“You mean you haven’t heard the news? Good Lord, Captain Nasechkin! But that is . . . that is absolutely . . . Here, read this!”
I handed him the newspaper I had in my pocket. Nasechkin put on his spectacles and, smiling dismissively, began to read. The further he read, the paler and gaunter his face grew.
“It has co-co-collapsed!” he gasped, all his limbs beginning to quake. “Oh the calamities raining down on my poor head!”
Grisha’s face flushed a deep purple. He read the article and turned white. His hand trembling, he fumbled for his hat. His fiancée tottered.
“My God!” I exclaimed. “Are you telling me that none of you knew? The whole of Moscow is agog!”
An hour later I was alone with the captain, still trying to comfort him.
“Don’t worry, Captain Nasechkin! It isn’t the end of the world! You may have lost all your money, but you still have your darling nephew and his fiancée!”
“How right you are! Money brings trouble . . . but I still have those dear children . . . yes!”
But alas! A week later I ran into Grisha.
“Why don’t you go see your poor uncle?” I asked him. “You really should—he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of you!”
“He can go to hell for all I care!” Grisha said. “The old fool! Couldn’t he have found himself a better bank?”
“Still, you ought to go see him! He’s your uncle after all!”
“Him? You must be joking! What gave you that idea? He’s my stepmother’s third cousin thrice removed!
“Well, at least send your fiancée to see him.”
“Yes, and as for that—I don’t know why the devil you had to show her that newspaper before our wedding day! She’s shown me the door. She was waiting to pounce on my uncle’s goods and chattel too, the silly fool! You can imagine how disappointed she is!”
I realized that, without meaning to, I had destroyed a most idyllic trio.
A DOCTOR’S ROMANCE
On achieving physical maturity and bringing one’s studies to completion, it is fitting to opt for feminam unam in addition to a dowry quantum satis.
That is precisely what I did: I took feminam unam (taking two wives is prohibited) as well as a dowry. Even the ancients called those to account who married without insisting on a dowry. (Ichthyosaurus, XII.3)
I prescribed for myself horses, a loge in the dress circle, began imbibing vinum gallicum rubrum, and bought myself a seven hundred–ruble fur coat. In short, I set out on a life of a lege artis nature.
My wife’s habitus was passable. Height: average. Skin and mucous membranes: normal. Subcutaneous layer of fat: adequate. Chest: satisfactory (no crackling). Vesicular breathing: regular heart sounds.
Psychological diagnosis: the only deviation from the norm is that my wife is chatty and somewhat loud. I am now suffering from acoustic hyperesthesia of the right auditory nerve. Whenever I examine a patient’s tongue I think of my wife, a thought that leads to an increased heart rate. How right the philosopher was who maintained: Lingua est hostis hominum amicusque diaboli et feminarum.
Mater feminae, my mother-in-law (a mammal), suffers from the same ailments as my wife: when the two of them spend twenty-three hours out of twenty-four shouting at the top of their lungs, I show signs of mental derangement, combined with suicidal tendencies.
As my esteemed medical colleagues will confirm, nine-tenths of all women suffer from a condition that Charcot has defined as hyperesthesia of the vocal organs. The remedy he suggests is amputation of the tongue, an operation with which he promises to rid mankind of one of its worst ailments. But alas! Billroth, who carried out this operation on numerous occasions, attests in his memoirs that after the operation women learned to speak by using their fingers, which had an even more deleterious effect on their husbands. (Memor. Acad., 1878) I propose a different course of treatment (cf. my dissertation). Amputation of the tongue should be performed, as Charcot proposes, but, relying on Professor Billroth’s findings, I suggest combining said amputation with a directive that the subject be made to wear mittens. (I have noted that individuals suffering from muteness who wear mittens are wordless even when hung.)
AN EDITOR’S ROMANCE
Asmall, straight nose, a beautiful bust, delightful hair, and exquisite eyes—not a single typographical error. I line-edited her and we married.
“You must belong to me alone,” I told her on the day of our wedding. “I will not tolerate your being serialized. Remember that.”
The day after the wedding I already noticed a slight change in my wife. Her hair was not as lustrous, her cheeks not as beguilingly pale, her eyelashes not so diabolically black, but reddish. Her movements were not as soft, her words not as gentle. Alas! A wife is a bride that has been half disallowed by the censor.
In the first six months I surprised her with a cadet who was kissing her (cadets love complimentary pleasures). I gave her a first warning, and once more in the strictest possible terms forbade all general distribution.
In the second six months she presented me with a bonus: a little son. I looked at him, looked in the mirror, looked at him again, and said to my wife: “This is a clear case of plagiarism, my dear. It’s as plain as the nose on this child’s face. I will not be hoodwinked!” I added, issuing another warning, along with a ban that prohibited her from appearing before me for a period of three months.
But these measures did not work. By the second year of our marriage my wife had not one cadet, but a number of them. Seeing her unrepentant, and not wishing to share with colleagues, I issued a third warning and sent her, along with the little bonus, home to her parents so she could be under their watchful eye, where she is to this day.
Her parents receive monthly royalties for her upkeep.
THE TURNIP
A Folktale
Once upon a time a little old man and his wife lived happily, and a son was born to them whom they named Pierre. Pierre had long ears and instead of a head a fat turnip. He grew up to be a big, strapping fellow. The little old man tried pulling him up by the ears so something might come of him. He pulled and pulled, but to no avail. The little old man called his wife. The wife grabbed hold of the little old man and the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled, but still to no avail. The wife called in a princess, who happened to be her aunt.
The aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled. But to no avail. The aunt called over a general, who happened to be her godfather.
The godfather grabbed hold of the aunt, the aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, but still to no avail. The little old man was at his wit’s end. He happened to have a daughter too, whom he gave to a rich merchant. He called in the merchant, who had many hundred-ruble bills to his name.
The merchant grabbed hold of the godfather, the godfather grabbed hold of the aunt, the aunt grabbed hold of the wife, the wife grabbed hold of the little old man, the little old man grabbed hold of the turnip, and they pulled and pulled, and finally managed to give the turnip all the pull it needed.
And the turnip became a great state councilor.
EASTER GREETINGS
An anteroom. A card table in the corner. On it are a government-issued sheet of gray paper, a pen, an inkpot, and some blotting paper. The usher is pacing up and down the hall, his mind on food and drink. On his well-fed countenance covetousness is written, and in his pockets the fruits of extortion jingle. At ten o’clock a little man—or an individual, as His Excellency likes to say—comes in from the street. The individual slips into the hall, tiptoes over to the table, picks up the pen timidly and with trembling hand, and begins writing his forgettable name on the gray sheet of paper. He writes slowly, with gravity and feeling, as if it were a calligraphic exercise. Lightly, very lightly, he dips the pen into the inkpot, four times, five—he is afraid the ink will spatter. A smudge and all will be lost! (There had been a smudge once, but that is a long story.) The individual does not end his signature with a flourish—he wouldn’t dare. He draws the r’s in painstaking detail. He finishes his calligraphic daub and peers at it, checking for errors, and not finding any, wipes the sweat from his brow.