The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

The contractor’s sharp eyes surveyed my cramped room, estimated the cost of my chairs and couch, upholstered in cheap cretonne, noticed the sole bookshelf, a plain painted table, the floor without a rug, the pictureless walls, and then confidently they turned to me.

“And I, little lady, am happy to make your acquaintance. I wanted to do this for a long time. God has given you a bold pen. Even fit for a man . . . ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . The readers approve very much.”

“Thanks for telling me. From afar it is difficult for me to determine whether they approve or not. We writers like to be praised by our readers. Thank you.”

“No, thanks be to you. The news venders are asked: ‘Is Vergezhskii in the issue? If not, I won’t give you the five kopeks. Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . . All think that Vergezhskii is a man, but look at Vergezhskii.”

He scrutinized me with unceremonious approval. He was amused at the “little lady” who worked for him, who received his money. Without giving me time to collect myself, he began to tell me about himself, attempting to make me understand that his sweep was wide.

“Come to visit us in Ekaterinoslav and see how people live there. You will meet your readers. You can stay at my place for a while. I will gather some guests to meet you. The whole district knows me; I not only own the newspaper but the theatre as well. I am a great lover of the theater. However, it consumes heaps of money. Much more than the newspaper.”

“Tell me stories. I’ve heard that the newspaper gives you a good income.”

He grinned, self-satisfied.

“You heard? Well, I can’t complain, but the money could be better used. I didn’t start the newspaper for purposes of income.”

“Not for income? For what then?”

“For pleasure. A publisher of a large newspaper is someone, after all. But the theater, even though it is an expensive toy, is even more entertaining. I am a happy person and actors are cheerful people. Not to speak of the actresses. Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .”

60

Chapter Five

I demonstratively stayed silent. He understood. Such contractors who come from humble backgrounds to become millionaires were perceptive people and pretty good psychologists. Kopylov once again surveyed the cheap furnishings of my living room, wriggled in the chair, and looking past me out the window, offhandedly asked:

“Might you have a ready article? I’ll send it in.”

“No. You know . . . We . . .”

He didn’t let me finish:

“I’ve heard, little lady, I’ve heard. These are trifles. I have a solid newspaper, and I know how to get on with the authorities. Write the way you wrote. We did not and will not offend you. We can raise the honorarium and set a fixed sum. Would you like to receive a little advance? Why bother with the mail when my office is in my pocket.”

He pulled his office out from his jacket and opened the thick billfold. Habitually believing in the omnipotence of money, he might have truly thought that the sight of hundred-ruble notes would make me amenable. I did not get angry and just laughed.

“No, thank you. What advance? Your editor left and with him so did his co-workers. I left as well. That’s it.”

“In truth, little lady, why should you leave? I already have a new editor. He will continue things as before. And you, write as before also. We’ll make a new agreement, a better one. Would you like to?”

My smile confused him. He saw how I lived and hoped that I was not so foolish as to refuse a good income. Patting the billfold with his hand, he gently attempted to convince me:

“Why refuse the money? Take an advance and we’ll settle sometime in the future. I won’t push you; you’ll repay me whenever you want. Just write. Well, how much money shall I peel off?”

I stood up.

“None. We’re all even. The office sent me everything. But I cannot write for you anymore. You find this difficult to understand. Every one of your worker’s artels has its own rules. We writers are also an artel. If one is affected, all have to back him up. That’s how it is with us.”

He stood as well. In bewilderment, he rotated the billfold in his hands, still surprised that such a rich argument did not break a woman’s stubbornness. He put it inside his jacket and, without the previous familiarity, somewhat tenuously offered his hand. I put mine in it. Why should I be angry with him? The more so, since I was told that he had given Lemke a full year’s salary, something he did not have to do. His co-workers, however, did not benefit materially from this. I didn’t know how I would pay next month’s rent.

Aleksandra Tyrkova-Williams, A Woman’s Autonomy

61

Kopylov stopped in the doorway. A sly smirk flitted across his smart peasant face.

“Oh little lady, little lady, how prickly you are . . . Unapproachable . . . And I was coming to St. Pete thinking Vergezhskii would go to Palkin’s for dinner with me and then to the theater. Some theater! Some Vergezhskii!”