And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.

  And our Michel Siniagin continued his life under the skies of Pskov, occupying himself, for the time being, with his verses, and carrying on a temporary affair with a certain local girl, to whom in his ebullience he dedicated his poems.

  Of course, these poems were not stamped with genius; they were not even very original; but their freshness of feeling and their naive uncomplicated style made them remarkable in the common pot of the verses of that time.

  The author does not remember these poems. Life, cares, and sorrows have driven from his memory the fine lines and poetic rhythms, but some fragments and separate strophes have been remembered on the strength of their authentic emotion.

  Petals and forget-me-nots

  Strewn behind the windowpane . . .

  The author has not retained this entire poem called "Autumn" in his memory, but recalls that its ending was filled with public sorrow.

  Ah, tell me, tell me why

  And why in natute

  Things are so? And why

  Life holds no happiness at all ...

  Another of Michel's poems spoke of his love for nature and its turbulent elemental manifestations:

  Storm

  The storm has passed

  Through the window

  White rose branches

  Exude for me a wondrous smell.

  And still the grass is thick

  With transparent tears,

  And thunder thunders from afar

  Like a bell.

  This poem was memorized by the whole family, and the old ladies, reciting it daily, repeated it to the author.

  And when visitors arrived, Anna Arkadevna Siniagina dragged

  them to Michel's room and there, pointing to the writing desk of Karelian birch, sighed and said with her eyes moist: "Here at this desk Michel has written his best things—'Storm,' Tetals and Forget-me-nots,' and 'Ladies, Ladies ...'"

  "Mama," Michel would say, carried away, "cut it out, will you . . . Ah, come on now . . ."

  The visitors would shake their heads and, neither quite approving nor quite in distress, would touch the desk with their fingers and say vaguely: "Mmm-so. Not bad."

  Some mercantile spirits would even ask then and there how much the desk had cost and, with that, would switch the conversation to other tracks, less pleasing to Michel and his mother.

  The poet devoted his attention to women; being, however, under the powerful influence of the noted poets of that time, he did not concentrate his emotions on any particular woman. He loved an unreal, some kind of unknown, woman, who was brilliant in her beauty and secretiveness.

  A charming poem, "Ladies, Ladies, What Makes It Nice To Look at You," revealed this relationship very well. This poem ended thus:

  Therefore I am in love with an unknown lady. But when this unknown lady gets to know me, I lose desire to gaze at a known face, To give her a wedding ring I lose desire. . . .

  Nevertheless, the poet did carry on an affair with a certain specific girl, and in this sense his poetic genius departed somewhat from his worldly needs.

  Justice, however, requires us to note that Michel felt burdened by his earth-bound affair, finding it rather vulgar and petty. In the main he was afraid that he might somehow be snared, and somehow forced to marry, and that this might force him down to the level of ordinary, everyday activities.

  Michel reckoned on a different, more exclusive fate. And as his future wife, he dreamed of some amazing lady in no way resembling the girls of Pskov.

  He did not imagine in detail what his wife would be like, but thinking about it, he saw in his mind's eye some little dogs, some furs, some harness and carriages. She would emerge from the carriage, and a footman, bowing humbly, would open the gates.

  The girl with whom he had an affair, however, was a somewhat more ordinary girl. This was Simochka ML, who was that year completing her course at the Pskov Gymnasium.

  A Passion. Brief Happiness. Loving the Poet Passionately. The Widow M — va and Her Character. An Unexpected Visit. An Ugly Scene. The Engagement.

  Maintaining a rather careless relationship with Simochka, Michel, no matter how much he may have been attracted to her, never for a moment allowed himself the thought that he might marry her.

  This was a simple passion; it was not a serious, but rather a so to speak, preparatory kind of love, to which the heart need not be committed. Simochka was a charming, and even a wonderful girl, whose face was, however, unfortunately, broadly strewn with freckles.

  But inasmuch as she had not entered deeply into Michel's life, he not only made no protest against this manifestation of nature, but actually found it quite charming and superfluous.

  They both walked out into forest or field, and, there, recited poems aloud, or ran about arm in arm, like children, delighting in the sun and smell.

  Nevertheless, one fine day Simochka began to feel herself becoming a mother, concerning which she informed her friend. She loved his first maidenlike emotional reaction, and was even able to look at his face for a long time without tearing herself away.

  She loved him with a touching passion, knowing very well that, as a provincial miss, she was no match for him.

  The news imparted by Simochka profoundly stunned and even frightened Michel. He was not so much afraid of Simochka as he was of her mother, Mrs. M. . . , who was well known in the town, a very energetic, lively widow, burdened by a large family. She had somewhere around six daughters, for whom she searched out husbands fairly successfully and energetically, resorting with this in mind to every imaginable cunning, threats and even direct insults.

  She was one of those quite dark-complexioned, rather pockmarked women. In spite of this, all her daughters were blonde and even almost white-haired, like their father probably, who had died two years ago of glanders.

  At that time there were as yet no support payments and wedding exemptions, and Michel thought with terror of the possible circumstances.

