! Damn them!

  Anyway … For a while I was courting Zhenya Pshikova. You must remember her, that sweet, dreamy, black-haired girl … she’s now married to your neighbor, Karl Ivanovitch Wanze. (À propos, in German, Wanze means “bedbug.” But please don’t tell Zhenya, she’d be very upset.) Zhenya was in love with the writer within me. She believed in my calling as deeply as I did. She cherished my hopes. But she was so young! She had not yet grasped the aforementioned division of humanity into two categories! She did not believe in this division! She did not believe it, and one fine day … catastrophe!

  I was staying at the Pshikovs’ dacha. The family looked on me as the groom-to-be and Zhenya as the bride. I wrote—she read. What a critic she was, ma chère! She was as objective as Aristides and as stern as Cato. I dedicated my works to her. One of these pieces she really liked. She wanted to see it in print, so I sent it to one of the magazines. I sent it on the first of July and waited two weeks for the answer. The fifteenth of July came, and Zhenya and I finally received the letter we had been waiting for. We opened it; she went red, I went white. Beneath the address, the following was written: “Shlendovo village. Mr. M. B. You don’t have a drop of talent in you. God knows what the hell you’re writing about. Please don’t waste your stamps and our time! Find yourself another occupation!”

  Ridiculous … it was obvious that a bunch of idiots had written this.

  “I see …,” Zhenya mumbled.

  “The damn … swine!” I muttered. So, ma chère Yevgenia Markovna, are you still smiling at my division of the world into writers and enviers?

  Zhenya thought for a while and then yawned.

  “Well,” she said, “maybe you don’t have any talent after all. They surely know best. Last year Fyodor Fyodosevitch spent the whole summer fishing by the river with me. All you do is write, write, write! It’s so boring!”

  Well! How do you like that! After all those sleepless nights we spent together, I writing, she reading! With both of us sacrificing ourselves to my muse! Ha!

  Zhenya cooled to my writing, and by extension to me. We broke up. It had to be.

  THIRD INCIDENT

  You know, of course, my dear unforgettable friend, that I am a fervent music lover. Music is my passion, my true element. The names Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Mendelssohn, Gounod are not the names of men—they are the names of giants! I love classical music. I scorn operettas, as I scorn vaudeville! I am a true habitué of the opera. Our stars Khokhlov, Kochetova, Barzal, Usatov, Korsov … are simply wonderful people! How I regret that I do not know any singers personally. Were I to know one, I would bare my soul in humble gratitude!

  Last winter I went to the opera particularly often. I did not go alone—I went with the Pepsinov family. It is such a pity that you do not know this dear family! Each winter the Pepsinovs book a loge. They are devoted to music, heart and soul. The crown of this dear family is Colonel Pepsinov’s daughter, Zoya. What a girl, my dear friend! Her pink lips alone could drive someone like me out of his mind! She is shapely, beautiful, clever. I loved her … I loved her madly, passionately, terribly! My blood was boiling when I sat next to her. You smile, ma chère? You can smile! You cannot comprehend the love a writer feels! A writer’s love is—Mount Etna coupled with Mount Vesuvius! Zoya loved me. Her eyes always rested on my eyes, which were constantly seeking out her eyes. We were happy. It was but one step to marriage.

  But we foundered.

  Faust was playing. Faust, my dear friend, was written by Gounod, and Gounod is one of the greatest musicians on earth. On the way to the theater, I decided to declare my love to Zoya during the first act. I have never understood that act—it was a mistake on the part of the great Gounod to have written that first act!

  The opera began. Zoya and I slipped out to the foyer. She sat next to me and, shivering with expectation and happiness, nervously fanned herself. How beautiful she looked in the glittering lights, ma chère, how terribly beautiful!

  “The overture,” I began my declaration, “led me to some reflections, Zoya Egorovna … so much feeling, so much … you listen and you long … you long for, well, for that something, and you listen …”

  I hiccupped, and continued: “You long for something … special! You long for something unearthly … Love? Passion? Yes … it must be … love [I hiccupped]. Yes, love!”

  Zoya smiled in confusion, and fanned herself harder. I hiccupped. I can’t stand hiccups!

  “Zoya Egorovna! Tell me, I beg of you! Do you know this feeling? [I hiccupped.] Zoya Egorovna! I am trembling for your answer!”

  “I … I … don’t understand …”

  “Sorry, that was just a hiccup … It’ll pass … I’m talking about that all-embracing feeling that … damn!”

  “Have some water!”

  I’ll make my declaration, and then I’ll quickly go down to the buffet, I thought to myself, and continued: “In a nutshell, Zoya Egorovna … you, of course, will have noticed …”

  I hiccupped, and then in my consternation bit my tongue.

  “You will, of course, have noticed [I hiccupped] … you’ve known me almost a year now … well … I’m an honest man, Zoya Egorovna! I am a hard-working man! I am not rich, it’s true, but …”

  I hiccupped and leaped up.

