World Fiction/1922-08/The Silent Man
The Silent Man
By
Arcadie Avertchenko
From the Russian by Scotland Liddell
As a kindly satirist and portrayer of the lighter side of Russian nature, Arcadie Avertchenko stands alone today. His genial spirit wells entirely from within, because there is nothing in his circumstances to foster or produce it. He is one of the group of Russian refugees in Constantinople. He was the editor of a political weekly in Petrograd, “Satirikon,” which the Bolshevists tried time after time to suppress. Scotland Liddell, British war-correspondent and translator of this sketch, tells that when he visited Avertchenko in December of 1918 in Petrograd, he found him editing his newspaper with a revolver on his desk.
Before the Revolution the sales of Avertchenko’s books in Russia ran into thousands. Several have successfully been translated into German, but this is the first of his work to appear in English.
THERE were so many guests in the country-house that I did not even know the names of most of them. At two o’clock in the morning, after a very noisy day, we were all very tired and we began to talk of sleep. It was then found that eight of us were going to remain for the night, and that there were only four vacant rooms.
The hostess brought one little man to me.
“Maxim Semionovitch will share a room with you,” she said.
Naturally, I would have preferred to have had a room to myself, but after a glance at the little stranger I decided that if, under the circumstances, I had to choose one of seven evils, the best thing for me to do was to choose the least.
“Very well,” said I.
“You have no objection, have you?” Maxim Semionovitch asked timidly.
“Not the least. Why should I have?”
“Well, you see... I’m afraid I am rather a dull companion.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I am an elderly, non-talkative, mysterious man inclined to silence, whereas you are a youngster who probably likes to relieve your soul before falling asleep, and to chat about one thing and another.”
“On the contrary,” said I. “I like silence. I am not a talker either.”
“If that’s the case—splendid!” exclaimed Maxim Semionovitch, with an accent of relief. “We will suit each other very well.”
When we reached our room and started to undress, he said,
“By the way, do you know that there are some people who physically cannot stand silence? That’s the reason I questioned you just now. Many people dislike me on that account. ‘What is the matter with this fellow?’ they say. ‘He is as silent as a lamp-post.’”
I smiled.
“Well, you don’t need to worry about that when you are with me.”
“Oh, thank you! ... What an agreeable exception!”
He took off one boot, placed it under his arm and assumed an attitude of deep thought. Then with a smile he turned to me.
“I remember a case which occurred to me when I was young. A friend of mine, a student called Orloff, and I took a room together. All went on well. I was silent. One day—two days—always silent. At first he laughed at me and said that I had a bad conscience, then he became nervous and finally he began to abuse me. ‘Look here!’ he said, ‘have you taken an oath that you will never speak? Why are you silent like a corpse?’”
“Don’t worry,’ I replied. ‘No,’ said he, ‘but say something.’ ‘Why? What’s the matter?’ said I... Silence again. One day—two days ... Then once he got hold of a bottle and said, ‘I would like to smash this on your head if only I could extract a human sound from you!’ I replied ‘ That wouldn't be fair.’ Then we both remained silent for another three days.
“Once, one night, we were undressing to go to our beds, just as you and I are now, when he threw his boots at me. ‘Curse you!’ he cried, ‘now and forever more! No human being could bear this life. I don’t know,’ he said, ‘whether I am in a coffin or in an isolation cell or where I am. Tomorrow I leave this place altogether!’ ... And what do you think happened?” Maxim Semionovitch laughed quietly. “He fled! ...On my word of honour he fled!”
“Nervous? Then, indeed, all are nervous... If a girl of twenty is cheerful and healthy is she also nervous? . . . I once had a fiancée like that. First she said to me. ‘I like you because you are so serious and thoughtful and not a chatterbox.’ But later, when I used to call round at her house to see her, she started to say, ‘Why are you always silent?’ ‘What should I talk about?’ I asked. ‘Have you really nothing to say? What have you been doing today, for instance ?’ she asked. ‘I was at the office,’ I told her, ‘had my lunch and now I have come to see you.’ ‘I feel frightened when I am with you,’ she said. ‘You are always silent.’ ‘Well, that’s my way,’ I replied. ‘Love me as I am.’
“Nothing doing! ... When I went to see her one afternoon there was another fellow with her. There he was sitting at her side and talking on and on as if he would never stop. ‘I have seen this and that’ he was saying. ‘I have been here and there... And have you seen the latest play? Do you like dancing? ... What is the meaning of that yellow flower you gave me? Has it a meaning or does it mean nothing at all?’ ... Really, it was astounding the amount of words he was producing, and there she was, listening to him, and bending over towards him! ... I didn’t mind. I sat there and never said a word. The other fellow squinted at me and then the pair of them began to whisper together and to smile.
