Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov (Penguin Classics)

by Unknown

  And I myself think the story begins during a distant and wonderful summer, when I was only fifteen.

  It’s only nowadays that I’ve become so quiet and melancholic – back then, in my early youth, I was full of beans, a real madcap. Some girls are like that. Daredevils, afraid of nothing. And you can’t even say that I was spoiled, because there was no one to spoil me. By then I was already an orphan, and the aunt who was in charge of me, may she rest in peace, was simply a ninny. Spoiling me and disciplining me were equally beyond her. She was a blancmange. I now believe that she simply wasn’t in the least interested in me; but then neither did I care in the least about her.

  The summer I’m talking about, my auntie and I were staying with the Katkovs, who lived on a neighbouring estate, in the province of Smolensk.

  It was a large and very sweet family. My friend Zina Katkova liked me a lot. She simply adored me. In fact the whole family were very fond of me. I was a pretty girl, good-natured and lively – yes, I really was very lively indeed. It seemed I was charged up with enough joy, enough zest for life to last me till the end of my days. As things turned out, however, that proved to be far from the case.

  I had a lot of self-confidence then. I felt I was clever and beautiful. I flirted with everyone, even with the old cook. Life was so full it filled me almost to bursting. The Katkovs, as I’ve said, were a large family and – with all the guests who had come for the summer – there were usually about twenty people around the table.

  After supper, we used to walk to a little hill – a beautiful, romantic spot. From it you could see the river and an old abandoned mill. It was a mysterious, shadowy place, especially in the light of the moon, when everything round about was bathed in silver, and only the bushes by the mill and the water under the mill-wheel were black as ink, silent and sinister.

  We didn’t go to the mill even in daytime – we weren’t allowed to, because the wooden dam was very old and, even if you didn’t fall right through it, you could easily sprain your ankle. The village children, on the other hand, went there all the time, foraging for raspberries. The canes had become dense bushes, but the raspberries themselves were now very small, like wild ones.

  And so we would often sit in the evenings on the little hill, gazing at this old mill and singing all together, ‘Sing, swallow, sing!’

  It was, of course, only us young who went there. There were about six of us. There was my friend Zina and her two brothers – Kolya, who was the elder by two years, and Volodya, who is now my husband. At the time he was twenty-three years old, already grown-up, a student. And then there was his college friend, Vanya Lebedev – a very interesting young man, intelligent and full of mockery, always able to come up with some witticism. I, of course, thought he was madly in love with me, only trying his best to hide it. Later the poor fellow was killed in the war … And then there was one more boy – red-haired Tolya, the estate manager’s son. He was about sixteen years old and still at school. He was a nice boy, and even quite good looking – tall, strong, but terribly shy. When I remember him now, he always seems to be hiding behind somebody. If you happened to catch his glance, he would smile shyly and quickly disappear again. Now, this red-haired Tolya really was head-over-heels in love with me. About this there could be no doubt at all. He was wildly, hopelessly in love with me, so hopelessly that no one even had the least wish to make fun of him or to try to laugh him out of it. No one teased him at all, though anyone else in his position would have been granted no mercy – especially with people like Vanya around. Vanya even used to make out that Fedotych the old cook was smitten with my charms: ‘Really, Lyalya, it’s time you satisfied poor Fedotych’s passion. Today’s fish soup is pure salt.1 We can’t go on like this. You’re a vain girl. You may enjoy his suffering – but what about us? Why should we be punished?’

  Tolya and I often used to go out for walks together. Sometimes I liked to get up before dawn and go out to fish or pick mushrooms. I did this mainly in order to astonish everyone. People would walk into the dining room in the morning for a cup of tea and say, ‘What’s this basket doing here? Where have all these mushrooms come from?’

  ‘Lyalya picked them.’

  Or some fish would suddenly appear on someone’s plate at breakfast.

  ‘Where’s this come from? Who brought it?’

  ‘Lyalya went fishing this morning.’

  I loved everyone’s gasps of astonishment.

