Remedy for a Bender by Anton Chekhov translated by Misha Feigin

Remedy for a Bender

A famous actor and comedian, Mr. Feniksov-Dikobrazov II, had arrived in town D riding the train in a private, first-class compartment. Everyone meeting him at the train station knew that the first-class ticket was bought at the last station before town D only to show off his glamour, and before that, this celebrity traveled in a third class carriage; everyone saw, that in spite of cold, autumn weather, the celebrity wore a summer cape and a worn out seal fur hat, but nevertheless, when the sleepy mug of Dikobrazov II emerged from the carriage, everyone felt an urge to meet him and was somewhat thrilled. Impresario Pochechuev kissed him three times according to Russian tradition and took him to his quarters.

The celebrity had to start performing in two days after his arrival, but fate decided otherwise: a day before the show, the pale, disheveled impresario stormed into a ticket office and informed everyone that Dikobrazov II, could not perform.

“He cannot!” explained Pochechuev grabbing his hair, “How do you like that? For one month, the whole month, it was printed in large letters. “Dikobrazov will be here,” We boasted and put on the airs, took subscription money, and suddenly… Such a foul thing! Eh? It is not enough to hang one for that!”

“But what is it? What happened?”

“The bastard went on a bender!”

“What’s the big deal? He will sleep it off.”

“He would rather kick the bucket then sleep it off! I know him since the time I lived in Moscow: if he starts on vodka, he will go on for two months without a break. A bender! This is a bender! This is my bad luck. What is his grief for? Why was I born into such misery? What for? Why have I been damned by heaven my entire life?” (By profession and his nature, Pochechuev was a dramatic actor; tragic phrases accompanied by his fists drumming on his breast suited him well.) “I was despicable, loathsome, and wretched for letting fate torture me! Isn’t it much more honorable to stop playing the role of a scape goat and put a bullet into my head? What am I waiting for? Oh God, what am I waiting for?”

Pochechuev looked out a window burying his face in his hands. Besides the cashier, many actors and theater-goers were mingling in the ticket office, so advice, consolations and assurances were shared generously. However, all these offerings were rather philosophical or prophetic; nobody went beyond all is vanity, don’t pay attention to it, or everything might work out somehow. Only the cashier, a chubby man with signs of edema, had a serious response:

“Prokol Lvovich,” he said, “You have to try to treat him.”

“There is no way in hell to treat a bender!”

“Do not say so. Our barber has superior capacity to treat a bender. Everyone in our town uses his services.”

Pochechuev was happy to grab this straw, and in just five minutes, theatrical barber Fedor Grebeshkov stood in front of him. Imagine a tall, boney man with sunken eyes, a long, thin beard and brown hands, who bore a remarkable resemblance to a skeleton outfitted with screws and springs; then imagine that this skeleton is forced to move; dress this figure in an incredibly worn out black suit – now you have the portrait of Grebeshkov.

“Hey. Fedor!” Pochechuev greeted him, “I heard, my dear friend, that you, well… can treat a bender. Do me a favor, as a friend – treat Dikobrazov. He went on a bender, you know!”

“God help him,” Grebeshkov said with a sad, deep voice. “I treat regular actors, merchants and office workers, but this one is a celebrity in the whole of Russia!”

“So what?”

“In order to rid him from a bender, it is necessary to shake all his organs and joints. If I do that and he will get better, he will show his ambition and will tell me: How dare you, dog, to touch my face? I know these celebrities!”

“No, no… Don’t try to squeeze out of it! Walk the talk! Put on your hat, let’s go!”

When 15 minutes later Grebeshkov was walking into Dikobrazpv’s room, the celebrity was in his bed looking maliciously at a lamp hanging from the ceiling. The lamp hung peacefully, but Dikobrzov was staring at it and muttering: “Stop spinning! I’ll whup you! You are going to get it! I broke a decanter and I will break you, you’ll see! Ah-ah-ah…the ceiling is spinning…I understand, it is a plot! But the lamp, the lamp! The wicked thing is smaller than the others, but it is spinning the most! Just wait…”

The comedian got out of his bed dragging the sheet and throwing glasses off a night table. He was wobbling towards the lamp, when halfway through, he stumbled against something tall and boney…

“What is it?” he roared scanning the room with wavering gaze. ‘Who are you? Where from? Eh?”

“I’ll show you who I am! Get back to your bed!”

