a woman should be tackled from below. Women really like this
and only pretend that they don't like it.
At this point Pushkov was again struck across the gob.
-- But what on earth is this, comrades! If that's the way it is, I
won't carry on speaking -- said Pushkov.
But, after waiting about a quarter of a minute, he continued: -- A
woman is so built that she is all soft and damp.
At this point Pushkov was again struck across the gob. Pushkov tried to
pretend that he hadn't noticed this and went on: -- If you just sniff a
woman...
But at this point Pushkov was so slammed across the gob that he caught
hold of his cheek and said: -- Comrades, under these conditions it is
absolutely impossible to deliver a lecture. If this happens again, I shall
discontinue.
Pushkov waited for a quarter of a minute and then continued: -- Now,
where were we? Ah, yes. That was it. A woman loves to look at herself. She
sits down in front of the mirror completely naked...
At this word, Pushkov again received a clout across the gob.
-- Naked -- repeated Pushkov.
Smack! -- he was weighed into right across the gob.
-- Naked! -- yelled Pushkov.
Smack! -- he received a clout across the gob.
-- Naked! A naked woman! A nude tart! -- Pushkov kept yelling. Smack!
Smack! Smack! -- Pushkov took it across the gob.
-- A nude tart with a ladle in her hands! -- yelled Pushkov.
Smack! Smack! -- the blows rained down on Pushkov.
-- A tart's bum-hole! -- yelled Pushkov, dodging the blows. -- A nude
nun!
But at this point Pushkov was struck with such force that he lost
consciousness and crumpled to the floor as though pole-axed.
1940
--------
Myshin's Triumph
They said to Myshin: -- Hey, Myshin, get up!
Myshin said: -- I won't get up -- and continued lying on the floor.
Then Kalugin came up to Myshin and said: -- If you don't get up,
Myshin, I will make you get up.
-- No -- said Myshin, continuing to lie on the floor.
Selizneva went up to Myshin and said: -- Myshin, you are for ever
sprawling about the floor in the corridor and you interfere with us walking
backwards and forwards.
-- I have been interfering and I shall keep on interfering -- said
Myshin.
-- Well, you know -- said Korshunov, but Kalugin interrupted him and
said:
-- What's the point of carrying on long conversations about it! Call
the militia!
They called for the militia and called out a militiaman.
The militiaman arrived after half an hour with the caretaker.
-- What's going on here? -- asked the militiaman.
-- How do you like this! -- said Korshunov, but Kalugin interrupted him
and said:
-- This is the situation. This citizen lies here on the floor all the
time and interferes with us walking along the corridor. We've tried telling
him this and that...
But at this point Kalugin was interrupted by Selizneva, who said: --
We've asked him to go away, but he doesn't go away.
-- Yes -- said Korshunov.
The militiaman went up to Myshin.
-- You, citizen, why are you lying here? -- asked the militiaman.
-- I'm resting -- said Myshin.
-- Resting here is not good enough, citizen -- said the militiaman. --
Where do you live, citizen?
-- Here -- said Myshin.
-- Where's your room? -- asked the militiaman.
-- He's registered in our flat, but he doesn't have a room -- said
Kalugin.
-- Wait a minute, citizen -- said the militiaman -- I'll have a word
with him now. Citizen, where do you sleep?
-- Here -- said Myshin.
-- Allow me to -- said Korshunov, but Kalugin interrupted him and said:
-- He doesn't even have a bed and he sprawls right on the bare floor.
-- They've been complaining about him for a long time -- said the
caretaker.
-- It's absolutely impossible to walk along the corridor -- said
Selizneva -- I can't keep stepping over a man for ever. And he sticks out
his legs on purpose, and he sticks out his hands, and he lies on his back
and looks up. I come back tired from work, I need a rest.
-- And I can add -- said Korshunov, but Kalugin interrupted him and
said:
-- He lies here at night, as well. Everyone trips over him in the dark.
I tore my blanket because of him.
Selizneva said: -- He's always got tin-tacks and things falling out of
his pocket. It's impossible to walk barefooted down the corridor, or before
you know where you are -- you put your foot on something.
-- They wanted to set him alight with kerosene the other day -- said
the caretaker.
-- We did pour kerosene over him -- said Korshunov, but Kalugin
interrupted him and said:
-- We only poured kerosene over him to scare him, but we weren't going
to set light to him.
-- Oh no, I wouldn't have a man burned alive in my presence -- said
Selizneva.
-- But why is this citizen lying in the corridor? -- the militiaman
suddenly asked.
-- That's a fine how do you do! -- said Korshunov, but Kalugin
interrupted him and said:
-- Well, because he hasn't got any other living space: here's where I
live, in this room, and she's in that one, and that one's his, and so Myshin
lives here, in the corridor.
-- That's not good enough -- said the militiaman. -- Everyone should be
lying in their own living space.
-- But he hasn't got any other living space, except in the corridor --
said Kalugin.
-- That's just it -- said Korshunov.
-- And so he goes on lying here -- said Selizneva.
-- That's not good enough -- said the militiaman and went away,
together with the caretaker.
Korshunov leaped over to Myshin.
-- What about it? -- he yelled. -- How did you like that, then?
-- Wait -- said Kalugin. And, going up to Myshin, he said: -- Did you
hear what the militiaman said? Get up from the floor!
-- I won't get up -- said Myshin, continuing to lie there on the floor.
-- Now he will deliberately and furthermore and for ever keep on lying
there -- said Selizneva.
-- Definitely -- said Kalugin with some irritation.
And Korshunov said: -- I don't doubt it. Parfaitement!
1940
--------
The Falling
Two men fell from a roof. They both fell from the roof of a five-storey
newly erected building. Seemingly a school. They had moved down the roof in
a sitting position to the very edge and at that point started to fall. Their
fall was noticed first of all by Ida Markovna. She was standing at her
window in the building opposite and was blowing her nose into a tumbler. And
suddenly she caught sight of someone starting to fall from the roof of the
building opposite. Peering out, Ida Markovna saw what was an entire twosome
starting to fall at once. Completely losing her head, Ida Markovna tore off
her shift and hurriedly began to rub the misted-over windowpane, the better
to make out who was falling from the roof out there. However, twigging that,
perhaps, those falling might, from their vantage point, be able to glimpse
her naked -- and goodness only knew what they might think of her -- Ida
Markovna jumped back from the window and hid behind the wicker tripod on
which there had at one time stood a pot plant.
