petak, 10. srpnja 2026.
Once upon a time there was a gentleman who had lived more than half his life, when he suddenly felt that something was lacking in him. He was very much alarmed. He felt himself; everything seemed to be all right and in its place, his stomach was even protruding. He examined himself in a looking-glass, and saw that he had eyes, ears, and everything else that a serious man should have. He counted his fingers: there were ten right enough, and ten toes on his feet; but still he had an uncomfortable feeling that something was missing. He was sadly puzzled. He asked his wife: "What do you think, Mitrodora? Is everything about me in order?" She answered reassuringly: "Everything." "But sometimes it seems to me——" She was a religious woman and advised him: "Whenever you begin to imagine anything, recite mentally: 'Let God arise and his enemies will fall.'"
He questioned his friends also, in a roundabout way. They answered evasively, but looked at him suspiciously, as though he merited strong condemnation.
"What can it be?" thought the gentleman, feeling downcast.
He tried to recall his past. Everything seemed to be quite normal. He had been a socialist, had incited youths to revolt; but later on he had renounced everything, and for a long time now had strenuously trampled underfoot the "crops" himself had sown. Generally speaking he had lived like everybody else, in accordance with the spirit and inspirations of the times.
He pondered and pondered and suddenly discovered what it was:
"O Lord, I haven't got a national face!"
He rushed to the looking-glass and saw that his face really had an indistinct expression, like that of a blind man. It suggested a page of a translation from some foreign language, done carelessly by a more or less illiterate person who had omitted all punctuation, so that it was impossible to make out what was on the page. It might be read as containing either a demand that one's soul should be sacrificed for the liberty of the people, or that it was necessary to recognise the full sway of absolutism.
"H'm, what a mixture, to be sure," thought the gentleman; and he decided at once: "No, it is not the thing to live with a face like that."
So he began to wash it every day with expensive soaps, but this did not help: the skin shone, but the indistinctness remained. He began to lick his face with his tongue—his tongue was long and well adjusted, for at one time the gentleman had been engaged in journalism. But even his tongue was of no avail. He applied Japanese massage to his face, and bumps appeared, as they do after a hard fight, but still he could obtain no definiteness of expression.
He tried and tried, but without success; all that he achieved was to lose a pound and a half in weight. Suddenly to his joy he learned that the head constable of his district, von Judenfresser, was known for his understanding of national problems. He went to him and said:
"Matters stand so-and-so, your Honour. Cannot you help me in my trouble?"
The head constable of course was flattered: here was an educated man, not long since suspected of disloyalty to the throne, now asking advice with confidence on how to change the expression of his face. The constable chuckled, and in his great joy exclaimed:
"There is nothing simpler, my dear friend, my American gem. Rub your face against members of a subject nationality. Your real face will at once be revealed."
The gentleman was pleased, the weight of a mountain fell from his shoulders. He sniggered loyally and said to himself in some astonishment:
"Why could I not have guessed it myself? The whole matter is so simple."
They parted very good friends. The gentleman rushed out into the street, planted himself at a comer and waited. Presently a Jew came along; he rushed up to him and began:
"If you," he said, "are a Jew, you must become a Russian. If you do not want to, then——"
The Jew (as is known from all anecdotes) belongs to a nervous and timid people. But this one was of a capricious character and would not put up with pogroms. He raised his arm, gave the gentleman a blow on the left cheek, and went home to his family.
The gentleman leaned against the wall, rubbing his face, and thinking:
"Well, well, the formation of one's national face is connected with sensations not always altogether agreeable, but let it be. Nekrassoff, although he was a poor poet, said quite truly:
"Nothing can be got for naught:
Fate demands its victims."
Suddenly a native of the Caucasus passed by. As proved by all anecdotes they are an uncivilised and hot-headed people. He was singing as he walked along:
"Mitskhales sakles mingrule.
The gentleman pounced upon him:
"No," he said, "be quiet. If you are a Georgian you must become a Russian, and you must not love the hut of a Mingrelian, but what you are ordered to love. You must like prison, even without orders——"
The Georgian left the gentleman in a horizontal position and went and drank Kachetin wine. The gentleman lay on the ground and pondered:
"Well, well, there are also Tartars, Armenians, Bashkirs, Kirghises, Mordva, Lithuanians. O Lord, what a number! And these are not all. There are our own people, the Slavs."
At this juncture a Little Russian came along, and of course he was singing in a very disloyal manner:
"Our ancestors once led
A happy life in Ukraina...."
"No," said the gentleman, rising to his feet. "Will you be kind enough in future to use the letter 'y' instead of 'oo'; otherwise you undermine the unity of the empire."
He argued the point at some length, and the Little Russian listened, for, as proved most conclusively by all the collections of Little Russian anecdotes, the Little Russians are a very slow people, and like to do their work without hurrying. Unfortunately this gentleman was somewhat insistent.
Some kind people picked the gentleman up and asked him:
"Where do you live?"
"In Great Russia."
Of course they took him to the police station. As they were driving along he felt his face, not without pride, though with a certain sense of pain. It seemed to him that it had grown considerably broader and he thought to himself:
"I believe I have acquired ..."
He was taken before von Judenfresser, and the latter, like the humane person he was, sent for the police doctor. When the doctor came they began to whisper to each other in surprise, and kept giggling, which seemed a strange thing to do in the circumstances.
"It is the first case in the whole of my practice," whispered the doctor. "I cannot make it out."
