Selected Stories

A Cure for Drinking

THE WELL-KNOWN READER and comedian, Mr. Feniksov-Dikobrazov II, had been engaged to appear as a guest artist, and was arriving at the city of D—— in a first-class coach. Everyone who had come to the station to meet him knew that the celebrated actor had bought his first-class ticket only two stations back, for show, and that up to that point he had traveled third; they also observed that in spite of the chilly autumn weather he wore only a summer cape and a worn sealskin cap; nevertheless, when the sleepy, bluish face of Dikobrazov II appeared, everyone felt a quiver of excitement and an eagerness to meet him. The manager of the theater, Pochechuev, kissed him three times, in the Russian manner, and carried him off to his own apartment.

The celebrity was to have begun his engagement two days later, but fate decided otherwise; the day before the performance a pale, distraught manager rushed into the box office of the theater and announced that Dikobrazov II would be unable to play.

“He can’t go on!” declared Pochechuev, tearing his hair. “How do you like that? For a month—one whole month— it’s been advertised in letters three feet high that we’d have Dikobrazov; we’ve built it up, we’ve gone all out, sold subscriptions, and now this low trick! Hanging’s too good for him!”

“But what’s the matter? What happened?”

“He’s on a binge, damn him!”

“What of it? He’ll sleep it off.”

“He’ll croak before he sleeps it off! I know him from Moscow; when he starts lapping up vodka, it’s a couple of months before he comes out of it. This is a binge—a real binge! No, it’s just my luck! And why am I so unfortunate? Whom do I take after to be cursed with such luck? All my life this dark cloud has been hanging over my head—why? Why?” (Pochechuev was a tragedian by nature as well as by profession; strong expressions, accompanied by beating his breast with his fists, were very becoming to him.) “What a vile, infamous, despicable slave am I to place my head beneath the blows of fate! Would it not be more worthy to give up this role of the eternal victim of a hostile fate, and simply put a bullet through my head? What am I waiting for? Oh, God, what am I waiting for?” Pochechuev covered his face with his hands and turned to the window.

Besides the cashier there were many actors and playgoers present in the box office, everyone offering advice, consolation, and encouragement, and the occasion bore a sententious and oracular quality; no one went beyond “vanity of vanities,” “think nothing of it,” and “maybe it’ll turn out all right.” Only the cashier, a fat dropsical man, said anything to the point.

“But, Prokl Lvovich,” he said, “you should try curing him.”

“Nobody in the world can cure a binge!”

“Don’t say that. Our hairdresser cures them completely. He treats the whole town.”

Pochechuev, by now ready to snatch at a straw, was overjoyed at this possibility, and within five minutes the theatrical hairdresser, Fyodor Grebeshkov, stood before him. If you will visualize a tall, bony, hollow-eyed man with a long sparse beard and brown hands, who bears a striking resemblance to a skeleton activated by means of screws and springs, and if you dress this figure in an incredibly threadbare black suit, you will have a portrait of Grebeshkov.

“Hello, Fedya!” said Pochechuev. “I hear, my friend, that you have the cure for a drinking bout. Do me a favor—not as an employee, but as a friend—cure Dikobrazov! You see, he’s on a binge.”

“God be with him!” Grebeshkov pronounced in a doleful bass voice. “Indeed, I do treat actors of the commoner sort, and merchants, and officials; but this is a celebrity, known throughout Russia!”

“Well, what of it?”

“In order to knock it out of him, it is necessary to produce a revolution in all the organs and members of the body. I will produce this revolution in him; he will get well; and then he will get on his high horse with me. ‘You dog,’ he will say, ‘how dare you touch my person.’ We know these celebrities!”

“No, no, don’t shirk it, brother. One must take the thorns with the roses. Put on your hat and let’s go.”

When Grebeshkov entered Dikobrazov’s room a quarter of an hour later, he found the famous man lying in bed, glaring malevolently at a hanging lamp. The lamp was motionless, but Dikobrazov did not take his eyes from it. “You’d better quit spinning,” he muttered. “I’ll show you how to spin, you devil! I smashed the decanter and I’ll smash you, too. You’ll see! A-a-a-h … now the ceiling’s going round. I know—it’s a conspiracy! But the lamp—the lamp! It’s the smallest, but it turns the most. … Just wait. …”

The comedian got up, dragging the sheet after him and knocking glasses off the little table as he staggered toward the lamp; halfway there he stumbled against something tall and bony.

“What’s that?” he roared, lifting his haggard eyes. “Who are you? Where’d you come from, hah?”

“I’ll show you who I am—get into bed!” And not even waiting for Dikobrazov to follow his instructions, Grebeshkov swung his arm and brought his fist down on the back of the actor’s head with such force that he fell head over heels onto the bed. In all probability he had never been struck before, because in spite of his drunkenness, he gazed up at Grebeshkov with wonder and even curiosity.

“You … you hit me? But, wait… you hit me?”

“I hit you. Do you want more?” This time the hairdresser struck him in the teeth. Either the strength of the blow or the novelty of the situation had an effect; the comedian’s eyes ceased wandering and a glimmer of reason appeared in them. He jumped up, and with more curiosity than anger, began to examine Grebeshkov’s pale face and filthy coat.

