I Had Raised Dust: Selected Works

by Daniil Kharms

-- I'm starving -- I said.

  -- Help yourself -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, pushing the saveloys over to me.

  -- The last time I ate was yesterday, in the cellar bar with you, and since then I haven't eaten a thing -- I said.

  -- Yeh, yeh -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- I was writing all the time -- said I.

  -- Bloody hell! -- exclaimed Sakerdon Mikhailovich in an exaggerated tone. -- It's a great thing to see a genius before one.

  -- I should think so! -- said I.

  -- Did you get much done? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- Yes -- said I. -- I got through a mass of paper.

  -- To the genius of our day -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, lifting his glass.

  We drank. Sakerdon Mikhailovich ate boiled meat and I . . . the saveloys. Having eaten four saveloys, I lit my pipe and said:

  -- You know, I came to see you, to escape from persecution.

  -- Who was persecuting you? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- A lady -- I said.

  But as Sakerdon Mikhailovich didn't ask me anything and only poured vodka into his glass in silence, I went on: -- I met her in the bakery and immediately fell in love.

  -- Is she attractive? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- Yes -- said I -- just my type.

  We drank and I continued: -- She agreed to go to my place and drink vodka. We went into a shop, but I had to make a run for it out of the shop, on the quiet.

  -- Didn't you have enough money? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- No, I had just enough money -- I said -- but I remembered that I couldn't let her into my room.

  -- What, do you mean you had another woman in your room? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- Yes, if you like, there's another woman in my room -- I said, with a smile. -- Now I can't let anyone into my room.

  -- Get married. Then you can invite me to the reception -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- No -- I said, snorting with laughter. -- I'm not going to get married to this woman.

  -- Well then, marry that one from the bakery -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- Why are you so keen to marry me off? -- said I.

  -- So, what then? -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, filling the glasses. -- Here's to your conquests!

  We drank. Clearly, the vodka was starting to have its effect on us. Sakerdon Mikhailovich look off his fur hat with the earflaps and slung it on to the bed. I got up and paced around the room, already experiencing a certain amount of head-spinning.

  -- How do you feel about the dead? -- I asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- Completely negatively -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I'm afraid of them.

  -- Yes, I can't stand dead people either -- I said. -- Give me a dead person and, assuming he's not a relative of mine, I would be bound to boot him one.

  -- You shouldn't kick corpses -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I would give him a good booting, right in the chops -- said I. -- I can't stand dead people or children.

  -- Yes, children are vile -- agreed Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- But which do you think are worse: the dead or children? -- I asked.

  -- Children are perhaps worse, they get in our way more often. The dead at least don't burst into our lives -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- They do burst in! -- I shouted and immediately stopped speaking. Sakerdon Mikhailovich looked at me attentively.

  -- Do you want some more vodka? -- he asked.

  -- No -- I said, but, recollecting myself, I added: -- No, thank you, I don't want any more.

  I came over and sat down again at the table. For a while we are silent.

  -- I want to ask you -- I say finally. -- Do you believe in God?

  A transverse wrinkle appears on Sakerdon Mikhailovich's brow and he says: -- There is such a thing as bad form. It's bad form to ask someone to lend you fifty roubles if you have noticed him just putting two hundred in his pocket. It's his business to give you the money or to refuse; and the most convenient and agreeable means of refusal is to lie, saying, that he hasn't got the money. But you have seen that that person does have the money and thereby you have deprived him of the possibility of simply and agreeably refusing. You have deprived him of the right of choice and that is a dirty trick. It's bad form and quite tactless and asking a person: 'Do you believe in God?' -- that also is tactless and bad form.

  -- Well -- said I -- I see nothing in common there.

  -- Anal I am making no comparisons -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- Well, all right, then -- I said -- let's leave it. Just excuse me for putting such an indecent and tactless question.

  -- That's all right -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I merely refused to answer you.

  -- I wouldn't have answered either -- said I -- except that it would've been for a different reason.

