lock. I
covered the semolina with the letter and went into the room. When I came
back the letter had absorbed all the semolina into itself and I ate it.
The weather in Tsarskoye Selo is well set: variable cloud, south-west
wind, possible rain.
This morning an organ-grinder came into our garden and played a trashy
waltz, filched a hammock and ran away.
I read a very interesting book about how one young man fell in love
with a certain young person, and this young person loved another young man,
and this young man loved another young person and this young person loved
another young man yet again, who loved not her but another young person.
And suddenly this young person stumbles down a trapdoor and fractures
her spine. But when she has completely recovered from that, she suddenly
catches her death of cold and dies. Then the young man who loves her does
himself in with a revolver shot. Then the young person who loves this young
man throws herself under a train. Then the young man who loves this young
person climbs up a tram pylon from grief and touches the live wire, dying
from an electric shock. Then the young person who loves this young man
stuffs herself with ground glass and dies from perforation of the
intestines. Then the young man who loves this young person runs away to
America and takes to the drink to such a degree that he sells his last suit
and, for the lack of a suit, he is obliged to lie in hospital, where he
suffers from bedsores, and from these bedsores he dies.
In a few days I shall be in town. I definitely want to see you. Give my
best wishes to Valentina Yefimovna and Yakov Semyonovich.
Daniil Kharms
--------
A Letter
Dear Nikandr Andreyevich,
I have received your letter and straight away I realised that it was
from you. At first I thought that it might by chance not be from you, but as
soon as I unsealed it I immediately realised it was from you, though I had
been on the point of thinking that it was not from you. I am glad that you,
long ago now, got married, because when a person gets married to the one he
wanted to marry, then this means he has got what he wanted. I am very glad
you got married, because when a person marries the one he wanted to marry,
that means he has got what he wanted. Yesterday I received your letter and
immediately thought that this letter was from you, but then I thought that
it seemed not to be from you, but unsealed it and saw: it really is from
you. You did exactly the right thing, writing to me. First you didn't write,
and then you suddenly wrote, although before that, before that period when
you didn't write, you also used to write. Immediately as I received your
letter, I straight away decided that it was from you and, then, I was very
glad that you had already got married. For, if a person should feel like
getting married, then he really has to get married, come what may. Therefore
I am very glad that you finally got married to the very one you wanted to
marry. And you did exactly the right thing, writing to me. I was greatly
cheered up on seeing your letter and I even immediately thought it was from
you. It's true, while I was unsealing it, the thought did flash across my
mind that it was not from you, but then, all the same, I decided it was from
you. Thank you for writing. I am grateful to you for this and very glad for
you. Perhaps you can't guess why I am so glad for you, but I will tell you
at once that I am glad for you because you got married, and to the very one
you wanted to marry. And, you know, it is very good to marry the very one
you want to marry, because then you have got the very thing you wanted. It's
for that very reason that I am so glad for you. But also I am glad because
you wrote me a letter. I had even from some distance decided that the letter
was from you, but as I took it in my hands I then thought: but what if it's
not from you? But then I start to think: no, of course it's from you. I
unseal the letter myself and at the same time I think: from you or not from
you? From you or not from you? Well, as I unsealed it, then I could see:
it's from you. I was greatly cheered and decided to write you a letter as
well. There's a lot which has to be said, but literally there's no time. I
have written what I had time to write in this letter and the rest I shall
write another time, as now there really isn't time at all. It's a good
thing, at least, that you wrote me a letter. Now I know that you got married
a long time ago. I, from your previous letters too, knew that you had got
married and now I see again: it's absolutely true, you have got married. And
I'm very glad that you got married and wrote me a letter. I straight away,
as soon as I saw your letter, decided that you had got married again. Well,
I think it's a good thing that you have again got married and written me a
letter about it. Now write to me and tell me who your new wife is and how it
all came about. Say hello from me to your new wife.
