I Had Raised Dust: Selected Works

by Daniil Kharms

KOKA BRIANSKY I said I'm getting married today.

  MOTHER What did you say?

  KOKA BRIANSKY To-day -- ma-rried!

  MOTHER Ma? What's ma?

  KOKA BRIANSKY Ma-rri-age!

  MOTHER Idge? What's this idge?

  KOKA BRIANSKY Not idge, but ma-rri-age!

  MOTHER What do you mean, not idge?

  KOKA BRIANSKY Yes, not idge, that's all!

  MOTHER What?

  KOKA BRIANSKY Yes, not idge. Do you understand! Not idge!

  MOTHER You're on about that idge again. I don't know what idge's got to do with.

  KOKA BRIANSKY Oh blow you! Ma and idge! What's up with you? Don't you realise yourself that saying just ma is senseless.

  MOTHER What did you say?

  KOKA BRIANSKY Ma, I said, is senseless!

  MOTHER Sle?

  KOKA BRIANSKY What on earth is all this! How can you possibly manage to catch only bits of words, and only the most absurd bits at that: sle! Why sle in particular?

  MOTHER There you go again -- sle.

  KOKA BRIANSKY throttles his MOTHER. Enter his fiancee MARUSIA.

  (1933)

  Aleksy Tolstoy

  Ol'ga Forsh went up to Aleksey Tolstoy and did something. Aleksey Tolstoy also did something.

  At this point Konstantin Fedin and Valentin Stenich leapt outside and got down to looking for a suitable stone. They didn't find a stone but they found a spade. Konstantin Fedin cracked Ol'ga Forsh one across the chops with this spade.

  Then Aleksey Tolstoy stripped naked and, going out on to the Fontanka, began to neigh like a horse. Everyone said: -- There goes a major contemporary writer, neighing. -- And nobody touched Aleksey Tolstoy.

  (1934)

  The story was written on the occasion of the first Congress of the Union of Soviet Writers and perhaps symbolically depicts the events. The mentioned persons are all known Soviet literary figures of the 1930s.

  On Phenomena and Existences

  No. 1

  The artist Michelangelo sits down on a heap of bricks and, propping his head in his hands, begins to think. Suddenly a cockerel walks past and looks at the artist Michelangelo with his round, golden eyes. Looks, but doesn't blink. At this point, the artist Michelangelo raises his head and sees the cockerel. The cockerel does not lower his gaze, doesn't blink and doesn't move his tail. The artist Michelangelo looks down and is aware of something in his eye. The artist Michelangelo rubs his eyes with his hands. And the cockerel isn't standing there any more, isn't standing there, but is walking away, walking away behind the shed, behind the shed to the poultry-run, to the poultry-run towards his hens.

  And the artist Michelangelo gets up from the heap of bricks, shakes the red brick dust from his trousers, throws aside his belt and goes off to his wife.

  The artist Michelangelo's wife, by the way, is extremely long, all of two rooms in length.

  On the way, the artist Michelangelo meets Komarov, grasps him by the hand and shouts: -- Look!...

  Komarov looks and sees a sphere

  -- What's that? -- whispers Komarov.

  And from the sky comes a roar: -- It's a sphere.

  -- What sort of a sphere is it? -- whispers Komarov.

  And from the sky, the roar: -- A smooth-surfaced sphere!

  Komarov and the artist Michelangelo sit down on the grass and they are seated on the grass like mushrooms. They hold each other's hands and look up at the sky. And in the sky appears the outline of a huge spoon. What on earth is that? No one knows. People run about and lock themselves into their houses. They lock their doors and their windows. But will that really help? Much good it does them! It will not help.

  I remember in 1884 an ordinary comet the size of a steamer appearing in the sky. It was very frightening. But now -- a spoon! Some phenomenon for a comet!

  Lock your windows and doors!

  Can that really help? You can't barricade yourself with planks against a celestial phenomenon.

  Nikolay Ivanovich Stupin lives in our house. He has a theory that everything is smoke. But in my view not everything is smoke. Maybe even there's no smoke at all. Maybe there's really nothing. There's one category only. Or maybe there's no category at all. It's hard to say.

  It is said that a certain celebrated artist scrutinised a cockerel. He scrutinised it and scrutinised it and came to the conclusion that the cockerel did not exist.

  The artist told his friend this, and his friend just laughed. How, he said, doesn't it exist, he said, when it's standing right here and I, he said, am clearly observing it.

  And the great artist thereupon hung his head and, retaining the same posture in which he stood, sat down on a pile of bricks.

