Read Online The Slynx by Tatyana Tolstaya - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tatyana Tolstaya
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fantasy, Classics, Literary Criticism, Russian & Former Soviet Union
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the Warehouse Workers? And their serfs? Well, there you have it! You can't do it without the right approach.
You need to be smart, to think things through. Lids, for instance. Now, a simple Golubchik, one of the soft-hearted ones, what would he think? Just take the lids and hand them out. In a flash, the rumor would spread, a crowd would gather--you wouldn't be able to breathe, there'd be a crush, a stampede, cries, shouts, cripples riding piggyback on people with two legs --cripples who were trampled the last time--and they'd scream: "I'm an Invalid! Give a Lid to an Invalid!!!" Little kids would weave through the crowd pickpocketing; some would drag cats in on a string, or a goat, so as to get an extra lid; this is my brother-in-law, they'd say, he wants one too. So what if he's
got fur or horns or an udder--well, Golubchiks, that's Consequences for you, or are you all squeaky clean yourselves?
They'd murder each other, take off with as many lids as they could carry--some would have heart attacks from lugging the load, and afterward they'd sit in their izbas looking at what they'd got, and wouldn't know what to do with them. What do you cover with them? This one's too big, and that one's too little, they don't fit anything. They'd turn them over and over, smash them in disappointment, and throw them out in the backyard under the fence.
No, you can't do things that way with us.
So Varsonofy Silich, figuring all this out, taking stock, thinking deep, decided not to give out any lids. Better for the people and for the lids.
And he thought: If you boil soup without a lid it will come out thicker, it kind of settles down. It's tastier.
He also thought: Since there aren't any lids, everyone will have a secret longing: If only I had a lid for my pot! Life is better when you've got a dream, and sleep is sweeter.
Now that's governmental thinking.
That's why Varsonofy Silich lives rich, he's got a two-story terem with onion domes, he built a porch around the top floor, it's called a gallery, and serfs walk around and around the gallery --to scare everyone--keeping watch to make sure there isn't any evil intent toward the owner, to make sure no one's wanting to go and throw a rock at his house or something worse ...
In the courtyard there are different services and trades; barns, warehouses, a sty for Degenerators, barracks where the serfs live. There are tons and tons of serfs: mouse-catching serfs, flour-grinding serfs, kvas-brewing serfs, marshroom gatherers, horsetailers, as many as you like. There are floor-washing serf-girls, spinners and weavers, and there's one special woman who just makes snowballs, rolls them in crushed fireling flour, and serves them at meals, and Varsonofy Silich partakes of them.
One time Benedikt got to see Varsonofy Silich in all his glory. Benedikt was walking along and some Lesser Murzas were blocking off the road--"Halt, don't pass"--barking at the Gol-
ubchiks and warming some backsides with spikes--"Don't get pushy." Then the plank gates opened, bells clanked, Degenera-tors stomped their felt boots, a sleigh creaked-- maaaaama! -- and there was Varsonofy Silich himself sitting in the sleigh like a great mountain. The people were happy, they tossed their hats in the air, and bowed low: "Good day, and Long May You Live, Varsonofy Silich, our dear provider, and the same to your wife, and your children as well! What would we have to eat and drink without you, our dearest one, sweet golden light of our lives!"
Everyone shouted this at him--Benedikt too--so that he would soften a bit, the Herod, and add more food next time-- some lard, perhaps, or turnips and horsetail for holidays--and not eat everything up himself.
But Benedikt had never seen Fyodor Kuzmich in the flesh. And he didn't dare hope to.
And then today, the most ordinary February day you could pick, a gray, dull, powdery blizzard day with a boding north wind --blowing and sweeping the snow powder from the roofs down your
You need to be smart, to think things through. Lids, for instance. Now, a simple Golubchik, one of the soft-hearted ones, what would he think? Just take the lids and hand them out. In a flash, the rumor would spread, a crowd would gather--you wouldn't be able to breathe, there'd be a crush, a stampede, cries, shouts, cripples riding piggyback on people with two legs --cripples who were trampled the last time--and they'd scream: "I'm an Invalid! Give a Lid to an Invalid!!!" Little kids would weave through the crowd pickpocketing; some would drag cats in on a string, or a goat, so as to get an extra lid; this is my brother-in-law, they'd say, he wants one too. So what if he's
got fur or horns or an udder--well, Golubchiks, that's Consequences for you, or are you all squeaky clean yourselves?
They'd murder each other, take off with as many lids as they could carry--some would have heart attacks from lugging the load, and afterward they'd sit in their izbas looking at what they'd got, and wouldn't know what to do with them. What do you cover with them? This one's too big, and that one's too little, they don't fit anything. They'd turn them over and over, smash them in disappointment, and throw them out in the backyard under the fence.
No, you can't do things that way with us.
So Varsonofy Silich, figuring all this out, taking stock, thinking deep, decided not to give out any lids. Better for the people and for the lids.
And he thought: If you boil soup without a lid it will come out thicker, it kind of settles down. It's tastier.
He also thought: Since there aren't any lids, everyone will have a secret longing: If only I had a lid for my pot! Life is better when you've got a dream, and sleep is sweeter.
Now that's governmental thinking.
That's why Varsonofy Silich lives rich, he's got a two-story terem with onion domes, he built a porch around the top floor, it's called a gallery, and serfs walk around and around the gallery --to scare everyone--keeping watch to make sure there isn't any evil intent toward the owner, to make sure no one's wanting to go and throw a rock at his house or something worse ...
In the courtyard there are different services and trades; barns, warehouses, a sty for Degenerators, barracks where the serfs live. There are tons and tons of serfs: mouse-catching serfs, flour-grinding serfs, kvas-brewing serfs, marshroom gatherers, horsetailers, as many as you like. There are floor-washing serf-girls, spinners and weavers, and there's one special woman who just makes snowballs, rolls them in crushed fireling flour, and serves them at meals, and Varsonofy Silich partakes of them.
One time Benedikt got to see Varsonofy Silich in all his glory. Benedikt was walking along and some Lesser Murzas were blocking off the road--"Halt, don't pass"--barking at the Gol-
ubchiks and warming some backsides with spikes--"Don't get pushy." Then the plank gates opened, bells clanked, Degenera-tors stomped their felt boots, a sleigh creaked-- maaaaama! -- and there was Varsonofy Silich himself sitting in the sleigh like a great mountain. The people were happy, they tossed their hats in the air, and bowed low: "Good day, and Long May You Live, Varsonofy Silich, our dear provider, and the same to your wife, and your children as well! What would we have to eat and drink without you, our dearest one, sweet golden light of our lives!"
Everyone shouted this at him--Benedikt too--so that he would soften a bit, the Herod, and add more food next time-- some lard, perhaps, or turnips and horsetail for holidays--and not eat everything up himself.
But Benedikt had never seen Fyodor Kuzmich in the flesh. And he didn't dare hope to.
And then today, the most ordinary February day you could pick, a gray, dull, powdery blizzard day with a boding north wind --blowing and sweeping the snow powder from the roofs down your
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