Sentimental Tales

by Mikhail Zoshchenko

  Well, after a while, they let the engineer go—turns out he wasn’t especially guilty of anything. And suddenly the guests start showing up again. Of course, by then, the engineer had turned a bit gloomy. He wouldn’t always come out to greet the guests, and if he did, he’d look at them with a certain degree of fright and bewilderment.

  So tell me—would you call that libel? Would you call that evil fabrication? Not a chance. It’s exactly the kind of thing we see every minute of our lives. Time to call it as we see it. Otherwise, everything is, you know, beautiful, swell, sounds dandy. But when push comes to shove, it all goes to hell.

  But the author never gives in to despair. Especially since he chances to meet, every five years or so, odd fellows who differ drastically from all other citizens.

  This is all theoretical talk, of course; what the author wants to tell you is a true story, drawn from the very source of life.

  Still, before he commences describing events, the author would like to share a few more doubts.

  The thing is, in the course of the story’s plot, you’ll find two or three ladies whose portraits are none too complimentary.

  The author didn’t spare any shades or hues in depicting them, and tried to furnish them with a fresh, lifelike appearance. But the portraits didn’t turn out quite as the author had wanted. Consequently, these female figures came out badly—each worse than the other.

  Many readers, especially of the fairer sex, might take real offense at these womanly types. They might accuse the author of approaching ladies in the wrong way, of being unwilling to extend the same legitimate rights to women as he does to men. In fact, some of the women in the author’s life are already offended: really, they say, your lady types never come out too well.

  But don’t go scolding the author. He himself can’t believe what uninteresting ladies spring from his quill.

  It’s especially strange since the author has, in all likelihood, encountered, for the most part, rather decent, good-natured, and not very evil ladies all his life.

  And in general, the way the author sees it, women are, perhaps, better than men. They are, I don’t know—somehow a bit more cordial, gentle, responsive, and pleasant.

  On account of these views, the author would never allow himself to insult a woman. And if, on occasion, an ambiguity should arise in his story, you can be sure it’s simply a misunderstanding. The author begs you to look the other way and not blow your top over trifles.

  As far as the author’s concerned, of course, all people are equal.

  But if you take, just for kicks, the animal kingdom—well, that’s a horse of another color.

  There you have differences. Even birds have their differences. The male’s always more valuable than the female.

  There, for example, a siskin’s worth, according to the latest calculations, two rubles, while his mate, in the very same store, goes for maybe fifty kopecks, or forty, or even twenty. But you look at the birds—why, they’re two peas in a pod! I mean, you literally can’t make out which one’s something and which one’s nothing.

  So you sit these birds in a cage. They chew their seeds, drink their water, hop around on their perches, and so on. But then the siskin, he stops drinking water. He grips his perch tight, fixes his bird gaze on the heights, and commences singing.

  And that’s what accounts for the expense. That’s what runs into money.

  You cough up the dough for the singing, for the performance.

  But what’s considered perfectly decent in the world of birds is out of the question among people. Our men aren’t worth any more than our ladies. And what’s more, everybody sings—the men, the ladies. So all questions and doubts on the subject disappear.

  And besides, all the brutal attacks on women in our tale, all the suspicions about women’s self-interest, stem directly from our foremost protagonist—a decidedly mistrustful and sickly man. He had served as a warrant officer in the Tsarist army, and was, furthermore, slightly concussed in the head and battered by the revolution. In 1919 he spent many nights in the reeds, fearing the Communists might arrest him, grab him, and exchange him for one of their own.

  And all these fears affected his character in a most regrettable way.

  In the ’20s he was a nervous and irritable subject. His hands trembled.

  I mean, he couldn’t even put a glass on the table without smashing it with that trembling little hand of his.

  Nevertheless, in the struggle for life, his hands did not tremble.

  And for this very reason, he did not perish, but survived with honor.

  3

  Of course, it isn’t all that easy for a person to perish. Which is to say, the author believes it isn’t all that easy for a person to starve to death, even in the most extreme conditions. If a person’s conscious enough—if they’ve got hands and a foot and a head on their shoulders—then that person can certainly go the extra mile and scrounge up some sustenance, at least by means of charity.

  In this case, things never came to charity, although Volodin was in quite a sticky situation in the first years of the revolution.

  What’s more, he’d spent many years on the military front. He had completely broken away, so to speak, from life. He didn’t know how to do anything particularly useful, except for shooting at targets and people. So he still had no idea what use to put himself to.

  And, of course, he had no relatives. Nor did he have an apartment. I mean, he literally had nothing.

  All he had was his ma, and she too died during the war. On the occasion of her death, her little apartment passed to another pair of quick hands. And so, upon his return, our former military citizen found himself entirely out of work and, as it were, without a portfolio. What’s more, the revolution had knocked him clean out of the saddle, and he found himself, so to speak, off to the side—one could even say as a superfluous and harmful element.

  Yet he didn’t permit too much panic at this crucial moment in his life. He examined, with his clear eyes, what was what and why. He saw the town. He swept the town with his eaglelike gaze. And what he saw was that life went round and round, in just about the same old manner. People walked up and down the streets. Citizens hurried back and forth. Girls promenaded with parasols.