Daniil Kharms
1933
--------
Letter to K. V. Pugachova: an Extract
...I don't know the right word to express that strength in you which so
delights me. I usually call it purity.
I have been thinking about how beautiful everything is at first! How
beautiful primary reality is! The sun and the grass are beautiful, grass and
stone, and water, a bird, a beetle, a fly, and a human being (a kitten and a
key, a comb). But if I were blind and deaf, had lost all my faculties, how
could I know all this beauty? everything gone and nothing for me at all. But
I suddenly acquire touch anti immediately almost the whole world appears
again. I invent hearing and the world improves significantly. I invent all
the other faculties and the world gets even bigger and better. The world
starts to exist as soon as I let it in to me. Never mind its state of
disorder, at least it exists! However, I started to bring some order into
the world. And that's when Art appeared. Only at this point did I grasp the
true difference between the sun and a comb but, at the same time, I realised
that they are one and the same.
Now my concern is to create the correct order. I am carried away by
this and only think of this. I speak about it, try to narrate it, describe
it, sketch it, dance it, construct it. I am the creator of a world and this
is the most important thing in me. How can I not think constantly about it!
In everything I do, I invest the consciousness of being creator of a world.
And I am not making simply some boot, but, first and foremost, I am creating
something new. It doesn't bother me that the boot should turn out to be
comfortable, durable and elegant. It's more important that it should contain
that same order pertaining in the world as a whole, so that world order
should not be the poorer, should not be soiled by contact with skin and
nails, so that, notwithstanding the form of the boot, it should preserve its
own form, should remain the same as it was, should remain pure.
It is that same purity which permeates all the arts. When I am writing
poetry, the most important thing seems to me not the idea, not the content,
and not the form, and not the misty conception of 'quality', but something
even more misty and incomprehensible to the rationalistic mind, but
comprehensible to me and, I hope, to you (...) -- it is the purity of order.
This purity is one and the same -- in the sun, in the grass, in a human
being and in poetry. True art is on a par with primary reality; it creates a
world and constitutes the world's primary reflection. It is indisputably
real.
But, my God, what trivialities make up true art! The Divine Comedy is a
great piece of work, but <Pushkin's> lines 'Through the agitated mists the
moon makes its way' are no less great. For in both there is the same purity
and consequently an identical proximity to reality, that is to independent
existence. That means it is not simply words and thoughts printed on paper,
but a piece of work which is just as real as the cut-glass bubble for the
ink standing in front of me on the table. These verses seem to have become a
piece of work which could be taken off the paper and hurled at the window,
and the window would smash. That's what words can do!
But, on the other hand, how helpless and pitiful these same words can
be! I never read the newspapers. They are a fictitious world, not the
created one. Just pitiful, down-at-heel typographical print on rotten
prickly paper.
Does a person need anything, apart from life and art? I don't think so:
nothing else is needed, as everything genuine is to be found in them.
I think that purity can be in everything, even in the way a person eats
soup.
1933
--------
Letter to his sister Ye. I. Yuvachova
28 February, 1936
Dear Liza,
I convey my best wishes to Kirill on his birthday and similarly
congratulate his parents on successfully fulfilling the plan prescribed for
them by nature for the raising up to the age of two years of human
offspring, unable to walk, but therefore gradually beginning to destroy
everything around and finally, in attaining this junior pre-school age,
belabouring across the head with a voltmeter stolen from his father's
writing table his loving mother, who has failed to evade the highly
skillfully delivered assaults of her not as yet fully mature child, who is
planning already in his immature skull, having done away with his parents,
to direct all his most penetrating attentions towards his venerable
grandfather and by the same means demonstrate a mental development allotted
beyond his years, in honour of which, on the 28th of February, will gather a
couple of admirers of this indeed outstanding phenomenon, among whose
number, to my great chagrin, I shall not be able to be, finding myself at
the time in question under a certain pressure, being enraptured on the
shores of the Gulf of Finland by an ability, innate since childhood, of
grabbing a steel pen and, having dipped it in an ink-well, in short sharp
phrases expressing my profound and at times even in a certain way highly
elevated thoughts.