At this juncture, those falling from the roof were sighted by another
personage who lived in the same building as Ida Markovna, only two floors
below. This personage was also called Ida Markovna. She happened at the time
to be sitting with her feet up on the window-sill and was sewing a button on
her slipper. Looking out of the window, she had caught sight of those
falling from the roof. Ida Markovna yelped and, leaping up from the
window-sill, hastily began opening the window, so as to get a better view
when those falling from the roof should strike the ground. But the window
would not open. Ida Markovna remembered that she had nailed the window from
beneath and rushed to the stove, in which she kept her tools: four hammers,
a chisel and pincers. Grabbing the pincers, Ida Markovna again ran up to the
window and pulled out the nail. Now the window was easily flung open. Ida
Markovna leaned out of the window and saw those who had fallen from the roof
whistling towards the ground.
On the street a smallish crowd had already gathered. Whistles were
already blowing and a diminutive militiaman was unhurriedly approaching the
location of the anticipated event. A big-nosed caretaker bustled about,
shoving people and explaining that those falling from the roof could smite
the heads of those gathered below. By this time, both Ida Markovnas -- the
one in a dress and the other naked -- having leaned out of their windows,
were squealing and kicking their legs about. And so, finally, arms spread
and eyes agape, those who had fallen from the roof struck the ground.
Just as on occasion we, falling from heights we have attained, may
strike the dreary cage of our future.
Written over four days. Finished 17 October 1940
--------
<Perechin>
Perechin sat on a drawing pin and, from this moment, his life changed
abruptly. From a contemplative, quiet man Perechin turned into a downright
scoundrel. He grew himself a moustache and henceforth trimmed it extremely
untidily, in such a way that the one side of his moustache was always longer
than the other. And so his moustache came to grow somehow askew. It became
impossible to look at Perechin. What is more, he would give a repulsive wink
of the eye and twitch his cheek. For a certain time Perechin confined
himself to petty and reprehensible tricks: he told tales, denounced people,
and cheated tram conductors by paying them his fare in the very smallest
copper coin and each time two or three kopecks short.
1940
--------
The Obstacle
Pronin said: -- You have very beautiful stockings.
Irina Mazer said: -- Do you like my stockings?
Pronin said: -- Oh yes. Very much. -- And he made a grab at them with
his hand.
Irina said: -- But why do you like my stockings?
Pronin said: -- They are very smooth.
Irina lifted her skirt and said: -- And do you see how high they go?
Pronin said: -- Oh yes, I do.
Irina said: -- But here they come to an end. Up here it's bare leg.
-- Oh, and what leg! -- said Pronin.
-- I've got very thick legs -- said Irina. -- And I'm very wide in the
hips.
-- Show me -- said Pronin.
-- I can't -- said Irina. -- I've no knickers on.
Pronin got down on his knees in front or her.
Irina said: -- What are you kneeling for?
Pronin kissed her on the leg, a little above the stocking top, and
said: -- That's what for.
Irina said: -- Why are you lifting my skirt even higher? I've already
told you I've no knickers on.
But Pronin lifted her skirt all the same and said: -- Never mind, never
mind.
-- What do you mean, never mind? -- said Irina.
But at this juncture someone was knocking at the door. Irina briskly
pulled down her skirt and Pronin got up from the floor and went over to the
window.
-- Who's there? -- asked Irina through the door.
-- Open the door -- said a sharp voice.
Irina opened the door and into the room came a man in a black coat and
high boots. Behind him came a pair of soldiers of the lowest rank, rifles at
the ready, and behind them came the caretaker. The lower ranks stood by the
door, while the man in the black coat went up to Irina Mazer and said: --
Your name?
-- Mazer -- said Irina.
-- Your name? -- asked the man in the black coat, turning to Pronin .
Pronin said: -- My name is Pronin.
-- Do you have a weapon? -- asked the man in the black coat.
-- No -- said Pronin.
-- Sit down here -- said the man in the black coat, indicating a chair
to Pronin.
Pronin sat down.
-- And you -- said the man in the black coat, turning to Irina, -- put
your coat on. You'll have to come for a ride with us.
-- What for? -- asked Irina.
The man in the black coat did not reply.
-- I'll need to change -- said Irina.
-- No -- said the man in the black coat.
-- But there's something else I need to put on -- said Irina. -- No --
said the man in the black coat.
Irina put on her fur coat in silence.
-- Good-bye, then -- she said to Pronin.
-- Conversations are not allowed -- said the man in the black coat.
-- Do I come with you as well? -- asked Pronin.
-- Yes -- said the man in the black coat. -- Get your coat on. Pronin
stood up, took his coat and hat down from the peg, put them on and said: --
Well, I'm ready. -- Let's go -- said the man in the black coat.
The lower ranks and the caretaker stamped their feet.
They all went out into the corridor.
The man in the black coat locked the door of Irina's room and sealed it
with two brown seals.
-- Outside -- he said.
And they all went out of the flat, loudly slamming the outside door.
1940
--------
A Fairy-Tale from the North
An old man set out to go into the woods, although he didn't know what
for. Then he came back and said:
-- Hey, old woman, you!
The old woman fell straight down. Since then, the hares are white in
winter.
--------
Symphony No. 2
Anton Mikhailovich spat, said 'ugh', spat again, again said 'ugh',
again spat, again said 'ugh' and walked away. And to hell with him. I'd do
better to talk about Il'ya Pavlovich.
Il'ya Pavlovich was born in 1893 in Constantinople.
When he was still a small boy, he was taken to Petersburg and hero he
went to the German school on Kirochnaya Street. Then he worked in some shop
or other, then he did something else and at the beginning of the revolution
he emigrated abroad. Well and to hell with him. I'd do better to talk about
Anna Ignat'evna.
But to talk about Anna Ignat'evna is not so very simple. In the first
place I don't know anything about her and in the second place I have now
fallen off my chair and forgotten what I had intended to say. I'd do better
to talk about myself.