“I remained silent, and after a time I left. And would you believe it? ... After two days I went to see her again and who should appear but this very same young fellow. ‘What are you doing here?’ he cried. ‘ Why,’ said I... ‘I have come to see Maria Petrovna.’ ‘Get out at once,’ shouted this damned little scoundrel, ‘or else,’ said he, ‘I’ll kick your soul out of you!’
“I was just about to argue and to put this ridiculous boy in his place when I heard laughter behind a screen. ‘I don’t want you!’ she cried. ‘You are silent, but so are my wardrobe and arm-chair. I might as well get engaged to my wardrobe. There would be no difference.’ What a stupid girl she was! ... Of course, I left.”
I smiled, half asleep, and said. “Y-yes... A—funny-story... Goo’ night...”
“Good-night. Sleep well... As a rule, men, at least, have some logic. But women sometimes behave in a strange way. Once, in the past—I really must confess—I had a flirtation with a married woman. And, if you please, why did she select me? ... It’s rather laughable. The reason, would you believe it? was that I was very silent and would not talk about our meetings. She bore it just three days and then she complained. ‘My God?’ she said. ‘I would rather have a gossip, a wind-bag or a boaster than you, you funny old tomb-stone. I have kissed and embraced a good lot,’ she said, ‘but never before have I flirted with an inanimate corpse.’ ‘Go!’ she cried, and ‘never let my eyes rest upon you again!’ ... And what do you think? She went herself to her husband and told him all about it! ... There you are!”
“No? Really?” I replied, hardly opening my heavy eyelids. “Well, let’s sleep. It must be at least half-past three.”
“Is it? It's indeed time to fall asleep.”
He took off his other boot without haste, and said,
“Once even a perfect stranger got cross with me. It happened in a railway carriage. We were travelling in the same compartment, and I naturally sat there silent, as I always do...”
I shut my eyes and pretended to snore in order to put an end to this silly conversation.
“... First he asked me, ‘Are you travelling far?’ ‘Yes,’ said I. ‘What do you mean “Yes”?’ he said...”
“Krrrrr—Ffffffff..." I snored.
“Hmm... Is he asleep? ... He is asleep, is he? ... Oh, Youth! Youth! The student I lived with did the same. As soon as he lay down he commenced to snore. And then he used to awake in the middle of the night and talk to himself. . . Well, one won’t extract much conversation out of me. Ha! Ha!”
I stopped my artificial snoring, raised myself on one elbow and said sarcastically, “You say that you are very silent? I find it difficult to believe you just now.”
“Why?”
“Well, you are talking continuously.”
“I am only telling you of some instances. There was, for another instance, one case that occurred with the priest about my confession. I went to him and he asked, as usual, ‘Have you sinned?’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘What?’ ... ‘Quite a lot.’ ‘Well, what?’ ‘All sorts of sins.’ Then we were both silent. He was silent, and I was silent, too. Finally...”
“Look here! Listen!” I shouted from my bed, sitting up angrily, “Whatever you are going to tell me now about your silence will not be believed. The more you tell me the less I'll believe you.”
“Why?” asked my companion in an offended voice, unbuttoning his waistcoat. ‘I don’t think I’ve given you any reason for doubting my words. Even in my office I once had trouble on account of my silence. The manager came in one day and called me over to his desk. He was obviously in an excellent mood. ‘Well,’ he enquired. ‘What’s the news?’ ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘What do you mean “Nothing”?’... ‘Just that—nothing’... ‘Look here! What do you mean...’
“I am asleep!” I shouted. “Good-night! Good-night! GOOD NIGHT!”
Maxim Semionovitch untied his tie.
“Good-night... ‘What do you mean?’ he said, ‘by answering “Nothing.” That’s not polite, you know’... ‘What else could I reply to you if there is no news?’ I said, ‘From nothing there is nothing. Why should I start to talk about something if it is all old?’... ‘No’, said he, ‘but there is a certain limit... One can be silent all right, but...’
Slowly and noiselessly I dropped over a deep precipice, and sleep covered everything like a heavy soft fur coat...
...A sunbeam pierced through my closed eyelids and forced me to open my eyes. Hearing someone talking, I turned over on my side and saw Semionovitch wrapped in his blanket. He was still speaking slowly, looking up at the ceiling... “‘I demand,’ she said, ‘a divorce because I wanted to marry a living man, not a senseless voiceless image... Why don’t you speak?’
“‘My dear little Lydia,’ I said, ‘what shall I say?’”
THE HIGH COST OF LIVING
“Our last $10 bill. Hardly enough for cocaine for three days”