  -- And what would that be? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich limply.

  -- You see -- I said -- in my view there are no believers or non-believers. There are only those who wish to believe and those who wish not to believe.

  -- So, those who wish not to believe already believe in something? -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- And those who wish to believe already, in advance, don't believe in anything?

  -- Perhaps that's the way it is -- I said. -- I don't know.

  -- And in what do they believe or not believe? In God? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

  -- No -- I said -- in immortality.

  -- Then why did you ask me whether I believe in God?

  -- Simply because asking: 'Do you believe in immortality?' sounds rather stupid -- I said to Sakerdon Mikhailovich and stood up.

  -- What, are you going? -- Sakerdon Mikhailovich asked me.

  -- Yes -- I said -- it's time I was going.

  -- And what about the vodka? -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- There's a glass each left, you know.

  -- Well, let's drink it, then -- I said.

  We drank down the vodka and finished off the remains of the boiled meat.

  -- And now I must go -- I said.

  -- Goodbye -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, accompanying me across the kitchen and out lo the stairway. -- Thanks for bringing the refreshments.

  -- Thank you -- I said. -- Goodbye.

  And I left.

  Remaining on his own, Sakerdon Mikhailovich cleared the tables, shoved the empty vodka bottle on top of the cupboard, put his fur cap with the earflaps on again and sat down on the floor under the window. Sakerdon Mikhailovich put his hands behind his back and they could not be seen. And from his disordered dressing-gown protruded his bare, bony legs, shod in Russian boots with the tops cut off.

  I walked along Nevsky Prospect, weighed down by my own thoughts. I'll now have to go to the house manager and tell him everything. And having dealt with the old woman, I shall stand for entire days by the bakery, until I encounter that delightful young lady. Indeed, I have remained in her debt for the bread, to the tune of forty-eight kopecks. I have a fine pretext for seeking her out. The vodka I had drunk was still continuing to have its effect and it seemed as though everything was shaping up very nicely and straightforwardly.

  On Fontanka I went over to a stall and, on the strength of my remaining change, I downed a big mug of kvass. The kvass was of poor quality and sour, and I walked on with a revolting taste in my mouth.

  On the corner of Liteinaya some drunk or other staggered up and pushed me. It's a good thing I don't have a revolver: I would have killed him right here on the spot.

  I walked all the way home, no doubt with a face distorted with malice. In any event, almost everyone I passed swung round to look at me.

  I went into the house manager's office. At the table sat a short, dirty, snub-nosed, one-eyed, tow-headed female and, looking into her make-up mirror, she was daubing herself with lipstick.

  -- And where's the house manager? -- I asked.

  The girl remained silent, continuing to daub her lips.
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  -- Where's the house manager? -- I repeated in a sharp voice.

  -- He'll be here tomorrow, not today -- replied the dirty, snub-nosed, one-eyed and tow-haired female.

  I went out on to the street. On the opposite side, an invalid was walking along on an artificial leg and knocking loudly with his leg and his stick. Six urchins were running behind the invalid, mimicking his gait.

  I turned into my main entrance and began to go up the stairway. On the first floor I stopped; a repulsive thought had entered my head: of course, the old woman must have started to decompose. I had not shut the windows, and they say that with an open window the dead decompose all the quicker. What utter stupidity! And that devil of a house manager won't be there until tomorrow! I stood in indecision for several minutes and then began to ascend further.

  I stopped again beside the door to my flat. Perhaps I should go to the bakery and wait there for the delightful young lady? I could try imploring her to let me in to her place for two or three nights. But at this point I recollect that she has already bought her bread today and so she won't be coming to the bakery. And in any case nothing would have come of it.

  I unlocked the door and went into the corridor. At the end of the corridor a light was on and Mar'ia Vasil'evna, holding some rag or other in her hands, was rubbing it over with another rag. Upon seeing me, Mar'ia Vasil'evna cried: -- Shome auld man was ashking for ye!