I am on the tall side, quite intelligent, I'm a flashy dresser with a
bit of taste, I don't drink, I don't go to the races, but I do chase the
ladies. And the ladies don't avoid me. They even like it when I muck around
with them. Serafima Izmailovna has often invited me round and Zinaida
Yakovlevna also used to say that she was always pleased to see me. But there
did occur between me and Marina Pavlovna an amusing incident which I want to
tell you about. It was a completely ordinary incident, but all the same an
amusing one for, thanks to me, Marina Pavlovna went absolutely bald, like
the palm of your hand. It happened like this: once I arrived at Marina
Pavlovna's and bang! -- she went bald. And that's all there is to it.
1941
--------
Acquittal
Without boasting, I can tell you that, when Volodya struck me across
the ear and spat in my face, I really got him, so that he won't forget it.
It was only after that that I hit him with his primus and it was evening
when I hit him with the iron. So he didn't die straight away by any means.
This doesn't prove that I cut his leg off as early as the afternoon. He was
still alive then. Whereas Andryusha I killed simply from inertia, and I
can't hold myself responsible for that. Why did Andryusha and Yelizaveta
Antonovna fall into my hands anyway? They had no business springing out from
behind the door. I am being accused of bloodthirstiness; they say I drank
blood, but that is not true: I licked up the pools of blood and stains -- it
is a man's natural urge to wipe out the traces of even the most trivial of
crimes. And also I did not rape Yelizaveta Antonovna. In the first place,
she was no longer a virgin; and secondly I was having dealings with a
corpse, so she has no cause for complaint. What about the fact that she just
happened to have to give birth? Well, I did pull out the infant. The fact
that he was not long for this world anyway, well that's really not my fault.
I didn't tear his head off; it was his thin neck that did that. He was
simply not created for this life. It's true that I stomped their dog to a
pulp around the floor, but it's really cynical to accuse me of murdering the
dog when in the immediate vicinity, it might be said, three human lives had
been obliterated. The infant I don't count. Well, all right then, in all
this (I can agree with you) it is possible to discern a degree of severity
on my part. But to consider it a crime that I squatted down and defecated on
my victims -- that is really, if you'll excuse me, absurd. Defecation is an
urge of nature and consequently can in no sense be criminal. All things
considered, I do understand the misgivings of my defence counsel, but all
the same I am hoping for a complete acquittal.
1940
--------
<How I Was Born>
Now I will describe how I was born, how I grew up and how the first
signs of genius were discovered in me. I was born twice. This is how it
happened.
My Dad got married to my Mum in 1902, but my parents brought me into
the world only at the end of 1905, because Dad was adamant that his child
should be born at New Year. Dad calculated that conception had to take place
on the first of April and only on that day did he get round my Mum with the
proposition of conceiving a child.
My Dad got round my Mum on the first of April 1903. Mum had long been
awaiting this moment and was terribly thrilled. But Dad, as it seems, was in
a very playful mood and could not restrain himself, saying to Mum: 'April
Fool!'.
Mum was absolutely furious and didn't allow Dad anywhere near her that
day. There was nothing for it but to wait until the following year.
On the first of April 1904, Dad again started getting round Mum with
the same proposition. But Mum, remembering what had happened the year
before, said that she had no further desire to be left in that stupid
position and again would not allow Dad near her. It didn't matter how much
noise Dad created, it got him nowhere.
And only a year later did my Dad manage to have his way with my Mum and
beget me.
And so my conception took place on the first of April 1905.
However, all Dad's calculations broke down because I turned out to be
premature and was born four months before my time.
Dad created such a fuss that the midwife who had delivered me lost her
head and started to shove me back in, from where I had only just emerged.
An acquaintance of ours who was in attendance, a student from the
military medical academy, declared that shoving me back in would not work.
However, the student's words notwithstanding, they still shoved me and
shoved me back, for all they were worth.
At this point a fearful commotion broke out.
The progenetrix yells: -- Give me my baby!
And the response comes: -- Your baby -- they tell her -- is inside you.
-- What! -- yells the progenetrix. -- How can my baby be inside me when
I have just given birth to him!
-- But -- they say to the progenetrix -- mightn't you be mistaken?
-- What! -- yells the progenetrix -- mistaken? How can I be mistaken! I
saw the baby myself, he was lying here on a sheet only just now!
-- That is true -- they tell the progenetrix -- but perhaps he's
crawled off somewhere. -- In a word, they themselves don't know what to tell
the progenetrix.
And the progenetrix is still making a noise and demanding her baby.
There was nothing for it, but to call an experienced doctor. The
experienced doctor examined the progenetrix and threw up his hands; however,
he thought it all out and gave the progenetrix a good dose of English salts,
and by this means I saw the light of day for the second time.
At this juncture, Dad again started creating a fuss, saying that,
surely, this couldn't be called a birth, that this, surely, couldn't yet be
called a human being, but rather a semifoetus, and that it ought to either
be shoved back again or put into a incubator.
And so they put me into an incubator.
1935
--------
The Incubating Period
I sat in the incubator for four months. I remember only that the
incubator was made of glass, was transparent and had a thermometer. I sat
inside the incubator on cotton wool. I don't remember anything else about
it.
After four months they took me out of the incubator. They did this, as
it happens, on the first of January 1906.
By this means, I was to all intents and purposes born for a third time.
But it was the first of January that was counted as my birthday.
1935
* Note: Daniil Kharms was in fact born on 17 December (Old Style) / 25
December (New Style), 1905.
--------
Memoirs <"I Decided to Mess up the Party...">
1.
Once I arrived at Gosizdat <publishing house> and there in Gosizdat met
Yevgeny L'vovich Shvarts who, as always, was badly dressed but with
pretention to something.
Catching sight of me, Shvarts began to crack jokes but also, as always,
unsuccessfully.
I cracked jokes significantly more successfully and soon, with regard
to intellectual relations, put Shvarts squarely on his back.
Everyone around envied my wit, but they could do nothing about it as
they literally killed themselves laughing. In particular Nina Vladimirovna
Gernet and David Yefimych Rakhmilovich, who called himself Eugene because of
the sound of it, used to kill themselves laughing.
Seeing that his jokes didn't work with me, Shvarts started to change
his tone and in the end, cursing me up and down, declared that everyone in
Tiflis knows Zabolotsky and hardly anyone knows me.