Daniil Kharms
--------
Letter to Aleksandr Vvedensky
Dear Aleksandr Ivanovich,
I have heard that you are saving money and have already saved
thirty-five thousand. What for? Why save money? Why not share what you have
with those who do not even have a totally spare pair of trousers? I mean,
what is money? I have studied this question. I possess photographs of the
banknotes in widest circulation: to the value of a rouble, three, four and
even five roubles. I have heard of banknotes of an intrinsic worth of up to
30 roubles at a time! But, as for saving them: what for? Well, I am not a
collector. I have always despised collectors who amass stamps, feathers,
buttons, onions and so on. They are stupid, dull superstitious people. I
know for example that what are called 'numismatists' -- that's those who
accumulate coins -- have the superstitious habit of putting them, have you
ever thought where? Not on the table, not in a box, but... on their books!
What do you think of that? Whereas money can be picked up, taken to a shop
and exchanged, well... let's say for soup (that's a kind of food), or for
grey-mullet sauce (that's also a kind of foodstuff).
No, Aleksandr Ivanovich, you are almost as couth a person as I, yet you
save money and don't change it into a range of other things. Forgive me,
dear Aleksandr Ivanovich, but that is not terribly clever! You've simply
gone a little stupid living out there in the provinces. There must be no one
to talk to, even. I'm sending you my picture so that you will be able at
least to see before you a clever, cultivated, intellectual, first-rate face.
Your friend Daniil Kharms
Late 1930's
--------
The Old Woman
A Tale
. . . And between them the following conversation takes place.
Hamsun
In the courtyard an old woman is standing and holding a clock in her
hands. I walk through, past the old woman, stop and ask her:
-- What time is it?
-- Have a look -- the old woman says to me.
I look and see that there are no hands on the clock.
-- There are no hands here -- I say.
The old woman looks at the clock face and tells me: -- It's now a
quarter to three.
-- Oh, so that's what it is. Thank you very much -- I say and go on.
The old woman shouts something after me but I walk on without looking
round. I go out on to the street and walk on the sunny side. The spring sun
is very pleasant. I walk on, screwing up my eyes and smoking my pipe. On the
corner of Sadovaya I happen to run into Sakerdon Mikhailovich. We say hello,
stop and talk for a long time. I get fed up with standing on the street and
I invite Sakerdon Mikhailovich into a cellar bar. We drink vodka, eat
hard-boiled eggs and sprats and then say goodbye, and I walk on alone.
At this point I remember that I had forgotten to turn off the electric
oven at home. This is very annoying. I turn round and walk home. The day had
started so well and this was the first misfortune. I ought not to have taken
to the street.
I get home, take off my jacket, take my watch out of my waistcoat
pocket and hang it on a nail; then I lock the door and lie down on the
couch. I shall recline and try to get to sleep.
The offensive shouting of urchins can be heard from the street. I lie
there, thinking up various means of execution for them. My favourite one is
to infect them all with tetanus so that they suddenly stop moving. Their
parents can drag them all home. They will lie in their beds unable even to
eat, because their mouths won't open. They will be fed artificially. After a
week the tetanus can pass off, but the children will be so feeble that they
will have to lie in their beds for a whole month. Then they will gradually
start to recover but I shall infect them with a second dose of tetanus and
they will all croak.
I lie on the couch with my eyes open and I can't get to sleep. I
remember the old woman with the clock whom I saw today in the yard and feel
pleased that there were no hands on her clock. Only the other day in the
second-hand shop I saw a revolting kitchen clock and its hands were made in
the form of a knife and fork.
Oh, my God! I still haven't turned off the electric oven! I jump up and
turn it off, and then I lie down again on the couch and try to get to sleep.
