Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

You lie in silence, heeding ne'er a sound, You burn so bright, and brighter, brighter still, Until, at last, you share my flame against your will.

Benedikt wanted so bad to find out what it was that the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live, had cooked up, that he committed Freethinking. He copied out an extra scroll for himself, hid it in his sleeve, and later ran off to Marfushka and read her the poem. He made her a proposition: well, let's try it together. You plop down and lie there like a log, not heeding anything, but you have to really do it, just like we agreed… And I'll get all het up over you. And we'll see what these high-falutin ideas are all about. All right? Right.

That's what they decided. But it didn't work. Marfushka did everything just as agreed, just as she was told, not a peep, her arms along her sides, her heels together, her tiptoes apart. She didn't grab Benedikt or tickle him, and she didn't wiggle or wriggle around. But no burning brighter still ever happened the way it said, and there wasn't any flame sharing either-hunh-she just lay there like a sack of potatoes. All evening. And there wasn't really any flame, for that matter. Benedikt fussed and fiddled, but for some reason he wilted, soured, gave up, shrugged his shoulders, found his hat, slammed the door, and went home, and that was the whole story. But Marfushka got mad, she chased him, cussing and shouting. He shouted back. She shouted back again. They fought, tore each other's hair out. A couple of weeks later they made up again, but it wasn't quite the same. That old spark, so to speak, was gone.

So, he went to Kapitolinka for the same business, and to Crooked Vera. Glashka-Kudlashka invited him, and a lot of others. And now here you had Varvara Lukinishna asking around. He could go to see her, but she's awfully scary looking. What if she's got that fringe all over her body?

But all this woman's business-he'd visit and forget about it. It just didn't stay in his head. It's another story when a vision sticks to you, a marvelous image, a luminous mirage-that's how Olenka began to seem to Benedikt… You're lying down on the bed, smoking rusht, and she-there she is, close by, giggling… You reach out-and she's not there! Just air! She's not there-and there she is again. Gracious!

… Maybe he should go and court her. What about that? Court her? Go right up and say: So you see, Olenka sweetie pie, it's this way, my gorgeous beauty. I want you to be my blushing bride, my lawful wedded wife, to say I do right at the altar. Be my missus! To have and to hold. We'll live happily ever after!… What else do people say in this situation?… Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. We'll be happy as the day is long!

Why not! Even though her family are noble bigwigs-they ride in a sleigh. Even though she has a rabbit coat, there don't seem to be any suitors around her. She must be picky. Modest. But she does look at Benedikt. She looks-and blushes.

When Benedikt recovered from his fever and returned to work, Olenka lit up. She shone all over, like a candle; you could just take her, stick her in a holder, and she'd light up any darkness all the way around.

He had to think this thing through.

The February blizzards had passed. The March storms blew in. Heavenly streams poured down, piercing the snow. It looked like someone had punctured it and blackened it with stone nails. The earth showed through in some places. Last year's rubbish surfaced on all the streets, in all the yards. Swift rivers flowed, foamy and murky, carrying the rubbish from the hills to the flats, bringing out the stench from the settlement. Then, suddenly, up high, blue showed through. Clean, cold clouds ran rapidly across it, the wind blew, bare branches swayed, hurrying spring along. It was raw and bright; if you didn't tuck your hands into your sleeves they'd turn all red from the cold. But Benedikt felt fine and happy.

The earth underfoot squelched. The clay was impassable. You can't travel in a sleigh or a cart, but the Murzas still want to ride, don't they? They'd not be caught walking on foot-it doesn't suit their rank. You see the Degenerators kneading the clay mud with their felt boots, hauling the sleighs; they pull with all their might, cussing up a storm, but the sleighs won't budge. The Murza lashes them: Pull! They curse him. Such a hullabaloo. In short: spring!

Then it would freeze up again, there'd be a piercing cold day; a fine snow would fall, and the bladders in the windows would be covered with hoarfrost.

And while Benedikt lay in bed with a fever, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, wrote a new decree:

DECREE Now hear this. Since I am Fyodor Kuzmich Kablukov, Glory to me, the Greatest Murza, Long May I Live, Seckletary and Academishun and Hero and Ship Captain, and Carpenter, and seeing as how I am constantly worrying about the people, I command:

Oh, and there's something else I remembered, I'd completely forgotten it since I was so busy with state affairs:

The Eighth of March is also a Holiday, International Women's Day.

This Holiday isn't a day off.

That means you have to go to work, but you can take it easy.

Women's Day means like a Woman's Holiday.

On this day you have to honor and respect all women since they are Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls and respect all of them.

On this Holiday don't give them a thrashing or a licking, they don't have to do all the usual things, but Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls should get up earlier in the morning and bake pies, pancakes and all sorts of things, wash everything clean, sweep the floors and polish the benches, carry the water from the well, wash out the underwear and outerwear, and whoever has rugs or mats they should beat them all well or else I know you, there'll be so much dust in the izba you'll have to hold your nose. She should chop wood for the bathhouse, light the fire and scrub herself all over. Set the table with bliny and a mountain of all kinds of snacks. Maybe there's some leftovers from New Year's you can put out on the table.

When you get to work congratulate every Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls with International Women's Day.

Say: "Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls I wish you happiness in life, success in work, and a peaceful sky over your head."

And every woman you meet, even your Neighborlady, say the same polite words.

Later on, drink and make merry, eat what you want, have a good time, but within reason.

Kablukov

Just as Benedikt thought, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, was a real ladies' man. The women at work were happy: no one could say a harsh word to them, or kick them, or pull their ears, or whack them upside the head, everyone congratulated them. Varvara Lukinishna wore beads around her neck. Olenka was all in ribbons. Even Ksenia the Orphan braided some kind of rose from rough threads and fastened it at her temple. They were all so beautified-you could just drop your britches and start the joking right now.

They thought up something else too: they picked willow branches and stuck them in a pot with water. It was warm in the izba and the leaves opened up. Maybe this was Freethinking, but it was their day, and that was it. They wanted to put a pot of branches on Jackal Demianich's table too, but he threw it on the floor: the Decree didn't say anything about willows.

Jackal Demianich knows all the decrees by heart and loves them. Even old ones, from ages ago: for instance, that Sunday is a day off. Everyone knows anyway that Sunday is Sunday and no Golubchik is going to work for love or money no matter what you do to him. You'd think: Why do you need a decree, why waste the bark? Noooo, that's not the governmental approach.