Sentimental Tales

by Mikhail Zoshchenko

  SENTIMENTAL TALES

  RUSSIAN LIBRARY

  The Russian Library at Columbia University Press publishes an expansive selection of Russian literature in English translation, concentrating on works previously unavailable in English and those ripe for new translations. Works of premodern, modern, and contemporary literature are featured, including recent writing. The series seeks to demonstrate the breadth, surprising variety, and global importance of the Russian literary tradition and includes not only novels but also short stories, plays, poetry, memoirs, creative nonfiction, and works of mixed or fluid genre.

  Editorial Board:

  Vsevolod Bagno

  Rosamund Bartlett

  Peter B. Kaufman

  Oliver Ready

  Dmitry Bak

  Caryl Emerson

  Mark Lipovetsky

  Stephanie Sandler

  Between Dog and Wolf by Sasha Sokolov, translated by Alexander Boguslawski

  Strolls with Pushkin by Andrei Sinyavsky, translated by Catharine Theimer Nepomnyashchy and Slava I. Yastremski

  Fourteen Little Red Huts and Other Plays by Andrei Platonov, translated by Robert Chandler, Jesse Irwin, and Susan Larsen

  Rapture: A Novel by Iliazd, translated by Thomas J. Kitson

  City Folk and Country Folk by Sofia Khvoshchinskaya, translated by Nora Seligman Favorov

  Writings from the Golden Age of Russian Poetry by Konstantin Batyushkov, presented and translated by Peter France

  Found Life: Poems, Stories, Comics, a Play, and an Interview by Linor Goralik, edited by Ainsley Morse, Maria Vassileva, and Maya Vinokur

  Sisters of the Cross by Alexei Remizov, translated by Roger John Keys and Brian Murphy

  Published with the support of Read Russia, Inc., and the Institute of Literary Translation, Russia

  Columbia University Press

  Publishers Since 1893

  New York Chichester, West Sussex

  cup.columbia.edu

  Copyright © 2018 Boris Dralyuk

  All rights reserved

  E-ISBN 978-0-231-54515-0

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from the Library of Congress

  ISBN 978-0-231-18378-9 (cloth)

  ISBN 978-0-231-18379-6 (paper)

  ISBN 978-0-231-54515-0 (electronic)

  A Columbia University Press E-book.

  CUP would be pleased to hear about your reading experience with this e-book at cup-ebook@columbia.edu.

  Cover design: Roberto de Vicq de Cumptich

  Book design: Lisa Hamm

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  A Note on the Text

  Preface to the First Edition

  Preface to the Second Edition

  Preface to the Third Edition

  Preface to the Fourth Edition

  1. Apollo and Tamara

  2. People

  3. A Terrible Night

  4. What the Nightingale Sang

  5. A Merry Adventure

  6. Lilacs in Bloom

  Notes

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank my exacting editor, Christine Dunbar, the Russian Library’s board, and the production team at Columbia University Press for their confidence in my work, which I hope is not entirely misplaced. The advice of two anonymous peer reviewers proved invaluable. Robert Chandler, my first reader, offered insight and encouragement at every step, and Rose France, who understands Zoshchenko as well as anyone can, provided vital support near the end. I owe an immeasurable debt to Anna Glazer for, among other things, her peerless command of Soviet humor. And I save the last bow of thanks for the brilliant Jennifer Croft, who saved me from many embarrassments and, more importantly, laughed at just the right moments when reading the manuscript.

  INTRODUCTION

  Humor has an “evasiveness, which one had best respect,” wrote E. B. White, a man who knew his way around a funny story.1 Mikhail Zoshchenko, one of the greatest humorists of the Soviet era, exploited this essential evasiveness to the fullest. It’s a quality that confused and even infuriated many Soviet critics of the 1920s and early 1930s, when Zoshchenko’s popularity was at its height. In his review of Zoshchenko’s 1927 collection What the Nightingale Sang—in which some of the “sentimental tales” in this volume were first collected—M. Ol’shevets accused the author of “restlessly tossing about,” of failing to depict Soviet reality in its “true light.”2 Although this scathing review appeared in Izvestiia, one of the official organs of the Soviet regime, it didn’t spell the end of Zoshchenko’s career. Other critics believed his stories did more good than harm.3

