Beyond Tula: A Soviet Pastoral by Andrei Egunov-Nikolev

Author:Andrei Egunov-Nikolev
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781644690963
Publisher: Academic Studies Press
Published: 2019-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

79 Folk song, “Oh You Garden, You’re My Garden.”

80 Gleb Uspensky (1843–1902) was a prose writer with populist-nationalist leanings. He was born in Tula and got his start as a writer under the tutelage of Leo Tolstoy.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

the brown fabric with white lilies from an old lady’s fancy holiday blouse. Other scraps were girlishly soft and pink. Satin gleamed alongside the calico; nocturnal velvet was pleasant to the touch.

It seemed to Sergey, leaning down, that the quilt smelled most of all of cats and of something else, not unpleasant, but more historical: the stratification of generations, coffee, family happiness.

Sergey traced a finger along the patches, traveling from one color to the next. When he hit the satin, he shuddered spasmodically: it had the same effect as running a fingernail along wallpaper.

Scrape me with your saintly scraping on my soul and body—this prayer had been composed because the screen of the iconostasis made a grinding sound while closing: the rings rusted—that was Fyodor’s take on it. Now, standing over the quilt, Sergey understood Fyodor’s antireligious inclination. Of course, today would be the same thing again. The sunset would serve as a signal: the sun would lower behind the poplars; Lamere would eat buckwheat porridge with milk—a hygienic and moderate supper. Fyodor would come home in a good mood, anticipating the evening. The evening would be heralded less by the lowering twilight and fresh silence than by the faint languor following a full day’s work out in the open air. How pleasant to sit in a chair and swing one’s heels; to chat with one’s neighbor, to stir tea with a little spoon; and even more pleasant to stretch out afterward in the hay.

“You’re really letting yourself go today—is it because tomorrow’s a big holiday?” Grandma will say to Fyodor when he asks for a fourth glass of tea.

“Yes, Grandmama, damn your eyes, of course that’s why.”

“Oh, don’t put your elbows on the tablecloth! You’ve gotten so spoiled here.”

Fyodor will take his arms off the table, raise them menacingly heavenward and declaim, “Weep, o parent, and moan: your son is a scoundrel; your son is a socialist.”

“What’s that from?” Lamere will ask.

“Oh, it’s just . . . And then there’s ‘Noble lads, this day is the illest-starred of all our lives: our Sovereign Emperor has met his end through a villainous bomb.’ I will draw an astonishing analogy for you between our Lord and the Sovereign Emperor, who lies at rest in the elder bushes. ‘O Lord, forgive them, they know not what they do,’ said the Lord. ‘A fine crook, stop the thief,’ said the Sovereign Emperor. ‘O Lord, I deliver my spirit into your hands,’ said the Lord. ‘Take me to the Winter Palace,’ said the Sovereign Emperor.

Grandma will listen, furiously gnawing at a crust of bread with teeth eighty years old, but still intact.

“‘Noble lads’—that’d be a good name for cats,” Sergey will say.

“Don’t bother them, Seryozha, they’re already sleeping, and we don’t want you to cripple another kitten with your love.

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