And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.

  "Right!" they shrieked in the crowd. "Some advanced types we need .. . That's the way it's done around here."

  "A correct tendency," said the city comrade. "Mark the names."

  Then the group hit a snag.

  "How about Leshka Konovalov?" someone said timidly. "He's the only one who's come from the city. He's—a metropolitan deal."

  "Leshka!" they shrieked in the crowd. "Step out, Leshka. Tell the group."

  Leshka Konovalov pushed his way through the crowd, came up on the platform, and, flattered by the general attention, bowed city style, holding his hand over his heart.

  "Speak, Leshka!" they shrieked in the crowd.

  "Well, now," said Leshka, a bit confused. "Me you can choose. Sekin or Mikolaev there—is that a choice? That's country stuff, bottom of the barrel. But I scratched around the city for about two years. Me you can choose . . ."

  "Speak, Leshka! Report to the group!" the crowd shrieked once again.

  "I can speak," said Leshka. "Why not speak, when I know it all. Unlike you all, I'm a cultured man. For two years I shook loose from the grayness of country life. In the second place, my tongue is very fluent—I can make speeches. Nowadays that isn't just a pound of steam."

  "You're right, Leshka," they said in the crowd. "Without a tongue a man's a sheep. Only the tongue makes men."

  "That's just it," Leshka confirmed. "Only the tongue leads to

  fortune. The tongue plus knowledge. Of course, one needs to know—the law code, statutes, decrees. All this I know. I spent maybe two years . . . The way it was, I'm sitting in my cell, and they come running up to you. Explain, Leshka, look here, what does this note added on to the decree mean."

  "What cell was that?" they asked in the crowd. "What kind of cell are you jabbering about?"

  "What cell?" said Leshka. "Why Cell Number 14. We were doing time in the Kresty . . ."

  "Nu!" the group was surprised. "What for, wise guy, were you doing time in jail?"

  Leshka was troubled and stared distractedly into the crowd.

  "The merest trifle," Leshka said vaguely.

  "Politics, or did you swipe something?"

  Leshka Konovalov, grasping that he had botched his candidacy, spoke once again with a fluent tongue:

  "Well, no, there was nothing special against me. There was just some discrepancy in the cashbox. Well, you know you can't swim in water and not get a little wet."

  Leshka waved his hand and hastily slipped away into the crowd.

  The city comrade Vedernikov who had spoken of the new tendencies to select comrades who ?were acquainted with city life recommended voting for Eremei Sekin. And concerning Leshka he said: "Such likes we have to chase under the slogan—weeds out of the field, get out!"

  Mikhailo Bobrov, chairman of the poor element, explained the meaning of these words, and Eremei Sekin was unanimously elected on the first ballot.

  Leshka Konovalov abstained. This bottom-of-the-barrel country element was not to his taste.

  CON F E SSION

  In Passion Week, Grandma Fekla splurged—she bought a twenty-kopeck candle and placed it before the saint.

  Fekla spent a long time eagerly fitting the candle closer to the image. And when it seemed right, she stepped back a little distance and, admiring the work of her hands, began to pray and to request all kinds of advantages and favors for herself in return for the twenty kopecks she had spent.

  Fekla prayed for a long time, muttering all her petty little requests through her nose to herself; then, after she knocked her forehead on the dirty stone floor, took a deep breath, and groaned, she went to confession.

  Confessions were heard at the altar behind the screen.

  Grandma Fekla waited in line behind some really old woman indeed, and once again she began crossing herself and softly muttering. One wasn't detained for long behind the screen.

  Those taking confession went in there and, in a minute, sighing and quietly clearing their throats, emerged, bowing to the saints.

  "The priest is hurrying," Fekla thought. "And why should he hurry? There's no fire here. He is making confession undignified."

  Fekla entered behind the screen, bowed low to the priest, and kissed his hand.

  "What is your name?" the priest asked, blessing her.

  "My name is Fekla."

  "Well, tell us, Fekla," the priest said, "what are your sins? In what have you been a sinner? Do you spread idle gossip? Do you seldom seek refuge in God?"

  "I am a sinner, father, of course," said Fekla bowing.

