“Again?” they’ll ask. “Again with the minor episodes? Again with your petty trifles in a two-ruble book?”
“Young man,” they’ll say, “are you off your nut? Who needs all this stuff, in the cosmic scheme of things?”
The author pleads, honestly and openly:
“Don’t interfere, comrades! Let a person speak his or her mind, at least in the course of debate…”
2
Boy, it sure is hard to write in the literary line!
By the time you fight your way through the impenetrable thickets, you’re dog-tired, bled dry.
And for what? For the sake of some love story involving citizen Bylinkin. This fellow’s neither kith nor kin to the author. The author’s never borrowed a kopeck from him. Nor are he and the author bound by a common ideology. To tell the truth, the author regards the fellow with profound indifference. He has no desire to depict this Vasily Vasilyevich Bylinkin in vivid colors. What’s more, the author doesn’t even have a clear recollection of the man’s face.
As for the others who took one or another part in this story, their faces too passed before the author’s eyes without leaving much of an impression. The only exception is Liza Rundukova, whom the author committed to memory for very particular and, so to speak, subjective reasons.
Now Mishka Rundukov, her little squirt of a brother, was less memorable. He was an extremely cocky kid, and a bully. In terms of appearance, he was kind of tow-haired, a bit jowly.
In truth, the author doesn’t really care to publicize the kid’s appearance. He was in the age of transition. I’ll waste time describing the kid—and by the time the book comes out, the little son of a bitch is all grown up. You just try and figure out who this Mishka Rundukov is. And where’d he get that mustache? At the time of this writing, there isn’t a hair on his lip.
As regards the old woman—Ma Rundukova, as it were—well, I doubt the reader will mind us skirting her description altogether. Old ladies are, in general, difficult to describe artistically. She’s an old lady, like any other. Who the hell knows or cares what kind of old lady she is? And who needs a description of, for instance, her nose? A nose like any other. Rest assured, dear reader—a detailed description of her nose won’t make your life any easier.
Of course, the author would never have undertaken to write artistic tales were his information about the heroes limited to such meager and insignificant stuff. The author doesn’t lack for information.
For example, the author has a vivid sense of the Rundukovs’ entire existence. He can describe the wretched little Rundukov home—dark, single-story. On the façade, the number 22. Above that, on a little board, a picture of a pike hook. In case of fire. Everyone has to bring something. The Rundukovs, they have to bring a pike hook. But do they have a pike hook? I don’t think so! Oh, well—it isn’t literature’s job to bring the county administration’s attention to such matters.
And the whole interior of their little home—as well as, so to speak, its material design, in terms of furniture—emerges quite distinctly in the author’s memory…Three small rooms. A warped floor. A Becker grand piano.2 Terrible looking piano, but playable. A few sticks of furniture here and there. A sofa with a tomcat or pussycat on it. On the pier-glass table, a little clock under a glass dome. The dome’s all dusty. And the pier-glass is clouded—twists your mug out of shape. A huge trunk, reeking of mothballs and dead flies.
Oh, I suppose a citizen from the capital would find their life mighty boring!
Oh, I suppose a citizen from the capital would be bored stiff at the sight of their clothes drying on a line in the kitchen. The old woman rustling up some food at the stove. Peeling potatoes, say. The peel curling away in ribbons from under the knife.
But the reader shouldn’t think that the author describes these petty little things with love and admiration. No, sir! There isn’t a hint of sweetness or romanticism in these petty recollections. The author knows these little houses, these kitchens. He’s set foot in them. He’s lived in them. Perhaps he even lives in one to this day. They have nothing to recommend them—absolutely pitiful. You walk into the kitchen and plant your face right into some wet underthing or other. And you’re lucky if it’s a relatively noble element of attire, rather than some wet stocking, Lord forgive me! Damn it, how the author hates planting his face in a stocking. Disgusting!