  He looked at what was what, paying close attention to what was poking and prodding the whole affair. What he saw was that the revolution had changed many things, but that things hadn’t changed enough for him to succumb to panic.

  “Well,” he thought, “no cause to jump into a lake. I’ve just got to come up with something quick. If push comes to shove, I could cart around firewood or some kind of fragile furniture. I could, for example, set myself up in petty trade. Or I could marry, for that matter, not without benefit.”

  And these thoughts even cheered him up.

  “I mean,” he thought, “that last option won’t be especially beneficial these days, but it could provide, say, room and board, heating, and food.”

  Of course, he wasn’t so incorrigible as to be kept by a woman, but providing first aid at a difficult moment in a man’s life is no vice.

  Besides, he was young and not very old. A little over thirty.

  And although his central nervous system had been rather badly battered by upheavals and everyday worries, he was still a fine figure of a man. What’s more, he had a favorable and pleasant appearance. A blond, true, but a manly sort of blond.

  In addition, he wore trim Italian sideburns on his cheeks. This made his face even more winning, lending it a demonic, bold quality that forced women to shudder from head to toe, lower their eyes, and quickly pull their skirts down over their knees.

  Such were the blessings and benefits at his disposal when he began to win a life for himself.

  He arrived in town after completing his military service and temporarily settled in the reception room of his acquaintance’s apartment. This acquaintance, the photographer Patrikeyev, had made his apartment available out of the kindness of his heart, but he
didn’t plan on going entirely unrewarded. He registered part of the living space in Volodin’s name and, in addition, expected that his lodger would, out of a sense of lively gratitude, occasionally receive Patrikeyev’s visitors—that he would open the door for them and write down their names. But Volodin didn’t deliver on these economic hopes; instead he ran around town all day long, who knows where, and on certain nights he’d even ring the hell out of the doorbell himself, throwing the house into complete disquiet and disorganization.

  These goings-on made the photographer Patrikeyev terribly sad and undermined his health. On certain nights, he would even leap out of bed in his underpants and curse Volodin to high heaven, calling him a scoundrel, a White officer, and a former piss-poor nobleman.3

  Still, no more than six months later, Volodin did begin to benefit his patron. Of course, this was toward the end, when he had already moved out of Patrikeyev’s apartment and married successfully.

  You see, the thing is that even in his most minor years Volodin had had a certain inclination and love for artistic drawing. Even as an absolute baby, he had liked to pencil and paint various drawings and pictures.

  And now this artistic talent proved unexpectedly useful.

  At first as a joke, but later in earnest, he began to help the photographer Patrikeyev, retouching his pictures and plates.

  The young ladies making use of Patrikeyev’s services would always demand that their faces be photographed in a decent matter, without the wrinkles, lines, blackheads, and other annoying features, which, unfortunately, accompanied their natural human appearance.

  Volodin would obscure these blackheads and pimples with his pencil, deftly decorating the photographed persons with shadows and streaks of light.

  In a short while, Volodin proved a great success in this line of work, and even began to earn a bit of money for himself, heartily rejoicing at this turn of events.

  4

  And having mastered this cunning art, he realized that he had taken a definite position in life, and that it would be quite difficult, even nearly impossible, to knock him out of this position. For that would require the destruction of all photographs, a categorical prohibition of cabinet cards, or the complete absence of photographic paper from the market.

  Unfortunately, Volodin’s life took this profitable turn only after he had taken a decisive step. You see, he had married a certain female citizen, never supposing that his art would soon give him ample opportunity to stand on his own.

  Living at the photographer’s and having no particular prospects, he had naturally cast glances at the people around him—and especially, of course, at the ladies and women who might have extended their helping, friendly, and concerned hands.

  And he did find such a lady, who responded to the call of a perishing man.

  This lady was Margarita Vasilyevna Gopkis, a tenant in the house next door.

  She had a whole apartment to herself, living there with her younger sister Lola, who, in turn, was married to a brother of mercy, comrade Sypunov.

  These two sisters were still quite young, and both were engaged in sewing shirts, underpants, and other objects for civilian use.

  They did this out of necessity. This certainly wasn’t the miserable fate they had expected when completing their higher education in a girls’ school before the revolution.

  After receiving such a decent education, they had, of course, dreamed of living in a dignified manner, of marrying exceptional men or professors who would have stuffed their lives full of luxury, pampering, and nice habits.

  Meanwhile, life kept passing. The turbulent years of NEP and revolution didn’t allow anyone to look around too long. You couldn’t cast your anchor exactly where you wanted it.

  And so, bemoaning the vicissitudes of life, the younger sister, Lola, quickly married Sypunov, a rough, unshaven character—a brother of mercy, or rather, a male nurse at the municipal hospital.

  While the elder sister, Margarita, wallowed in her grief for too long, sighing about her impossible aspirations. Coming to her senses at the age of thirty, she began to scurry to and fro, hoping to snag some overlooked fellow for a husband.