  -- What old man? -- I asked.

  -- I donch know -- replied Mar'ia Vasil'evna.

  -- When was that? -- I asked.

  -- Donch know zhat, eizher -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna.

  -- Did you talk to the old man? -- I asked Mar'ia Vasil'evna.

  -- I did -- replied Mar'ia Vasil'evna.

  -- So, how come you don't know when it was? -- said I.

  -- Choo hourzh ago -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna.

  -- And what did this old man look like? -- I asked.

  -- Donch know zhat, eizher -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna and went off to the kitchen.

  I went over to my room.

  -- Suppose -- I thought -- the old woman has disappeared. I shall go into any room, and there's no old woman there. Oh my God! Do miracles really not happen?

  I unlocked the door and started to open it slowly. Perhaps it only seemed that way, but the sickly smell of decomposition in progress hit me in the face. I looked in through the half-open door and, for a instant, froze on the spot. The old woman was on all fours, crawling slowly over to meet me.

  I slammed the door with a yelp, turned the key and leapt across to the wall opposite.

  Mar'ia Vasil'evna appeared in the corridor.

  -- Were ye calling me? -- she asked.

  I was so shaken that I couldn't reply and just shook my head negatively. Mar'ia Vasil'evna came a bit nearer.

  -- Ye were talking to shomeone -- she said.

  I again shook my head.

  -- Crazhy madman -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna and she again went off to the kitchen, looking round at me several times on the way.

  -- I can't just stand here. I can't just stand here -- I repeated to myself. This phrase had formed somewhere within me. I kept reiterating it until it reached my consciousness.

  -- No, I can't just stand here -- I said to myself, but carried on standing there, as though paralysed. Something horrific had happened, but there was now the prospect of dealing with something that perhaps was even more horrific than what had already occurred. My thoughts were spinning in a vortex and I could see only the malicious eyes of the dead old woman, slowly crawling towards me on all fours.

  Burst into the room and smash the old woman's skull in! That's what needs to be done! I even gave the place the once-over and was relieved to see a croquet mallet which, for some unknown reason, had been standing in the corner of the corridor for nearly a year. Grab the mallet, burst into the room and bang . . . !

  My shivering had not passed off. I was standing with my shoulders arched from an inner cold. My thoughts were jumping and jumbled, backtracking to their point of departure and again jumping ahead and taking over new spheres, and I stood, lending an ear to my own thoughts, and remaining as though to one side of them, as though not their controller.

  -- The dead -- my own thoughts explained to me -- are a category to be reckoned with. A lot of use calling them dead; rather, they should be called the undead. They need to be watched and watched. Ask any mortuary watchman. What do you think he is put there for? Only for one thing: to keep watch, so that the dead don't crawl all over the place. There can even occur what are, in a certain sense, amusing incidents. One deceased crawled out of the mortuary while the attendant, on management's orders, was taking his bath, crawled into the disinfection room and ate up a heap of bed linen. The disinfectors dished out a damned good thrashing to the deceased in question but, as for the ruined linen, they had to settle up for that out of their own pockets. And another deceased crawled as far as the maternity ward and so frightened the inmates that one child-bearer produced a premature foetus on the spot, while the deceased pounced smartly on the fruits of the miscarriage and began to devour it, champing away vigourously. And, when a brave nurse struck the deceased on the back with a stool, he bit the said nurse on the leg and she soon died from infection by corpse poisoning. Yes, indeed, the dead are a category to be reckoned with, and with them you certainly have to be on the quick side.

  -- Stop! -- said I to my own thoughts. -- You are talking nonsense. The dead are immobile.

  -- All right, then -- my own thoughts said to me. -- Just you enter your room and you'll soon find what you call an immobile dead person.

  An unexpected stubbornness within me began speaking.

  -- All right, I will! -- I replied resolutely to my own thoughts.

  -- Just you try! -- my own thoughts said to me derisively.

