ELECTRIFICATION
What, brothers, is today’s most fashionable word?
Today’s most fashionable word of all is, of course, ‘electrification’.
Lighting up Soviet Russia with light, without doubt, is a matter of massive importance. No one can argue with that. But it does, for the time being, have its downside. I’m not saying, comrades, that it costs too much. It costs money – that’s all. No, I’m saying something different.
What I’m saying is this:
I was living, comrades, in a huge building. The whole of this building ran on paraffin. Some of us had lamps, some – cans of oil with a wick. The poorest had to make do with church candles. Life wasn’t easy.
And then they start to install light.
First it’s the house manager. Lights up his room – and that’s that. A quiet fellow, doesn’t let on what he’s thinking. Though he wanders about a bit strangely and keeps absentmindedly blowing his nose.
But he doesn’t let on what he’s thinking.
Then in comes my dear wife, Yelizaveta Ignatyevna Prokhorova. Says we should illuminate the apartment.
‘Everyone,’ she says, ‘is installing light. The director himself has installed light,’ she says.
So – of course – we do the same.
Light is installed, the apartment illuminated – heavens above! What foulness and filth!
Till then, you went to work in the morning, you came back in the evening, you drank down your tea and you went to bed. You never saw a thing with just paraffin. But now, with illumination – you see wallpaper flapping off the wall, and somebody’s beaten-up slipper lying about on the floor. You see a bedbug trotting along, trying to get away from the light. An old rag here, a gob of spit there, a fag end, a flea frisking about…
Heavens above! Its enough to make you call the night watchman. Such a sight is sad to see.
In our room, for instance, we had a sofa. I’d always thought it wasn’t a bad sofa – even quite a good sofa! In the evenings I used to sit on it. But now with this electricity – heavens above! Some sofa! Bits sticking up, bits hanging down, bits falling out. How can I sit on such a sofa? My soul protests.
No, I think, I don’t live in luxury. Everything’s revolting to look at. And everything I do goes wrong.
Then I see dear Yelizaveta Ignatyevna. She looks sad. She’s muttering away to herself, tidying things up in the kitchen.
‘What,’ I ask, ‘are you so sad about, dear wife?’
She shrugs her shoulders.
‘I had no idea, my dear man,’ she says, ‘what a shabby life I’ve been living.’
I look at our bits and pieces. Not so great, I think. Foulness and filth. Rags of one kind and rags of another kind. All flooded with light and staring you in the eye.
So I start to get a bit down in the mouth, you might say, when I come back home in the evenings.
I come in. I switch on the light. I briefly admire the lamp, then bury my nose in the pillow.
Then I think again. I get my pay. I buy whitewash, I mix it up – and I set to work. I tear off wallpaper, I stamp out bedbugs, I sweep away cobwebs. I sort out the sofa, I paint, I adorn – my soul sings and rejoices.
I did well. But not that well. It was in vain, dear brothers, that I blew all that money. My wife cut the wires.
‘Light,’ she says, ‘makes life seem horribly shabby. Why,’ she says, ‘shine light on our poverty? The bedbugs will die of laughter.’
I beg her. I argue arguments with her. No use.
‘You can move,’ she says, ‘to another apartment. I don’t want,’ she says, ‘to live with light. I’ve no money,’ she says, ‘to renovate and renew.’
But how could I move, comrades, after spending a fortune on whitewash? I gave in.
Light’s all very well, brothers, but it’s not easy to live with.
First published in 1924
Translated by Robert Chandler
PELAGEYA
Pelageya was illiterate. She didn’t even know how to sign her name.
But Pelageya’s husband was a Soviet worker in a position of responsibility. And though he was a simple lad from a village, five years in the city had taught him a lot. Not only how to sign his name. Goodness knows if there was anything he hadn’t learned.
And he felt very ashamed of having an illiterate wife.
‘You could at least, Pelageya, learn how to sign your name,’ he would say to his wife. ‘My surname’s so easy. Two syllables – Kuchkin. But you can’t even do that. It’s embarrassing.’