  That's all.

  (1931)

  On Phenomena and Existences

  No. 2

  Here's a bottle of vodka, of the lethal spirit variety. And beside it you see Nikolay Ivanovich Serpukhov.

  From the bottle rise spirituous fumes. Look at the way Nikolay Ivanovich Serpukhov is breathing them in through his nose. Mark how he licks his lips and how he screws up his eyes. Evidently he is particularly partial to it and, in the main, that's because it's that lethal spirit variety.

  But take note of the fact that behind Nikolay Ivanovich's back there is nothing. It's not that there isn't a cupboard there, or a chest of drawers, or at any rate some such object: but there is absolutely nothing there, not even air. Believe it or not, as you please, but behind Nikolay Ivanovich's back there is not even an airless expanse or, as they say, universal ether. To put it bluntly, there's nothing.

  This is, of course, utterly inconceivable.

  But we don't give a damn about that, as we are only interested in the vodka and Nikolay Ivanovich Serpukhov.

  And so Nikolay Ivanovich takes the bottle of vodka in his hand and puts it to his nose. Nikolay Ivanovich sniffs it and moves his mouth like a rabbit.

  Now the time has come to say that, not only behind Nikolay Ivanovich's back, but before him too -- as it were, in front of his chest -- and all the way round him, there is noticing. A complete absence of any kind of existence, or, as the old witticism goes, an absence of any kind of presence.

  However, let us interest ourselves only in the vodka and Nikolay Ivanovich. Just imagine, Nikolay Ivanovich peers into the bottle of vodka, then he puts it to his lips, tips back the bottle bottom end up, and knocks it back -just imagine it, the whole bottle.

  Nifty! Nikolay Ivanovich knocked back his vodka and looked blank. Nifty, all right! How could he!

  And now this is what we have to say: as a matter of fact, not only behind Nikolay Ivanovich's back, nor merely in front and all around him, but also even inside Nikolay Ivanovich here was nothing, nothing existed.

  Of course, it could all be as we have just said, and yet Nikolay Ivanovich himself could in these circumstances still be in a delightful state of existence. This is, of course, true. But, as a matter of fact, the whole thing is that Nikolay Ivanovich didn't exist and doesn't exist. That's exactly the whole thing.

  You may ask: and what about the bottle of vodka? In particular, where did the vodka go, if a non-existent Nikolay Ivanovich drank it? Let's say that the bottle remained. Where, then, is the vodka? There it was and, suddenly, there it isn't. We know Nikolay Ivanovich doesn't exist, you say. So, what's the explanations

  At this stage, we ourselves become lost in conjecture.

  But, anyway, what are we talking about? Surely we said that inside, as well as outside, Nikolay Ivanovich nothing exists. So if, both inside and outside, nothing exists, then that means that the bottle as well doesn't exist. Isn't that it?

  But, on the other hand, take note of the following: if we are saying that nothing exists either inside or outside, then the question arises: inside and outside of what? Something evidently, all the same, does exist? Or perhaps doesn't exist. In which case, why do we keep saying 'inside' and 'outside'?

  No, here we have patently reached an impasse. And we ourselves don't know what to say
.

  Goodbye for now.

  (1934)

  On Equilibrium

  Everyone now knows how dangerous swallowing stones is. A friend of mine even coined the expression 'Dan-in-ston', which means: 'It's dangerous to ingest stones.' And a good thing too. 'Dan-in-ston' can be easily remembered and, as required, instantly recalled.

  He worked, this friend of mine, as a stoker on a steam engine. He travelled either the northern line or to Moscow. He was called Nikolay Ivanovich Serpukhov and he smoked Rocket cigarettes at thirty-five kopecks a packet, and always said that they made him cough less, while those costing five roubles, he says, 'always make me choke'.

  And so Nikolay Ivanovich once chanced to get in to the restaurant in the Yevropeyskaya Hotel. Nikolay Ivanovich sat at a table and at the next table some foreigners were sitting munching apples.

  At this point Nikolay Ivanovich said to himself: -- This is interesting -- said Nikolay Ivanovich -- A man's life this!

  Barely had he said this to himself when from out of the blue a Fairy appeared in front of him, saying: -- My good man, what do you need?

  Well, of course, in a restaurant you do get a commotion from which, it may be said, this unknown diminutive lady may have sprung. The foreigners even ceased munching their apples.

  Nikolay Ivanovich himself rather had the wind up and spoke rather offhandedly, so as to give her the brush-off. -- I'm sorry -- he said -- but I don't really require anything in particular.

