FEAST-DAY GRATUITIES
(From the Notebook of a Provincial Scrounger)
Ilist the donors one by one:
House No. 113. At apartment number 2, we came upon an individual of some education, who was quite well-intentioned to all appearances, if somewhat peculiar. Handing us our feast-day gratuity, he said: “Being a man of means, I am happy to offer this gratuity, but being at the same time a man of science who is accustomed to understanding objects and actions by studying their roots and causes, I would like to ask if there is a moral law by which you go from house to house collecting holiday gratuities, or if there is no such law and you are acting à vol d’oiseau?”14
As I espied in this question a thirst for knowledge, I sat down at his table that was decked with tasty morsels, and offered the following explanation: “Gratitude is a quality inherent in lofty and noble souls. It is a quality intrinsic in man, and it is our duty to further it in every way possible among the people of this town, and not to let it die. A townsman who gives feast-day gratuities is, accordingly, exercising the beneficence of gratitude. It is in fact our duty to train you without respite in this sense of gratitude—on weekdays as well as feast days. But since, in addition to collecting gratuities, we have so many other responsibilities, the townsfolk must settle for a few days in the year for this training, in the hope that in the future, as human relations develop, gratuities will be proffered on a daily basis.”
House No. 114. The owner, a Mr. Schweyn, gave me ten rubles with a sugary smile and a hearty handshake. One can only surmise that the old rogue has a messy backyard, or that he has someone living in the house illegally.
House No. 115. Madame Perechudova, the wife of the titular counselor, was put out when I entered her drawing room in my dirty galoshes. (Incidentally, she gave me three rubles.) Her lodger, Bryukhansky, when I requested that he fulfill his civic duty, refused so to do owing to a lack of funds. I explained to him: “On the evening of a feast day every townsman, before undertaking his usual expenditures on small luxuries, must weigh how much he will give and to whom, after consulting with the members of his family. He then divides the money depending on the number of recipients. If he has no money, he secures a loan; if for some reason he cannot secure a loan, he gathers his family and flees to Egypt . . . I wonder, sir, that you can even speak to me!” (I made note of his name.)
House No. 116. General Brindin, living in apartment number 3, proffering us five rubles said: “In my day I waged a battle against this evil, but for naught. The collecting of feast-day gratuities by toadies such as you is an insuperable evil! Here, take this and go to hell!”
A great general—but what a strange notion of civic duty.
14 A comical misuse of the French term for “as the crow flies.” [Translator]
MAY DAY AT SOKOLNIKI
The first of May was tending toward evening. The din of carriages, voices, and music drowned out the singing of birds and the whispering fir trees of Sokolniki. The feast was in full swing. A couple was sitting at one of the tea tables of the Staraya Gulyania, the gentleman in a shining top hat and the lady in a blue bonnet. On the table in front of them was a boiling samovar, an empty vodka bottle, cups, glasses, sliced sausages, orange peels, and such. The man was exceedingly drunk. He was staring intently at an orange peel, a vacant smile on his face.
“You’re drunk as a skunk!” the lady mumbled angrily, looking about her nervously. “Drinking yourself under the table! It’s not enough that everyone has to look away, but you’re not having any fun yourself! Here you are with your cup of tea, and what does it taste like? You could be stuffing your mouth with marmalade or sausages—not that you’d know the difference! And to think I went to the trouble of ordering the best of everything!”
The vacant smile on the gentleman’s face turned into an expression of great sorrow.
“M-Masha, where are they taking all these people?”
“Nowhere! They’re just strolling about!”
“What about that policeman?”
“The policeman? He’s just keeping an eye on things—maybe he’s strolling about too! You’re so drunk you don’t know your right hand from your left!”
“I . . . I’m just . . . I’m an artist . . . a genre painter!”
“Drunk as a skunk! You should hold your tongue! Think before you start spouting rubbish! All around you there’s grass, trees, shrubs, little twittering birds, and you see nothing, as if you weren’t even here! You might as well be staring into the fog. A painter at least shows some interest in nature, and you? Drunk as a skunk!”
“Nature,” the man says, looking around. “Nate-nature . . . birds singing . . . crocodiles crawling . . . lions . . . tigers . . .”
“Good heavens! Everyone is so proper, walking arm in arm, enjoying the music—and here you are making a spectacle of yourself! How did you get drunk so fast? One can’t look away for a minute!”
“M-Masha,” the man in the top hat muttered, turning white. “Quick . . .”
“Now what?”
“I want to go home . . . quick . . .”
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait. We’ll leave after dark. It’s simply too embarrassing to have you stumbling all over the place, making a fool of yourself. Just sit there quietly and wait.”
“I . . . I want to go home!”
He jumped up and, tottering, left the table. The people at nearby tables laughed out loud. The lady was mortified.
“May God strike me down if I’m seen in public with you again!” she murmured, propping him up. “The shame of it! You’re not even my husband—it’s not like I have a ring or anything!”
“M-Masha, where are we?”
“Oh be quiet! Everyone’s looking! This might be fine and dandy for you, but what about me? You’re not even my husband—you give me a ruble, and then all I hear is ‘I’m feeding you! I’m supporting you!’ I spit on your money! As if I needed it! I’m going back to Pavel Ivanich!”
“M-Masha . . . I want to go home. Call a cab.”
“All right then! But walk down that lane in a straight line, and I’ll walk a little ways back. I can’t afford to be seen with you in this state. In a straight line! ”
The lady points the man who is not even her husband toward the exit and gives him a slight push. He moves forward quickly, tottering, bumping into people and chairs. The lady walks some distance behind him, watching him carefully. She is mortified and on edge.
“Walking sticks, fine walking sticks!” a man with a bundle of sticks and canes called out to the gentleman. “First-rate walking sticks, hickory, bamboo!”
The gentleman looked foolishly at the peddler and turned back, stumbling in the opposite direction, an expression of horror on his face.
“Where in heaven’s name do you think you’re going?” the lady said, grabbing him by the sleeve. “Tell me, where?”
“Where is Masha? M-Masha’s gone . . .”
“And who am I, if not Masha?”
The lady took the gentleman under the arm and led him toward the exit. She was embarrassed.
“May God strike me down if I will ever be seen in public with you again,” she mumbled, her face flushed with shame. “This is the last time I will put up with a spectacle of this kind. May God punish me . . . tomorrow I’m going straight back to Pavel Ivanich!” The lady raised her eyes timidly to the people all around, expecting to be met with mocking laughter. But all she saw were drunken faces, nodding heads, and stumbling revelers.
She was relieved.