At any rate, for reasons wholly unrelated to literature, the author had several occasions to visit the Rundukovs. And on each of these occasions the author wondered how such an outstanding young lady—such a lily of the valley and nasturtium, so to speak—as Lizochka Rundukova could dwell amid all that pettiness and squalor.
The author always took great, great pity on this comely lass. We’ll discuss her in detail and at length in due course. At this point the author must say a thing or two about citizen Vasily Vasilyevich Bylinkin—what kind of person he is, where he came from…Is he politically trustworthy? What has he to do with the respected Rundukovs? Is he a relative of theirs?
No, he’s no relative. He just happened to get involved, temporarily, in their lives.
The author has already warned the reader that he didn’t find this Bylinkin’s countenance very memorable. All the same, closing his eyes, the author sees the man’s every feature, lifelike as can be.
This Bylinkin always walked slowly, even thoughtfully. He held his hands behind his back and blinked an awful lot. His figure was somewhat stooped, apparently bent by circumstances. As for his heels, Bylinkin would wear them down to the very counters of his shoes.
With regard to education, he had spent, to all appearances, no fewer than four years at the old gymnasium.
Social origin unknown.
The man arrived from Moscow at the very height of the revolution and did not publicize himself.
Why had he come? Also unclear. Had life in the provinces seemed a bit more sated, as it were? Or could he simply not stay put, drawn as he was, so to speak, by unknown, far-flung places and adventures? The devil knows! You can’t clamber into every psychology.
But most likely life in the provinces had seemed more sated. That’s probably why, in the first few months, the man would walk through the open-air market and stare with relish at the fresh baked bread and all sorts of produce piled up in mounds.
Actually, how the man kept himself fed remains a vague mystery to the author. Perhaps he had even held out his hand. Or maybe he collected the corks from bottles of mineral water and fruit juice, and then sold them. Yes, the town had its share of desperate speculators in those days.
At any rate, the man clearly wasn’t living too high on the hog. He was worn out, and even began to lose his hair. He walked timidly, glancing about and dragging his feet. He even stopped blinking and would simply stare at things wearily.
But then, for some unknown reason, his stock began to rise. And by the time our love story played out, Bylinkin had secured his social status, a position in the civil service, and a salary of the seventh category plus overtime.
Bylinkin’s figure had filled out. He had reabsorbed, so to speak, the vital juices of which he’d been drained. He now blinked as frequently and casually as before.
He walked with the ponderous gait of a person whom life had hard-boiled, through and through—who had earned the right to live and knew his own worth.
Indeed, at the time these events unfolded, he was a fine figure of a man of just under thirty-two.
He often, time and again, promenaded the streets, swinging his walking stick wide and swatting flowers, grass, and even leaves along the way. Sometimes he would sit down on a bench and breathe deeply and cheerfully, with a broad smile on his face.
What he was thinking and what exceptional ideas embowered his head—no one knows. Perhaps he thought of nothing. Maybe he was simply filled with delight at his justified existence. But in all likelihood he was thinking about the absolutely necessity of finding a new apartment.
And it’s true: he had been rooming at the
house of Volosatov, a deacon at the Living Church, and, by virtue of his official position, was rather anxious about residing with such a politically sullied individual.3
He would ask all over town whether anyone knew, for god’s sake, of some vacant little apartment or room, so that he wouldn’t have to reside with the priest of what was obviously a cult.
At last, someone came forward and, out of the goodness of their heart, set him up with a small room—about four square meters. It happened to be a room in the house of the respected Rundukovs. Bylinkin leapt into action. He looked the place over that day, and moved in the very next morning, having hired, for said purpose, the water-carrier Nikita.
The father deacon didn’t need this Bylinkin in his life, but the whole affair had apparently wounded his unclear yet refined feelings. He bawled Bylinkin out something awful, and even threatened to pound his face, given the chance. And when Bylinkin was loading his belongings onto the cart, the deacon stood at the window, laughing loudly and artificially, as though to demonstrate complete indifference to the man’s departure.