  So, this redheaded Tolya and I were friends. He never spoke to me of his love, but it was as if there were a secret agreement between us, as if everything was so entirely clear and definite that there was no need to talk about it. Tolya was supposed to be a friend of Kolya Katkov, although I don’t really think there was any particular friendship between them. I think Tolya just wanted to be a part of our group; he just wanted the opportunity to stand behind someone and look at me.

  And then one evening we all of us, including Tolya, went off to the hill. And Vanya Lebedev suddenly decided that each of us should tell some old tale or legend, whatever they could remember. The scarier, the better – needless to say.

  We drew lots to decide who should begin. The lot fell to Tolya.

  ‘He’ll just get all embarrassed,’ I said to myself, ‘and he won’t be able to think of any stories at all.’

  But, to our general astonishment, Tolya began straight away: ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you all for a long time, but somehow I’ve never got round to it. A story about the mill. The story’s quite true – only it’s so strange you’d swear it was just a legend. I heard it from my own father. He used to live six miles away, in Konyukhovka. It was when he was a young man. The mill had been out of use for a long time even then. And then an old German with a huge dog suddenly came along and rented the mill. He was a very strange old man indeed. He never spoke to anyone at all; he was always silent. And the dog was no less strange; it would sit opposite the old man for days on end, never taking his eyes off him. It was only too obvious that the old man was terribly afraid of the dog, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it. He seemed quite unable to get rid of the dog. And the dog just kept on watching him, following the old man’s every movement. Every now and then the dog would suddenly bare its teeth and growl. But the peasants who went there for flour said the dog never attacked any of them. All it ever did was look at the old man. Everyone found this very odd. People even asked the old man why he kept such a devilish creature. But there was no chance of getting any reply out of him. He simply never answered a word … And then it happened. All of a sudden this dog leaped on the old man and bit through his throat. Then the peasants saw the dog rushing away, as if someone were chasing it. No one ever saw the dog again. And the mill’s been empty ever since.’

  We liked Tolya’s old legend. Vanya Lebedev, however, said, ‘That’s splendid, Tolya. Only you missed out a few things. And really it should be more scary. You should have added that the mill has been under a spell ever since. Whoever spends one whole night there will be able, if ever he wishes, to turn himself into a dog.’

  ‘But that’s not true,’ Tolya replied shyly.

  ‘How do you know? Maybe it is true. We simply don’t know. I’ve got a feeling that that’s the way it is. It’s just that no one’s tested this out yet.’

  We all laughed. ‘But why? What’s so special about turning into a dog? If one could turn oneself into a millionaire, that would be different. Or some hero or other, or a famous general – or a great beauty for that matter. But who wants to turn into a dog? Where would that get you?’

  No one told any more stories that evening. We talked about this and that, then went our separate ways.

  The following morning Tolya and I went into the forest. We picked some berries, but there were too few to take back to the dining room so we decided I might as well eat them myself. We sat down beneath a fir tree, me eating berries and him just looking at me. Somehow this began to seem very funny.

  ‘Tolya
,’ I said, ‘you’re staring at me the way that dog of yours looked at the miller.’

  ‘Really I wish I could turn into a dog,’ he answered glumly, ‘because you’re never going to marry me, are you?’

  ‘No, Tolya, you know I’m not.’

  ‘You see, if I remain a man, it’ll be impossible for me to be near you all the time. But if I turn into a dog, no one can stop me.’

  I had a sudden idea. ‘Tolya, darling! You know what? You could go to the mill and spend the night there. Please do! Turn into a dog, so that you can always be near me. You’re not going to say you’re scared, are you?’

  He turned quite white – I was surprised, because all of this was just stuff and nonsense. I was joking. Neither of us, it went without saying, believed in that mysterious dog. But he, for some reason or other, turned pale and replied very gravely, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll go and spend the night at the mill.’

  The day went by in its usual way and, after my morning walk, I didn’t see Tolya at all. In fact, I didn’t even think of him.

