We're reading some Gogol in our literature course here so I though this would be as opportune a time as any to present what I can safely say without the slightest bit of exaggeration is a little known 21st century masterpiece. The fact that it was written by me (as a final project for a Russian Classics course I took last year) probably only helps further solidify it as a true masterpiece as I am incredibly humble. It is a bit long so I'll split it up into two parts which will be helpful both to you as you will not have to process all of the intricacies and beauty of the text at once, and to me as well as I will not have to think of anything original to write for a few days / I will have a few days to think of something original to write. Once more I suppose I am destroying the 'movie magic' and should probably say I wrote this right now - for you! - but just like a severely deranged Daniel Day Lewis blurring the line between method acting and schizophrenic nervous breakdown, I cannot tell a lie.
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| Drinking your abolition-of-slavery milkshake in theaters everywhere November 16th. |
Knopka (The Button):
A Recently Unearthed True Story written by Nikolai Gogol, told by the Beadle of the ------ Church (Translated from the Russian by Ian Buksunski)
Part 1
On V----y street, in the town of J----l, located in the province
of K----k, just west of the M----g hills lived the tailor Vanya. There
also lived a blacksmith, an artist, and Lizaveta who enjoyed sneaking up
on people and licking their spoons at mealtime, always exclaiming with
joyous satisfaction, “Your soup is strong and hearty today, blacksmith!”
But that is not the point, no, that is far from it! The tailor, you
see, he is the point! So why don’t we get back to that?
Vanya - for you see though Vanya most certainly had a patronymic, as
all those born in this world inevitably have, he had been known as
Vanya for so long that were one to inquire to the fellow townsfolk “Why I
do not know of tailor Vanya’s patronymic, would you be so gracious as
to help me out?” they would lapse into deep thought and then often
forget entirely and start talking about the price of hay or how drink at
the local bar tastes more diluted by the day, and even if you were to
go to Vanya himself and somehow work into the conversation a question of
that sort without coming off as impolite - as such questions can often
seem - even he would be taken aback by such a query, for so long has he
been known simply as Vanya, that he would start thinking on the question
and, after much contemplation, go off to the graveyard in search of his
father’s grave but, always returning without a word, go right back to
sewing as if he had forgotten the whole thing - was sitting in his
workshop, mending a beautiful black overcoat, with large gold-colored
buttons for Ivan Khomanovich, the town’s police chief. Ah, if only every
town could have a man as proper, as dignified, as loyal and good as
Ivan Khomanovich. “Real gold, these buttons are” he would always say “a
present from the capital!” and who would dare not believe such an
upstanding man, in such a fashionable overcoat! To extol his many
virtues would be an impossibility for any one man, so let us allow his
remarkable coat to speak for itself.
As Vanya sat and mended that remarkable piece of cloth, a most
vile man - from where he entered, may god himself take my soul and all
that I love if I lie, I do not know, perhaps he burrowed in from
underground as the Jews are known to do in their thieving, bartering
ways - appeared, dressed in rags so filthy and shabby I dare not even
describe them for fear of upsetting you, my dignified reader. This most
vile man then proceeded to slither up to Vanya and whispered “How would
you like to have the hands of an angel?”
Quite understandably perplexed, as one would be if they were asked such a strange question, Vanya asked “Who are you?”
“Why I?” the man quizzically inquired, feigning insult at not being
recognized, “I am myself and you are yourself. We are each ourselves!
Are we not? And after that, what other questions could we possibly have?
You are Vanya, are you not?”
“Yes,” Vanya answered with some hesitation.
“And I am I - not
Vanya - and for our purposes on this Earth what more would we ever need
to know? Now tell me, Vanya, proud tailor of J----l, I inquire again
would you like to have the hands of an angel?”
“Well I suppose that-”
“To make the finest suits and dresses
from scratch! Embroidering the most beautiful and complex of patters in
mere minutes. To be seen as a God for your craft, for your masterful
artwork, to be-”
“Yes, I want it, I want it all! The years I have toiled here, trying
to scrape by enough to live. The decades I have honed my craft in an
attempt to master this most obtuse of art forms. You think people notice
a stitching? You think Vasilisa Shponka cares when you mend her
grandmother’s worn shawl for the umpteenth time? No respect, no
adoration - only hatred if you do wrong. Give me it, give me all of it! I
want to be able to create wearable perfection - I want to bring dignity
to the people through my attire. Let them revere me and let me make
them people of reverence!”
“Very well,” the man said with that most unsettling of twinkles in
his eyes - that unique twinkle in which more worldly men would
instantaneously recognize the unmistakable glimmer of a devil - that
twinkle which would send wiser men running for the hills and never
looking back - like that farmhand Sergei who was chased from the bedroom
of the young maiden Katerina by her father, returned one day early from
his trip to the Caucuses, pure hatred in his heart and a pitchfork in
his hand - but Vanya did not see, moreover by this time Vanya could not
see, so blinded was he by his desires. And so when the man said, in the
most casual of tones (the kind reserved only for the closest of friends
on a cool summer night when the tea is warm, the pie is fresh and the
crop is good), “but I shall need a small…keepsake so as to make our
exchange official.” Vanya, without giving it but one single thought,
agreed. And, with that done, the man left in as mysterious of a fashion
as he had arrived.