The deacon’s wife kept running out into the yard, throwing yet another item onto the cart and shouting:
“Good riddance! Who’s stoppin’ ya? Don’t let the gate hit ya on the way out!”
A crowd of passersby and neighbors had gathered, guffawing with pleasure and clearly hinting at what appeared to be amorous relations. The author won’t confirm their speculations. He doesn’t know anything about it. And he certainly doesn’t wish to start unnecessary gossip in the realm of belles lettres.
3
The decision to rent a room out to Vasily Vasilyevich Bylinkin wasn’t motivated by self-interest, or even by any particular need. Rather, old Daria Vasilyevna Rundukova was afraid that, due to the housing crisis, their living space per person might be reduced with the forcible introduction of some crude and superfluous individual.
One might even say that Bylinkin took some advantage of this circumstance. Passing by the Becker grand, he cast an angry glance at the instrument and noted with displeasure that it was, generally speaking, superfluous; as a quiet man who had been rattled by life and shelled by artillery on two fronts, he could not tolerate superfluous bourgeois sounds.
The old woman took offense, saying that they had had their little grand for forty years now and weren’t about to tear out its strings and pedals on some whim of Bylinkin’s—especially since Lizochka Rundukova was learning to play the instrument, and this was quite possibly the girl’s primary goal in life.
Bylinkin angrily waved the old woman away, saying that he had issued his statement in the form of a delicate request, not as a strict order.
The old woman was extremely offended. She burst into tears and almost rescinded her offer of the room, before she remembered the possibility of the forcible introduction.
Bylinkin moved in the next morning and groaned in his room till that evening, setting everything up in accordance with his capital-city taste.
Two or three days passed quietly, without much change.
Bylinkin would go to work, return late, and pace his room for a long time, his felt slippers shuffling across the floor. In the evening he would chew something and, at long last, fall asleep, snoring lightly and whistling through his nose.
During the first two days, Lizochka Rundukova went about somewhat subdued, repeatedly asking her ma, and also Mishka Rundukov, what they made of this Bylinkin—whether he smoked a pipe or bore any relation to the People’s Commissariat of Naval Affairs.4
Finally, on the third day, she caught sight of Bylinkin with her own eyes.
It happened early in the morning. Bylinkin was getting ready for work, as usual.
He was walking down the corridor in his nightshirt, with his collar undone. His suspenders hung from his pants, fluttering behind him in various directions. He walked slowly, with a towel and a bar of scented soap in one hand. His other hand was smoothing down his hair, which had become disheveled in the night.
She was standing in the kitchen, busy with her domestic affairs, either fanning the samovar or chipping a bit of kindling off a dry log.
When she saw him she cried out softly and jumped aside, ashamed of her untidy morning attire.
While Bylinkin, standing in the doorway, regarded the young lady with a certain degree of surprise and delight.
It’s true: that morning she looked very pretty indeed.
The youthful freshness of her slightly sleepy face, the careless cascade of her blond hair, the slightly upturned little nose…And the bright eyes. And the rather short but plump figure. All this was remarkably appealing.
She had about her the charming carelessness, perhaps even the slovenliness of the Russian woman who jumps out of bed in the morning, digs her bare feet into a pair of felt slippers, and busies herself with the housework without so much as washing up.
The author, you might say, likes such women. He certainly has nothing against them.
Of course, when you think about it, there’s really nothing to recommend these heavy women with their lazy expressions. There’s no liveliness in them, no brightness of temperament, and, finally, no flirtatiousness. A woman like that—she doesn’t move much. Soft shoes, unkempt…Generally speaking, she’s even a bit disgusting. But just imagine!
Dear reader, it’s an odd thing!
The author has no time for those doll-like little ladies—those, so to speak, inventions of bourgeois Western culture. They’ve got these hairstyles—who knows what they are—Greek? Whatever they are, you can’t touch them. And if you do, you’ll hear no end of screaming and shouting. They’ve got these artificial dresses—and again, don’t you dare touch. You might rip it, get it dirty. So tell me: who needs it? Where’s the charm in all this, the joy of existence?
