And Other Stories Of Communist Russia

by Zoshchenko,Mikhail.

  No, all these names belonged to people already dead.

  Then I mentioned my own family name. And the woman smiled. She said she had been a very young girl then, but she remembered my dead parents very well. Then she began to mention the names of our relatives who had lived here, the names of acquaintances. No, all the names mentioned also belonged to the dead.

  Sadly I returned to my boat.

  Sadly I walked along the village street. Only the street and the houses were the same. The people who lived in them were different. Those from the past had lived here as guests and gone away, disappeared. They would never return. They had died.

  It seemed to me that I understood that day what life was, and death, and how one had to live.

  With heightened sorrow, I returned home. And at home I did not even begin to think of my searchings, of my childhood. I was indifferent to everything that had happened to me.

  It all seemed trash and nonsense compared to the image of brief life I had seen today.

  Is it worth while thinking, struggling, searching, defending oneself? Is it worth while trying to master a life that flashes past headlong at such offensive, such absurd speed?

  Wouldn't it be better just to live along without grumbling, and then give up one's sorry place to other fugitives of the earth?

  Someone laughed in the next room, just as I was thinking about these things. And it seemed strange and savage to me that people could laugh, joke, or even talk, when everything was so stupid, so senseless, so offensive.

  It seemed to me easier and simpler to die than to wait stubbornly and dimly for that fate which awaits everyone. In this

  decision I unexpectedly saw manliness. How amazed I would have been if someone had said to me then what I now know, that this was not manliness at all, but rather an extreme degree of infantilism. It was produced by the terror I had felt as an infant confronted now by that which I wanted to find. It was resistance. It was flight.

  I decided to put an end to my searchings. And with this decision I fell asleep.

  During the night I awoke in terror from a frightening dream. My terror was so strong that I continued to tremble even after I woke up.

  I turned on a light and wrote my dream down so I could think about it in the morning, if only out of curiosity.

  But I could not get to sleep, and I began to think about this dream.

  In substance, the dream was an extremely stupid one. A dark, stormy river. Murky, almost black waters. Something white floats on the water—a piece of paper or a rag. I am on the shore. That is, I'm running hard as I can away from the shore. I'm running along a field. The field for some reason is sky blue. And someone is pursuing me. And he's catching up and wants to grab me by the shoulder. This man's hand is already reaching out for me. Flinging myself forward, I escape.

  I began to ponder this dream, but understood it not at all.

  And then I began to think that here again I had seen water in a dream. This dark, black water . . . And suddenly I recalled Blok's poem:

  An old, old dream . . . Out of the shadows The street lights run—but where? Only black waters there, Only oblivion forever.

  That dream was very like mine.

  I was running from the black waters, from "oblivion forever."

  3

  I began to remember dreams connected with water. Now I am swimming in a stormy sea. I'm struggling with the waves. Now I'm wandering off somewhere, water up to my knees. Or I'm sitting on the shore, and the water breaks at my feet. Or Tm walking along the very edge of the shore. And suddenly the water

  begins to rise higher and higher. Terror seizes me. I run away.

  I remembered yet another dream. I'm sitting in my room. Suddenly, from all the chinks, the floor is flooded with water. Another minute and the room will be full of water.

  I usually woke from such dreams, weary, sick, and dispirited. My melancholy usually waxed stronger after such dreams.

  Perhaps the frequent floods in Leningrad had influenced my psyche? Perhaps there was something else connected with water?

  No doubt water was connected with some powerful sensation. But which?

  Perhaps I was afraid of water in general? No. On the contrary. Fm very fond of water. I can admire the sea for hours. I usually travel only where the sea is, or a river. I have always tried to find a room with windows on the water. I have always liked to imagine living somewhere on the shore: very close to the water, so that the waves would reach almost to the porch of my house.

  Often the sea or a river had returned me to peace and calm, when I was in the grips of that melancholy which visited me so often.

  What if this were not a love for water, but terror?

  What if, behind this exaggerated love, a deferential terror were concealed?

  Perhaps I do not like water, but put up with it? Perhaps I like it when it is calm, when it does not threaten to drown me?

  Perhaps I put up with it from the shore, from the window of my room? Perhaps I go closer to it in order to be more secure, to make sure that it won't take me by surprise?

  Perhaps it is that kind of terror that does not reach consciousness, that imbeds itself in the lower level of the psyche, imprisoned there by logic, by the control of intellect?

  I laughed. It seemed at the same time so absurd and so right.

  No doubt remained. A terror of the water existed in my mind. But it was deformed. It did not have the shape by which we generally recognize it.

  Then it seemed to me that I understood my dream. It undoubtedly related to the days of my infancy. In order to understand it, it was necessary to abstract the usual forms, it was necessary to think in the images of an infant, to see it with an infant's eyes.

  Of course, not entirely with his eyes—undoubtedly they were too inadequate. They changed with his development. But their symbolism, evidently, remained as before.