At this point I lost my temper and said that I was more historically
important than Shvarts and Zabolotsky, that I shall leave a radiant mark
upon history, while they will quickly be forgotten.
Having got the feel of my magnitude and my major world significance,
Shvarts gradually began to palpitate and invited me round for dinner.
2.
I decided to mess up the party, and that's what I'm going to do.
I'll start with Valentina Yefimovna. This inhospitable personage
invites us round and instead of a meal she puts on the table some awful sour
stuff. I enjoy eating and I know what's what when it comes to food. You
can't fool me with sour muck! I even go into restaurants on occasions and
see what sort of food they have there. And I cannot stand it when this
particularity of my character is not recognized.
Now I'll move on to Leonid Savel'evich Lipavsky. He didn't shrink from
telling me in my face that every month he composes ten thoughts.
In the first place, he's lying. He doesn't compose ten, it's less.
And secondly, I think up more. I haven't counted up how many I think up
in a month, but it must be more than he does...
And I, for example, don't throw it in everyone's face that I, say,
possess a colossal mind. I have quite sufficient evidence to consider myself
a great man. Yes and, at any rate, I do consider myself such.
That is why it is insulting and painful for me to find myself among
people who are inferior to me in terms of mind, insight and talent, and not
to feel that I am accorded the respect that is fully my due.
Why, oh why am I better than everyone else?
3.
Now I have understood everything: Leonid Savel'evich is a German. He
even has German habits. Look at the way he eats. Well, he's a pure German,
that's all there is to it! Even by his legs you can tell that he's a German.
Without boasting at all, I am able to say that I am very observant and
witty.
So, for example, if you take Leonid Savel'evich, Yuri Berzin and Vol'f
Erlikh and line them all up together on the pavement, then you could well
call them: major, minor and minimus.
In my view that's witty, because it's moderately funny.
And all the same, Leonid Savel'evich is a German! I really must tell
him this when I see him.
I don't consider myself an especially intelligent person, but all the
same I have to say that I'm more intelligent than all the rest. Perhaps
there's someone more intelligent than me on Mars, but I don't know about on
Earth.
For instance, they say that Oleinikov is very intelligent. And in my
view he is intelligent, but not very. He discovered, for example, that if
you write a '6' and turn it upside down, then you get a '9'. And in my view
that's just stupid.
Leonid Savel'evich is absolutely right when he says that someone's mind
is their worth. And if there is no mind, that means there is no worth. Yakov
Semyonovich argues with Leonid Savel'evich and says that someone's mind is
their weakness. And in my view that's already a paradox. Why ever should the
mind be a weakness? Not at all. Rather, it's a stronghold. I think so,
anyway.
We often get together at Leonid Savel'evich's and talk about this. If
an argument breaks out, then I always turn out the winner of the argument. I
myself don't know why.
Everyone regards me with a certain astonishment for some reason.
Whatever I do, everyone finds it astonishing.
I don't even make any effort. Everything seems to work out of its own
accord.
Zabolotsky said some time that I was born to govern the spheres. He
must have been joking. No such idea has ever entered my head.
In the Writers' Union I am considered an angel, for some reason.
Listen, my friends! In fact you shouldn't bend the knee before me like
that. I am just the same as all of you, only better.
4.
I have heard the phrase: 'Seize the moment'. It's easily said, but hard
to do. In my view, it's a meaningless expression. And really, you can't call
for the impossible.
I say this with complete certainty, because I have tested everything on
myself. I have grabbed at the moment but not managed to seize it and have
merely broken my watch. Now I know that it's impossible.
it's also impossible to 'seize the epoch', because it's the same as the
moment, only a bit more so.
It's another matter if you say: 'Document what is happening at this
moment'... That is quite another matter.
So, for example: one, two, three! Nothing happened! And so I have
documented a moment in which nothing happened.
I told Zabolotsky about this. He was very taken by this and sat the
whole day counting: one, two, three! And made notes that nothing had
happened.
Shvarts caught Zabolotsky at this activity. And Shvarts also took an
interest in this original means of documenting what was happening in our
epoch, since an epoch is formed out of moments.
But I beg to draw your attention to the fact that once again I was the
prime mover of this method. Me again! Me everywhere! It's simply
astonishing!
What comes with difficulty to others comes easily to me!
I can even fly. But I'm not going to tell you about that because, come
what may, nobody will believe it.
5.
Whenever two people are playing chess, it always seems to me that one
is fooling the other. Especially if they are playing for money.
In general, I find any kind of playing for money disgusting. I forbid
gambling in my presence.
And as for card players, I would have them executed. That would be the
best method of getting to grips with games of chance.
Instead of playing card games, it would be better if people would get
together and read each other a bit of ethics.
Though ethics is rather boring. Womanizing is more fun.
Women have always interested me. Women's legs have always excited me,
especially above the knee.
Many people consider women to be depraved creatures. But not me! On the
contrary, I even consider them to be somehow quite pleasant.
A plumpish young woman! What's depraved about her? She's not depraved
at all!
Children are another matter. They are usually said to be innocent. And
I consider that they might well be innocent, but anyway they are highly
loathsome, especially when they are dancing. I always make an exit from
anywhere where there are children.
Leonid Savel'evich also doesn't like children. And it was me who
inspired him with such ideas.
... Generally speaking, everything that Leonid Savel'evich says has
already been said some time earlier by me.
And that doesn't only go for Leonid Savel'evich.
Everyone is only too pleased to pick up even scraps of my ideas. I even
find this funny.
For example, Oleinikov ran up to me yesterday, saying that he had got
into a complete muddle over questions of existence. I gave him some sort of
advice and discharged him. He went off delighted with me and in his very
best mood.
People see me as a means of support, they repeat my words, they are
astonished by my actions, but they don't pay me money.
Foolish people! Bring me money, the more the better, and you will see
how pleased that will make me.
6.
Now I'll say a few words about Aleksandr Ivanovich.1
He's a wind-bag and a card player. But what I value him for is his
obedience to me.
By day and by night he dances attendance on me, just waiting for a hint
from me of some command. I have only to proffer such a hint and Aleksandr
Ivanovich flies like the wind to carry out my wish. For this I bought him
some shoes and said: -- There you are, wear them! And so he wears them.
Whenever Aleksandr Ivanovich arrives at Gosizdat, they all laugh and
say to each other that Aleksandr Ivanovich has come for his money.