  “I think you should have some water!” Zoya suggested. I moved a few steps away from the sofa, tapped my finger on my throat and hiccupped again. Ma chère, I was in a terrib
le predicament! Zoya stood up, and marched off to the loge with me close on her heels. After escorting her, I hiccupped and quickly ran off to the buffet. I drank five or six glasses of water, and the hiccups seemed somehow to quiet down. I smoked a cigarette and returned to the loge. Zoya’s brother got up and gave me his seat, the seat next to my darling Zoya. I sat down, and at that very moment … hiccupped! About five minutes passed, I hiccupped, hiccupped somehow strangely, with a wheeze. I got up and went to stand by the loge door. It is better, ma chère, to hiccup by a door than into the ear of the woman one loves! I hiccupped. A schoolboy from the loge next to ours looked at me and laughed out loud. The joy with which that little brute laughed! And the joy with which I would have gladly ripped the horrible little brat’s ear off! He laughed as they were singing the great Faust aria on stage! What blasphemy! No, ma chère! As children we would never have comported ourselves in this manner! Cursing the impertinent schoolboy, I hiccupped again … laughter broke out in the neighboring loges.

  “Encore!” the schoolboy loudly whispered.

  “What the hell!” Colonel Pepsinov mumbled. “Couldn’t you have hiccupped at home, sir?”

  Zoya went red. I hiccupped one last time and, furiously clenching my fists, ran out of the loge. I started walking up and down the corridor. I walked and walked and walked—hiccupping constantly. I ate, I drank, I tried everything—finally at the beginning of the fourth act I gave up and went home. The moment I unlocked the door, as if to spite me, my hiccups stopped. I slapped my neck, and shouted: “Go on, hiccup! Now you can hiccup all you want, you poor, booed-off fiancé! No, you were not booed off, you were hiccupped off!”

  The following day I went to visit the Pepsinovs the way I always did. Zoya didn’t come down for dinner, and sent word that she couldn’t see me as she wasn’t feeling well, while Pepsinov spoke at length about certain young people who didn’t know how to comport themselves in public. The fool! He’s obviously not aware that the organs that induce hiccupping are not subject to voluntary stimuli! Stimuli, ma chère, means “shakers.”

  “Would you give your daughter—that is, if you had one—to a man who wouldn’t think twice about belching in public?” Pepsinov asked me after dinner. “Ha? Well?”

  “Um, yes … I would,” I muttered.

  “Quite a mistake!”

  That was the end of Zoya as far as I was concerned. She could not forgive my hiccupping. For her that was the end of me.

  Would you like me to describe the remaining twelve incidents?

  I could, but … enough is enough! The veins on my temples have swollen, tears are flowing freely and my liver is churning … “O brother writers, our destiny doth weave fateful threads!” I wish you, ma chère, all the very best! I squeeze your hand tightly, and send my warmest regards to Paul. I hear that he is a good husband and father. God bless him! Pity, though, that he drinks so heavily (this, by the way, ma chère, is not a reproach)!

  All the very best, ma chère. Your faithful servant.

  Makar Baldastov

  TWO LETTERS

  I. A SERIOUS QUESTION

  My dearest uncle Anisim Petrovitch,

  Your neighbor Kurosheyev has just been to visit me and informed me, among other things, that Murdashevitch, from next door to you, returned with his family from abroad a few days ago. This bit of news shocked me all the more as it seemed that the Murdashevitches were going to stay abroad forever. My dearest uncle! If you harbor any love in your heart for your humble nephew, then I beg you, dear, dear uncle, to visit Murdashevitch and find out how his ward, Mashenka, is doing. I am laying bare to you the innermost secret of my soul. It is only you alone I trust! I love Mashenka—I love her passionately, more than my life! Six years of separation have not dampened my feelings for her one iota. Is she alive? Is she well? Please write and tell me how she is! Does she remember me? Does she love me like she used to? May I write her a letter? My dear, dear uncle! Please find out and send me all the details.

  Tell her that I am no longer the poor and timid student she once knew—I am now a barrister, with a practice of my own, with money. In a word, to achieve perfect happiness in life I need only one thing— her!

  I embrace you, and hope for a speedy reply.

