Sentimental Tales

You can bet they’ll take the author to task again for this new work of art.

You can bet they’ll accuse him of gross libel against humanity again, of breaking from the masses and so on.

Those little ideas of his, they’ll say, aren’t so grand.

And his heroes—they’re no great shakes either. You’d have a hell of a time finding much social significance in any of them. Their actions ain’t likely to arouse, as it were, the burning sympathy of the working masses. No, siree—the working masses won’t pledge their unconditional allegiance to such characters.

They’ve got a point, of course—my characters ain’t exactly heavy hitters. They’re no leaders, that’s for sure. What you’ve got here is, so to speak, all sorts of insignificant men and women, with their everyday comings, goings, and anxieties. But as for libel against humanity—why, you’ll find absolutely nothing of the kind.

Sure, earlier you could take the author to task for—well, if not libel, exactly, then a certain, as it were, surplus of melancholy and a desire to see various dark and coarse sides in nature and humanity. In his earlier work, the author was indeed fervently mistaken in regard to certain fundamental questions, engaging in downright obscurantism.

Just some two years ago, the author—he didn’t like this, he didn’t like that. He subjected every little thing to the most desperate criticism and destructive fantasy. Back then—it’s embarrassing to admit this before the reader—the author’s views had come to such a pass that he began to take offense at the frailty and fragility of the human body, and at the fact that man, for example, consists mainly of water, of moisture.

“Hell’s bells, what are we, mushrooms, berries?” the author would exclaim. “Who needs so much water? I mean, really, it’s just plain offensive to know what man consists of. Water, chaff, clay, some other extremely mediocre stuff. Coal, I think. And if anything should happen, this whole dusty business starts crawling with germs. I mean, really!” the author would exclaim back in those days, not without chagrin.

Even in such a holy affair as man’s external appearance—even in that, the author began to see nothing but coarseness and deficiency.

“Say you come to know a person,” the author would muse before his close relatives, “but then you turn away for a minute, or maybe don’t see the person for five or six years—well, you’re just gobsmacked by the disgusting nature of our external appearance. Take the mouth—some slapdash hole in your mug. Teeth sticking out like a fan. Ears dangling off the sides. The nose is some squiggly bump stuck in the middle, as if on purpose. I tell you, it ain’t pretty! No, sir—not much to look at.”

That gives you a taste of the sort of foolish and harmful ideas the author had come to back in those days, steeped as he was in the blackest melancholy. The author even subjected so unquestionable and fundamental a thing as the mind to the most desperate criticism.

“Take the mind,” the author would muse. “No two ways about it—man has invented lots of curious and entertaining stuff with the mind’s help: the microscope, the Gillette razor, the photograph, and so on, and so on. But as for inventing something that would put each and every person on easy street—nothing doing, nothing at all. Meantime, whole centuries fly by, whole eras. The sun’s breaking out in spots. Cooling down, you know. I mean, we’re in what—year one thousand nine hundred and twenty-nine? Poof! Frittered it all away.”

That gives you a taste of the unworthy thoughts that flashed through the author’s brain.

But surely they flashed, these thoughts, as a result of the author’s illness.

His acute melancholy and irritation with people nearly pushed him over the edge, obscured his horizons, and shut his eyes to a lot of beautiful stuff and to the things currently happening all around us.

And now the author is endlessly glad and pleased that, during those two or three lamentable years, he didn’t have occasion to write stories. If he had, great shame would have fallen on his shoulders. Those stories would truly have been malicious slander, crude and boorish libel against the world order and the human way of life.

But now all that melancholy has vanished, and the author again sees everything as it truly is, with his own eyes.

By the way, it’s worth noting that, despite his illness, the author never broke from the masses. On the contrary, he lives and ails, so to speak, in the thick of humanity. And he describes events not from the vantage point of Mars, but from our own esteemed Earth, from our own eastern hemisphere, where there happens to be a building that houses a communal apartment in which the author abides and, as it were, observes people personally, just as they are, without any embellishments, guises, or drapery.

And on account of living such a life, the author notices what’s what and why. So there’s no sense in accusing the author of libeling and insulting people with his words. Especially since the author has, in recent years, developed a particular fondness for people, with all their vices, flaws, and other abovementioned particularities.