  And our friend Volodin wound up in one of her nets.

  He had long dreamed of a more suitable way of life, of family comfort, of a nonreception room, of a boiling samovar, and of all those little things that definitely prettify life and lend a quiet charm to petit bourgeois existence.

  And here it all was, his for the taking—plus a stable position and an independent income, which was something on the order of a dowry, undeniably sweetening the deal and adding a certain lively interest.

  Of course, if Volodin had struck up this acquaintance a bit later, after he had started making money on his own, he wouldn’t have taken the plunge so quickly. Especially since he really didn’t like Margarita Gopkis, with that dull, monotonous face of hers.

  Volodin liked and was attracted to maidens of a different class—you know, the type with dark little hairs on their upper lips. The funny, bravura kind—quick in their movements, who knew how to dance, swim, dive, and talk all sorts of nonsense. While his Margarita, on account of her profession, was sedentary, and far too modest in her movements and actions.

  But the die was cast, and the spring uncoiled without stopping.

  And so, whenever he passed the house next door, Volodin would pause near her window and engage her in long conversations, talking about this and that. Standing before her in profile or turned three-fourths and tugging at his sideburns, Volodin would say various roundabout things about a decent life and good fortune. And from these conversations he learned definitively that her room was at his disposal—if, of course, he were to do more than just hint at his intentions.

  After quickly assessing the whole affair and appraising his lady with a more attentive and demanding eye, he rushed into the fray with a triumphant cry.

  That’s how this famous marriage took place.

  Volodin moved into the Gopkis apartment, adding to their common pot his humble, lonely pillow and his other paltry goods and chattels.

  The photographer Patrikeyev walked Volodin to the Gopkis place, shaking his hand and advising him not to let his newly acquired retouching skills wither on the vine.

  Margarita Gopkis waved her hands in vexation, saying that, in all likelihood, Volodin wouldn’t need to occupy himself with such a painstaking task.

  And so Volodin entered into his new life, believing that he had made a profitable merger, based on exact and accurate calculation.

  He rubbed his hands vigorously and patted himself on the back in his mind, saying: “Don’t you worry, brother Volodin—seems like life’s beginning to smile at you too.”

  But that smile—well, it wasn’t so very good-natured.

  5

  Needless to say, the life of our Volodin changed for the better. He left the comfortless reception room and got a foothold in a luxurious bedroom, filled with all sorts of whatnots, throw pillows, and figurines.

  In addition, having previously subsisted on poor, modest fare—scraps, offal—he got a big upgrade in terms of food. He now tucked into various decent dishes—soups, meats, fish balls, tomatoes, and so on. What’s more, once a week he drank cocoa with his entire family, admiring and marveling at the fatty drink, the taste of which he had forgotten in the eight or nine years of his comfortless life in action. But Volodin didn’t rely on his lawful wife’s support.

  He didn’t abandon his work in the field of photography, and made major advances, earning not only gratitude but, so to speak, hard cash.

  Good fresh food enabled Volodin to throw himself into his work with heightened inspiration. And as he didn’t have much luck with his young spouse, he had extra motivation to march off to work. He performed his duties so subtly and artistically that all the photographed faces now appeared perfectly angelic, and their living owners were genuinely taken aback by such a happy surprise. They were ever more eager to get themselves photographed, spa
ring no money and referring more and more new customers to the atelier.

  The photographer Patrikeyev valued his employee tremendously and kept giving him little bonuses whenever customers were especially pleased by his artistic performance.

  Now Volodin really felt solid ground beneath his feet and realized that he wouldn’t be chased out of his position.

  And so he began to gain weight, filling out and putting on a calmly independent air. It’s not that he ballooned or anything—just that his body wisely stocked up on fats and vitamins for a rainy day, as a precaution.

  Of course, Volodin didn’t really enjoy any particular peace and contentment.

  After eating his fill, gabbing with his wife on domestic themes, and ordering lunch for tomorrow, he would remain in sad loneliness, genuinely grieving at his lack of particular tender affection for his young spouse—that affection which properly prettifies life and makes every bit of petty bullshit feel like an event and a beautiful detail of happy cohabitation. With these thoughts in his head, Volodin would put on his hat and go out into the street—needless to say, having first shaved, powdered his elegant nose, and trimmed his Italian sideburns.

  He would walk the streets and look at the passing women, taking a lively interest in their natures, where they were going, and their little mugs. He would stop and follow them with his eyes, whistling some special tune.

  And so time passed without notice. Days, weeks, months went by. Three years slipped away quietly. Volodin’s young spouse, Margarita Gopkis, literally couldn’t tear her eyes off her remarkable husband.

  She slaved away like an elephant, literally without straightening her back, wanting to bring her husband the greatest possible benefit. Wanting to brighten his existence, she bought all sorts of decent and amusing trifles—fetching neckties, watchstraps, and other household bric-a-brac. But he would gaze at them glumly, grudgingly submitting his cheeks to his concubine’s plentiful kisses. Sometimes he would simply snap at her rudely and shoo her away, as if she were some pestering fly.