"What may that mean?" thought the gentleman, and asked:
"Well, how do I look?"
"The old face is quite rubbed off," answered von Judenfresser.
"And generally speaking has my face changed?"
"Of course it has, only, you know——"
The doctor said consolingly:
"Your face is such, dear sir, that you may just as well put your trousers on it."
So it remained for the rest of his life. There is no moral here.
četvrtak, 9. srpnja 2026.
There once lived a very ambitious writer. When he was abused, it seemed to him that he was abused too much, and unjustly. When he was praised he thought that they neither praised him enough, nor wisely. He lived in a state of perpetual discontent, until the time came for him to die. The writer lay down on his bed and began grumbling: "That's just how it is. What do you think of it? Two novels are not yet finished—and altogether I have enough material for ten years. The devil take this law of nature, and every other law. What nonsense! The novels might have turned out well. Why have they invented this idiotic compulsory service, as if things could not have been arranged differently? And it always comes at the wrong time: the novels are not finished yet." He was angry, but disease was eating into his bones and whispering into his ears: "You trembled, eh? Why did you tremble? You don't sleep at night, eh? Why don't you sleep? You have drunk of sorrow, eh?—and of joy too?" He kept knitting his brows, but realised at last that nothing could be done. With a wave of the arm he dismissed the thought of his novels, and died. It was very disagreeable, but he died.
So far so good. They washed him, dressed him according to custom, combed his hair and placed him on the table, straight and stiff like a soldier, heels together, toes apart. He lay very still, his nose drooped, and the only feeling he had was surprise.
"How strange it is that I feel nothing at all! It's the first time in my life. Ah, my wife is crying. Well, now you cry, but before, when anything went wrong, you flew into a rage. My little son is crying too. No doubt he will grow up a good-for-nothing fellow—the sons of writers, I have noticed, always do. No doubt that also is in accordance with some law of nature. What an infernal number of such laws there are."
So he lay and thought and thought, and wondered at his composure. He was not accustomed to it.
They started for the cemetery, but as he was being borne along he suddenly felt there were not enough mourners.
"No matter," said he to himself, "though I may not be a very great writer, literature must be respected."
He looked out of the coffin and saw that, as a matter of fact, without counting his relations, only nine people accompanied him, among whom were two beggars and a lamplighter with a ladder over his shoulder.
At this discovery he became quite indignant.
"What swine!"
The slight so incensed him that he immediately became resurrected, and, being a small man, jumped unperceived out of his coffin. He ran into a barber's, had his moustache and beard shaved off, and borrowed a black coat with a patch under the armpit, leaving his own coat in its stead. Then he made his face look solemn and aggrieved, and became like a living man. It was impossible to recognise him.
With the curiosity natural to his profession he asked the barber:
"Are you not astonished at this strange incident?"
The latter stroked his moustache condescendingly and replied:
"Well, we live in Russia, and we are used to all kinds of things."
"But then I am a deceased person and suddenly I change my attire?"
"It is the fashion of the times. And in what way are you a deceased person? Only externally! As far as the general run of people goes it would be better if God made them all like you. At the present time living people don't look half so natural."
"Don't I look rather yellowish?"
"Quite in the spirit of the epoch, as you should be. It is Russia—everyone here suffers from one ill or another."
It is well known that barbers are flatterers of the first order and the most obliging people on earth.
He bade him good-bye, and ran to overtake the coffin, moved by a keen desire to show for the last time his reverence for literature. He caught up with the procession and the number of those who accompanied the coffin became ten. The respect for the writer increased correspondingly. Passers-by exclaimed, astonished:
"Just look! A writer's funeral! Oh! Oh!"
And people who knew what was taking place thought, with a sort of pride, as they went about their business:
"It is plain that the importance of literature is being understood better and better by the country."
The writer was now following his own coffin as if he were an admirer of literature and a friend of the deceased. He addressed the lamplighter.
"Did you know the deceased person?"
"Certainly; I made use of him in a small way."
"I am very pleased to hear it."
"Yes; our work is like that of the sparrow; where something drops we pick it up."
"How am I to understand that?"
"Take it in a very simple manner, sir."
"In a simple manner?"
"Yes, certainly. Of course, it is a sin if one looks at it from a certain point of view. One cannot, however, get on in this world without using ones wits."
"H'm! Are you sure of that?"
"Quite sure, sir. There was a lamp right against his window, and every night he sat up till sunrise. Well, I did not light that lamp because enough light streamed from his window. So this one lamp was a net profit to me: he was a very useful man."
So, talking quietly to this one and that, the writer reached the cemetery, and it came to pass that he had to make a speech about himself, because all those who accompanied him on that day had toothache. This happened in Russia, and there people always have an ache of one sort or another.
He made a rather good speech. One paper went so far as to praise it in the following terms:—
"One of the followers, who from his appearance we judged to be an actor, made a warm and touching oration over the grave, albeit from our point of view he no doubt over-estimated and exaggerated the rather modest merits of the deceased. He was a writer of the old school who made no effort to rid himself of its defects—the naïve didactism, namely, and the over-insistence on the so-called civic duties—which to us nowadays have become so tiresome. Nevertheless, the speech was delivered with a feeling of unquestionable love for the written word." When the speech had been duly made the writer lay down in the coffin and thought, quite satisfied with himself:
"There, we are ready now. Everything has gone well and with dignity."
At this point he became quite dead. Thus should one's calling be respected, even though it be literature.