  It is lucky that the author’s rise coincided with a period of relative liberalism in Soviet culture, a decade-long window of opportunity between the end of the Russian Civil War in 1921 and the emergence of a Stalinist monoculture, which culminated in 1934 with the enshrinement of Socialist Realism as the nation’s artistic doctrine. This was also a period of radical social contradictions. The New Economic Policy (1921–1928), which Lenin introduced with the aim of stabilizing a war-ravaged economy, brought elements of capitalism—including, inadvertently, speculation and profiteering—into the workers’ state.4 This backward step was regarded as a shameful betrayal by many true believers in the communist cause, including the proletarian writers and artists who had hoped that the revolution would do away with the bourgeoisie and its culture once and for all.5 Instead, members of the pre-Revolutionary bourgeoisie were now tolerated for their technical expertise, and NEP had created a whole new economic class, the so-called NEPmen, who made a living—and sometimes a killing—by privately manufacturing and selling goods.

  Leaps forward and steps backward, impoverished bourgeois and nouveau riche NEPmen, utopian dreams and Soviet reality…Into this fraught sociocultural landscape stepped Zoshchenko, a satirist who hid behind so many masks that it was impossible to determine whom, exactly, he was mocking. Whose side was he on? Whose writer was he?

  That last question was posed by proletarian novelist Mikhail Chumandrin in 1930, in a speech reprinted in the journal Zvezda.6 Although Chumandrin concluded that Zoshchenko was, ultimately, “with us,” the very fact that the question needed to be raised spoke volumes. Zoshchenko really was, as Chumandrin claimed, “vague and difficult to pin down.”7 Indeed, in one of his many tongue-in-cheek autobiographical sketches, the author even refuses to pin down the place and time of his birth:

  I was born in 1895. In the previous century! That makes me terribly sad.

  I was born in the 19th century! Must be why I fail to treat our era with sufficient courtesy and romanticism—why I’m a humorist.

  I know precious little about myself.

  I don’t even know where I was born. Either in Poltava or in St. Petersburg. One document says one thing, the other says another. One of them is obviously a fake. But it’s hard to say which, since they’re both pretty slapdash.

  There’s some confusion over the year, too. One document claims it’s 1895, the other claims it’s 1896. A fake, no doubt about it.8

  The truth is that the author was born in St. Petersburg—neither in 1895 nor in 1896, but on July 28, 1894—to a Ukrainian father and a Russian mother, both of whom were of noble origin.9 The senior Zoshchenko, Mikhail Ivanovich, was an accomplished realist painter; his wife, Yelena Osipovna, née Surina, had been an actress before their marriage, and continued to dabble in literature. The couple had eight children. The junior Zoshchenko began to write at an early age, but he wouldn’t make his debut until after the revolution of 1917.10 In 1913 he entered the law faculty of St. Petersburg University, but was dismissed for nonpayment of fees in 1914. Soon war broke out in Europe, and after completing a course at the Pavlovsky
Military Academy, Zoshchenko went off to the front. He served with valor, was injured and gassed, received four medals, and was promoted to the rank of captain. The gas attack, however, had seriously undermined his health, and he was sent to the reserves in 1917.

  In the two years following the February revolution, Zoshchenko tried his hand at—by his own count—twelve professions, ranging from Commandant of the Main Telegraph and Post Office in Petrograd (as St. Petersburg was then called), to criminal investigator, apprentice cobbler, and instructor in rabbit and poultry breeding at a Soviet collective farm.11 He attempted to enlist in the Red Army but was not accepted due to his ill health. It was at this point that he turned to literature, joining the writing workshops associated with the World Literature Publishing House (1918–1924), which had been established under the auspices of Maxim Gorky, partly in order to provide employment for struggling authors of all political affiliations. Zoshchenko quickly impressed his instructors and fellow students, including the literary critic Viktor Shklovsky. In 1921, he married and had a son, and also joined the Serapion Brotherhood, a literary group that drew together some of the most talented authors in Petrograd. The majority of the Serapions weren’t members of the Bolshevik party, but they considered themselves to be “fellow travelers” with the regime.12 In 1922, Zoshchenko staked out his own “fellow traveling” position in another autobiographical sketch:

  In general, being a writer’s none too easy. Take ideology, for example…Nowadays a writer’s got to have an ideology…

  …

  Well, that puts me in quite a pickle!