  He decidedly could not marry her. Not of such a wife had he dreamed, and not on this kind of provincial life had he reckoned.

  All this seemed to him temporary, accidental, and transitory. And soon, another life would begin, full of glorious joys, delights, deeds, and beginnings.

  And, glancing at his sweetheart, he thought that she could not, under those circumstances, be his wife—this white-haired girl with freckles. Moreover, he knew her elder sisters—all of them, having married, quickly faded and aged. And this, too, was not to the poet's taste.

  By now he wanted to take off and go to Leningrad, but the following events detained him in Pskov.

  The dark and pock-marked lady, the widow M., came to his apartment and demanded that he marry her daughter.

  She came on a day and at an hour when there was no one in the apartment, and Michel, whether he liked it or not, was forced to take the whole blow on his own shoulders.

  She approached him in his room and, at first even somewhat shyly and timidly, informed him of the purpose of her visit.

  The modest, dreamy, delicate poet, at first, even politely tried to deny her, but all his words carried little conviction and did not penetrate into the consciousness of the energetic lady.

  Soon the polite tone altered to a more energetic one. Gestures followed, and even ugly words and yelling. They both yelled at the same time, each trying to drown the other out and at the same time morally establish his will and energy.

  The widow M. had sat down in an armchair, but, with the blood rushing to her head, she began to pace about the room with immense strides, moving, for greater persuasiveness, a chair, the bookcases, and even the heavy trunks. Michel, like a drowning man, tried to pull himself out of the deep water, and, not succeeding, shouted and even tried physically to push the widow into another room or into the hallway.

  But this widow and loving mother suddenly and unexpectedly hopped up on the window sill and declared in a powerful v^ice that she wwld that instant leap fr*m the window into Assembly Street and die like a dtg if he did Mt
agree to this marriage. And,

  having opened the window, she dangled on the sill, risking at every moment the plunge down.

  Michel stood stunned, and, not knowing what to do, ran now to her, now to the table, then hurled himself clutching his head into the corridor to call for help.

  By now people had begun to collect on the street below, pointing with their fingers and expressing the boldest proposals with regard to the lady who was yelling and leaping about on the window sill.

  Anger, outrage, the fear of scandal, and terror fettered Michel, and he now stood, demoralized by this lady's extremely energetic character.

  He stood at his desk and observed his visitor with terror. She yelled out stridently like a tradeswoman and demanded an answer.

  Her feet slid along the window sill, and each incautious movement might well have caused her to plunge from the second floor.

  It was miraculous August weather. The sun blazed from the blue sky. A sunbeam played on the wall from the open window. Everything was familiar and beautiful in its charming ordinariness, and only the screaming - and yelling woman violated the normal course of things. All aflutter, and begging her to cease her outcries, Michel gave his agreement to marriage with Simochka.

  Madame immediately and willingly, then, got down from the window, and in a calm voice begged him to excuse her for her perhaps rather noisy behavior, accounting for this in terms of her maternal emotions and sensations. She kissed Michel on the cheek, calling him her son and sobbing away out of the sincerity of her emotions.

  Michel stood as one submerged in water, not knowing what to say or what to do or how to escape from calamity. He accompanied the widow to the entrance, and, having succumbed to her will, quite unexpectedly even for himself, kissed her hand, and, decisively confused, expressed the hope they would meet again soon, mumbling disconnected words that had little to do with the matter in hand.

  The widow, silent, majestic, and beaming, left the house, first powdering herself up a bit and touching up the lines of her eyebrows, which had been knocked somewhat askew.

  Nervous Shock. Literary Heritage. A Meeting. The Wedding. The Departure of Aunt Maria. A Mother's End. Birth of a Child. Michel's Departure.

  On the evening of this ill-omened day, after the departure of his uninvited guest, Michel wrote his well-known poem, subsequently set to music: "O Pine Trees, Pine Trees, Answer Me ..."

  This calmed him somewhat. But his shock had been sufficiently serious and significant so that at night Michel felt, with his heart beating wildly, uncontrollable terror, nausea, and dizziness.

  Thinking that he would die, the poet, with trembling hands, dressed only in his drawers, leapt out of bed, and, clutching his heart, awakened his mama and auntie, with grief and terror. The ladies had not yet been informed of what had happened. Explaining nothing, he began to babble of death, and insisted that he wanted to arrange for the final disposition of his manuscripts. Shaking, he approached the desk and began to pull out heaps of manuscripts, sorting and arranging them, pointing out which in his opinion ought to be published and which ought to be put away for the future.

  Both these ladies, no longer young, torn from their nightly routine, in their petticoats, with their hair in disorder, wandered about the room in their grief, and, wringing their hands, tried to persuade Michel, and even attempted to propel him by force into his bed, deeming it necessary to lay a compress on his heart or paint his side with iodine and thus draw off the blood which was rushing to his head. But Michel, begging them not to trouble themselves about his essentially insignificant life, insisted that it would be better for them to remember what he was saying concerning the disposition of his literary heritage.

  Having sorted the manuscripts, Michel, running about the room in his underwear, began to dictate to Aunt Maria a new variant of "Petals and Forget-me-nots," which he had not yet managed to put down on paper.

