A Man of Ideas
Midday. Not a sound, not a movement in the sultry air ... The whole of nature resembles some huge estate, abandoned by God and men alike. Beneath the overhanging foliage ofanold lime tree which stands near his quarters, prison superintendent Yashkin and his guest Pimfoff, the local headmaster, are sitting at a small three- legged table. They are both without jackets; their waistcoats are unbuttoned; their red, perspiring faces are immobile, rendered expressionless by the paralysing heat . .. Pimfoff's face has slumped into a state of complete apathy, his eyes are all bleary and his lower lip is hanging down loosely. Some signs of activity can still be detected, however, in Yashkin's eyes and forehead; he seems to be thinking about something . .. They gaze at each other in silence, expressing their torment by puffing and blowing and clapping in the air at flies. A carafe of vodka, some stringy boiled beef and an empty sardine tin encrusted with grey salt are standing on the table. Already they're on the founh glass . ..
'Dammit,' Yashkin exclaims suddenly and so unexpectedly that a dog dozing by the table gives a stan and runs off with its tail between its legs. 'Dammit! I don't care what you say, Filipp Maksimych, there are far too many punctuation marks in Russian!'
'How do you make that out, old man?' Pimfoff asks timidly, extracting the wing of a fly from his glass. 'There may be a large number, but each has its rightful place and purpose.'
'Oh, come off it now! Don't kid me your punctuation marks serve any purpose. It's just a lot of showing-off . . . A chap puts a dozen commas in one line and thinks he's a genius. Take old Kastratoff, the deputy prosecutor - he puts a comma after every word. What on earth for? Dear Sir, comma, while visiting the prison on such-and- such a date, comma, I observed, comma, that the prisoners, comma . . . ugh, it gives you spots before the eyes! And it's just the same in books . . . Colons, semi-colons, ordinary commas, inverted commas - it's enough to make you sick. And some smart alec isn't satisfied with one full stop, he has to go and stick in a whole row of them . . . Why, I ask you, why?'
'It's what the experts demand,' sighs Pimfoff.
'Experts? Charlatans, more likely. They only do it to show off, to pull the wool over people's eyes. Or take spelling, for example. If I spell "mediaeval" with "c" in the middle instead of "ae", docs it really make a blind bit of difference?'
'Now you're going too far, Ilya Martynych,' says Pimfoff, offended. 'How can you possibly spell "mediaeval" with "c" in the middle? This is getting beyond a joke.'
Pimfoff drains his glass, blinks with a hurt expression and starts looking in the other direction.
'Y, s, I've even been thrashed over that diphthong!' Yashkin con- tinues. 'The teacher called me up to the blackboard one day and dictated: "Our beloved teacher is an outstanding pacdagoguc." I went and wrote "pacdagogue" with just "e" at the beginning. Wrong, bend over! A week later he calls me out again and dictates: "Our beloved teacher is an outstanding paedagogue." This time I wrote "ae". Bend over again! "But sir," I said, "that's not fair. It was you told us 'ae' was correct!" "I was mistaken last week," he says, "yesterday I was reading an article by a member of the Academy which proves that 'paedagogue' is derived from the Greek paidos and should be spelt 'ai'. I am in agreement with the Academy of Sciences and it is therefore my bounden duty to give you a thrash- ing." Which he did. It's the same with my son Vasya. He's always coming home with a thick ear because of that diphthong. If I were Minister of Education, I'd soon stop you people having us on with your diphthongs.'
'I bid you good day,' sighs Pimfoff, blinking rapidly and putting on his jacket. 'When you start attacking education, that really is too much . . .'
'Oh, come, come, come . . . now you're offended,' says Yashkin, placing a restraining hand on Pimfoff's sleeve. 'You know I only say these things for something to talk about ... Come on, sit down . .. Let's have another!'
The offended Pimfoff sits down, drains his glass and looks in the other direction. Silence descends. Martha, the cook, walks past the table carrying a bucketful of slops. A loud splash is heard, immedi- ately followed by a dog's yelp. Pimfoff's lifeless face softens up even more; any moment now it will melt away completely in the heat and start running down his waistcoat. Furrows gather on Yashkin's brow. He gazes fixedly at the stringy beef and thinks ... An old soldiercomes up to the table,squintsmorosely at the carafe ofvodka and seeing that it isempty, brings a fresh supply . . . They knock back another glass.
'Yes, dammit!' Yashkin says suddenly.
Pimfoff gives a start and looks up fearfully at Yashkin, anticipat- ing new heresies.
'Yes, dammit!' Yashkin says again, gazing thoughtfully at the carafe. 'There are far too many sciences, that's what I reckon!'
'How do you make that out, old man?' Pimfoff asks quietly. '^^ich sciences do you reckon are superfluous?'
'All of'em •.. The more subjects a man knows, the more he starts thinking a lot of himself and becoming conceited . . . I'd scrap the whole lot of 'em, all the so-called learned sciences . .. Oh, come, come ... now you're offended! You're so touchy, I daren't say a single word. Sit down, have another!'
Martha comes up to the table, and bustlingabout angrily with her plump elbows, places a pot of thick nettle soup in front of the two friends. Loud slurping and champing noises ensue. Three dogs and a cat appear from nowhere. They stand in front of the table and gaze imploringly at the chewing mouths. The soup is followed by a bowl of semolina pudding, which Martha bangs down on the table so viciously that all the spoons and crusts of bread jump off. Before turning to the pudding the friends knock back another glass in silence.
'Everything's superfluous in this world!' Yashkin remarks sud- denly.
Pimfoff drops his spoon on to his lap, gazes fearfully at Yashkin and is about to protest, but his tongue has become weak from so much vodka and is all caught up in the semolina pudding . •. Instead of his usuai 'How do you make that out, old man?', the only thing he can manage is a kind of bleat.
'Everything's superfluous,' Yashkin continues. 'The learned sci- ences, human beings . . . prisons, those flies . .. this pudding . .. And you're superfluous too . . . You may be a decent fellow and believe in God, but you're superfluous too . . .' ^
'Good day to you, old man!' Pimfoff mumbles, struggling to put on his jacket but completely failing to find the sleeves.
'Here we've been, stuffing and gorging ourselves, and what on eanh for? No, it's all superfluous . . . We eat and don't know ourselves why we're eating ... Oh, come, come . . . now you're offended! You know I only say these things for something to talk about. And where can you go now? Come on, sit down and have a chat . . . Let's have another!'
Silence descends, broken only occasionally by the clinking together of glasses and by drunken burps. The sun is already begin- ning to sink in the west and the shadow of the lime tree grows longer and longer. Martha comes out and spreads a rug by the table, snoning fiercely and jabbing her arms about. The friends knock back a final glass in silence, settle themsclves on the rug and turning their backs to each other, begin to drop off ...
'Thank the Lord he didn'tget round to the creation ofthe world or the hierarchy today,' thinks Pimfoff. 'That's enough to make any- Qle's hair stand on end . ..'
Sergeant Prishibeyev
'Staff-Sergeant Prishibeyev! You are accused of using insulting lan- guage and behaviour on the 3rd of September of this year towards Police Officer Zappsky, District Elder Berkin, Police Constable Yefimov, Official Witnesses Ivanov- and Gavrilov, and six other peasants; whereofthe first three aforenamed were insulted by you in the performance of their duties. Do you plead guilty?'