  "May God forgive," said the priest covering Fekla with the confession shawl. "Do you believe in God? You do not doubt?"

  "I believe in God," said Fekla. "That son of mine has come home, of course. He speaks out, he judges, in a word . . . But still, I believe."

  "That is well, mother," said the priest. "Do not give yourself

  lightly to temptation. Now what, tell me, does that son say? How does he judge?"

  "He judges," said Fekla. "These, he says, are trifles—this faith of theirs. No, he says, God does not exist, and you only search the sky and clouds . . ."

  "There is a God," the priest said sternly. "Do not give yourself up to this .. . And what else, remember, did your son say?"

  "Oh, he said different things."

  "Different things!" the priest said angrily. "And from whence comes all that surrounds us? From whence are the planets, the stars and the moon, if there is no God? Your son never said any such thing. From whence, pray tell, is all that surrounds us? Is it just chemistry? Recall. Did he not speak of this? Pray tell, is it all chemistry, eh?"

  "He didn't say," Fekla said, blinking her eyes.

  "And maybe it's chemistry," the priest said thoughtfully. "Maybe that's the way it is, mother, and there's no God. Everything's chemistry..."

  Grandma Fekla threw a frightened glance at the priest. But he put the confession shawl on her head and began to mutter the words of a prayer.

  "Well, go now, go," the priest said gloomily. "Don't keep the believers waiting."

  Fekla once again threw a frightened glance at the priest and went out sighing and modestly clearing her throat. Then she went up to her own saint, looked at the candle, trimmed the burnt wick, and left the church.

  WHAT GOOD ARE RELATIVES?

  For two days Timofei VasiTevich had been looking for his nephew, Serega Vlasov. On the third day, just before leaving town, he found him. He met him in a trolley car.

  Timofei VasiTevich boarded the trolley, took out a coin, and was about to give it to the conductor; only he looked—who could it be? The conductor's face seemed very familiar. Timofei VasiTevich stared—yes! That's who it was—Serega Vlasov, his very own self, working as a trolley conductor.

  "Well!" exclaimed Timofei Vasil'evich. "Serega! Is it really you, my fine friend?"

  The conductor seemed embarrassed, checked his roll of tickets without any apparent need to do so, and said: "Just a moment, uncle ... let me give out the tickets."

  "O.K.! Go right ahead," his uncle said happily. "I'll wait."

  Timofei Vasil'evich smiled and began to explain to the passengers: "He's a blood relative of mine, Serega Vlasov. My brother Peter's son ... I haven't seen him for seven years . . ."

  Timofei Vasil'evich looked with joy on his nephew and shouted to him: "Serega, my fine friend, I've been looking for you two days. All over town. And look where you are! A conductor . . . And I went to your address. On Raznochin Street. Not here, they answer. He went away, left this place. Where, says I, did he go, answer me, says I. I'm his blood uncle. We don't know, says they . . . And there you are—a conductor, aren't you?"

  "A conductor," the nephew answered cautiously.

  The passengers began to stare with curiosity at the relative. The uncle laughed happily and looked lovingly at his nephew, but the nephew was obviously embarrassed and, feeling that he was after all on duty, did not know what to say to his uncle or how to behave in his presence.

  "So,"
the uncle said again, "you're a conductor on the trolley line?"

  "A conductor . . ."

  "Say, isn't that a coincidence! And I, Serega, my fine friend, I

  was just looking into the trolley—and what's that? The face on that conductor looks very familiar. And it turned out to be you. Ah, there's luck for you! Well, I'm so glad. I'm so pleased, really..."

  For a moment the conductor shifted from foot to foot, and then suddenly he said: "You've got to pay, uncle. To get a ticket ... Are you going far?"

  The uncle laughed happily and slapped him across the change purse.

  "I would have paid! I swear to God! If I'd gotten on another car, or if I'd missed this one—O.K.—I would have paid. I would have paid my good money. Ah, there's luck for you! . . . I'm going to the railroad station, Serega, my fine friend."

  "Two stops," said the conductor wearily, looking to the side.

  "No, you don't mean it?" Timofei Vasil'evich seemed surprised. "You don't mean it? You're kidding?"