  The murky, stormy river—that was a bath or a tub of water. The blue shore—a blanket. The white rag—a diaper that remained in the tub. The child has been taken out of the water in which he had been bathed. The child was "saved." But the threat remained.

  I laughed again. This was absurd, but believable. It was naive, but not more naive than it should have been.

  But how could this come to pass? All infants are bathed. All children are immersed in water. Terror does not remain with them. Why was I terrified? It means that water was not the prime reason, I thought. It means that there are some other objects of terror, associated with water.

  At this point I remembered the principle of conditioned reflexes.

  A single stimulus could evoke two centers of alarm, for between them a conditional nervous association must have been established.

  The water in which I had been immersed could hardly in itself have aroused the agitation I felt. That means the water must have been conditionally associated with something else. That means it was not concerning the water I felt terror, but that the water evoked terror, for nervous associations connected it with yet some other threat. In this connection lay the solution to the problem, and that was the reason water had the power to terrify.

  But with what was water associated? What kind of "poison" did it contain? What does the second unfortunate stimulant consist of, "igniting" in combination such a stormy response?

  I still had not begun to guess at the second stimulus, the second center of alarm, with which the nervous associations were so clearly connected.

  However, this stimulus was already in part apparent from the dream itself. The world of infancy is a meager one, objects are very limited in their number. Stimuli are by no means numerous. But my inexperience did not permit me to discover this second stimulus instantly.

  The riddle was not solved, but the keys were in my hands.

  Further events showed that I was basically not mistaken. I was mistaken only in the number of centers of alarm. They turned

  out to be not two, but several. And they were interlaced with each other by a complex netw
ork of conditioned associations.

  The principle of conditioned reflexes states that nervous associations have a temporary character. A repetition of experience is required before they become confirmed. Without such experiences, they die down or disappear altogether.

  Well, so. Water in the given instance was an excellent and frequent stimulus in an infant's life. Repetition, there undoubtedly was. I still did not know the nature of the second stimulus, but it seemed understandable to me that its conditional association with water could b$ confirmed.

  With the child's development, however, this association should have disappeared. For the repetition could not recur perpetually. For it was not an infant and not an adolescent, but, finally, now, a mature man whom this false association could tear apart. But it was false, mistaken—that was obvious.

  One's intellectual development really does struggle with untrue, false, illogical images. The child, while developing, however, could meet with other, more logical indications of the danger of that which he fears.

  Once again, I began to examine my memories associated with water.

  Indications of the danger of water were at every hand.

  People drown in water. I can drown. Water floods the city. Suicides fling themselves into water.

  These are weighty indications of the danger of water.

  No doubt—it could terrify a child, prove to him that the infantile images he had formed had been correct.

  This kind of "false" proof might have accompanied me all my life. Undoubtedly, that's the way it had been. Water preserved the elements of fear, nourished my infantile terror. The temporary associations formed in connection with water might not have disappeared; they might have been more and more powerfully confirmed.

  That means that a man's intellectual development does not destroy the temporary conditional associations, it merely transforms them, lifts these false indications to its own level of development. And perhaps it seeks out these indications obsequiously, not testing them too hard, for even without verification

  they may well establish neighborly relations with a logic that grows on sickly soil.

  These false indications are often intermeshed with authentic indications. Water really is dangerous. But the neurotic does not accept this danger in its true measure, and his reaction to this danger is also not in the measure of the normal.

  But if this were so, if water was one of the elements of my fear, one of the stimuli of my neurotic complex, then how sad and pitiful was the picture that opened before my gaze.

  For they had been treating me with water. With water they had been trying to rescue me from my melancholy.

  They had been prescribing water both inside and out. They sat me in baths, rolled me in wet sheets, sprayed me with showers. They sent me to the sea—to travel and to swim.

  My God! From this therapy alone my melancholy might easily have arisen.

  This therapy could intensify the conflict, could create an impasse.

  And yet water was only part of the trouble, perhaps even an insignificant part.

  The therapy, however, did not create an impasse. It was possible to avoid this therapy. And so I did. I ceased taking the cure.

  In order to cure myself, I invented a by-no-means-stupid theory that for fullness of health a man must be always at work, without interruption. I stopped going to sanatoriums; it was a superfluous luxury.

  In this way, I liberated myself from the therapy.

  But I could not liberate myself from constant confrontations with that which frightened me. The terror continued to exist.

  This terror was unconscious. It was sequestered in the lower level of my psyche. The sentinels of my intellect did not allow it freedom. It had the right to emerge only at night, when my consciousness was not in control.

  This terror lived a nocturnal life, in transfigurations. But by day, in confrontation with the object of fear, it declared itself only by indirection—by mysterious symptoms which could escape the diagnosis of any doctor.

  We know what terror is, we know its action on the work of our body. We know its defensive reflexes. Basically, they are attempts to escape danger.