But Pelageya just shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘Why, Ivan Nikolayevich? The years are going by for me. My fingers don’t bend so well any more. What good will it do me to study and copy out letters? Study’s for Young Pioneers1 – I can’t change myself now. I’ll stay this way till the end of my days.’
Pelageya’s husband was a very busy man and he couldn’t afford to spend a lot of time on his wife. He would just shake his head. ‘Ah, Pelageya, Pelageya…’ And say no more.
But then one day Ivan Nikolayevich came home with a special little book.
‘Pelageya,’ he says, ‘here is the very newest self-teaching ABC, compiled according to the latest methods. I’ll show it to you myself.’
Pelageya smiled quietly, took the ABC from him, turned it this way and that way and hid it in the chest of drawers. ‘Maybe future generations will need it,’ she thought. ‘Maybe it’ll come in useful.’
But then one day Pelageya sat down to do some work. Ivan Nikolayevich’s jacket needed mending – the sleeve was worn through.
Pelageya sat down at the table. She took a needle. She put one hand under the jacket. Something rustled.
‘Money?’ she thought.
It was a letter. A clean, neat little envelope, with fine little writing on it. And the paper, she thought, smelled of perfume or eau de Cologne. Pelageya’s heart missed a beat.
‘No,’ she thinks. ‘Don’t say Ivan Nikolayevich is deceiving me. Don’t say he’s having intimate correspondence with ladies of importance and laughing at his illiterate fool of a wife!’
Pelageya looked at the envelope, took out the letter and unfolded it – but she couldn’t make out a thing; she was illiterate.
For the first time in her life Pelageya was sorry she couldn’t read.
‘It may not be addressed to me,’ she thought, ‘but I need to know what it says. My whole life may be about to change. Maybe I should go back to the country and work in the fields.’
Pelageya began to cry. She thought how Ivan Nikolayevich seemed to have changed recently. Yes, he was fussing about his moustache more often. Washing his hands more often.
Pelageya sits there. She looks at the letter and howls. She can’t read the letter. And how can she show it to anyone else?
Then Pelageya hid the letter in the chest of drawers, darned the jacket and began to wait for Ivan Nikolayevich. And when he arrived, Pelageya didn’t let anything show. On the contrary, she talked calmly and quietly and even hinted that she wouldn’t mind doing a little study. Really she had had enough of being a dark and illiterate peasant.
Ivan Nikolayevich was delighted. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘I’ll teach you the letters myself.’
‘All right then,’ said Pelageya.
And she looked very intently at Ivan Nikolayevich’s neatly trimmed little moustache.
Day after day, for two months on end, Pelageya taught herself letters. Patiently, syllable by syllable, she formed words. She copied letters of the alphabet and learned sentences off by heart. And every evening she took the forbidden letter out of the chest and tried to divine its mysterious meaning.
This, however, wasn’t at all easy.
Only during the third month did Pelageya fully master learning.
One morning, when Ivan Nikolayevich went off to work, Pelageya took out the letter and began to read it.
The fine handwriting was hard to decipher. Only the faint hint of perfume kept Pelageya g
oing.
The letter was addressed to Ivan Nikolayevich.
Pelageya began to read:
Dear Comrade Kuchkin,
I’m sending you the promised ABC. I think that within two or three months your wife will be able to master learning completely. Promise, my dear, to make sure she does this. Explain things to her. Impress on her how awful it is, really, to be an illiterate peasant.
At this moment, for the coming anniversary, we are using every means to eliminate illiteracy from the whole of our Republic but we forget, for some reason, about those who are near and dear to us.
Do this without fail, Ivan Nikolayevich.
With Communist greetings,
Mariya Blokhina
Pelageya read this letter twice and, sorrowfully pursing her lips and feeling some kind of secret hurt, began to cry.
First published in 1924
Translated by Robert Chandler
THE BATHHOUSE
Bathhouses in America, citizens, are said to be excellent.
A citizen, for instance, walks in, throws his clothes into a special box – and off he goes for a wash. Doesn’t even worry, for instance, that his things might get lost or stolen; doesn’t even bother with a ticket.