Grebeshkov did not wait for the comedian to reach his bed, but hit him with his fist on the back of his head with such force, that he fell into his bed, head-over-heels. Possibly, the comedian was never beaten before, so despite being very drunk, he looked at Grebeshkov with surprise, even with curiosity.

“You… Did you hit me? Wait, did you hit me?”

“I hit you. Do you want more?”

The barber hit Dikobrazov again, this time, in the teeth. I don’t know what really made an impact – strong punches or new experience, but the comedian’s eyes stopped wondering and showed a spark of reason. He jumped on his feet staring at the pale face and a dirty coat of Grebeshkov.

“You… Why are you beating me?” he muttered. “You… How do you dare!?”

“Shut up!”

And again, a punch in his face. The comedian lost his head and tried to defend himself, but Grebeshkov held him with one hand, while his other hand began pummeling the comedian’s mug.

“Not that hard, not so hard!” said a voice from another room, “Not so hard, Fedenka!”

It’s alright, Prokl Lvovich! You will thank me for that!”

“Just give him a break anyway!” Pochechuev cried, glancing inside the comedian’s room. “It’s nothing for you, but I have goose bumps. Just think of it – in the middle of the day, a law abiding, intelligent, and famous man is being beaten in his own room… Oh!”

“I, Prokl Lvovich, am punching not him, but devil who sits inside him. Please leave and don’t worry. Stay in bed, devil!” Fedor screamed at the comedian, “Don’t move! Whaaat ?”

Dikobrazov was horrified. He felt that everything that was spinning before and had been broken by him, now flew at his head at the same time.

“Help, help!” he screamed, “save me, help!”

“Go on, scream, devil! This is just a beginning, the worst is yet to come! Now listen – if you say one more word or move, I will kill you! I will kill you without mercy! There is no one here to protect you, brother! No one! No one will show up even if you shoot big guns. But if you resign yourself and stay silent, I will give some nice vodka. Look. Here it is. This vodka!”

Grebeshkov pulled a small bottle of vodka out of his pocket and let it shine in front of comedian’s eyes. When the drunk saw the subject of his passion, he forgot that he was beaten and even neighed from pleasure. Grebeshkov got out of his vest’s pocket a piece of dirty soap and stuck it into the bottle. When the vodka frothed and became muddy, he began pouring all kinds of garbage into it. Saltpeter, ammonia, alum, sodium sulphate, phosphorus, resin and other “spices” one can buy in shops selling paints and other useful chemicals. The comedian stared at Grebeshkov and passionately watched the bottle’s trajectory. In conclusion, the barber burned a piece of a rag, put the ashes into the vodka, shook the bottle and came close to the bed.

“Drink!” he said filling a half of a tea glass. “At once!”

The comedian drank it, quacked with delight, but immediately popped his eyes. His face turned pale, sweat appeared on his forehead.

“Drink more! “offered Grebeshkov.

“No… I don’t want it! Wwwait…”

“Drink, damn you!” Drink! I will kill you!”

Dikobrazov drank the mixture and dropped onto his bed moaning. One minute later, he raised himself, and Fedor could see that his spices had worked.

“Drink more! Let all your guts turn over, that is good! Drink!”

The suffering was upon the comedian. All his insides were literally turning over. He jumped on his feet, tossed in his bed, and watched with horror the movements of his ruthless, restless enemy who did not ease up his assault for a minute and tirelessly beat him up when he tried to refuse the spices. Beating was followed by spices, spices were followed by beating. Never at any other time, had he body of Feniksov Dikobrazov II, suffered such insult and humiliation. Never before was the celebrity becoming so weak and helpless. At first, the comedian screamed and cussed, then he began pleading, and at the end, when he had figured out that protests led to more beating, he began to cry.

Pochechuev, who stood behind the closed door eavesdropping, ran into the comedian’s room.

“Go to hell!” he said waving his hands. “I don’t care about subscription money, he will be better off drinking vodka, stop torturing him, please! He will kick the bucket. You go to hell! Just look – he’s almost dead! If I would have known it beforehand – I would never have asked you for anything…”

“It’s nothing. You will thank me for this. Hey you!” he turned back to the comedian, “What are you fussing about? You’ll get it again!”

He messed around with the comedian until the evening. He became tired and he wore out the comedian completely. It ended with the comedian became so terribly weak that he could not moan anymore. He was petrified. After that, he fell into something resembling sleep.

To Pochechuev’s great supervise, the comedian woke the next day. Obviously, he was not dead. After waking up, he blankly looked around, scanned the room with a wondering gaze and began remembering.