I close my eyes. I don't feel sleepy. The spring sun is shining in through
the window, straight on to me. I start to feel hot. I get up and sit down in
the armchair by the window.
Now I feel sleepy but I am not going to sleep. I get hold of a piece of
paper and a pen and I am going to write. I feel within me a terrible power.
I thought it all over as long ago as yesterday. It will be the story about a
miracle worker who is living in our time and who doesn't work any miracles.
He knows that he is a miracle worker and that he can perform any miracle,
but he doesn't do so. He is thrown out of his flat and he knows that he only
has to wave a finger and the flat will remain his, but he doesn't do this;
he submissively moves out of the flat and lives out of town in a shed. He is
capable of turning this shed into a fine brick house, but he doesn't do
this; he carries on living in the shed and eventually dies, without having
done a single miracle in the whole of his life.
I just sit and rub my hands with glee. Sakerdon Mikhailovich will burst
with envy. He thinks that I am beyond writing anything of genius. Now then,
now then, to work! Away with any kind of sleep and laziness! I shall write
for eighteen hours straight off!
I am shaking all over with impatience. I am not able to think out what
has to be done: I needed to take a pen and a piece of paper, but I grabbed
various objects, not at all those that I needed. I ran about the room: from
the window to the table, from the table to the oven, from the oven again to
the table, then to the divan and again to the window. I was gasping from the
flame which was ablaze in my breast. It's only five o'clock now. The whole
day is ahead, and the evening, and all night is . . .
I stand in the middle of the room. Whatever am I thinking of? Why, it's
already twenty past five. I must write. I move the table towards the window
and sit down at it. A sheet of squared paper is in front of me, in my hand
is a pen.
My heart is still beating too fast and my hand is shaking. I wait, so
as to calm down a little. I put down my pen and fill my pipe. The sun is
shining right in my eyes; I squint and light up my pipe.
And now a crow flies past the window. I look out of the window on to
the street and see a man with an artificial leg walking along the pavement.
He is knocking loudly with his leg and his stick.
-- So -- I say to myself, continuing to look out of the window.
The sun is hiding behind a chimney of the building opposite. The shadow
of the chimney runs along the roof, flies across the street and falls on my
face. I should take advantage or this shadow and write a few words about the
miracle worker. I grab the pen and write: 'The miracle worker was on the
tall side.'
Nothing more can I write. I sit on until I start feeling hungry. Then I
get up and go over to the cupboard where I keep my provisions; I rummage
there but find nothing. A lump of sugar and nothing more. Someone is
knocking at the door.
-- Who's there?
No one answers me. I open the door and see before me the old woman who
in the morning had been standing in the yard with the clock. I am very
surprised and cannot say anything.
-- So, here I am -- says the old woman and comes into my room.
I stand by the door and don't know what to do: should I chase the old
woman out or, on the contrary, suggest that she sit down? But the old woman
goes of her own accord over to my armchair beside the window and sits down
in it.
-- Close the door and lock it -- the old woman tells me.
I close and lock the door.
-- Kneel -- says the old woman.
And I get down on my knees.
But at this point I begin to realise the full absurdity of my position.
Why am I kneeling in front of some old woman? And, indeed, why is this old
woman in my room and sitting in my favourite armchair? Why hadn't I chased
this old woman out?
-- Now, listen here -- I say -- what right have you to give the orders
in my room, and, what's more, boss me about? I have no wish at all to be
kneeling.
-- And you don't have to -- says the old woman. -- Now you must lie
down on your stomach and bury your face in the floor.
I carried out her bidding straight away . . .