Well, perhaps some anxious type of American has a word with the attendant: ‘So long. Keep your eye on my stuff, will you?’
Simple as that.
And when this American’s done washing, back he comes and picks up his clothes – all laundered and ironed. Foot-cloths1 whiter than snow, no doubt. Drawers all patched and darned. Some life!
We’ve got good bathhouses too. But less good. Still, a man can get washed in them.
There’s just one problem – tickets. I went to the bathhouse last Saturday (I can hardly, after all, go to America) and they gave me two tickets. One for my clothes, another for my hat and coat.
But where can a naked man put tickets? Quite frankly – nowhere. Not a pocket in sight. Just belly and legs. It’s no joke. You can’t tie tickets to your beard.
I tie a ticket to each leg. So I don’t lose both at once. And in I go.
Now the tickets flap against my legs. Walking’s no fun. But walk I must. I need a tub. How can you wash without a tub? It’s no joke.
I look for a tub. Then I see a citizen getting washed in three tubs. He’s standing in one tub, soaping his head in another and hanging on to the third with his left hand so it doesn’t get swiped.
I give the third tub a pull. I want it, you see, for myself. But the citizen doesn’t let go.
‘Wotcha think yer up to?’ he says. ‘Thieving tubs as belong to others! I’ll smash ye with this ‘ere tub,’ he says, ‘right between yer eyes. That’ll take the smile off yer face!’
‘It was in the days of the Tsars,’ I say, ‘that people were smashed with tubs. Egotism, I call it, plain egotism! Other people, says I, need to wash too. We’re not at the theatre.’
He turns his backside to me and goes on washing.
No point, I think, in standing over the soul of a man like him. Do that, I think, and he’ll carry on washing for the next three days.
I walk on.
An hour later some fellow takes his hand off his tub. Daydreaming, I guess, or bending down for his soap. Anyway, I nick the tub.
I’ve got a tub but there’s nowhere to sit. And a standing wash isn’t what I call a wash. It’s a joke.
Very well. I stand on my two feet, I hold my tub in one hand, and I wash.
And all around me, merciful heavens, it’s laundry day. One man’s washing his trousers, another’s scrubbing his drawers, a third’s wringing out some other item he owns. Soon as you get clean, you might say, you get dirty all over again. The bastards know how to splash all right. And all this laundering makes such a racket you no longer feel like washing. Can’t hear what you’re doing with the soap. It’s no joke.
To hell with them all, I think. I’ll finish washing at home.
I go back to the changing room. I hand them a ticket, they hand me my clothes. Everything’s mine, I see, except for the trousers.
‘My own trousers,’ I say, ‘have a hole just here. But look, citizens, at the hole on these here trousers!’
‘We’re not here,’ says the attendant, ‘to look after your holes. We’re not at the theatre,’ he says.
All right. I put on the trousers and go to collect my coat. But they won’t give it to me – they want a ticket. And I’ve forgotten my ticket, it’s on my leg. I have to undress. I take off my trousers and look for the ticket – it’s gone. The string’s there, tied to my leg, but where’s the paper? Gone. Washed away.
I hold out the string. The attendant won’t take it. ‘I can’t give out clothes,’ he says, ‘on the strength of string. Every citizen can cut himself pieces of string. We won’t be able to lay in enough coats. Wait till the public’s gone home. I’ll give you what’s left.’
‘But comrade,’ I say, ‘what if what’s left is rubbish? We’re not at the theatre,’ I say. ‘Give me my coat,’ I say, ‘on the strength of distinguishing features. One pocket’s torn,’ I say, ‘and the other’s gone missing. And as for buttons, well, there’s a top button, but I doubt you’ll find many others.’
So I get back my coat. And he didn’t even take the string.
I got dressed, and out I went. Then I remembered: I’d forgotten my soap.
I went back. I’m not allowed in with my coat on.
‘Take your coat off,’ they say.
‘I can’t, citizens, undress a third time. We’re not at the theatre,’ I say. ‘At least give me back the price of my soap.’