Of course, that’s the author, but other intellectuals really do utter all sorts of words from time to time. They might say that people are still rubbish. They might say we’ve got to straighten them out, put them in order. We’ve got to thrash out the rough elements of their nature. We’ve got to whip ’em into shape. Only then can life shine in all its marvelous splendor. There’s just that one, so to speak, little hurdle. But the author doesn’t hold those opinions. He resolutely disavows those views. Oh, sure, we’ve still got to overcome such unfortunate technical deficiencies as bureaucratism, philistinism, red tape, gang rape, and so on.1 But everything else, for the time being, is more or less in place and doesn’t interfere with the gradual improvement of life.

And if the author were asked: “What do you want? What urgent change, for example, would you make in the people around you, leaving aside the abovementioned deficiencies?”

Well, he’d have plenty trouble coming up with an answer.

No, he doesn’t want to change a thing. Except for one little trifle, maybe. I mean greed. I mean the coarse daily grind of material calculation.

I mean, I’d like to see people pay each other visits, you know, for the sake of pleasant heart-to-heart chats, without any hidden motives or calculations. Of course, it’s all just a whim, empty fantasy. The author probably has too much time on his hands. But such is his sentimental nature—he’d like to see violets sprouting right on the sidewalk.

Of course, it may well be that everything the author has just said bears no direct relation to the work at hand—but people, I’m telling you, he has raised very urgent, pressing questions. And that, you know, is the author’s pigheaded nature—he just can’t get started with no storytelling before he’s had his say.

And yet, in this case, the author’s words do indeed, to some extent, bear direct relation to our tale. Especially since he raised the topic of various self-serving calculations. It just so happens that the hero of this tale came face to face with precisely such circumstances. So exhausted was he by the whole whirlwind of ensuing events that, I’m telling you, his jaw dropped.

In the wonderful years of his youth, when all of life seemed but a morning stroll—down a boulevard, say—the author was blind to life’s shadowy side. He simply didn’t notice it. His eyes were on something else. He saw all sorts of merry little things, various beautiful objects and experiences. He saw flowers growing, buds blossoming, clouds floating, and people loving each other warmly and mutually.

But due to his youth, the foolishness of his character, and the naivety of his vision, the author failed to notice how all these things happened—that is, what poked and prodded what.

Later, of course, the author began to pay attention. And suddenly he saw all sorts of things.

Here, say, he sees a gray-haired fellow squeezing another fellow’s hand, looking him in the eye, uttering words. Had the author seen the same thing earlier, why, he would’ve taken heart. “Looky here,” he would’ve thought. “Look how pleasant everyone is, how special, how they love each other, and, in general, how wonderfully life’s shaping up.”

Well, these days the author sets no store by the hallucinations of his visions. The author is gnawed by doubt. He worries, our author: maybe the gray-bearded fellow’s squeezing that there hand and looking into them there eyes so’s to shore up his shaky position at work, or to grab a chair at a university and read lectures from said chair on beauty and art?

The author will never forget a certain minor incident that transpired not very long ago. This incident literally cuts the author to the quick without a knife. Imagine a lovely little house. Guests coming and going. Hanging around all day, all night. Playing cards. Gulping down coffee with cream. Treating the young hostess real respectful-like, smooching her hands and everything. Well, of course, one day they come and arrest the master of the house, an engineer.2 The wife, she takes ill and, of course, damn near starves to death. And not a single bastard comes by to check in on her. No one smooches her hands, that’s for sure. Hell, they’re all afraid this former acquaintance might cast a shadow over them.

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.

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.

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.

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, sparing 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.

He began to grieve in the open, to sink into thought, and to curse his life.

“No, life just hasn’t panned out,” our Volodin would mutter, trying to grasp what mistake he had made in his life and his plans.

But in the spring—if memory hasn’t betrayed us—of 1925, major events took place in the life of our friend, Nikolay Petrovich Volodin. While courting a sweet little maiden, he fell passionately in love with her—or, to put it plainly, went ass over teakettle—and even began to consider making a radical change in his life. He was now earning a decent salary and could contemplate a new, happier life.

He found this young lass altogether pleasant and charming. In a word, she suited his spiritual needs to a T, possessing precisely the physical appearance of which he had dreamed all his life. She was a slender, poetic individual, with dark hair and eyes that shone like stars. But it was her tiny, small little whiskers that filled Volodin with particular delight and made him ponder his situation more seriously.

However, various family circumstances and dark forebodings of loud scandals, and perhaps even face-poundings, forced him to cool his passions and banish his thoughts.

Just in case, he began to treat his wife even more affably. Whenever he left the house, he’d give her a cock and bull story about needing to rush off to some friend or other, and, patting her on the back, would pronounce various affable and inoffensive words.