  I remember some guests coming round – newlyweds from a neighbouring estate, I think. In short, there were lots of people – lots of noise and laughter. And it was only in the evening, when everyone except family had left and we youngsters had set out for our usual walk, that I began to think about Tolya again. It must have been when I saw the mill – and when someone said, ‘Doesn’t the mill look dark and spooky this evening?’

  ‘That’s because we know the kind of things that go on there,’ replied Vanya Lebedev.

  Then I started looking for Tolya. Turning round, I saw him sitting a little apart from the rest of us. He was completely silent, as if deep in thought.

  Then I remembered what he’d said, and somehow this made me feel anxious. At the same time, I felt annoyed with myself for feeling anxious, and this made me want to make fun of Tolya.

  ‘Listen, ladies and gentlemen!’ I called out merrily. ‘Tolya’s decided to conduct an experiment. Transformation into a dog. He’s going to spend the night at the mill.’

  No one paid much attention to any of this. They probably thought I was joking. Only Vanya Lebedev answered, saying, ‘Yes, why not? Only please, dear Anatoly, be sure to turn into a hunting dog. That really would be a great deal more acceptable than a mere mongrel.’

  Tolya didn’t say anything in reply. He didn’t even move. When we were on our way home, I purposely lagged behind a little and Tolya joined me.

  ‘Well, Lyalechka,’ he said. ‘I’m going. I’m going to the mill tonight.’

  Looking very mysterious, I whispered, ‘Go then. You must. But if, after this, you have the nerve not to turn into a dog, please never let me set eyes on you again!’

  ‘I promise to turn into a dog,’ he said.

  ‘And I,’ I said, ‘will be waiting for you all night. As soon as you’ve turned yourself into a dog, run straight back home and scratch on my shutter with your claws. I’ll open the window, and then you can jump into the room. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Off you go then!’

  And so I went to bed and began to wait. And just imagine – I couldn’t get to sleep. Somehow I was terribly anxious.

  There was no moon that night, but the stars were shining. I kept getting up, half-opening the window and looking out. I felt very scared of something. I felt scared even to open the shutters – I just looked out through a chink.

  ‘Tolya’s a fool,’ I said to myself. ‘What’s got into him? Sitting on his own all night in a dead mill!’

  I fell asleep just before dawn. And then, through my dreams, I hear a scratching sound. Somebody’s scratching on the shutter.

  I jump out of bed to listen better. Yes, I can hear the sound of claws against the shutter. I’m so scared I can hardly breathe. It’s still dark, still night-time.

  But I braced myself, ran to the window, flung open the shutters – and what did I see? Daylight! Sunshine! And Tolya’s standing there laughing – only he’s looking very pale. Overcome with joy, I grab him by the shoulders, then fling my arms round his neck.

  ‘You scoundrel! How dare you not turn into a dog?’

  He just kissed my hands, happy that I had embraced him.

  ‘Lyalechka,’ he said, ‘can’t you see? Or maybe you just don’t know how to look properly. I am a dog, Lyalechka. I am your faithful hound forever. How can you not see it? I shall never leave you. But someone’s put an evil spell on you that stops you from understanding.’

  I grabbed a comb from the table, kissed it and threw it out the window.

  ‘Fetch!’

  He rushed off, found the comb in the grass and brought it to me between his teeth. He was laughing, but there was something in his eyes that almost made me burst into tears.

  All this happened as summer was drawing to a close.

  Three or four days after that night, my aunt and I went back to our own village. We needed to get ready to return to Petersburg.

  Volodya Katkov rather surprised me. He had got hold of a camera from somewhere, and during the days before our departure he kept on and on taking photographs of me.

  Tolya kept at a distance. I barely saw him. And he left before me. For Smolensk. He was studying there.

  Two years went by.

  I only once saw Tolya during that time. He had come to Petersburg for a few days to attend to some practical matter, and he was staying with the Katkovs.

  He had changed very little. He still had the same round, childish face, with grey eyes.

  ‘Greetings, my faithful hound! Let me take your paw!’