  This derision definitively enraged me. I grabbed the croquet mallet and rushed towards the door.

  -- Hold on a moment! -- my own thoughts yelled at me. But I had already turned the key and unlocked the door.

  The old woman was lying in the doorway, her face pressed against the floor.

  Croquet mallet raised, I stood at the ready. The old woman wasn't moving.

  My trembling passed off and my thoughts were flowing clearly and logically. I was in control.

  -- First of all, shut the door! -- I commanded myself.

  I pulled the key from the outer side of the door and put it into the inner side. I did this with my left hand, while in my right hand I held the croquet mallet and the whole time did not take my eyes off the old woman. I turned the key in the door and, carefully stepping over the old woman, stepped out into the middle of the room.

  -- Now you and I will settle things -- said I. A plan had occurred to me, one to which murderers in detective stories and reports in the newspapers usually resort; I simply wanted to hide the old woman in a suitcase, carry her off out of town and dump her in a bog. I knew one such place.

  I had a suitcase under the couch. I dragged it out and opened it. There were a few assorted things in it: several books, an old felt hat and some torn underwear. I unpacked all this on the couch.

  At this moment the outside door slammed loudly and it seemed to me that the old woman shuddered.

  I immediately jumped up and grabbed the croquet mallet.

  The old woman is lying there quietly. I am standing and listening intently. It is the engine driver who has just come back; I can hear him walking about in his room. That's him going along the corridor to the kitchen. If Mar'ia Vasil'evna tells him all about my madness it will do no good. It's a devilish nuisance. I'd better go along to the kitchen and reassure them by my appearance.

  I again strode over the old woman, placed the mallet right by the door, so that on my return, without even entering the room, I could have the mallet in my hands, and went out into the corridor. Voices came towards me from the kitchen, but the words were not audible. I shut the door to my room behind me and cautiously went off to the k
itchen: I wanted to find out what Mar'ia Vasil'evna and the engine driver were talking about. I passed down the corridor quickly and slowed my steps near the kitchen. The engine driver was speaking; evidently he was talking about something which had happened to him at work.

  I went in. The engine driver was standing with a towel in his hands and speaking, while Mar'ia Vasil'evna was sitting on a stool listening. Upon seeing me, the engine driver waved at me.

  -- Hello there, hello there, Matvei Filippovich -- I said to him and went on through to the bathroom. So far everything was safe enough. Mar'ia Vasil'evna was used to my strange ways and may even have forgotten this latest incident.

  Suddenly it dawned upon me that I had not locked the door. What if the old woman should crawl out of the room?

  I rushed back but recollected myself in time and, so as not to alarm the tenants, ambled through the kitchen at a leisurely step.

  Mar'ia Vasil'evna was tapping her finger on the kitchen table and saying to the engine driver:

  -- Quaite raight. That's quaite raight! I wud have wustled too!

  With my heart sinking, I went out into the corridor and immediately breaking very nearly into a run I dashed down to my room. The old woman, as before, was lying there quietly, her face pressed to the floor. The croquet mallet was standing by the door in the same spot. I picked it up, went into the room , and locked the door behind me with the key. Yes, there was definitely a whiff of dead body in the room. I strode over the old woman, went up to the window and sat down in the armchair. So long as I don't get ill from this so far only weak, but still already unbearable, smell. I lit up my pipe. I felt a touch of nausea and my stomach was aching a bit.

  So, why am I just sitting here? I need to act quickly, before this old woman rots completely. But, in any case, I need to be careful shoving her into the suitcase because, while we're at it, she could take a nip at my hand. And, as for dying from corpse poisoning -- no thank you!

  -- Hey, thought -- I suddenly exclaimed. -- I'd like to see what you would bite me with! Your teeth are over there, anyway!

  I leaned over in the armchair and looked into the corner on the other side of the window where, by my reckoning, the old woman's set of dentures must be. But the false teeth were not there.