Fifty-Two Stories

THE SIREN

AFTER ONE OF THE SESSIONS of the N. justice of the peace court, the justices gathered in the assembly room to take off their uniforms, have a moment’s rest, and go home for dinner. The chairman of the session, a very imposing man with fluffy side-whiskers, who held “a particular opinion” on one of the cases just examined, was sitting at a desk and hurriedly writing out his opinion. A local justice of the peace, Milkin, a young man with a languid, melancholy face, reputed to be a philosopher, displeased with his milieu and seeking a purpose in life, stood by the window and looked sorrowfully outside. Another local justice and one of the honorary justices had already left. The remaining honorary justice, a flabby, heavily breathing fat man, and an associate prosecutor, a young German with a catarrhal face, were sitting on a little sofa, waiting for the chairman to finish writing so that they could go to dinner together. Before them stood the secretary of the session, Zhilin, a small man with little side-whiskers around his ears and an expression of sweetness on his face. With a honeyed smile, looking at the fat man, he was saying in a low voice:

“We all want to eat now, because we’re tired and it’s already past three o’clock, but this, my dear friend Grigory Savvich, is not a real appetite. A real, voracious appetite, when it seems you could eat your own father, comes only after physical exercise, for instance, hunting with hounds, or when you’ve whipped through some fifty miles non-stop on hired horses. Imagination also means a lot, sir. If, say, you’re coming home from a hunt and you wish to dine with a good appetite, never think about clever things; clever and learned things rob you of your appetite. As you’re pleased to know, philosophers and scholars are the last people when it comes to eating, and, forgive me, even worse eaters than pigs. Going home, you should try to have your head think only of a little decanter and a nibble. Once on my way home I closed my eyes and pictured to myself a suckling pig with horseradish, and felt such a craving that it gave me hysterics. Well, sir, and when you drive into your courtyard, there should be such a smell coming from the kitchen just then, you know…”

“Roast goose has an exquisite smell,” said the honorary justice, breathing heavily.

“Don’t talk, my dear Grigory Savvich: duck or snipe can give a ten-point handicap to a goose. In the goose bouquet there’s no tenderness and delicacy. The headiest of all is the smell of young onion when it starts to brown and hisses, the scoundrel, for the whole house to hear. And so, sir, when you enter the house, the table should be laid, and when you sit down, tuck the napkin behind your tie at once and reach out unhurriedly for the little decanter of vodka. And you should pour the dearie not into a glass, but into some prediluvian grandfather’s silver tumbler or one of those fat-bellied ones with the inscription ‘even monks partake of it,’ and you shouldn’t drink it at once, but first take a deep breath, rub your hands, cast an indifferent glance at the ceiling, then unhurriedly bring it, I mean the vodka, to your lips and—instantly sparks fly from your stomach all over your body…”

The secretary’s sweet face was a picture of bliss.

“Sparks…,” he repeated, screwing up his eyes. “The moment you drink, you have to nibble something.”

“Listen,” said the chairman, raising his eyes to the secretary, “speak more softly! I’ve already ruined this page twice on account of you.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Pyotr Nikolaich! I’ll talk softly,” said the secretary, and he went on in a half-whisper: “Well, sir, for nibbling, my dear Grigory Savvich, you also have to have a knack. You must know what to nibble. The best nibble, if you wish to know, is pickled herring. Once you’ve eaten a piece, with onion and in mustard sauce, then right away, my benefactor, while there are still sparks in your stomach, eat some caviar by itself or, if you wish, with a bit of lemon, then some plain black radish with salt, then again some pickled herring, but best of all, my benefactor, are pickled mushrooms, chopped finely like caviar, with onion and olive oil…delicious! But burbot liver—that is a tragedy!”

“Hm—yes…” the honorary justice of the peace agreed, screwing up his eyes. “For a nibble, another good thing is…sautéed wild mushrooms.”

“Yes, yes, yes…with onion, you know, with bay leaf and various spices. You open the pot, and there’s steam, mushroom breath…sometimes tears even come to your eyes! Well, sir, and as soon as they fetch the kulebiak¹ from the kitchen, right then, immediately, you should have a second shot.”

“Ivan Guryich!” the chairman said in a tearful voice. “I’ve ruined the page a third time on account of you!”

“Devil take him, he only thinks about food!” the philosopher Milkin growled, making a contemptuous face. “Are there no other interests in life besides mushrooms and kulebiak?”

“Well, sirs, so drink before the kulebiak,” the secretary went on in a low voice; he was so carried away by now that, like a singing nightingale, he heard nothing but his own voice. “The kulebiak should be appetizing, shameless, in all its nakedness, so that there’s real temptation. You wink at it, you cut a slice this big and move your fingers over it like this, from an abundance of feelings. You start eating it, and there’s butter on it like tears, the stuffing’s greasy, juicy, with eggs, giblets, onion…”

The secretary rolled his eyes and stretched his mouth to his ears. The honorary justice of the peace grunted and moved his fingers, probably imagining the kulebiak.

“Devil knows what this is…,” grumbled the local justice, retiring to another window.