  What “precise ideology” could I possibly have, if there isn’t a single party that attracts me as a whole?

  …

  I have no hatred for anyone—that’s my “precise ideology.”

  You want more precision? Alright, here’s more precision. In general thrust, I’m closest to the Bolsheviks. And I’m willing to bolshevize around with them.

  …

  But I’m not a communist (that is, not a Marxist), and I don’t think I’ll ever be one.13

  Zoshchenko and the other Serapions could get away with this noncommittal stance in the 1920s. But even then they faced constant attacks from Marxist critics, especially those associated with the proletarian literary movement, who felt that Soviet culture should belong exclusively to the working class.

  Ironically, the stories that made Zoshchenko extraordinarily popular parodied precisely the ham-handed manner and small-minded concerns of a would-be proletarian author. An uproarious gallimaufry of slang, dialect, misused cliché, and mangled bureaucratese, these little narratives—some of them no longer than a page—are the sharper-edged Soviet counterparts to Ring Lardner’s spoofs of bush-league ballplayers and Damon Runyon’s tales of Broadway hustlers and hoodlums.14 They exposed Zoshchenko to more than his fair share of abuse from proletarian critics, but he was ever the moving target. Here is how he explained his artistic approach and affiliation in 1928:

  I just want to make one confession. It may seem strange and unexpected. The fact is—I’m a proletarian writer. Rather, what I do in my stuff is parody an imaginary but genuine proletarian writer, who would exist under the present conditions and in the present social context. Of course, such a writer cannot exist, at least not at the moment. But when he does come to exist, then his community, his social context will improve greatly in every respect.

  I’m only parodying. I’m temporarily filling in for the proletarian writer. That’s why the themes of my stories are imbued with a naive philosophy, which won’t fly over my readers’ heads.15

  This is a magical performance—or rather, a magic trick, like a game of three-card Monte. First Zoshchenko claims to be a proletarian writer, then he claims to parody that writer, and finally he reveals that the figure doesn’t exist. One can’t very well punish someone for making fun of a nonexistent subject, especially when he identifies with that subject. The poor critics were left empty-handed, while readers—proletarian and otherwise—ate the stories up.

  Not content with burlesquing his imaginary proletarian scribbler, Zoshchenko also set his parodic sights on a slightly higher class of nonexistent litterateur: the “red Leo Tolstoy or Rabindranath Tagore,” whose appearance was demanded by Soviet publishers.16 The six “sentimental tales” in this volume are the result of Zoshchenko’s effort to fashion such a figure from the crude material he saw all around him—the miserable remnants of the prerevolutionary petty intelligentsia.

  Our narrator, I. V. Kolenkorov, whose biography is sketched out in the second of four prefaces to the cycle, is doubly unsuited to the role of Soviet author.17 In the first place, he is very much a man of the old regime—born in 1882, in a shabby provincial town, “to the petty bourgeois family of a ladies’ tailor.” Not only does he have little sense of what the revolution was all about, he’s not even sure of when it took place; at the start of the first preface, we’re told that these stories were written “at the very height of NEP and revolution”—but NEP, a reversion to capitalism, was hardly regarded as the “very height” of the revolution. And what is Kolenkorov’s general take on the revolution’s achievements? Often enough, despite his best efforts, he shows his cards: “Life in town changed tremendously. The revolution began to fashion a new way of life. But living wasn’t easy. People had to fight for their right to live out their days.”