  -- You don't understand -- said the unknown lady -- I -- she said -- am what is called a Fairy. In the merest jiffy I'll lay on whatever you fancy.

  Nikolay Ivanovich happened to notice that a citizen in a grey two-piece was listening intently to their conversation. The maitre d'hotel was rushing through the open doors and behind him some other specimen with a cigarette in his mouth.

  -- Bloody hell! -- thought Nikolay Ivanovich -- there's no telling what's going on.

  And there was indeed no telling what was going on. The maitre d'hotel was leaping around the tables, the foreigners were rolling up the carpets and generally the devil only knew what! They were all doing whatever they felt like!

  Nikolay Ivanovich ran out to the street and didn't even pick up his hat from the custody of the cloakroom; he ran out on to Lassalle Street and said to himself: -- Dan-in-ston! It's dangerous to ingest stones -- Nothing like this ever really happens, surely!

  And arriving home, Nikolay Ivanovich told his wife: -- Don't be alarmed, Yekaterina Petrovna, and don't get worried. Only there's no equilibrium in the world. It's just an error of some kilogram and a half over the universe as a whole, but it's really a surprising thing, Yekaterina Petrovna, totally surprising!

  And that's all.

  (1934)

  Andrey Semyonovich

  Andrey Semyonovich spat into a cup of water. The water immediately turned black. Andrey Semyonovich screwed up his eyes and looked attentively into the cup. The water was very black. Andrey Semyonovich's heart began to throb.

  At that moment Andrey Semyonovich's dog woke up. Andrey Semyonovich went over to the window and began ruminating.

  Suddenly something big and dark shot past Andrey Semyonovich's face and flew out of the window. This was Andrey Semyonovich's dog flying out and it zoomed like a crow on to the roof of the building opposite. Andrey Semyonovich sat down on his haunches and began to howl.

  Into the room ran Comrade Popugayev.

  -- What's up with you? Are you ill? -- asked Comrade Popugayev.

  Andrey Semyonovich quietened down and rubbed his eyes with his hands.

  Comrade Popugayev look a look into the cup which was standing on the table. -- What's this you've poured into here? -- he asked Andrey Semyonovich.

  -- I don't know -- said Andrey Semyonovich.

  Popugayev instantly disappeared. The dog flew in through the window again, lay down in its former place and went to sleep.

  Andrey Semyonovich went over to the table and took a drink from the cup of blackened water. And Andrey Semyonovich's soul turned lucent.

  (1934)

  Rebellion

  -- Drink vinegar, gentlemen -- said Shuyev.

  No one gave him any reply.

  -- Gentlemen! -- shouted Shuyev -- I propose to you the drinking of vinegar!

  Makaronov got up from his armchair and said: -- I welcome Shuyev's idea. Let's drink vinegar.

  Rastopyakin said: -- I shall not be drinking vinegar.

  At this point a silence set in and everyone began to look at Shuyev. Shuyev sat stony-faced. It was not clear what he was thinking.

  Three minutes went by. Suchkov smothered a cough. Ryvin scratched his mouth. Kaltayev adjusted his tie. Makaronov jiggled his ears and his nose. And Rastopyakin, slumped against the back of his armchair, was looking as if indifferently into the fireplace.

  Seven or eight more minutes went by.

  Ryvin stood up and went out of the room on tiptoe.

  Kaltayev followed him with his eyes.

  When the door had closed behind Ryvin, Shuyev said: -- So. The rebel has departed. To the devil with the rebel!

  Everyone looked at each other in surprise, and Rastopyakin raised his head and fixed his gaze on Shuyev.

  Shuyev said sternly: -- He who rebels is a scoundrel!

  Suchkov cautiously, under the table, shrugged his shoulders.

  -- I am in favour of the drinking of vinegar -- Makaronov said quietly and looked expectantly at Shuyev.

  Rastopyakin hiccupped and, with embarrassment, blushed like a maiden.

  -- Death to the rebels! -- shouted Suchkov, baring his blackish teeth.