“You eat two pieces and save a third for the cabbage soup,” the inspired secretary went on. “As soon as you finish the kulebiak, right then, so as not to lose your appetite, you have the cabbage soup served…The cabbage soup should be hot, fiery. But best of all, my benefactor, is a nice beet borscht in Ukrainian style, with ham and sausage. You add sour cream, fresh parsley, and dill. Another splendid thing is pickled cabbage soup with giblets and young kidney, and if you like soup very much, the best is with various roots and greens: carrots, asparagus, cauliflower, and suchlike jurisprudence.”

“Yes, a splendid thing…,” the chairman sighed, tearing his eyes from the paper, but he immediately caught himself and groaned: “Have some fear of God! This way I won’t finish my notes before nightfall! I’ve ruined it for the fourth time!”

“I’ll stop, I’ll stop! Sorry, sir!” the secretary apologized and went on in a whisper. “As soon as you finish the borscht or other soup, order the fish course at once. Of all voiceless fish, the best is a fried carp in sour cream; only so that it loses the smell of slime and acquires delicacy, you must keep it alive in milk for twenty-four hours.”

“Equally good is a sterlet in a ring,” said the honorary justice, closing his eyes, but at once, unexpectedly for everyone, he tore from his seat, made a ferocious face, and roared in the direction of the chairman: “Pyotr Nikolaich, will you be done soon? I can’t wait any longer! I can’t!”

“Let me finish!”

“Then I’ll go by myself! To hell with you!”

The fat man waved his hand, grabbed his hat, and ran out of the room without saying goodbye. The secretary sighed and, leaning toward the ear of the associate prosecutor, went on in a low voice:

“Pike perch or carp is also good with a sauce of tomatoes and mushrooms. But fish, Stepan Frantsych, is not filling; it’s not substantial food, the main thing in a dinner is not fish, not sauces, but a roast. What’s your favorite fowl?”

The associate prosecutor made a sour face and said with a sigh:

“Unfortunately, I cannot sympathize with you: I have a stomach catarrh.”

“Come now, sir! Stomach catarrh is a doctor’s invention! Freethinking and pride are more to blame for this illness! Don’t pay it any attention. Let’s say you don’t want to eat or feel nauseous, but you pay no attention and eat. If, let’s say, they serve you a pair of roast snipe, and if they add to that a partridge or a pair of fat quail, you’ll forget about any catarrh, on my word of honor. And a roast turkey? So white, fat, juicy, you know, just like a nymph…”

“Yes, it’s probably tasty,” the prosecutor said with a sad smile. “I could most likely eat some turkey.”

“Lord, and duck? If you take a young duck, that’s only just felt the first frost, and you put it in a frying pan along with some potatoes, and the potatoes should be cut in small pieces, so they turn golden brown and get steeped in duck fat, and so that…”

The philosopher Milkin made a ferocious face and apparently wanted to say something, but suddenly smacked his lips, probably imagining the fried duck, and without saying a word, drawn by an unknown force, grabbed his hat and ran out.

“Yes, most likely I could also eat some duck…,” the associate prosecutor sighed.

The chairman stood up, paced back and forth, and sat down again.

“After the roast, you become sated and fall into a sweet oblivion,” the secretary went on. “At this point your body feels good and your soul is tender. For the pleasure of it you could drink some three little glasses of honey-spice vodka.”

The chairman grunted as he crossed out yet another page.

“I’ve ruined it for the sixth time,” he said angrily. “This is shameless!”

“Write, write, my benefactor!” the secretary whispered. “I’ll stop! I’ll speak softly. I’m telling you in all honesty, Stepan Frantsych,” he went on in a barely audible whisper, “homemade honey-spice vodka is better than any champagne. After the first glass, your whole soul is engulfed in a sort of fragrant mirage, and it seems that you’re not at home in your armchair, but somewhere in Australia, on some sort of ultrasoft ostrich…”

“Ah, let’s go, Pyotr Nikolaich!” the prosecutor said, jerking his leg impatiently.

“Yes, sir!” the secretary went on. “During the honey-spice vodka it’s good to light up a cigar and blow smoke rings, and it’s then that such dreamy thoughts come to your head, as if you’re a field marshal, or married to the foremost beauty in the world, and this beauty swims all day in front of your windows in a pool full of goldfish. She swims, and you say to her: ‘Come kiss me, sweetie!’ ”

“Pyotr Nikolaich!” the assistant prosecutor moaned.

“Yes, sir!” the secretary went on. “After smoking, you pick up the skirts of your dressing gown, and it’s off to bed! You lie down on your back, belly up, and take a newspaper in your hands. When your eyes start closing and your whole body is filled with drowsiness, it’s a pleasure to read about politics: here Austria made a slip-up, there France failed to hit it off with somebody, here the pope of Rome was at cross-purposes—you read, and it’s a pleasure.”

The chairman jumped up, flung his pen away, and grabbed his hat with both hands. The assistant prosecutor, who forgot about his catarrh and was swooning with impatience, also jumped up.

“Let’s go!” he cried.

“Pyotr Nikolaich, my benefactor, what about the particular opinion?” The secretary was alarmed. “When will you write it? You have to go to town at six o’clock!”

The chairman waved his hand and rushed to the door. The assistant prosecutor also waved his hand and, grabbing his briefcase, disappeared along with the chairman. The secretary sighed, followed them with a reproachful gaze, and began to gather up the papers.

1887