I NEED no great effort of memory to recall, in every detail, the
rainy autumn evening when I stood with my father in one of the more
frequented streets of Moscow, and felt that I was gradually being
overcome by a strange illness. I had no pain at all, but my legs
were giving way under me, the words stuck in my throat, my head
slipped weakly on one side . . . It seemed as though, in a moment,
I must fall down and lose consciousness.
If I had been taken into a hospital at that minute, the doctors
would have had to write over my bed: _Fames_, a disease which is
not in the manuals of medicine.
Beside me on the pavement stood my father in a shabby summer overcoat
and a serge cap, from which a bit of white wadding was sticking
out. On his feet he had big heavy goloshes. Afraid, vain man, that
people would see that his feet were bare under his goloshes, he had
drawn the tops of some old boots up round the calves of his legs.
This poor, foolish, queer creature, whom I loved the more warmly
the more ragged and dirty his smart summer overcoat became, had
come to Moscow, five months before, to look for a job as copying-clerk.
For those five months he had been trudging about Moscow looking for
work, and it was only on that day that he had brought himself to
go into the street to beg for alms.
Before us was a big house of three storeys, adorned with a blue
signboard with the word "Restaurant" on it. My head was drooping
feebly backwards and on one side, and I could not help looking
upwards at the lighted windows of the restaurant. Human figures
were flitting about at the windows. I could see the right side of
the orchestrion, two oleographs, hanging lamps . . . . Staring into
one window, I saw a patch of white. The patch was motionless, and
its rectangular outlines stood out sharply against the dark, brown
background. I looked intently and made out of the patch a white
placard on the wall. Something was written on it, but what it was,
I could not see. . .
For half an hour I kept my eyes on the placard. Its white attracted
my eyes, and, as it were, hypnotised my brain. I tried to read it,
but my efforts were in vain.
At last the strange disease got the upper hand.
The rumble of the carriages began to seem like thunder, in the
stench of the street I distinguished a thousand smells. The restaurant
lights and the lamps dazzled my eyes like lightning. My five senses
were overstrained and sensitive beyond the normal. I began to see
what I had not seen before.
"Oysters . . ." I made out on the placard.
A strange word! I had lived in the world eight years and three
months, but had never come across that word. What did it mean?
Surely it was not the name of the restaurant-keeper? But signboards
with names on them always hang outside, not on the walls indoors!
"Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I asked in a husky voice, making
an effort to turn my face towards my father.
My father did not hear. He was keeping a watch on the movements of
the crowd, and following every passer-by with his eyes. . . . From
his eyes I saw that he wanted to say something to the passers-by,
but the fatal word hung like a heavy weight on his trembling lips
and could not be flung off. He even took a step after one passer-by
and touched him on the sleeve, but when he turned round, he said,
"I beg your pardon," was overcome with confusion, and staggered
back.
"Papa, what does 'oysters' mean?" I repeated.
"It is an animal . . . that lives in the sea."
I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. . . . I
thought it must be something midway between a fish and a crab. As
it was from the sea they made of it, of course, a very nice hot
fish soup with savoury pepper and laurel leaves, or broth with
vinegar and fricassee of fish and cabbage, or crayfish sauce, or
served it cold with horse-radish. . . . I vividly imagined it being
brought from the market, quickly cleaned, quickly put in the pot,
quickly, quickly, for everyone was hungry . . . awfully hungry!
From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and crayfish soup.
I felt that this smell was tickling my palate and nostrils, that
it was gradually taking possession of my whole body. . . . The
restaurant, my father, the white placard, my sleeves were all
smelling of it, smelling so strongly that I began to chew. I moved
my jaws and swallowed as though I really had a piece of this marine
animal in my mouth . . .
My legs gave way from the blissful sensation I was feeling, and I
clutched at my father's arm to keep myself from falling, and leant
against his wet summer overcoat. My father was trembling and
shivering. He was cold . . .
"Papa, are oysters a Lenten dish?" I asked.
"They are eaten alive . . ." said my father. "They are in shells
like tortoises, but . . . in two halves."
The delicious smell instantly left off affecting me, and the illusion
vanished. . . . Now I understood it all!
"How nasty," I whispered, "how nasty!"
So that's what "oysters" meant! I imagined to myself a creature
like a frog. A frog sitting in a shell, peeping out from it with
big, glittering eyes, and moving its revolting jaws. I imagined
this creature in a shell with claws, glittering eyes, and a slimy
skin, being brought from the market. . . . The children would all
hide while the cook, frowning with an air of disgust, would take
the creature by its claw, put it on a plate, and carry it into the
dining-room. The grown-ups would take it and eat it, eat it alive
with its eyes, its teeth, its legs! While it squeaked and tried to
bite their lips. . . .
I frowned, but . . . but why did my teeth move as though I were
munching? The creature was loathsome, disgusting, terrible, but I
ate it, ate it greedily, afraid of distinguishing its taste or
smell. As soon as I had eaten one, I saw the glittering eyes of a
second, a third . . . I ate them too. . . . At last I ate the
table-napkin, the plate, my father's goloshes, the white placard
. . . I ate everything that caught my eye, because I felt that nothing
but eating would take away my illness. The oysters had a terrible
look in their eyes and were loathsome. I shuddered at the thought
of them, but I wanted to eat! To eat!
"Oysters! Give me some oysters!" was the cry that broke from me and
I stretched out my hand.
"Help us, gentlemen!" I heard at that moment my father say, in a
hollow and shaking voice. "I am ashamed to ask but--my God!--I
can bear no more!"
"Oysters!" I cried, pulling my father by the skirts of his coat.
"Do you mean to say you eat oysters? A little chap like you!" I
heard laughter close to me.
Two gentlemen in top hats were standing before us, looking into my
face and laughing.
"Do you really eat oysters, youngster? That's interesting! How do
you eat them?"
I remember that a strong hand dragged me into the lighted restaurant.
A minute later there was a crowd round me, watching me with curiosity
and amusement. I sat at a table and ate something slimy, salt with
a flavour of dampness and mouldiness. I ate greedily without chewing,
without looking and trying to discover what I was eating. I fancied
that if I opened my eyes I should see glittering eyes, claws, and
sharp teeth.
All at once I began biting something hard, there was a sound of a
scrunching.
"Ha, ha! He is eating the shells," laughed the crowd. "Little silly,
do you suppose you can eat that?"
After that I remember a terrible thirst. I was lying in my bed, and
could not sleep for heartburn and the strange taste in my parched
mouth. My father was walking up and down, gesticulating with his
hands.
"I believe I have caught cold," he was muttering. "I've a feeling
in my head as though someone were sitting on it. . . . Perhaps it
is because I have not . . . er . . . eaten anything to-day. . . .
I really am a queer, stupid creature. . . . I saw those gentlemen
pay ten roubles for the oysters. Why didn't I go up to them and ask
them . . . to lend me something? They would have given something."
Towards morning, I fell asleep and dreamt of a frog sitting in a
shell, moving its eyes. At midday I was awakened by thirst, and
looked for my father: he was still walking up and down and
gesticulating.