  As that poignantly tortured statement demonstrates, there’s another obstacle on Kolenkorov’s road to authorial glory: he’s not so good at writing. In the third preface, we learn that Zoshchenko has gone to the trouble of correcting his protégé’s “orthographic errors,” but he has let stand “various sentimental undertones, whimpers, and a certain ideological vacillation in this or that direction”—to say nothing of Kolenkorov’s assaults on good style. The budding author has never met an adjective or adverb he didn’t want to introduce to another, for example, “Shocked and horrified at how quickly and rashly he had squandered his fortune, she would reproach him angrily and sharply for his foolish carelessness and eccentricity.” Nor does our author have a particularly good grasp on figurative language. In the first tale, “Apollo and Tamara,” Kolenkorov informs us that Fyodor Perepenchuk, “a medical attendant at the municipal reception ward…was taken from us” some time ago, and then quickly corrects himself: “Of course, it isn’t so much that he was taken from us as that he hanged himself.”

  This sort of gallows humor is Zoshchenko’s specialty: he half-hides behind the comic mask of Kolenkorov—whom he outs, in the fourth preface, as “an imaginary person”—in order to deliver a devastating indictment of Soviet life, and of life in general.

  In the early 1930s, as the Soviet literary establishment grew increasingly monolithic, its tolerance for Zoshchenko’s ironic games began to wear thin. Zoshchenko insisted that his projects of the 1930s were devoid of irony, but readers of his didactic Youth Restored (1933), in which he claimed to have discovered a cure for aging, and Blue Book (1935), an illustrative treatise on money, love, treachery, misfortune, and Soviet progress, can be forgiven for taking that assertion with a grain of salt. Yet he was clearly trying to satisfy, as best he could, the demands of the new cultural bosses. Perhaps the best evidence of this aspiration is his contribution to The White Sea Canal (1934), a propaganda volume dedicated to the eponymous Soviet construction project built by convicts in 1931–1933, as well as Stories about Lenin (1939), which were ostensibly meant to instill proper values in Soviet children.

  Despite persistent criticism from certain quarters, Zoshchenko’s efforts seem to have paid off. Unlike many of his colleagues, he was never arrested. His work continued to appear in print and was broadcast on the radio, and he was even awarded the Order of the Red Banner of Labor in 1939. But in 1943, during the Second World War, his luck began to turn. The serialized publication of his most ambitious project from that period, the autobiographical novella Before Sunrise, was halted due to hostile responses from critics and readers, who object
ed to its focus on personal psychology.18 In 1946 he was viciously attacked by Andrey Zhdanov (1896–1948), whom Stalin had appointed to direct the Soviet Union’s cultural policy, in a postwar crackdown that also targeted the poet Anna Akhmatova and the composers Dmitri Shostakovich and Sergei Prokofiev. Zoshchenko was expelled from the Soviet Writers’ Union, and although he was admitted once more shortly after Stalin’s death in 1953, his fall from grace did irreparable damage.19 The depression from which he had suffered his whole life became crippling. Always a heavy smoker, he experienced strokelike symptoms from a nicotine overdose in the spring of 1958 and died of heart failure on July 22 of that year.

  For most of his life, Zoshchenko was an ill man, and his obsession with questions of health, both physical and mental, gave rise to some of his most intriguing work, like the self-analytic Before Sunrise. Illness and general human frailty also haunt the Sentimental Tales, hanging above them like a poisonous cloud. Paradoxically, the true measure of Zoshchenko’s greatness as a humorist may be the fact that he still brings tears to our eyes. As E. B. White put it:

  Practically everyone is a manic depressive of sorts, with his up moments and his down moments, and you certainly don’t have to be a humorist to taste the sadness of situation and mood. But there is often a rather fine line between laughing and crying, and if a humorous piece of writing brings a person to the point where his emotional responses are untrustworthy and seem likely to break over into the opposite realm, it is because humor, like poetry, has an extra content. It plays close to the big hot fire which is Truth, and sometimes the reader feels the heat.20

  I think of Zoshchenko’s Sentimental Tales as shadow plays.21 The characters are flimsy cutouts, manipulated by an inept puppeteer—but the play scripts are genuine tragedies. The shadows are cast by a big hot fire.