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Daniil Kharms

 

 

 

 

Andrey Andreyevich thought up a story like this one. 

In an old castle there lived a prince, who was a terrible boozer. But the wife of this prince, on the contrary, didn't even drink tea, she only drank water and milk. While her husband drank vodka and wine, but didn't drink milk. Though, in fact, his wife, to tell the truth, also drank vodka but kept it quiet. But her husband was quite shameless and didn't keep it quiet. 

-- I don't drink milk, I drink vodka! -- he always said. While his wife on the quiet, from under her apron, pulled out a jar and -- glug! -- she was drinking away. 

Her husband, the prince, says: -- You could have given me some. 

But his wife, the princess, says: -- No, there's little enough for me. Shoo! 

-- As for you, -- says the prince -- call yourself a lady! -- And with these words, wallop, and his wife's on the floor! The wife, her whole kisser smashed in, lies on the floor crying. And the prince wrapped himself in his cloak and went to his quarters in the tower, where his cages stood. He bred fowls there, you see. And so the prince arrived in the tower and there the chickens were squawking, wanting food. one chicken even began to neigh. 

-- As for you -- said the prince -- you chauntecleer! Shut up, before you get your teeth bashed in! -- The chicken doesn't understand a word and just carries on neighing. So, in the end then, we've got a chicken making a racket in the tower, and tile prince, then, offing and blinding and his wife, then, downstairs lying on the floor -- in a word, a complete Sodom. 

That's the sort of story Andrey Andreyevich would think up. Even just from this story you can tell that Andrey Andreyevich is a major talent. Andrey Andreyevich is a very clever man. Very clever and very fine! 

1938

They call me the Capuchin. For that I'll tear the ears off whomsoever it may be necessary, but meanwhile I get no peace from the fame of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Why did he have to know everything? How to swaddle infants and how to give young girls in marriage I would also like to know everything. In fact I do know everything, except that I am not so sure of my theories. About infants, I certainly know that they should not be swaddled at all -- they should be obliterated. For this I would establish a central pit in the city and would throw the infants into it. And so that the stench of decomposition should not come from the pit, it could be flooded every week with quicklime. Into the same pit I would also stick all Alsatian dogs. Now, about giving young girls in marriage. That, in my view, is even simpler: I would establish a public hall where, say, once a month all the youth would assemble. All of them between seventeen and thirty-five would have to strip naked and parade up and down the hall. If anyone fancied someone, then that pail would go off into a corner and there examine each other in detail. I forgot to say that they would all have to have a card hanging from the neck with their name, surname and address. Then, a letter could be sent to whomever was to someone's taste, to set up a more intimate acquaintance. Should any old man or woman intervene in these matters, I would propose killing them with an axe and dragging them off to the same place as the infants -- to the central pit. 

I would have written more of the knowledge within me, but unfortunately I have to go to the shop for tobacco. When walking on the street, I always take with me a thick knotty stick. I take it with me in order to batter any infants who may get under my feet. That must be why they called me the Capuchin. But just you wait, you swine, I'll skin your ears yet! 

1938

Serov, an artist, went to the Obvodny Canal. Why did he go there? To buy some india rubber. What did he want india rubber for? To make himself a rubber band. And what did he want a rubber band for? In order to stretch it. That's what for. And what else? This is what else: the artist Serov had broken his clock. The clock had been going well, but he picked it up and broke it. What else? Nothing else. Nothing, this is it, in a nutshell! Keep your filthy snout out when it's not needed! And may the lord have mercy on us! 

Once there lived an old woman. She lived and lived, until she got burnt up in her stove. Served her right, too! The artist Serov, at least, was of that opinion... 

Huh! I would write some more, but the ink-pot has suddenly gone and disappeared. 

1938