I see before me accurately traced squares. Discomfort in my shoulder
and in my right hip forces me to change position. I had been lying face down
and now, with great difficulty, I get up on to my knees. All my limbs have
gone numb and will scarcely bend. I look round and see myself in my own
room, kneeling in the middle of the floor. My consciousness and memory are
slowly returning to me. I look round the room once more and see that it
looks as though someone is sitting in the armchair by the window. It's not
very light in the room, because it must be the white nights now. I peer
attentively. Good Lord! Is it really that old woman, still sitting in my
armchair? I crane my neck round and have a look. Yes, of course, it's the
old woman sitting there and her head's drooped on to her chest. She must
have fallen asleep.
I pick myself up and hobble over towards her. The old woman's head is
drooping down on to her chest; her arms are hanging down the sides of the
armchair. I feel like grabbing hold of this old woman and shoving her out of
the door.
-- Listen -- I say -- you are in my room. I need to work. I am asking
you to leave.
The old woman doesn't budge. I bend over and look the old woman in the
face. Her mouth is half open and from her mouth protrudes a displaced set of
dentures. And suddenly it all becomes clear to me: the old woman has died.
A terrible feeling of annoyance comes over me. What did she die in my
room for? I can't stand dead people. And now, having to mess about with this
carrion, having to go and talk to the caretaker and the house manager, to
explain to them why this old woman was found in my place. I looked at the
old woman with hatred. But perhaps she wasn't dead, after all? I feel her
forehead. Her forehead is cold. Her hand also. Now what am I supposed to do?
I light up my pipe and sit down on the couch. A mindless fury is rising
up in me.
-- What a swine! -- I say out loud.
The dead old woman is sitting in my armchair, like a sack. Her teeth
are sticking out of her mouth. She looks like a dead horse.
-- What a revolting spectacle -- I say, but I can't cover the old woman
with a newspaper, because anything might go on under the newspaper.
Movement could be heard through the wall: it's my neighbour getting up,
the engine driver. I've quite enough on my plate without him getting wind
that I've got a dead old woman in my room! I listen closely to my
neighbour's footsteps. Why is he so slow? It's half-past five already! It's
high time he went off. My God! He's making a cup of tea! I can hear the
noise of the primus through the wall. Oh, I wish that blasted engine driver
would hurry up and go!
I pull my legs up on to the couch and lie there. Eight minutes go by,
but my neighbour's tea is still not ready and the primus is making a noise.
I close my eyes and doze.
I dream that my neighbour has gone out and I, together with him, go out
on to the staircase and I slam the door behind me on its spring lock. I
haven't got the key and I can't get back into the flat. I shall have to
knock and wake up the rest of the tenants and that is not a good thing at
all. I am standing on the landing thinking what to do and suddenly I see
that I have no hands. I incline my head, so as to get a better look to see
whether I have any hands, and I see that on one side, instead of a hand, a
knife is sticking out and, on the other side, a fork.
-- So -- I am saying to Sakerdon Mikhailovich, who for some reason is
sitting there on a folding chair -- So, do you see -- I say to him -- the
sort of hands I have?
But Sakerdon Mikhailovich sits there in silence and I can see that this
is not the real Sakerdon Mikhailovich, but his clay semblance.
At this point I wake up and immediately realise that I am lying in my
room on the couch and that by the window, in the armchair, sits a dead old
woman.
I quickly turn my head in her direction. The old woman is not in the
armchair. I gaze at the empty armchair and I am filled with a wild joy. So,
that means all this was a dream. Except, where did it start? Did an old
woman come into my room yesterday? Perhaps that was a dream as well? I came
back yesterday because I had forgotten to turn off the electric oven. But
perhaps that was a dream as well? In any case, it's marvelous that I don't
have a dead old woman in my room and that means I won't have to go to the
house manager and bother about the corpse!
But still, how long had I been asleep? I looked at my watch: half-past
nine; it must be morning.
Good Lord! The things that can happen in dreams!
I lowered my legs from the couch, intending to stand up, and suddenly
caught sight of the dead old woman, lying on the floor behind the table,
beside the armchair. She was lying face up and her dentures, which had
jumped out of her mouth, had one tooth digging into the old woman's nostril.