  (1934)

  Ivan Yakovlevich Bobov

  Ivan Yakovlevich Bobov woke up in the best possible of moods. He looked out from under his blanket and immediately spotted the ceiling. The ceiling was decorated with a large grey stain with greenish edges. If one looked closely at the stain, with one eye, then the stain took on a resemblance to a rhinoceros harnessed to a wheelbarrow, although others held that it looked more like a tram with a giant sitting on top -- however, it was possible to detect in this stain even the outlines of some city or other. Ivan Yakovlevich looked at the ceiling, though not at where the stain was, but just like that, at no particular place; while doing so, he smiled and screwed up his eyes. Then he goggled his eyes and raised his eyebrows so high that his forehead folded up like a concertina and would very nearly have disappeared altogether if Ivan Yakovlevich had not screwed up his eyes again and suddenly, as though ashamed of something, pulled the blanket back up over his head. He did this so quickly that from under the other end of the blanket Ivan Yakovlevich's bare feet were exposed and right then a fly settled on the big toe of his left foot. Ivan Yakovlevich moved this toe and the fly flew over and settled on his heel. Then Ivan Yakovlevich grabbed the blanket with both feet; with one foot he hooked the blanket downwards, while he wiggled his other foot and clasped the blanket upwards with it and by this means pulled the blanket down from over his head. 'Up yours', said Ivan Yakovlevich and blew out his cheeks. Usually, whenever Ivan Yakovlevich managed to do something or, on the contrary, utterly failed, Ivan Yakovlevich always said 'up yours' -- of course, not loudly and not at all so that anyone should hear it, but just like that, quietly to himself. And so, having said 'up yours', Ivan Yakovlevich sat on the bed and extended an arm to the chair, on which his trousers, shirt and underwear lay. As for trousers, Ivan Yakovlevich loved to wear striped ones. But, at one time, there was really a situation when it was impossible to get striped trousers anywhere. Ivan Yakovlevich tried 'Leningrad Clothes', and the department store, and the Passage, and Gostiny Dvor and he had been round all the shops on the Petrograd side. He had even gone over to somewhere on Okhta but didn't find any striped trousers anywhere. And Ivan Yakovlevich's old trousers had worn so threadbare that it was gelling impossible to wear' them. Ivan Yakovlevich sewed them up several times but in the end even this didn't help any more. Ivan Yakovlevich again went round all the shops and, a
gain not finding striped trousers anywhere, finally decided to buy checked ones. But checked trousers weren't available anywhere either. Then Ivan Yakovlevich decided to buy himself grey trousers, but he couldn't find grey ones anywhere either. Neither were black trousers in Ivan Yakovlevich's size anywhere to be found. Then Ivan Yakovlevich went off to buy blue trousers but, while he had been looking for black ones, both blue and brown ones also ran out. And so, finally, Ivan Yakovlevich just had to buy some green trousers with yellow spots. In the shop it had seemed to Ivan Yakovlevich that the trousers were not of a very bright colour and that the yellow fleck did not offend the eye at all. But, arriving home, Ivan Yakovlevich discovered that one leg was indeed of a decent shade but that the other was nothing short of turquoise and the yellow fleck positively flamed on it. Ivan Yakovlevich tried turning the trousers inside out, but that way round both legs had a propensity to assume a yellow hue embroidered with green peas and were so garish that, well, just to step out on stage in such trousers after a cinematic show would be quite sufficient: the audience would guffaw for half an hour. For two days Ivan Yakovlevich couldn't bring himself to put on his new trousers, but when his old ones got so torn that even from a distance it could be seen that Ivan Yakovlevich's underpants were in dire need of mending, there was nothing for it but to sport the new trousers. In his new trousers for the first time, Ivan Yakovlevich went out extremely cautiously. Leaving the doorway, he glanced both ways first and, having convinced himself that there was no one nearby, stepped out on to the street and swiftly strode off in the direction of his office. The first person he met was an apple seller with a big basket on his head. He said nothing on catching sight of Ivan Yakovlevich and only when Ivan Yakovlevich had walked past did he stop and, since his basket would not allow him to turn his head, the apple seller turned his whole person and followed Ivan Yakovlevich with his eyes -- and perhaps would have shaken his head if, once again, it had not been for that same basket. Ivan Yakovlevich stepped it out jauntily, considering his encounter with the fruit seller to have been a good omen. He had not seen the tradesman's manoeuvre and he reassured himself that his trousers were not as startling as all that. There now walked towards Ivan Yakovlevich an office worker of just the same type as he himself, with a briefcase under his arm. The office worker was walking briskly, not bothering to look around him, but rather keeping a close watch underfoot. Drawing level with Ivan Yakovlevich, the office worker stole a glance at Ivan Yakovlevich's trousers and stopped in his tracks. Ivan Yakovlevich stopped as well. The office worker looked at Ivan Yakovlevich, as did Ivan Yakovlevich at the office worker.