  He didn’t know what to say. Terribly embarrassed, he just laughed.

  Throughout his visit Zina Katkova kept sending me little notes: ‘You really must come round this evening. Your hound keeps howling.’ Or: ‘Come round as soon as you can. Your hound is wasting away. Cruelty to animals is a sin.’

  Everyone kept quietly making fun of him, but he behaved very calmly indeed. He didn’t seek me out, and he went on hiding behind other people’s backs.

  There was just one occasion when Tolya seemed to go a bit wild. Zina was telling me that, since I had such a wonderful voice, I really must go and study at the Conservatoire – and Tolya suddenly came out with, ‘Yes, I knew it! The stage! How utterly, utterly wonderful!’

  Immediately after this little outburst, needless to say, he seemed terribly embarrassed again.

  He was only in Petersburg for a few days. Soon after he had left, I received a huge bouquet of roses from Eilers.2 We were all racking our brains for a long time, wondering who on earth could have sent it, and it was only the following day, as I was changing the water in the vase, that I noticed a little cornelian dog, tied to the bouquet by a thin gold thread.

  I didn’t tell anyone the flowers were from Tolya. I somehow started to feel awfully sorry for him. I even started to feel sorry for the dog. It had little shiny eyes, as if it were crying.

  And how could someone as poor as Tolya have found the money for such an expensive bouquet? It was probably money his family had given him to go to the theatre with, or to buy things he really needed.

  Expensive and splendid as they were, there was something tender and painful about these flowers. It was impossible to reconcile their air of sorrow with the impression created by Tolya’s round, childishly naïve face. I even felt glad when the flowers withered and my aunt threw them out. I somehow hadn’t dared to throw them out myself. As for the little cornelian dog, I tucked it away in a drawer, to try and forget about it. And I forgot about it.

  Then came a very chaotic period in my life. It started with the Conservatoire, which disappointed me deeply. My professor was full of praise for my voice, but he said I needed to work on it. This, however, wasn’t my way of doing things at all. I was used to doing nothing very much and receiving ecstatic praise for it. I would squeak out some little song and everyone would say, ‘Oh! Ah! Such talent!’ As for systematic study, that was something entirely beyond me. It al
so turned out that the generally held belief in my great talent was somewhat exaggerated. In the Conservatoire I did not stand out in any way from the other girls. Or if I did, it was only because I didn’t even once bother to prepare properly for a lesson. This disappointment did, of course, have its effect on me. I became anxious and irritable. I found solace in flirtations, in pointless chatter and in endlessly rushing about. I was in a bad way.

  I heard only once from Tolya. He sent me a letter from Moscow, where he had gone to continue his studies.

  ‘Lyalechka,’ he wrote, ‘remember that you have a dog. If ever you are in need, just summon it.’

  He did not include his address, and I did not reply.

  The war began.

  The boys from my old circle all turned out to be patriots, and they all went off to the Front. I heard that Tolya went too, but somehow I hardly thought about him. Zina joined the Sisters of Mercy, but I was still caught up in my mad whirl.

  My studies at the Conservatoire were going from bad to worse. And I’d fallen in with a wild, Bohemian crowd. Aspiring poets, unrecognized artists, long evenings devoted to discussing matters erotic, nights at the ‘Stray Dog’.3

  The ‘Stray Dog’ was an astonishing institution. It drew in people from worlds that were entirely alien to it. It drew these people in and swallowed them up.

  I shall never forget one regular visitor. The daughter of a well-known journalist, she was a married woman and the mother of two children.

  Someone once happened to take her to this cellar, and one could say that she simply never left. A beautiful young woman, her huge black eyes wide open as if from horror, she would come every evening and remain until morning, breathing the alcoholic fumes, listening to the young poets howling out verses of which she probably understood not a word. She was always silent; she looked frightened. People said that her husband had left her and taken the children with him.

  Once I saw a young man with her. He looked rather sickly. His dress, and his general air, were very sophisticated, ‘Wildean’.