Her arms were tucked under her torso and were not visible and from under her
disordered skirt protruded bony legs in white, dirty woollen stockings.
-- What a swine! -- I shouted and, running over to the old woman,
kicked her on the chin.
The set of dentures flew off into the corner. I wanted to kick the old
woman again, but was afraid that marks would remain on her body and that
subsequently it might be decided that it was I who had killed her.
I moved away from the old woman, sat down on the couch and lit my pipe.
Thus twenty minutes went by. Now it had become clear to me that, come what
may, the matter would be put in the hands of a criminal investigation and
that in the bungling which would follow I would be accused of murder. The
situation was turning out to be serious, and then there was that kick as
well.
I went over to the old woman again, leaned over and started to examine
her face. There was a small dark bruise on her chin. No, nothing much could
be made of that. What of it? Perhaps the old woman had bumped into something
when she was still alive? I calm down a little and begin pacing the room,
smoking my pipe and ruminating over my situation.
I pace up and down the room and start feeling a greater and greater
hunger. I even start shaking from hunger. Once more I rummage in the
cupboard where my provisions are kept, but I find nothing, except a lump of
sugar.
I pull out my wallet and count my money. Eleven roubles. That means I
can buy myself some ham sausage and bread and still have enough for tobacco.
I adjust my tie, which had got disarranged in the night, pick up my
watch, put on my jacket, go out into the corridor, painstakingly lock the
door of my room, put the key in my pocket and go out on to the street.
Before anything else I have to eat something; then my thoughts will be
clearer and then I'll do something about this carrion. On the way to the
shop, I keep on thinking: shouldn't I go and see Sakerdon Mikhailovich and
tell him all about it and perhaps together we could soon think out what to
do. But I turn this idea down on the spot, because there are some things
which one has to do alone, without witnesses.
There was no ham sausage in the shop and I bought myself half a kilo of
saveloys. There was no tobacco, either. From the shop I went to the bakery.
There were a lot of people in the bakery and there was a long queue
waiting at the cash desk. I immediately frowned but still joined the queue.
The queue moved very slowly and then stopped moving altogether, because some
sort of a row had broken out at the cash desk.
I pretended not to notice anything and stared at the back of a nice
young lady who was standing in the queue in front of me. The young lady was
obviously very inquisitive: she was craning her neck first to the right and
then to the left and she kept standing on tiptoe, so as to get a better view
of what was happening at the cash desk. Eventually she turned round to me
and said: -- You don't know what's going on there, do you?
-- I'm afraid I don't -- I answered as drily as possible.
The young lady twisted herself from side to side and finally again
addressed me:
-- You wouldn't like to go up there and find out what's happening,
would you?
-- I'm afraid it doesn't concern me in the slightest -- I said, even
more drily.
-- What do you mean, it doesn't concern you? -- exclaimed the young
lady -- you are being held up in the queue yourself because of it, aren't
you?
I made no reply and merely bowed slightly. The young lady looked at me
with great attention.
-- Of course, it's not a man's job to queue for bread -- she said. --
I'm sorry for you, having to stand here. You must be a bachelor?
-- Yes, I am a bachelor -- I replied, somewhat taken aback, but
automatically continuing to answer somewhat drily, with a slight bow at the
same time.
The young lady again looked me up and down and suddenly, touching me on
the sleeve, she said: -- Let me get you what you need and you can wait for
me outside.
This threw me completely.
-- Thank you -- I said. -- It's extremely kind of you but, really, I
could do it myself.
-- No, no -- said the young lady -- you go outside. What were you
intending to buy?
-- Well, then -- I said -- I was intending to buy half a kilo of black
bread, only of the round sort, the cheapest one. I prefer it.
-- Right, well that's fine -- said the young lady. -- So, go on, then.
I'll buy it and we can settle up afterwards.
And she even gave me a slight shove under the elbow.