Konstantin Ignat'evich Drovatsky hides under the table. I say this in
an allegorical sense.
More than anything, Aleksandr Ivanovich loves macaroni.
He always eats it with ground rusks and he gobbles up almost a whole
kilo, and perhaps even much more.
Having eaten his macaroni, Aleksandr Ivanovich says he feels sick and
lies down on the divan. Sometimes the macaroni comes back up.
Aleksandr Ivanovich doesn't eat meat and he doesn't like women.
Although sometimes he likes them. Apparently, even very often.
But the women whom Aleksandr Ivanovich likes, to my taste, are all
ugly, and therefore we shall consider that they are not even women at all.
If I say a thing, that means it's correct. I don't advise anyone to
argue with me, as they will just be made a fool of, because I get the last
word with everyone.
And it's no use you bandying words with me. That's already been tried.
I've seen them all off! Never mind that I look as though I can barely talk,
but when I get going, there's no stopping me.
Once I got going at the Lipavskys and that was that! I talked them all
to death! Then I went off to the Zabolotskys and talked everyone's head off
there. Then I went to the Shvartses and talked everyone's head off there.
Then I arrived home and talked half the night away again there!
1930s
1 A. I. Vvedensky was a close friend of D. Kharms.
--------
<"I Love Sensual Women...">
I love sensual women and not passionate ones. A passionate woman closes
her eyes, moans and shouts and the enjoyment of a passionate woman is blind.
A passionate woman writhes about, grabs you with her hands without looking
where, clasps you, kisses you, even bites you and hurries to reach her
climax as soon as she can. She has no time to display her sexual organs, no
time to examine, touch with the hand and kiss your sexual organs, she is in
such a hurry to slake her passion. Having slaked her passion, the passionate
woman will fall asleep. The sexual organs of a passionate woman are dry. A
passionate woman is always in some way or another mannish.
The sensual woman is always feminine.
Her contours are rounded and abundant.
The sensual woman rarely reaches a blind passion. She savours sexual
enjoyment. The sensual woman is always a woman and even in an unaroused
state her sexual organs are moist. She has to wear a bandage on her sexual
organs, so as not to soak them with moisture.
When she takes the bandage off in the evening, the bandage is so wet
that it can be squeezed out.
Thanks to such an abundance of juices, the sexual organs of a sensual
woman give off a slight, pleasant smell which increases strongly when the
sensual woman is aroused. Then the juice from her sexual organs is secreted
in a syrupy stream.
A sensual woman likes you to examine her sexual organs.
early 1930s
--------
<"But the Artist...">
But the artist sat the nude model on the table and moved her legs
apart. The girl hardly resisted and merely covered her face with her hands.
Amonova and Strakhova said that first the girl should have been taken
off to the bathroom and washed between her legs, as any whiff of such an
aroma was simply repulsive. The girl wanted to jump up but the artist held
her back and asked her to take no notice and sit there, just as he had
placed her. The girl, not knowing what she was supposed to do, sat back down
again. The artist and his female colleagues took their respective seats and
began sketching the nude model. Petrova said that the nude model was a very
seductive woman, but Strakhova and Amonova said that she was rather plump
and indecent. Zolotogromov said that this was what made her seductive, but
Strakhova said that this was simply repulsive, and not at all seductive.
-- Look -- said Strakhova -- ugh! It's pouring out of her on to the
table cloth. What is there seductive about that, when I can sniff the smell
off her from here.
Petrova said that this only showed her feminine strength. Abel'far
blushed and agreed. Amonova said she had seen nothing like it, that you get
to the highest point of arousal and it still wouldn't secrete like this girl
did. Petrova said that, faced with that, one could get aroused oneself and
that Zolotogromov must already be aroused.
Zolotogromov agreed that the girl was having quite an effect on him.
Abel'far sat there red in the face and she was breathing heavily.
-- However, the air in this room is becoming unbearable -- said
Strakhova. Abel'far fidgeted on her chair and then leapt up and went out of
the room.
-- There -- said Petrova -- you see the result of female seductiveness.
It even acts on the ladies. Abel'far has gone off to put herself to rights.
I can feel that I will soon have to do the same thing.
-- That -- said Amonova -- only shows the advantage we thin women
possess. Everything with us is always as it should be. But both you and
Abel'far are splendiferous ladies and you have to keep yourselves very much
in check.
-- Yet -- said Zolotogromov -- splendiferousness and a certain lack of
bodily hygiene are what is to be particularly valued in a woman.
1934-37
* Zolotogromov is a male surname; all other characters are female.
--------
Foma Bobrov and his Spouse
A Comedy in Three Parts
GRANNY Bobrov (Playing patience) Now that's the card. Oh, it's all
coming out topsy-turvy! A king. And where am I supposed to put that? Just
when you want one, there's never a five around. Oh, I could do with a five!
Now it'll be the five. Oh, sod it, another king!
She flings the cards on to the table with such force that a porcelain
vase falls off the table and smashes.
GRANNY Oh! Oh! My Gawd! These bloody cards! (She crawls under the table
and picks up the pieces). This'll never glue back together again. And it was
a good vase, too. You can't get them like that any more. This bit's right
over there! (Stretches for the piece. BOBROV enters the room).
BOBROV Granny! Is that you clambering about under the table?
GRANNY Yes, okay, okay. What do you want?
BOBROV I just came to ask you: you wouldn't happen to have a chest of
tea?
GRANNY Come on then, give me a hand up from under the table.
BOBROV What have you done, dropped something? Oh, you've broken the
vase!
GRANNY (Mimicking him) You've broken the vase!
(BOBROV helps GRANNY up. But as soon as he lets go of her, GRANNY sits
back down on the floor).
BOBROV Oh, you're down again!
GRANNY Down, so now what?
BOBROV Let me help you up (Pulls GRANNY up).
GRANNY The cards were going badly. I tried this and that... But don't
pull me by the arms, get hold of me under the armpits. All I got, you know,
was king after king. I need a five and all the kings keep turning up.
BOBROV lets go of GRANNY and GRANNY again sprawls on the floor.
GRANNY Akh!
BOBROV Oh, Lord! You're down again.
GRANNY What are you on about: down, down! What are you after, anyway?