“Why am I hurting everywhere?” he wondered, “It seems, like I was under thrown under the train; should I drink vodka? Hey, you over there! Give me vodka!”

At that time, Pochechuev and Grebeshkov stood behind the door.

“He asking for vodka!” Pochechuev was horrified, “Then, he is not cured!”

“What are you saying, dear Prokl Lvovich!” Grebeshkov was puzzled. “Do you think it is possible to cure him in one day? Maybe a week will be enough with God’s help. You can cure a weakling in five days, but this one, but this one has a frame of a merchant. You cannot get through to him quickly.

“Why didn’t you tell me that beforehand, you anathema?” Pochechuev moaned. “Why was I born into such misery? Would it be more reasonable to put a bullet into my forehead and to finish it all at once? “And etcetera…

But instead of Pochechuev’s morbid assessment of his fate, Dikobrazov-Feniksov II, was on stage acting in just one week. And there was no need to return subscription money. Grebeshkov was putting make-up on the comedian’s face with such respect, that it was hard to imagine he was the celebrity’s tormentor.

“This man is die-hard!” surprised Pochechuev thought, “I almost died watching him suffering, but he seems to be alright; he even thanks this devil, Fedka, and he wants to take him and me to Moscow. It’s nothing but a miracle!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mysterious Nature by Anton Chekhov translation by Misha Feigin

Mysterious Nature by Anton Chekhov

A first class compartment. A pretty, young little lady reclines on couch upholstered in crimson velvet. An expensive, fringed fan crackles in her tensed hand, a pince-nez* periodically slips from her pretty nose, and a brooch moves on her breast like a boat lost among the waves. She is agitated. Across from her, a district auditor to special errands, a young, aspiring writer sits on a small couch. He publishes in regional newspapers short stories, or what he calls “novellas,” about life of the high society. He looks directly at her face with the attitude of an expert. He is observing, studying, grasping this eccentric, mysterious, nature, comprehending it… He is seeing her soul, all her psychology in plain sight.

“Oh, I understand you,” the district auditor to special errands says, kissing her hand near the bracelet. “Your sensitive, receptive soul has been searching for an exit from the labyrinth. Yes! Terrible, horrific struggle, but… don’t lose heart! You will be a winner! Yes!”

“Describe me, Valdemar!” the little lady says with a sad smile. “My life is so full, so diverse, so colorful. But the main thing is that I am unhappy. My suffering is Dostoyevskian… Show my soul to the whole world, Valdemar, show this poor soul! You are a psychologist. Not even an hour has passed since we settled in the compartment and began to talk, but you already comprehended all of me, all of me!”

“Talk, I beg you, talk!”

“Listen then, I was born into a family of poor state employees. My father was a kind, intelligent fellow, but… the spirit of the times, environment…vous comprenez,**I do not blame my poor father. He indulged in drinking, played cards…took bribes. My mother…What can I say? Poverty, struggle to earn a living, awareness of one’s own insignificance. Oh, do not force me to remember! I had to make it by myself, to find my way…And what about the ugly college education, silly novels I read, juvenile follies, the first timid love…Horrible! And then – doubts! Anguish of the nascent disappointment in life, in myself. And what about the struggle with the milieu? Terrible! What about the doubts? Oh, you are a writer and you know us women. You will understand. Unfortunately, I am blessed with a generous nature. I had been craving for happiness, exceptional happiness! I had been craving to become a human! Yes! To become a human – that’s how I saw my happiness!”

“You are magnificent,” the writer mumbles kissing her hand near the bracelet. “This is not you I am kissing, my wonderful lady, but human suffering. Remember Raskolnikov? He kissed this way.”

“Oh Valdemar! I needed fame…noise, brilliance, just like any – there’s no reason to be humble – remarkable person. I had been craving for something unusual. But then…but then I crossed paths with an old, rich general. You have to understand me, Valdemar! It was martyrdom, self-sacrifice, you must understand me! I enriched my family, began traveling and serving people. I suffered so much. How unbearably lowly and vulgar were the general’s embraces, but I have to give it to him –he fought bravely at one time. There were minutes…horrible minutes! However, I was sustained by a thought that he could die any day and I would live my life the way I want, so I could give myself to the man I love and be happy. I have such a man, Valdemar, God be my witness, I have!”

The little lady is swinging her fan hard. She looks like she’s going to start crying.