And so Vanya sewed. Oh, how he sewed! And so he continued to sew
throughout the morning, past the midday, and through the afternoon and
even when Praskovya said “Tailor Vanya, the dinner stew is ready!” even
then Vanya continued to sew - and though there would be days that Vanya
would work into the night, never, in all his life on this Earth, had
Vanya missed a dinner when Praskovya’s delicious stew was being served.
And so, in this manner, having missed Praskovya’s stew, Vanya
continued to sew with an intensity and speed he had never in his life
dreamed possible. Within the first hour, in fact, he had already mended
his entire week’s worth of garments - and my, you should have seen how
they were mended, how beautifully he stitched the fabric back together
and patched up the holes and rips. And yet even when he had finished all
of his work, he did not stop! His hands - as if possessed by all that
is good in this world - started crafting together, from absolutely
nothing but the fabric and the needle, beautiful new coats and shirts
and pants and socks in all the latest styles and fashions. By the time
he decided to take a break - just as the sun was starting to rise and
everybody else in J----l was starting to get ready for the grueling day
ahead - he had already completed dozens of brand new pieces of attire.
Lying down to sleep Vanya thought, “Finally, I shall get the respect
I deserve,” and with that most pleasant of thoughts Vanya rolled over
onto his stomach, scratched his right ankle with a deep sigh of
satisfaction, and fell asleep.
And so Vanya would have slept for at least half a day, so
exhausted was he by this most grueling and inspired day of work. But
this half-day sleep was not meant to be because just a few hours later,
Vanya awoke to the sound of murmuring excitement. Stretching lazily in
his bed, Vanya rubbed his tired eyes and slowly arose to investigate the
source of that which had most unpleasantly roused him from his slumber.
Wandering towards his work bench, Vanya saw that a whole group of
townspeople had gathered around his pile of mended clothing. “Tailor
Vanya,” Vasilisa Shponka called when she saw him approaching, “my dress!
What you have done with my dress is simply remarkable. Look, look how
the large rip from that damn splintered signpost - why do we not just
get rid of the thing, constantly people are getting caught on it and how
sharp and dangerous it is for all the children running by, down with
the whole forsaken thing I say! - but look, see how you mended the tear?
No you do not see? Why of course you do not see for that is how well
you fixed it up! Why nobody would ever even consider that this is not
how the dress looked when it was first bought. How brilliant you are
with that needle. Why even Pirogov - ‘ey, you! Pirogov! Yes you why are
you staring at me who else would I be calling at with the name of
Pirogov - come over here! Why even Pirogov who has eyes that can spot a
bird the size of your smallest thimble, a whole kilometer away with easy
- Pirogov tell me does this dress not look brand new?” “As if the
receipt was still being written up as we speak,” Pirogov answered with
that most gentlemanly of tact.
“As if the receipt was still being written up as we speak, he says!
And truer words, let me tell you Vanya, have never been spoken. This,
this is absolutely amazing! Thank you so much for fixing my dress.”
And to that day, sweeter words, Vanya had never heard. But they did not
stop then. One by one everybody who was there marveled to Vanya about
how spectacular their clothing looked and for that brief period of time
Vanya felt like he was in heaven, like he had finally gotten all that he
wanted in life, like he was whole.
When the last person was finished praising Vanya, and the group
started getting ready to leave, Vanya, with the slyest of smiles on his
face, took out the pile of clothing he had created the previous evening.
Even if everyone in the room suddenly sprouted a tail and started
turning into a donkey the gasp of shock would not have been nearly as
loud as it was when they saw that clothing.
“Tailor Vanya!” they exclaimed with shock, “where did you get all of those most beautiful of things?”
“Why this?” Vanya responded feigning surprise and continued, putting
forth his best effort at modesty “I just sewed it last night.”
At hearing this the excitement of the crowd simply could not be
contained anymore. “Why Vanya you are simply a God!” “Never in my life
have I seen anything to rival this!” “Why even those most thrifty and
vile of Jews would shell out their gold for something this remarkable!”
And in such a manner people continued to exclaim for the next two hours
and who but God himself knows how much longer they would have continued -
maybe to this day, they would still be standing there marveling over
Vanya’s creations - had not at that moment Ivan Khomanovich walked
through the front door to pick up his most brilliant of overcoats.
Check back Tuesday for the exciting conclusion of
Knopka (The Button):
A Recently Unearthed True Story written by Nikolai Gogol, told by the Beadle of the ------ Church (Translated from the Russian by Ian Buksunski)