And Madame Volodin, knowing full well that something of extraordinary importance was taking place, would blink dumbly, unsure of what to do: should she scream and raise hell, or bide her time, gathering incriminating material and evidence?

Volodin would leave the house, meet with his little moppet, and lead her grandly through the streets, brimming with witty phrases, inspiration, and boisterous, seething life.

The maiden would hang on his arm, chattering about her innocent little affairs. She would say that while many married gentlemen might entertain all sorts of unrealizable fantasies, she, in spite of the total debauchery all around her, had a completely different take on things. Only serious circumstances could incline her to more specific facts. Of course, an excessively strong sense of love might also loosen her principles. Sensing that these words contained an amorous confession, Volodin would drag his lady around with particular energy, muttering various irresponsible thoughts and wishes.

Each evening they would depart for the lake, and there, on the high bank, on a bench, or simply on the grass beneath the lilacs, they would embrace tenderly, experiencing every second of their happiness to the fullest.

It was the month of May, and this wonderful time of year—with its beauty, fresh colors, and light, intoxicating air—inspired them to no end.

The author, unfortunately, lacks major poetic gifts and finds it difficult to wield poetic vocabulary. It truly pains him that he has little aptitude for artistic description and, in general, for literary prose.

If he did, the author would create majestic depictions, describing the fresh feelings of two loving hearts against the marvelous background of a springtime landscape, our natural resources, and fragrant lilacs.

The author admits that he has tried many times over to penetrate the secret of artistic description, that secret which our modern literary giants employ with such enviable ease.

However, the pallor of the author’s words and the wishy-washiness of his thoughts have prevented him from delving too deeply into the virginal thicket of Russian literary prose.

But in describing the magical scenes of our friends’ assignations, full as they were of poetic trembling and melancholy, the author still cannot resist the temptation to plunge into the sweet, forbidden waters of artistic artistry.

And so the author will lovingly dedicate to our lovers a few lines describing the nighttime panorama.

The author begs experienced artists of the word not to judge his modest exercises too sternly. His is no easy task. It’s grueling labor.

And yet the author will still try to plunge into high literary art.

The sea was gurbling…All of a sudden, the air was filled with quirling, twirring, slarping. This was the sound of the young man unharnessing his shoulders and harnessing his hand in his side pocket.

The world contained a bench. Suddenly a cigarette entered the picture. This was the young man lighting up and gazing lovingly at his maiden.

The sea was gurbling…The grass susurrated ceaselessly. Loam and clay crumbled marvelously beneath the lovers’ feet.

The maiden glibbed glintily and squintily, nosing the lilacs.4 Then the air was again filled with artistic quirling, twirring, slarping. And with its wondrous, indescribable brilliance a spectral analysis suddenly illuminated a hilly terrain…

Ah, to hell with it! It won’t come out right. The author has the courage to admit that he has no talent for so-called artistic literature. To each his own. The lord god gives one fellow a simple, rough tongue, while another fellow’s tongue can turn out all sorts of subtle artistic ritornellos every minute.

But the author never did set his sights on high artistry, and so he turns his rough-hewn tongue back to a description of events.

In short, without encroaching on the art of rhetoric, we’ll say that our lovers sat above the lake, holding lengthy and endless conversations about love. From time to time they would sigh, fall silent, and listen to the sea gurble and the vegetation susurrate.

The author is always very shocked to hear people speaking about objects without giving thought to their nature and causes.

Many of our eminent writers, and even our strong satirists, usually write the following words, for example, with the greatest of ease: “The lovers sighed.”

But what did they sigh for? How come? Why do lovers develop this definite habit of sighing?

By gum, if you bear the title of writer, well, you’ve got to explain, elucidate these things for the inexperienced reader. Nothing doing. These writers, they just blurt things out and bid you farewell, moving on to the next topic with criminal negligence.

The author, for his part, will try and stick his nose into this business, which doesn’t really concern him. According to the popular theory of a certain German dentist, a sigh is nothing more than a delay. That is, he says, what happens inside your organism, so to speak, is a kind of delay, in his words, some sort of inhibition of some forces or other, which are kept from following straight paths to their destinations, and what you get in the end is a sigh.5

If someone sighs, well, that means they’ve been prevented from fulfilling their desires. And back in the bad old days, when love wasn’t especially accessible, lovers had plenty cause to sigh most cruelly. Come to think of it, they still may, from time to time.