“You … you use your fists? You dare?” he mumbled.

“Shut up!” Again a blow in the face.

“Easy! Easy!” Pochechuev’s voice was heard from the next room. “Easy, Fedyenka!”

“That’s nothing, Prokl Lvovich. He himself will thank me for it in the end.”

“Even so, take it easy!” exclaimed Pochechuev tearfully, as he glanced into the room. “It may be nothing to you, but it sends a chill down my spine. Think of it: in broad daylight, to beat an intelligent, celebrated man, who’s in his right mind—and in his own apartment, too! Ach!”

“It’s not him that I’m beating, Prokl Lvovich, but the devil that’s inside him. Go away now, please, and don’t upset yourself…. Lie down, devil!” Fedya fell upon the comedian. “Don’t move! Wha-at?”

Dikobrazov was seized with horror. It seemed to him that all the whirling objects he had smashed had entered in a conspiracy, and now, with one accord, were flying at his head.

“Help!” he cried. “Save me! Help!”

“Cry! Cry out, you devil, you! The worst is yet to come! Now listen: if you say one more word, or make the slightest movement, I’m going to kill you! I shall kill you without a regret. There is no one, brother, to intercede for you; even if you were to fire a cannon, nobody would come. But if you are quiet and submissive, I’ll give you a little vodka. Here’s your vodka!”

Grebeshkov took a pint of vodka out of his pocket and flashed it before the comedian’s eyes. At the sight of the object of his passion, the drunken man forgot all about his beating and whinnied with delight. The hairdresser then took a dirty little piece of soap from his vest pocket and stuck it into the bottle. When the vodka became cloudy and soapy he set about adding all sorts of junk to it: saltpeter, ammonium chloride, alum, sodium sulphate, sulphur, resin, and various other “ingredients” that are sold in a chandlery. The comedian peered at Grebeshkov, avidly following the movements of the bottle. In conclusion the hairdresser burned a scrap of rag, poured the ashes into the vodka, shook it, and approached the bed.

“Drink!” he said, half filling a glass with the mixture. “At once!”

The comedian gulped it down with delight, gasped, and was immediately goggle-eyed. His face went white, and perspiration stood out on his forehead.

“Drink some more,” suggested Grebeshkov.

“No, I don’t want to! But, wait——”

“Drink, so you’ll——Drink! I’ll kill you!”

Dikobrazov drank, then fell onto the pillow with a moan. A moment later he raised himself slightly, and Fyodor was able to satisfy himself that the mixture had worked.

“Drink some more! Let your guts turn inside out, it’s good for you. Drink!”

And then the torture commenced: the actor’s guts were literally turned inside out. He jumped up, then tossed on the bed, following with horror the slow movements of his merciless and indefatigable enemy. Grebeshkov did not leave his side for a moment, and sedulously pummeled him when he refused the mixture; a beating was followed by the mixture, the mixture by a beating. Never in all his life had the poor body of Feniksov-Dikobrazov II endured such outrage and humiliation; and never had the famous artist been so weak and helpless as he was now. At first he cried out and struggled, then he grew silent, and finally, convinced that the protests only led to further beatings, he began to weep. At length Pochechuev, who was standing behind the door listening, could bear it no longer, and ran into the room.

“Damn it all!” he cried, waving his arms. “It would be better to lose the subscription money, and let him have his vodka—only stop torturing him, please! He’ll die on us, damn you! Look at him, you can see, he’s absolutely dead! I should have known better than to get mixed up with you!”

“That’s nothing. He’ll be grateful for it, you’ll see. Hey, you—what’s going on there?” Grebeshkov turned to the comedian. “You’ll get it in the neck!”

The hairdresser was busy with Dikobrazov till evening; he himself was tired, worn out. At last the comedian was too weak even to moan, and seemed to have petrified, with an expression of horror on his face. This state was followed by something resembling sleep.

The next day, to the great surprise of Pochechuev, the comedian awoke; it seems he was not dead! On awakening he examined the room with dull, wandering eyes, and then began to recall what had happened.

“Why do I ache all over?” he wondered. “I feel exactly as though a train had run over me. Shall I have a drink of vodka? Hey! Who’s there? Vodka!”

Pochechuev and Grebeshkov were standing behind the door.

“He’s asking for vodka!” Pochechuev was horrified. “That means you didn’t cure him!”

“What are you talking about, Prokl Lvovich?” Grebeshkov was surprised. “Do you think you can cure anyone in a day? I’d be thankful if he were cured in a week—and here you are talking of a day! You might even cure one of those weak fellows in five days, but this one has the constitution of a merchant. He’s tough!”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before, you devil?” roared Pochechuev. “Whom do I take after to have this luck? Cursed as I am, what more can I expect from fate? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to end it all—to put a bullet through my head right now?”

Despite the gloomy view that Pochechuev took of his fate, Dikobrazov II was playing within a week, and the subscribers’ money did not have to be returned.

Grebeshkov put on the comedian’s make-up, handling his head with such deference that no one would have suspected his former treatment of the man.

“What vitality!” marveled Pochechuev. “I nearly died just watching that torture, but he, as if nothing had happened, not only thanks that devil Fedya, but wants to take him to Moscow with him! It’s a miracle, that’s what it is!”

—1885