‘But then the old man dies. I’ve got something from him, I am free like a bird. Now I can live happily, can’t I, Valdemar? Happiness knocks on my window. All I need is to let it in, but…no! Valdemar, listen to me, I beg you! Now I can give myself to the man I love, to become his friend and assistant, a carrier of his ideals, so I could be happy and have some rest. But how vulgar, disgusting and stupid everything in this world is! How vile is everything, Valdemar! I am so unhappy, so unhappy, so unhappy! One more obstacle appears on my path. I feel again that my happiness is so far, far away! Oh, how much suffering I have to endure, if you could only know! How much suffering!”

“But what is it? What is looming on your path? I beg you, tell me! What is it?”

“Another rich old man.”

The broken fan covers her pretty face. The pensive writer rests his head on his wrist, sighs, posing as an expert-psychologist, and begins to think. The locomotive whistles and hisses. The curtains turn red in the setting sun.

 

* pince-nez (French) a style of glasses popular in 19 Century

** vous comprenez(French) you understand

On Transience by Anton Chekhov translated by Misha Feigin

On Transience by Anton Chekhov

A Maslenitsa Theme for a Ceremony 

Nadvorniy sovetnik** Semion Petrovich Podtikin settled at the table, covered his breast with a napkin and, burning with impatience, began to wait for the moment when the pancakes would be served. Before him – just like before a military commander, was lying an entire landscape…In the middle of the table, stood a perfect formation of slim bottles. There were three kinds of vodka, cordial Kiev, Chateau Larose, Rhinewein, and even a thick vessel – a masterpiece of the Benedictine Fathers. Arranged in a style of artistic disorder around the beverages, savory offerings crowded the table: herring in mustard sauce, salted sprats, caviar (three rubles and forty kopeks per pound,) *** fresh Atlantic salmon, and so on. Podtikin looked at all of this salivating voraciously …His eyes turned oily, his face was distorted by voluptuousness…

“Come on, why we are waiting so long?” he frowned addressing his wife, “Hurry up, Katya!”

Then at last, the kitchen maid emerged carrying the pancakes…Semion Petrovich, with a risk to burn his fingers, grabbed from the top two hottest pancakes and appetizingly slapped them onto his plate. The pancakes had a nice crust, they were porous and plump like an arm of a merchant’s daughter …Podtikin smiled pleasantly, hiccupped with delight, and poured hot butter over the pancakes. After that, teasing his appetite and relishing anticipation, he slowly and thoroughly smeared the pancakes with caviar. He poured sour cream onto areas that were missing caviar… Now, all that was left was to eat, wasn’t it? But no!

Podtikin looked at his masterwork and was not satisfied…After thinking for a short while, he placed a fat piece of salmon, a salted sprat, and a sardine on his pancakes and after that, breathless from the thrill, he folded both pancakes into a pipe, passionately downed a shot of vodka, grunted, opened his mouth… But then, a stroke hit him.

* Maslenitsa the celebration during the last week before Lent pancakes with various fillings. **Nadvorniy soivetnik – a civil rank in Russia at that time equal to lieutenant colonel

*** $ 98 US

 

 

Conversation Between a Man and a Dog by Anton Chekhov / translation by Misha Feigin

 

 

Conversation Between a Man and a Dog

 

The moon shone brightly on that frosty night. Aleksey Ivanovich Romansov knocked a little green devil* from his sleeve, carefully opened the gate, and walked into the yard. 

Passing the waste pit and trying to stay upright, he philosophized, “A human is dust, mirage, ashes. Pavel Nikolaevich is the governor. He is ashes, too. It seems his greatness is a dream, smoke. You just blow once and he disappears.”

“Rrrr.” The sound reached philosopher’s ears. 

Romansov looked sideways and saw, just a few steps from him, a huge, black Caucasian Shepherd the size of a good wolf. The dog sat by the janitor’s booth and clinked his chain. Romansov looked at the dog, thought a bit, and decided to look surprised. Then, he shrugged, shook his head and smiled sadly. 

“Rrrr,” the dog repeated.

“I d-d-don’t understand.” Romansov threw his hands up in the air, “And you…  Can you growl at a man? Eh? I hear it for the first time in my life! I swear to God. Don’t you know that man is the crown of creation? Just look… I am getting next to you… Now look… am I a man? What do you think? Am I a man or not? Explain!”

“Rrrr, ruff!”

“Give me your paw!” Romansov stretched his hand to the dog. “Give me your paw! No barking?  You don’t like it? No need now. Let’s go with that. And in the meantime, if you please – I punch you in the snout… lovingly….”