When one of ours sits down, for example, you see full well that the woman’s sitting down. She isn’t stuck on a pin, like one of theirs. That’s what their women look like. Who needs it?
The author finds a lot to admire in foreign culture, but when it comes to women, he holds fast to his national opinion.
Bylinkin, too, it appears, was fond of such women.
In any case, he now stood before Lizochka Rundukova, mouth slightly agape with delight, and, without so much as trying to raise his dangling suspenders, stared at her in joyous surprise.
But this lasted only a minute.
Lizochka Rundukova, having gasped quietly and darted about the kitchen, now rushed out, adjusting her attire and tangled hair along the way.
When Bylinkin returned from work that evening, he walked to his room especially slowly, hoping to encounter Lizochka in the corridor.
But he did not.
Then, later in the evening, Bylinkin tramped to the kitchen five or six times and finally encountered Lizochka Rundukova, to whom he bowed with an awful degree of respect and courteousness, tilting his head slightly to the side and making that indeterminate gesture with his hands which conventionally indicates admiration and extreme pleasure.
A few days of such encounters in the corridor and kitchen brought them significantly closer.
Bylinkin would now come home, listen to Lizochka play this or that polka tremblam,5 and beg her, again and again, to perform yet another heart-piercing composition.
And she would play some flea waltz or shimmy, or pound out a few bravura chords from the Second or Third, or, devil knows, perhaps even the Fourth of Liszt’s Rhapsodies.6
And it was as if he, Bylinkin—who had been shelled by heavy artillery on all fronts twice—now heard the trembling strains of the Becker piano for the very first time. Back in his room, he would recline dreamily in his chair and ponder the charms of human existence.
Mishka Rundukov began to lead a very luxurious life. On two occasions Bylinkin slipped Mishka ten kopecks, and once gave him fifteen, asking him to whistle softly when the old woman was in the kitchen and Lizochka was alone.
The author can’t quite imagine why Bylinkin would have done
this. The old woman regarded the lovers with perfect delight, hoping to see them married no later than autumn, thereby getting Lizochka off her hands.
Nor did Mishka bother delving into the intricacies of Bylinkin’s psychology. He simply whistled about six times a day, inviting Bylinkin to peer into this or that room.
Bylinkin would come into the room and sit down beside Lizochka. At first they would exchange a few meaningless phrases, then he would ask her to play one or another of her favorite ditties on the instrument. And there, at the grand piano, when Lizochka was finished, Bylinkin would place his gnarled fingers—the fingers of a philosophically minded man who had been hard-boiled by life and shelled by heavy artillery—on Lizochka’s white hands. He would ask the young lady to tell him about her life, taking a lively interest in the details of her former existence.
Occasionally he would ask whether she had ever experienced the thrill of real, true love before, or whether this was her first time.
And the young lady, smiling mysteriously and quietly fingering the piano keys, would say:
“Oh, I don’t know…”
4
They fell in passionate, dreamy love. They couldn’t look at each other without tears and trembling. And every time they met they would experience new surges of rapturous joy.
In fact, when Bylinkin gazed into himself, he even took fright. He reflected with astonishment that, having twice spent time on all fronts and having earned, with extraordinary difficulty, the right to exist, he would now gladly sacrifice his life on any one of this rather pretty little lady’s miserable whims.
Turning over in his mind the women who had passed through his life—including the deacon’s wife, with whom he had most definitely cavorted (the author is sure of it)—Bylinkin grew convinced that he had found true love and the genuine thrill of emotion only now, in his thirty-second year.
Was Bylinkin merely bloated with vital juices? Or is a person born with a predisposition and penchant for abstract romantic feelings? This remains a mystery of nature.
At any rate, Bylinkin sensed that he was a different man now—that his blood had changed in its composition and that, when faced with a love of such extraordinary power, all of life was ridiculous and insignificant.
Sentimental Tales Page 11