  "You must pay, uncle," the conductor said softly. "Two stops. Because you can't travel for nothing and without a ticket."

  Timofei Vasil'evich, offended, pressed his lips together and looked sternly at his nephew.

  "Is this the way you treat your blood uncle? You rob your uncle?"

  The conductor stared gloomily out of the window.

  "That's piracy!" the uncle said angrily. "I haven't seen you, you son of a bitch, for seven years, and what do you do? You ask money for a trip. From your blood uncle? Don't you wave your hands at me. You may be my blood relative, but I'm not scared of your hands. Don't wave, you'll give the passengers a chill."

  Timofei Vasil'evich turned the coin over in his hand and put it back in his pocket.

  "What do you think of the likes of him, brothers?" Timofei Vasil'evich appealed to the public. "From his blood uncle he asks. Two stops, he says . . .Eh?"

  "You must pay," said the nephew, almost in tears. "Please don't be angry, comrade uncle. Because this isn't my trolley. It's a state trolley. It belongs to the people."

  "To the people," said the uncle, "that's not my business. You could show a little respect for your blood uncle. You could say, 'Uncle, put away your hard-earned ten kopecks. Travel free.' Your trolley wouldn't fall apart on account of that. I was riding in a train the other day . . . The conductor was no relation, but

  still he said: Tlease, Timofei Vasil'evich,' says he, 'why bring up such a thing . . . just sit. . .' And he took me along . . . And he's no relation ... Just an old village friend. And you do this to your blood uncle ... You'll get no money from me."

  The conductor wiped his forehead with his hands and suddenly rang the bell.

  "Get off, comrade uncle," said the nephew officially.

  Seeing the matter was taking a serious turn, Timofei Vasil'evich wrung his hands, took out his ten-kopeck piece again, and then again put it back.

  "No," he said, "I can't! Pay you, you snot, I can't. Better let me get off."

  Timofei Vasil'evich arose solemnly and indignantly and made his way to the exit. Then he turned.

  "Driving out your uncle . . . Your blood uncle," Timofei Vasil'evich said in a fury, "Why, you snot ... I can have you shot for this."

  Timofei Vasilevich threw a withering glance at his nephew and got off the trolley.

  THE ARISTOCRAT

  Grigorii Ivanovich inhaled noisily, wiped his chin with his sleeve, and began to tell the story: Brothers, I don't like women who wear hats. If a woman's wearing a hat, or if she's got silk stockings on her, or a little pug-dog in her arms, or if she's got a gold tooth, then to me she's an aristocrat, and not a woman at all but an empty space.

  In my time, of course, I once courted an aristocrat like that. I went strolling with h6r and took her to the theater. It was in the theater, in fact, that it all came out. It was in the theater that she exposed her ideology in its full measure.

  I met her in the courtyard at home. At a house meeting. I look, and there stands just such a big deal. Stockings on her, gold tooth.

  "Where are you from, citizen?" I say. "What number?"

  "I am," she says, "from number seven."

  "Please," says I, "good luck to you."

  And all at once I found I liked her terribly. I began to go see her often. To Apartment Number Seven. As it happened, I'd go in a kind of official capacity. Like this: "Anything wrong here, citizen, in the way of a broken pipe or toilet? Everything working?"

  "Yes," she replies. "Everything's working."

  And she wraps herself up in a woolen shawl and there's not a whisper more. Only with her eyes she's devouring away. And the tooth flashes in her mouth. I came to her for a month—she got used to it. She began to answer in more detail. Like, for example, "the pipe's working, thank you, Grigorii Ivanovich."

  To get on, we began to take strolls along the streets. We'd go out on the street, and she'd ask me to take her by the arm. I was embarrassed, but I'd take her arm and tag along like a fish out of water. And what to say, I don't know, and in front of people I'm ashamed.

  Well, and once she says to me: "Why," she says, "do you always take me out on the streets? My head's gotten all twisted. You could," she says, "if you're a man and a gentleman, take me to the theater, for example."

  "Can do," says I.