I went out of the bakery and stood right by the door. The spring sun is
shining right in my eyes. I light up my pipe. What a delightful young lady!
It's so rare these days. I stand there, my eyes screwed up from the sun,
smoking my pipe and thinking about the delightful young lady. She has bright
brown eyes, too. She's simply irresistibly pretty!
-- Do you smoke a pipe? -- I hear a voice beside me. The delightful
young lady hands me the bread.
-- Oh, I'm forever grateful to you -- I say, taking the bread.
-- And you smoke a pipe! I really like that -- says the delightful
young lady.
And between us the following conversation takes place.
She: So, you buy bread yourself?
I: Not only bread; I buy everything for myself.
She: And where do you have lunch?
I: Usually I cook my own lunch. But sometimes I eat in the bar.
She: Do you like beer, then?
I: No, I prefer vodka.
She: I like vodka, too.
I: You like vodka? That's wonderful! I'd like to have a drink with you
sometime.
She: And I'd like to drink vodka with you, too.
I: Forgive me, but may I ask you something?
She: (blushing furiously) of course, just ask.
I: All right then, I will. Do you believe in God?
She: (surprised) In God? Yes, of course.
I: And what would you say to us buying some vodka now and going to my
place? I live very near here.
She: (perkily) Well, why not, it's fine by me!
I: Then let's go.
We go into a shop and I buy half a litre of vodka. I have no more money
left, except a bit of change. We talk about various things all the time and
suddenly I remember that in my room on the floor there is a dead old woman.
I look round at my new acquaintance: she's standing by the counter and
looking at jars of jam. I gingerly make off towards the door and slide out
of the shop. It just happens that a tram is stopping opposite the shop. I
jump on the tram, without even looking to see what number it is. I get off
at Mikhailovskaya Street and walk to Sakerdon Mikhailovich's. I am carrying
a bottle of vodka, saveloys and bread.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich opened the door to me himself. He was wearing his
dressing-gown, with nothing on underneath, his Russian boots with the tops
cut off and his fur hat with the earflaps, but the earflaps were turned up
and tied in a bow on top.
-- Jolly good -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich on seeing that it was me.
-- I'm not dragging you away from your work? -- I asked.
-- No, no -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I wasn't doing anything, I
was just sitting on the floor.
-- Well, you see -- I said to Sakerdon Mikhailovich -- I've popped
round to you with vodka and a bite to eat. If you've no objection, let's
have a drink.
-- Fine -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- Come in.
We sent through to his room. I opened the bottle of vodka and Sakerdon
Mikhailovich put two glasses and a plate of boiled meat on the table.
-- I've got some saveloys here -- I said. -- So, how shall we eat them:
raw, or shall we boil them?
-- We'll put them on to boil -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich and while
they're cooking we'll drink vodka with the boiled meat. It's from a stew,
it's first-class boiled meat!
Sakerdon Mikhailovich put a saucepan on to heat, on his kerosene stove,
and we sat down to the vodka.
-- Drinking vodka's good for you -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, filling
the glasses. -- Mechnikov wrote that vodka's better than bread, and bread is
only straw which rots in our bellies.
-- Your health! -- said I, clinking glasses with Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
We drank, taking the cold meat as a snack.
-- It's good -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
But at that moment something in the room gave out a sharp crack.
-- What's that? -- I asked.
We sat in silence and listened. Suddenly there was another crack.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich jumped up from his chair and, running up to the
window, tore down the curtain.
-- What are you doing? -- I exclaimed.
But Sakerdon Mikhailovich didn't answer me; he rushed over to the
kerosene stove, grabbed hold or the saucepan with the curtain and placed it
on the floor.
-- Devil take it! -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I forgot to put
water in the saucepan and the saucepan's an enamel one, and now the enamel's
come off.
-- Oh, I see -- I said, nodding.
We sat down again at the table.
-- Oh, to the devil with it -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich -- we'll eat
the saveloys raw.
-- 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 h