  Weeping and choking with tears, Auntie Maria, by candlelight, stained the paper, mangling and confusing the strophes and rhythms.

  Feverish work distracted Michel somewhat from his suffering. The beating of his heart continued, but less violently, and his dizziness changed to drowsiness and complete apathy. And

  Michel, to everyone's surprise, fell softly asleep while lighting a cigarette in his armchair.

  Covering him with a rug and making the sign of the cross over him, the old ladies withdrew, terrified by such a nervous organism and by the unbalanced psyche of a poet.

  The following day Michel arose refreshed and bold. But the terror of the previous evening had not left him, and he informed his relatives of his traumatic experiences.

  Drama and tears were in full swing when a little note arrived from Simochka, begging him for a meeting.

  He went to this meeting, haughty and restrained, not thinking, however, because he did have a certain basic decency, of dodging or shirking his promises.

  The girl, who was very much in love, begged him to forgive her mother's unworthy behavior, adding that she personally, though she dreamed of tying her life to his, would never have risked resorting to such impudent demands.

  Michel said in a reserved tone that he would do as he had promised, but that he could give no guarantees concerning their future life together. He might live in Pskov for a year or two, but in the long run he would move_as quickly as he could to Moscow or Leningrad where he intended to continue his career, or where in any case he would seek out a life appropriate to his needs.

  While not insulting the girl with his words, Michel nevertheless gave her to understand the difference, if not in their positions, which had been rendered equal by the Revolution, then at least in the significance of their lives.

  The enamored young lady agreed to everything, looked proudly at his face, and said that she did not in any way wish to tie his life down, that he was free to act as he judged best. Somewhat reassured in this sense, Michel himself even began to say that this marriage was a matter already decided, but that when it would take place, he still could not say.

  They departed as formerly, more friends than enemies. And Michel made his way home with steady step, in spite of the fact that the wound in his spirit could not heal so quickly.

  In exemplary fashion, Michel married Simochka M. within half a year, in die winter, in January.

  The forthcoming wedding had an extreme effect on the health

  §of Michel's mother. She began to complain of life's boredom and

  emptiness, and her eyes grew sickly, she pined away, and she

  almost never got up from the samovar. The conception of marriage was somewhat different in those days than it is now, and in the opinion of old women it was a singular and decisive step and fraught with mystery.

  Auntie Maria was also in a state of shock. She was somehow actually offended by the turn things had taken, and, more and more often now, said that there was no place for her here and that she would travel to Leningrad in the immediate future, where she would apply herself to her memoirs and the description of her encounters.

  Michel, somewhat embarrassed by it all, paced moodily about the rooms, saying that if he hadn't given his word, he would spit on it all and would leave in whatever direction his glance took him. But in any case he wanted to let them all know that this marriage would not tie him down: he was the master of his life, he would not abandon his plans, and, probably within half a year or a year, he would follow in the footsteps of his auntie.

  The marriage ceremony was performed simply and modestly.

  They registered in the commissariat, and afterwards in the church. On the day of transfiguration, a modest wedding was arranged. All the relatives on both sides walked in a reserved manner, as though each in his own way had been offended in his feelings. And only the widow M., powdered and painted and in a veil, sausaged her way along through the church and through Michel's apartment where the wedding supper was held.

  The widow alone spoke for all at the table, proposed toasts and made speeches and scat
tered compliments at the old ladies, somehow supporting by this means the gay atmosphere and the proper tone of a wedding.

  The young bride blushed for her mother—and for her pockmarked face and for her penetrating voice, which gave way before no other—and sat at her place, hanging her head.

  Michel, however, failed to throw off his restraint for the entire evening; a gloomy depression oppressed him, and the notion that whatever they might say, they had caught him in a trap like any common son of a bitch. And that this extremely energetic woman had captured him because of his panic, since it hardly seems likely that she really would have leaped from the window.

  And when supper was over, after congratulations and pleasantries, he asked the widow about it, smiling crookedly and inclining an ear toward her.

  "Surely you would never have leaped from the window, Elena Borisovna," he said.

  The widow soothed him as best she could, swearing solemn oaths that she undoubtedly would have leaped immediately if he had not given his agreement. But in the end, with his crooked little smiles working on her temper, she said angrily that she had six daughters and if she got into the habit of leaping out of windows for each one of them, there wouldn't be enough windows in the building.

  Michel looked timidly at her nasty, outraged face, and, having become quite confused, stepped aside.

  "It's all a lie, regular egoism and deception," muttered Michel, color rushing to his face as he remembered the details.

  The evening nevertheless passed pleasantly and by no means failed to honor the guests, and ordinary life began, with conversations of departure, of a better life, and of the fact that it was impossible in that city in any way to arrange one's destiny pleasantly, bearing in mind the revolutionary threat which was indeed becoming more and more menacing.

  That very spring, finally, having pulled herself together, Auntie Maria Arkadevna departed for Leningrad; and soon she sent them a desperate letter from there, in which she informed them that she had been robbed on the road, and her traveling bag with part of her valuables had been carried off.