BOBROV I came to ask if you've a chest of tea.
GRANNY I know that. You've already told me. I don't like listening to
the same tale twenty times. The thing is: akh, I'm down again! and a chest
of tea. Well, what are you looking at! Get me up, I'm telling you.
BOBROV (Pulling GRANNY up) I'll just, excuse me, put you in the
armchair.
GRANNY You'd do better to prattle on a bit less and pull me up in a
proper fashion. I meant to tell you, and it almost slipped my mind: you
know, that door in my bedroom isn't shutting properly again. No doubt you
messed the whole thing up.
BOBROV No, I put a staple on with fillister-head screws.
GRANNY Do you think I know anything about staples and fillister heads?
I don't care about all that. I just want the door to shut.
BOBROV It doesn't shut properly because the fillister heads won't stay
in the woodwork.
GRANNY That'll do, that'll do. That's your business. I just need to...
Akh! (She again sprawls on the floor).
BOBROV Oh, Lord!
GRANNY Have you decided to fling me to the floor deliberately? Decided
to have a bit of fun? Oh you useless devil! You're just a useless devil and
you might as well clear off!
BOBROV No, Granny, 'onest injun, I just meant to put you in the
armchair.
GRANNY Did you hear what I said? I told you to clear out! So why aren't
you going? Well, why aren't you going? Do you hear? Clear off out of it!
Well? Bugger off! (exits BOBROV)
GRANNY Off! Go on! Away! Bugger off! Talk about a reprobate! (Gets up
from the floor and sits in the armchair). And his wife is simply an indecent
madam. The madam walks about absolutely starkers and doesn't bat an eyelid,
even in front of me, an old woman. She covers her indecent patch with the
palm of her hand, and that's the way she walks around. And then she touches
bread with that hand at lunchtime. It's simply revolting to watch. She
thinks that if she's young and pretty, then she can do anything she likes.
And as for herself, the trollop, she never washes herself properly just
where she should do. I, she says, like a whiff of woman to come from a
woman! And as for me, as soon as I see her coming, I'm straight into the
bathroom with the eau de Cologne to my nose. Perhaps it may be nice for men,
but as for me, you can spare me that. The shameless hussy! She goes around
naked without the slightest embarrassment. And when she sits down she
doesn't even keep her legs together properly, so that everything's on show.
And -- there, she's well just always wet. She's leaking like that all the
time. If you tell her she should go and wash herself, she will say you
shouldn't wash there too often and she'll take a handkerchief and just wipe
herself. And you're lucky if it's a handkerchief, because just with her hand
she smears it all over the place. I never give her my hand, as there's
perpetually an indecent smell from her hands. And her breasts are indecent.
It's true, they are very fine and bouncy, but they are so big that, in my
opinion, they're simply indecent. That's the wife that Foma found for
himself! How she ever got round him is beyond me.
1933
--------
Disarmed, or Unfortunate in Love
A Tragic Vaudeville in One Act
LEV MARKOVICH (Bouncing up to the LADY) Let me!
LADY (Keeping him at arms length) Leave me!
LEV MARKOVICH (Bumping into her) Let me!
LADY (Shoving him with her knees) Go away!
LEV MARKOVICH (Gripping her with his hands) Let's, just once!
LADY (Shoving him with her knees) Away! Away!
LEV MARKOVICH Just one thrust!
LADY (Bellowing) No-o.
LEV MARKOVICH A thrust! One thrust!
LADY (Shows the whites of her eyes).
LEV MARKOVICH fumbles around, reaches with his hand for his tool and
suddenly, as it turns out, he can't find it.
LEV MARKOVICH Wait a minute! (Feels himself up and down with his
hands). What the h-hell!
LADY looks at LEV MARKOVICH with astonishment.
LEV MARKOVICH Well, that's a damn funny thing!
LADY What's happened?
LEV MARKOVICH Hum ... hmm ... (looks around, completely flummoxed).
(Curtain)
1934
--------
How a Man Crumbled
-- They say all the best tarts are fat-arsed. Gee-ee, I really like
busty tarts, I love the way they smell.
Having said this, he started to increase in height and, upon reaching
the ceiling, he crumbled into a thousand little pellets. The yard-keeper
Panteley came, swept all these pellets up into his scoops in which he
usually picked up the horse muck, and he carried these pellets away
somewhere to the back yard.
And the sun continued to shine as ever and splendiferous ladies
continued to smell just as ravishingly as ever.
1936
--------
<"I didn't go in for blocking up my ears...">
I didn't go in for blocking up my ears. Everyone blocked theirs up and
I alone didn't block mine and therefore I alone heard everything. Similarly,
I didn't blindfold myself with a rag, as everyone else did, and therefore I
saw everything. Yes, I alone saw and heard everything. But unfortunately I
didn't understand anything and, therefore, what was the value of me alone
seeing and hearing everything? I couldn't even remember what I had seen and
heard. Just a few fragmentary recollections, flourishes and nonsensical
sounds. There was a tram conductor who came running through, followed by an
elderly lady with a spade between her lips. Someone said: '... probably from
under her chair...' A naked Jewish girl spreads her legs and empties a cup
of milk over her sexual organs, the milk trickles down into a deep dinner
plate. From the plate, the milk is poured back into the cup and offered to
me to drink. I take a drink: there is a smell of cheese from the milk...
The naked Jewish girl is sitting there before me with her legs apart,
her sexual organs stained with milk. She leans forward and looks at her
sexual organs. From her sexual organs there starts to flow a transparent and
syrupy liquid... I am going through a big and rather dark yard. In the yard
there lie high, heaped up piles of firewood. From behind the wood someone's
face is looking out. I know: it's Limonin following me. He's on the watch:
to see whether I'm going to visit his wife. I turn to the right and go
through the outside door on to the street. From the gateway the joyful face
of Limonin is looking out... And now Limonin's wife is offering me vodka. I
down four glasses with a few sardines and start thinking about the naked
Jewish girl. Limonin's wife puts her head on my knees. I knock back one more
glass and light up my pipe.
-- You are so sad today -- Limonin's wife says to me. I tell her some
nonsense or other and go off to the Jewish girl.