  The symptoms of terror are various. They depend on the force

  of the terror. They express themselves in the form of nosebleeds, spasms of coughing, muscular cramps, increased speed of heartbeat, and so forth. An extreme degree of terror brings on partial or full paralysis.

  These were precisely the symptoms that my unconscious terror created. To some degree they were expressed in heart attacks, shortness of breath, spasms, and muscular cramps.

  These were, above all, the symptoms of terror. Its chronic presence violated the normal functioning of my body, created constant inhibitions, led to chronic incapacities.

  At the basis of these symptoms was a certain "expediency"— they blocked my way to "danger"; they prepared flight.

  The animal who cannot escape danger plays dead.

  Now I was playing dead, sick, weak, whenever it was impossible to get away from "danger."

  All this was a response to a stimulus received from outside. It was a complex response, for the conditioned nervous associations, as we shall see farther on, were quite complicated.

  I struggled with this malady, defended myself from this unconscious ill. And the nature of my defense always corresponded to the stage of my development.

  In my childish years, my behavior usually reduced itself to flight, but to some extent it rose to a desire to master water, to make it "my own." I tried to learn how to swim. But I did not learn. Terror held me firmly in its grip.

  I learned to swim only as an adolescent, fighting this terror.

  This was my first victory, and, if you like, my only one. I remember how proud I was.

  In later years, too, my consciousness did not lead me away from this struggle. On the contrary, my consciousness forced me to it. I always tried to come to grips with my formidable opponent as quickly as I could, to measure forces with him once again.

  Actually, there was a conflict here which disguised my terror.

  I did not avoid steamers, rowboats, I did not avoid being on the sea. Against my terror, as it were, I went constantly into single combat. My consciousness did not want to admit defeat, or even lack of spirit.

  I recall an incident at the front. I was leading my battalion to a position. Before us was a river. I hesitated for a moment. The

  crossing was not a difficult one; nevertheless, I sent scouts to right and left to find an easier crossing. I sent them in the secret hope of finding some dry way across the river.

  It was the beginning of summer and such a path was unthinkable.

  I was troubled only for a moment. I called the scouts back and led the battalion across the river.

  I remember my agitation when we entered the water. I remember the pounding of my heart which I could scarcely control.

  It seemed that I had acted correctly. Crossings were always the same. And I was happy that I had not hesitated, that I had acted decisively.

  That means, I was not a blind instrument in the grip of my terror. My behavior was always the product of duty, conscience, consciousness. But the symptoms of a malady were all too obvious. I knew nothing of their origin. Doctors defined them roughly as a neurosis produced by exhaustion.

  Sensing an inequality in the opposing forces, nevertheless I continued to wage a struggle against my unconscious terror. But how strangely this struggle went. What strange paths were found to a dubious victory.

  8

  The thirty-year-old man tried to liberate himself from his terror by a systematic study of water. The struggle proceeded along the line of knowledge, of science.

  All my journals and notebooks began to fill up with information about water.

  These journals are now before me. I go through them with a smile. Here are notes concerning the most violent storms and floods in the world. Here are the most detailed figures—the depth of seas and oceans. Here is informati
on about the stormier waters. About rocky shores, which boats dare not approach. About waterfalls.

  Here is information about people who have been drowned. About artificial respiration and first aid.

  Here is a note underlined in red pencil: "71 per cent of the earth's surface is under water, and only 29 per cent is dry."

  A tragic note! Written in red pencil: "Three-fourths of the globe—water!"

  Here are other tragic notes, concerning the percentage of water

  in the bodies of people, animals, and plants: "Fish—70-80 per cent; jellyfish—96 per cent; potato—75 per cent; bones—50 per cent . . ."

  What enormous labor! How senseless.

  Here is a whole notebook full of information about winds. It's understandable—the cause of floods, storms, tempests.

  Excerpts from my notes: "3 meters a second—stirs the leaves; 10 meters a second—rocks large branches; 20 meters a second— strong wind; 30 meters a second—storm; 35 meters a second— storm, on the verge of a hurricane; 40 meters a second—hurricane, destroys houses."

  Under this, a supplement: " *ty-,' extreme; 'phoon,' wind; typhoon in 1892 (island of Mauritius)—54 meters a second!"

  Here is still another notebook on Leningrad floods.

  Paging through these notebooks of mine, I smiled at first. Then the smile changed to a frown. What a tragic struggle. What an "intellectual" and, at the same time, what a barbaric path my consciousness had found to subdue the opponent, to destroy terror, to maintain a victory.

  What a tragic path was found. It corresponded to my intellectual development.

  This path found a reflection in my writing.

  But at this point I should make some reservations. I do not at all wish to say that this path—terror and the wish to overcome it—predetermined my life, my footsteps, my behavior, my melancholy, my literary intentions.

  Not at all. My conduct remained exactly as it would have if the terror had never existed. But the terror complicated my footsteps, reinforced my incapacity, and heightened my melancholy, which might have existed even without it for reasons and circumstances which all people share.

  Terror did not predetermine the way, but it was one element in a complex of forces.