  Vladimir Gretchnev

  _____________

  A DETAILED RESPONSE

  My dearest nephew Vladimir,

  I received your letter, and went over to see Murdashevitch the very next day. What a great fellow he is! He did age a bit abroad, and has gone somewhat gray, but all these years he kept me, his dear old friend, in his heart, and when I entered he embraced me, looked me in the eye for a long time and said with a timid, tender cry, “Who are you?” When I told him my family name he embraced me again, and said: “Now it’s all coming back to me!” What a great fellow! As long as I was there, I had a few drinks and a snack, and then we sat down to a few friendly rounds of Preference. He explained to me all kinds of funny things about foreign countries and had me in stitches with all his droll imitations of the Germans and their funny ways. But in science, he told me, the Germans have gone far. He even showed me a picture he bought on his trip through Italy, of this person of the female sex in a rather strange, indecent dress. And I saw Mashenka too. She was wearing a plush pink-colored gown embellished with all kinds of costly bits and bobs. She does remember you, and her eyes even cried a tear or two when she asked about you. She wants you to write to her, and thanks you for your tender memories and feelings. You wrote that you have your own practice and money! My dear boy, do be careful with that money—be moderate and abstinent! When I was a young man I gave myself up to voluptuous excesses—but only for short periods, and with extreme caution—and yet I still repent!

  My very best wishes.

  Your loving uncle, Anisim Gretchnev

  P.S. Your writing is garbled, but has an eloquent and tempting style. I showed your letter to all the neighbors. They thought you a great storyteller! Vladimir, Father Grigory’s son, copied it out so he can send it to a newspaper. I also showed it to Mashenka and her husband, Uhrmacher, the German she married last year. He read it and was full of praise. I am going to show the letter and read it to others, too. You must write more! Murdashevitch’s caviar is very tasty.

  MAYONNAISE

  Astronomers rejoiced when they discovered spots on the face of the sun. A case of unparalleled malice!

  _____________

  An official took a bribe. At the very moment of the Fall his boss entered and looked suspiciously at his clenched fist, in which the illicit bank note lay. The official was deeply embarrassed.

  “Excuse me!” he called after the petitioner, holding out his palm. “You forgot something in my hand!”

  _____________

  When is a goat a pig?

  “Somebody’s goat had started coming over to our goats,” a landowner told us. “We caught the goat and gave it a good lashing. But it still kept coming over. So we gave it a real thrashing and tied a stick to its tail. But that didn’t help either. It still managed to get at our goats. Fine! We caught it, spread tobacco on its nose and smeared it with turpentine. After that it didn’t show up for three days, but then there it was again! Now isn’t that goat a pig?”

  _____________

  Exemplary resourcefulness:

  When the St. Petersburg reporter N. Z. visited the textile exhibition last year, he noticed one pavilion in particular and began writing something down.

  “I think you just dropped a twenty-five ruble note,” the exhibitor in the pavilion said, handing him the note.

  “I dropped two twenty-fivers!” the reporter shot back.

  The exhibitor was so amazed at this resourcefulness that he gave him a second twenty-fiver.

  This really happened.

  A LAWYER’S ROMANCE, A PROTOCOL

  On the tenth of February, in the year eighteen seventy-seven, in the City of St. Petersburg, Moscovsky Region, District 2, in the house of Zhivotov, Second-Guild trader, l
ocated on the Ligovka, I, the undersigned, met Marya Alekseyevna Barabanova, daughter of a Titular Counselor, 18 years of age, literate and of Russian Orthodox faith. Meeting the aforementioned Barabanova, I experienced an attraction for her. Since, according to art. 994 of the crim. cdx., illegal cohabitation incurs penalties as determined in the above article, in addition to church penitence, (cf. the case of trader Solodovnikov, 1881, vol. of Court Disp., Fin. Dept.), I asked for her hand in marriage. I married her, but did not live with her for a long time. I fell out of love with her. Having assigned her complete dowry to my name, I began lounging about in drinking houses—the Livadias, the Eldorados—and did so for five years. So, according to art. 54, vol. 10 of the Civil Court Codex, a five-year absence without knowledge of an individual’s whereabouts is grounds for divorce, and so, with due deference, I respectfully request that your Honor initiate proceedings for me to divorce my wife.

  FOOL, OR THE RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN:

  A SCENE FROM AN UNWRITTEN VAUDEVILLE PLAY

  It is the marriage season. Soufov is a retired sea captain. He is sitting on an oilskin sofa, with one leg resting over the other, his arms crossed. As he speaks he rocks back and forth. Lukinishna the matchmaker is a fat, sagging old woman sitting on a stool next to him. She has a foolish but good-natured face, with an expression of horror mixed with surprise. Seen from the side, she looks like a large snail; from the front, like a black beetle. She speaks servilely, and hiccups after every word.

  CAPTAIN. By the way, if you think about it, Ivan Nikolayevitch has set himself up quite nicely. He did well to get married. You can be a professor, a genius even, but if you’re not married, you’re not worth a brass kopeck! You’ve no census or public opinion worth mentioning. If you’re not married, you don’t carry any weight in society. Take me, for instance. I am a man from an educated background, a house owner, I have money, rank—even a medal! But what’s the point? Who am I if you look at me from a point of view?—An old bachelor—a mere synonym, nothing more. (He pauses to think.) Everyone’s married, everyone has children, except me—it’s like in the song … (He sings a few doleful lines in a deep baritone.) That’s how my life is—surely there must be some woman left on the shelf for me to get married to!