1940
--------
On the Circle
1. Do not take offense at the following argument, for there is nothing
offensive in it, unless one does not consider that the circle may be spoken
of in a geometrical sense. If I say that the circle describes four identical
radii, and you say: not four, but one, then we have a right to ask one
another: why? But I don't want to talk about that kind of description of the
circle, but of the perfect description of a circle.
2. The circle is the most perfect flat figure. I am not going to say
why in particular that is so. But this fact arises of itself in our
consciousness in any consideration of flat figures.
3. Nature is so created that the less noticeable the laws of formation,
the more perfect the thing.
4. Nature is also so created that the more impenetrable a thing, the
more perfect it is.
5. On perfection, I would say the following: perfection in things is a
perfect thing. It is always possible to study a perfect thing or, in other
words, in a perfect thing these is always something not studied. If a thing
should prove to have been completely studied, then it would cease to be
perfect, for only that which is incomplete is perfect -- that is to say the
infinite.
6. A point is infinitely small and thereby attains perfection, but at
the same time it remains inconceivable. Even the smallest conceivable point
would not be perfect.
7. A straight line is perfect, for there is no reason for it not to be
infinitely long on both sides, to have neither end nor beginning, and
thereby be inconceivable. But by putting pressure on it and limiting it on
both sides, we render it conceivable, but at the same time imperfect.
If you believe this, then think on.
8. A straight line, broken at one point, forms an angle. But a straight
line which is broken simultaneously at all its points is called a curve. A
curve does not have to be of necessity infinitely long. It may be such that
we can grasp it freely at a glance and yet at the same time remain
inconceivable and infinite. I am talking about a closed curve, in which the
beginning and the end are concealed. And the most regular, inconceivable,
infinite and ideal curve will be a circle.
17 July 1931
--------
On Laughter
1. Advice to humourous performers
I have noticed that it is very important to determine the point at
which laughter can be induced. If you want the auditorium to laugh, come out
on to the stage and stand there in silence until someone bursts out
laughing. Then wait a little bit longer until someone else starts laughing,
and in such a way that everyone can hear. However, this laughter must be
genuine and claqueurs, in such an instance, should not be used. When all
this has taken place, then the point at which laughter can be induced has
been reached. After this you may proceed to your programme of humour and,
rest assured, success is guaranteed.
2. Where are several sorts of laughter.
There is the average sort of laughter, when the whole hall laughs, but
not at full volume. There is the strong sort of laughter, when just one part
of the hall or another laughs, but at full volume, and the other part of the
hall remains silent as, in this case, the laughter doesn't get to it at all.
The former sort of laughter requires vaudeville delivery from a vaudeville
actor, but the latter sort is better. The morons don't have to laugh.
1933
--------
On Time, Space and Existence
1. A world which is not can not be called existing, because it is not.
2. A world consisting of something unified, homogeneous and continuous
can not be called existing, because in such a world there are no parts and,
once there are no parts, there is no whole.
3. An existing world must be heterogeneous and have parts.
4. Every two parts are different, because one part will always be thus
one and the other that one.
5. If only this one exists, then that one cannot exist, because, as we
have said, only this exists. But such a this cannot exist, because if this
exists it must be heterogeneous and have parts. And if it has parts that
means it consists of this and that.
6. If this and that exist, this means that not this and not that exist,
because if not this and not that did not exist, then this and that would be
unified, homogeneous and continuous and consequently would also not exist.
7. We shall call the first part this and the second part that and the
transition from one to the other we shall call neither this nor that.
8. We shall call neither this nor that 'the impediment'.
9. Thus: the basis of existence comprises three elements: this, the
impediment and that.
10. We shall express non-existence as zero or a unity. Therefore we
shall have to express existence by the number three.
11. Thus: dividing a unitary void into two parts, we get the trinity of
existence.
12. Or: a unitary void, experiencing a certain impediment, splits into
parts, which make up the trinity of existence.
13. The impediment is that creator which creates 'something' out of
'nothing'.
14. If this one, on its own, is 'nothing' or a non-existent
'something', then the 'impediment' is also 'nothing' or a non-existent
'something'.
15. By this reckoning there must be two 'nothings' or nonexistent
'somethings'.
16. If there are two 'nothings' or non-existent 'somethings', then one
of them is the 'impediment' to the other, breaking it down into parts and
becoming itself a part of the other.
17. In the same way the other, being the impediment to the first,
splits it into parts and itself becomes a part of the first.
18. In this way are created, of their own accord, non-existent parts.
19. Three, of their own accord, non-existent parts create the three
basic elements of existence.
20. The three, of their own accord, non-existent basic elements of
existence, all three together, make up a certain existence.
21. If one of the three basic elements of existence should disappear,
then the whole would disappear. So: should the 'impediment' disappear, then
this one and that one would become unitary and continuous and would cease to
exist.
22. The existence of our universe generates three 'nothings' or
separately, on their own account, three non-existent 'somethings': space,
time and something else which is neither time nor space.
23. Time, of its essence, is unitary, homogeneous and continuous and
thereby does not exist.
24. Space, of its essence, is unitary, homogeneous and continuous and
thereby does not exist.
25. But as soon as space and time enter into a certain mutual
relationship they become the impediment, the one of the other, and begin to
exist.
26. As they begin to exist, space and time become mutually parts, one
of the other.
27. Time, experiencing the impediment of space, breaks down into parts,
generating the trinity of existence.
28. A split down and existing, consists of the three basic elements of
existence: the past, the present and the future .
29. The past, the present and the future, as basic elements of
existence, always stood in inevitable dependence, each on the other. There
cannot be a past without a present and a future, or a present without a past
and a future, or a future without a past and a present.
30. Examining these three elements separately, we see that there is no
past because it has already gone and here is no future because it has not
yet come. That means that there remains only one thing -- the 'present'. But
what is the 'present'?
31. When we are pronouncing this word, the letters of this word which
have been pronounced become past and the unpronounced letters still lie in
the future. This means that only that sound which is being pronounced now is
'present'.
32. But of course the process of pronouncing this sound possesses a
certain length. Consequently, a certain part of this process is 'present',
just as the other parts are either past or future. But the same thing too
may be said of this part of the process which had seemed to us to be 'the
present'.
33. Reflecting in this manner, we see that there is no 'present'.
34. The present is only the 'impediment' in the transition from past to
future and past and future appear to us as the this and that of the
existence of time.