Such is the simple and glorious course of our life, and such are the modest, discreet, and heroic workings of our organisms.

But this does not prevent the author from treating many excellent things and desires with love.

And so, our young couple talked and sighed. But in the month of June, when the lilacs were already in bloom over the lake, they began to sigh less and less, and, at last, sighed no longer. Now they sat on the bench, leaning toward each other, happy and enraptured.

The sea was gurbling…Loam and clay…

Ah, to hell with it…

During one of these glorious meetings of the heart, as Volodin sat beside the young lady and rattled off all sorts of poetic comparisons and rhymes, he dropped a rather beautiful phrase, which he had, no doubt, swiped from some anthology, though he insisted otherwise.

Seriously, the author very much doubts that Volodin could have managed to formulate such a fanciful and poetic phrase, worthy of nothing else than the pen of a major literary master of the former era.

As he leaned toward the young lady and the two of them sniffed a branch of lilac, he said: “Lilacs bloom for a week and then fade. As does your love.”

The young lady froze in perfect delight, demanding that he repeat those marvelous, musical words over and over again.

And he repeated them all evening, mixing in a few verses by Pushkin—“A bird hopping on a branch”—Blok, and other responsible poets.6

Upon returning home after that sublime evening, Volodin was greeted with wild shouting, wailing, and harsh words.

The whole Gopkis clan, together with the notorious brother of mercy Sypunov, pounced on Volodin and cursed him out for all he was worth, calling him a crook, a scoundrel, and a skirt-chaser.

Brother of mercy Sypunov literally turned cartwheels around the apartment, hollering that he’d gladly bust a head for the sake of a weak woman, should an ungrateful creature such as Volodin go wandering at night with his tail up, destroying their harmonious family idyll.

Meanwhile, Margarita, sensing impending trouble, squealed, shrill as a whistle. Through her whistling and moaning, she howled that such an ugly, cold-blooded beast should simply be kicked out of the house, and that only love—and, most importantly, her wasted youth—kept her from doing it.

Volodin was struck in an especially unpleasant way by the roaring of the younger sister, Lola, who seemingly had nothing to gain from him. Her roaring only created a disturbing atmosphere and intensified the trouble to the level of a major family scandal.

This crude and uncultured little scene stifled all of Volodin’s lofty thoughts. Having returned home overflowing with the most profound and elegant experiences, noble sentiments, and the smell of lilac, he now clutched at his head and silently cursed the rash step he had taken in marrying this unbridled old dame who was ruining his youth. Without raising his voice in response to the scandals and cries, he sent the whole family to hell and locked himself in his room. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, he quietly gathered his wardrobe and little odds and ends, preparing to depart.

When the brother of mercy went off to work, Volodin took all his bundles and left the apartment, ignoring the lamentations and unceasing hysterical fainting fits of his better half.

He came to his photographer, who received him with open arms and genuine joy, assuming that Volodin would now start retouching photographs if not for free, then at least on a more economical basis.

Thrilled by his own deed, Volodin promised various friendly and unpaid services without thinking about his words. He burned with a single desire—to see his moppet as quickly as possible, so as to share with her the new and happy turn of events.

And at two in the afternoon he met with her, as always, by the lake, near the chapel.

Taking his moppet by the hand, he told her the whole tale excitedly, adorning his deed with all sorts of heroic details and minutiae. Yes, he had left his home, breaking those hateful bonds and giving the brother of mercy a good face-pounding.

The news pleased the young lady to the utmost. She proclaimed that he was, at last, a free citizen and finally had the right to call his little chickadee his common-law wife.

And how charming everything would be once they began to live together in the same apartment, under the same roof—with him slaving away like an elephant, without a moment’s rest, and her doing chores around the house, sewing, taking out the garbage, and so forth and so on.

Volodin was unpleasantly struck, all of a sudden, by this excessively undisguised desire to have him for a husband, to saddle him, to make him bring home the bacon till the end of his days.

He gazed at the young lady somewhat glumly and said that this was all well and good, but that they still needed to examine all these questions from every side, because he wasn’t used to situations where loved ones were made to suffer hardships and privations.

He said it just like that, really, wanting to pull the young lady out of her material calculations and restore her to a more elevated state of mind. He was offended that the young lady would regard him in such practical, self-interested terms.

Then, instantly recalling his own marriage and his calculating schemes, Volodin began to peer at the girl searchingly, wanting to penetrate her mind and heart, to find out whether she now entertained the same thoughts that he had entertained in his day.