  And all at once on the following day the party cell distributed tickets for the opera. One ticket I received myself, and the other one I got from Vas'ka the locksmith, who gave his up to me.

  I never looked at the tickets, but they were different. Mine was in the orchestra, but Vas'ka's was in the balcony.

  Anyway, we got there. We took our seats in the theater. She took a seat on my ticket, and I on Vas'ka's. I was sitting in the last balcony and couldn't see a horse-radish. But if I leaned way out over the balcony rail I could see her. But not too well.

  I was getting more and more bored, and went downstairs. I look—it's intermission. And she's coming out for intermission.

  "Hello," says I.

  "Hello."

  "It's interesting," says I. "Is the pipe working here?"

  "I don't know," she says.

  And she goes to the buffet. I follow her. She walks along the buffet and looks at the counter. And on the counter there's a plate. On the plate some pastries.

  And I'm such a goose, such an uncut bourgeois, I creep around her and offer: "If you would like," says I, "to eat one of those pastries, don't hesitate. I'll pay."

  "Merc/," she says.

  And suddenly she maneuvers herself around to the plate with a vicious movement, grabs the one with whipped cream, and laps it up.

  The money I had on me was damn little. At most enough for three pastries. She eats, and I go whisking nervously through my pockets. I look in my hand. How much do I have? About a pigeon's droppings' worth.

  She ate the one with whipped cream and grabbed another. I let out with a quack. And then I keep quiet. Such a bourgeois kind of embarrassment took hold of me. Like this, a gentleman, and no money on him.

  I walk around her like a rooster, and she giggles waiting for compliments.

  I say: "Isn't it time to go back to our seats? Maybe they rang."

  But she says: "No."

  And takes a third.

  "On an empty stomach—isn't that a lot? You might throw up."

  And she: "No," she says, "I'm used to it."

  And takes a fourth.

  Then the blood runs to my head.

  "Put it," says I, "back!"

  And she got scared. She opened her mouth, and in her mouth the tooth flashed.

  It seemed to me as though someone had touched a whip to my rear. It's all one, think I, there'll be no strolling with her now.

  "Put it back," says I, "you damn bitch!"

  She stepped back. And I say to the attendant: "How much for the three pastries we ate?"

  The attendant takes it all indifferently—he takes his time.

  "You owe me," says he, "for eating four pieces, s
o-and-so much."

  "How," says I, "for four? When the fourth is still on the plate."

  "No," says he, "though it's still on the plate, it was nibbled and it's been smutched by a finger."

  "How," says I, "nibbled, if you please. It's your cockeyed fantasies."

  But he still takes it indifferently—he wrings his hands in front of his mug.

  Well, of course, people gathered around. Experts. Some say a nibble was taken, others—ncr.

  And I emptied out my pockets—something, of course, spilled out on the floor and rolled away—the crowd laughs. But to me it's not funny. I am counting my change.

  I counted the money—enough for four pieces and a little over. Dear mother, I'd picked a quarrel for nothing.

  I paid. I turn to the lady: "Eat," says I. "It's paid for."

  The lady doesn't move. She's embarrassed to eat it. And here some old joker butted in.

  "Give it here," says he. "I'll eat it."

  And he ate it, the scum. With my money.

  We took our seats in the theater. We watched the opera. Then home.

  And at home she says to me in that bourgeois tone of hers: "Enough swinery on your part. Those who don't have money shouldn't go out with ladies."

  And I say: "Money isn't happiness. Pardon the information."

  So I left her.

  I don't like aristocrats.

  THE BATHHOUSE

  Our bathhouses are not so bad. You can wash yourself. Only we have trouble in our bathhouses with the tickets. Last Saturday I went to a bathhouse, and they gave me two tickets. One for my linen, the other for my hat and coat.

  But where is a naked man going to put tickets? To say it straight—no place. No pockets. Look around—all stomach and legs. The only trouble's with the tickets. Can't tie them to your beard.

  Well, I tied a ticket to each leg so as not to lose them both at once. I went into the bath.

  The tickets are flapping about on my legs now. Annoying to walk like that. But you've got to walk. Because you've got to have a bucket. Without a bucket, how can you wash? That's the only trouble.