35. Thus: the present is the 'impediment' in the existence of time and,
as we said earlier, space serves as the impediment in the existence of time.
36. By this means: the 'present' of time is space.
37. There is no space in the past and the future, it being contained
entirely in the 'present'. And the present is space.
38. And since there is no present, neither is there any space.
39. We have explained the existence of time but space, of its own
accord, does not yet exist.
40. In order to explain the existence of space, we must take that
incidence when time performs as the impediment of space.
41. Experiencing the impediment of time, space splits into parts,
generating the trinity of existence.
42. Broken down, existing space consists of three elements: there, here
and there.
43. In the transition from one there to the other there, it is
necessary to overcome the impediment here, because if it were not for the
impediment here, then the one there and the other there would be unitary.
44. Here is the 'impediment' of existing space. And, as we said above,
the impediment of existing space is time.
45. Therefore: the here of space is time.
46. The here of space and the 'present' of time are the points of
intersection between time and space.
47. Examining space and time as basic elements in the existence of the
universe, we would say: the universe expresses space, time and something
else which is neither time nor space.
48. That 'something' which is neither time nor space is the
'impediment', which generates the existence of the universe.
49. This 'something' expresses the impediment between time and space.
50. Therefore this 'something' lies at the point of intersection of
time and space.
51. Consequently this 'something' is to be found in time at the point
of the 'present' and in space at the point of the 'here'.
52. This 'something' which is to be found at the point of intersection
of space and time generates a certain 'impediment', separating the 'here'
from the 'present'.
53. This 'something', generating the impediment and separating the
'here' from the 'present', creates a certain existence which we call matter
or energy. (Henceforth we shall provisionally call this simply matter.)
54. Thus: the existence of the universe, as organised by space, time
and their impediment, is expressed as matter.
55. Matter testifies to us of time.
56. Matter testifies to us of space.
57. By this means: the three basic elements of the existence of the
universe are perceived by us as time, space and matter.
58. Time, space and matter, intersecting one with another at definite
points and being basic elements in the existence of the universe, generate a
certain node.
59. We shall call this node -- the Node of the Universe.
60. When I say of myself: 'I am', I am placing myself within the Node
of the Universe.
--------
From 'A Tract More or Less According to a Synopsis of Emerson'
On an Approach to Immortality
It is peculiar to each person to strive for enjoyment, which is always
either sexual satisfaction, or satiation, or acquisition.
But only that which lies not on the path to enjoyment leads towards
immortality. All systems leading to immortality in the end come down to a
single rule: continually do that which you don't feel like doing, because
every person feels like either eating, or satisfying their sexual feelings,
or acquiring something, or all of these more or less at a stroke. It is
interesting that immortality is always connected with death and is treated
by various religious systems as eternal enjoyment, or as eternal torment, or
as an eternal absence of enjoyment and torment.
1939
--------
Letter to the Lipavskys
28 June 1932. Tsarskoye Selo
Dear Tamara Aleksandrova and Leonid Savel'evich,
Thank you for your wonderful letter. I have re-read it many times and
learned it off by heart. I can be awakened in the night and I will
immediately and word-perfectly begin: 'Hello there, Daniil Ivanovich, we are
completely lost without you. Lyonya has bought himself some new...' and so
on, and so on.
I have read this letter to all my acquaintances in Tsarskoye Selo.
Everyone likes it very much. Yesterday my friend Bal'nis came to see me. He
wanted to stay the night. I read him your letter six times. He smiled very
broadly, so it was evident that he liked the letter, but he didn't have time
to express a detailed opinion, for he left without staying for the night.
Today I went round to his place myself and read the letter through to him
once more, so as to enable him to refresh his memory. Then I asked Bal'nis
for his opinion. But he broke a leg off one of his chairs and with the aid
of this leg he chased me out on to the street and furthermore said that if I
turn up once more with this drivel he will lie my hands up and stuff my
mouth with muck from the rubbish pit. These were, of course, on his part
rather rude and stupid remarks. I, of course, went away and took the view
that he quite possibly had a bad cold and that he was not himself. From
Bal'nis I went off to Yekaterinskiy Park and had a go on the rowing boats.
On the whole lake, apart from me, there were two or three other boats. And,
by the way, there was a very beautiful girl in one of the boats. And she was
completely on her own. I turned my boat (incidentally, you have to row
carefully when you're turning a boat, because the oars are liable to jump
out of the rowlocks) and rowed after the beauty. I felt as though I
resembled a Norwegian and I must have cut a fresh and healthy figure in my
grey jacket and my fluttering tie and, as they say, had quite a whiff of the
sea about me. But near the Orlov Column some hooligans were swimming and, as
I rowed past, one of them just happened to have to swim right across my
path. Then another of them shouted: -- Wait a minute, while this cross-eyed
and sweaty specimen goes past! -- and pointed at me with his foot. This was
very disagreeable because the beauty heard every word. And since she was
rowing in front of me and in a rowing boat, as everyone knows, you sit with
the back of your head towards your direction of movement, the beauty could
not only hear, but she could see the hooligan pointing at me with his foot.
I tried to make out that all this had nothing to do with me and started to
look to the side with a smile on my face. But there wasn't a single other
boat around. And at this point the hooligan shouted again: -- Now what do
you think you're looking at? We're talking to you, aren't we? Hey, you, the
sucker in the cap!
I set about rowing with might and main, but the oars kept jumping out
of the rowlocks and the boat only moved slowly. Finally, after an enormous
effort, I caught up with the beauty and we got acquainted. She was called
Yekaterina Pavlovna. We took back her boat and Yekaterina Pavlovna moved
over to mine. She turned out to be a very witty conversationalist. I had
decided to dazzle my friends with wit, and so I got out your letter and made
a start on reading it: 'Hello, there, Daniil Ivanovich, we are completely
lost without you. Lyonya has bought himself some new ...' and so on.
Yekaterina Pavlovna suggested that, if we pulled in to the bank, then I
might see something. And I did, I saw Yekaterina Pavlovna making off, and
out of the bushes there crept a filthy urchin, saying: -- Mister, give us a
ride in yer boat.
This evening the letter came to grief. It happened like this: I was
standing on the balcony, reading your letter and eating semolina. At that
moment Auntie called me into the living room to help her wind the clock. 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