Nothing doing.
Nothing doing – then nothing doing. Off I go with no soap.
The reader may, of course, wish to know which bathhouse I’m talking about. Where is it? What’s the address?
Which bathhouse? Any old bathhouse. A ten-kopek bathhouse.
First published in 1925
Translated by Robert Chandler
THE CRISIS
The other day, citizens, I saw a load of bricks being carted down the street. I really did!
My heart, you know, trembled with joy. Because, citizens, we are building. Bricks, after all, don’t get carted around for no reason. Somewhere or other a building is being built. Things are getting going – touch wood!
In twenty years’ time, maybe even less, every citizen, probably, will have a whole room to himself. And if the population doesn’t multiply too rapidly and if, say, everyone is allowed abortions – two whole rooms. Or three. And a bathroom.
What a life it will be, citizens! One room, say, for sleeping. Another for receiving guests. A third… Who knows? There’ll be more than enough to keep us busy when we’re living lives of such freedom!
In the meantime, though, things are a little tight as regards square footage of space. Living space is a bit short because of the crisis.
I lived for a while, brothers, in Moscow. I only just got back. I experienced this crisis first hand.
I arrived, you see, in Moscow. I walked up and down the streets with my things. Not a hope. Not just nowhere to stay – nowhere even to leave my things.
Two weeks I walked the streets with my things. I grew a beard, my things went missing. I wandered about without any things. Travelling light. On the lookout, you see, for somewhere to live.
And then, in one building, a guy comes down the stairs. ‘For thirty roubles,’ he says, ‘I can fix you up in a bathroom. The apartment, he says, is fit for a lord… Three toilets… A bathroom… You can live quite a life,’ he says, ‘in that bathroom. There’s no windows,’ he says, ‘but there’s a door. And water right there at hand. If you like,’ he says, ‘you can run yourself a bathful of water and dive in and out all day.’
‘Dear comrade,’ I say, ‘I’m not a fish. I don’t need to dive. I’d rather live on dry land. Can’t you,’ I say, ‘knock a bit off on account of the damp?’
He says, ‘I can’t, comrade. I’d like to, but I can�
�t. It’s not up to me alone. This is a communal apartment. The rent we’ve agreed on is non-negotiable.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘what can I do? Take my thirty roubles,’ I say, ‘and let me in straight away. I’ve been pounding the pavements,’ I say, ‘for three weeks. I might,’ I say, ‘get tired.’
So. They let me in. I start living.
The bathroom, you know, truly is fit for a lord. Wherever you step – taps, a boiler, a bath made of marble. Only there doesn’t happen to be anywhere you can sit. You can just about sit on the edge of the bath, but then you fall in, straight into the marble.
I made myself a plank lid for thirty roubles – and went on living.
A month later I happened to get married.
There she was – such a young, good-natured little spouse. With nowhere to live.
I thought she’d turn me down because of the bath. I thought I’d never get to know family happiness and comfort. But she didn’t mind. Didn’t turn me down at all. Just gave a little frown.
‘What of it?’ she says. ‘There are good people living in bathrooms. And if the worst comes to the worst,’ she says, ‘we can put up partitions. This, say, could be my boudoir, and this – our dining room.’
‘Partitions,’ I say, ‘would be good. Only the other tenants, the bastards, won’t let us. No alterations, they keep saying.’
So. Life went on.
Within a year my spouse and I had a little baby.
We called him Volodya and on we lived. We bathed him right there in the bath. And life went on.
And really, you know, things were pretty excellent. Yes, the baby had a daily bath and never got a single cold.
Just one thing wasn’t so very convenient. In the evening communal tenants were always barging in. Wanting to wash.
And then our whole family would have to move into the corridor.
Not that I didn’t keep asking the tenants:
‘Wash on Saturdays, citizens. You can’t,’ I say, ‘wash every day. When are we meant to live? Put yourselves,’ I say, ‘in our place!’
But there were thirty-two of the bastards. Every one of them swearing. And threatening, if there was any trouble, to smash me in the face.
Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics) Page 34