“Ruff! Ruff! Rrr…?Arf!“

“Aaaah! Why do you bite me? Very good, okay. I won’t forget it. So, don’t you care that man is the crown of creation… the tsar of the animals? So I can conclude from that, you can bite even Pavel Ivanovich? Yes? Everyone prostrates himself in front of Pavel Pavlovich, and you don’t care if it’s him or anyone else. Do I understand you correctly? Aaah! Then, are you a socialist?”

“Rrr…Ruff! Ruff!      

“Wait, don’t bite… Where was I anyway?… Oh yes, it was about the ashes. Just one puff – and he’s no longer here. Pff!… Then I ask: What is the meaning of life? Mothers suffer giving us birth, we eat, drink, learn science, die… but what is it for? Ashes. The human being is worthless! You are just a dog and understand nothing, but if you only could get inside the soul! If you could penetrate psychology!

Romansov shook his head and spat. 

“The dirt…You think that I, Romansov, Collegiate Secretary… am the Tsar of nature?… You are mistaken! I am a slacker, hypocrite, I take bribes! I am a jerk!”

Aleksey Ivanovich hit his chest with his fist and began to cry.

“I am a rat, a whisperer… Do you think that Egorka Kornushin was not fired because of me? Ah? But who, can I ask you, pocketed 200 rubles from the committee funds and then blamed Surguschev? Was it not me?  A jerk, a Pharisee… Judas! A flatterer, an extortionist, vermin.

Romansov wiped tears with his sleeve and began weeping again. 

“Bite me! Eat me! More! Nobody ever said anything useful about me…Deep inside their souls, People know I am a bastard, but they still praise me and smile to my face.

If only someone could smack me in the face or scold me! Eat me, you pooch! Bite me! T-t-tear this anathema to pieces! Gobble this traitor!”

Romansov stumbled and fell on the dog. 

“Yes, that’s right! Tear up this snout! Don’t feel sorry! It’s painful, but don’t spare me. Here are my arms, bite!” Yeah, the blood is spilling! You deserve it, a schmuck! Yeah! Merci, Buster…or what do they call you? Rip my fur coat. It does not matter – it was a bribe. I sold out my fellow man and bought the fur coat with that money… and the service cap with the badge too…where was I?… It’s time to go… Farewell, doggy…  you little rascal.”

“Rrrr.”

Romansov petted the dog, letting it bite his calf again, wrapped himself into his coat and schlepped to his door, stumbling on his way.

Romansov saw something very unusual when he woke up in the afternoon the next day. There were bandages on his head, hands and legs. His tearful wife and a concerned doctor stood by his bed.

 

* Very drunk Russians see little green devils crawling all over them. 

 

Midwinter Music

Midwinter Music

Misha Feigin / piano

(c) 2018 DPR Records 018 (c) 2018 BMI / 221 N. Clifton Avenue. #31 Louisville, KY 40206. Photography and graphic design by Steven Skaggs. All tracks improvised by Misha Feigin, piano. Recorded and mixed by Steve Good at Clifton Universalist Unitarian Church in Louisville, KY.

Tracklist: 1. The icy, pale sun (7:36) 2. Just for a minute (2:55) 3. Frozen trees glitter (4:45) 4. A fear of the blank (7:31) 5. He is back again (5:46) 6. A place un the puzzle (4:07) 7. There is no room left (5:34) 8. Not an easy task (9:06) 9. On a window sill (5:49) 10. Searching for silence (1:18)

Misha Feigin’s 2018 release, his piano CD is superbly beautiful. I enjoyed every stroke, the fluidity, and beautiful technique danced through the extremities of improvisational foray. From contemporary composerly musings, to modal melodies reminiscent of Gurdjieff, the contemplative character and free swaths of color played as a rainbow of passion on my heart.– LaDonna Smith / the improvisor 2018, rare artifact review

$15.00
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PLEASE NOTE: inclusive shipment cost within the United States.

$25.00
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sahara gypsies

Sahara Gypsies: Hussam Al Aydi – oud, voice, keyboards, percussion, programming | Misha Feigin – classical and acoustic guitar, voice | Mark Hamilton – electric guitar | Danny Kiely – contrabass.

Recorded by Danny Kiely in Louisville, Kentucky, USA. Produced by Misha Feigin.

Tracklist: 1. Dark Eyes (Traditional) [6:12] 2. Wahran (Traditional) [8:14]

 

Buy Sahara Gypsies (CD or MP3 download) here…

the crossing

Misha Feigin – classical guitar | Susan Alcorn – pedal steel guitar

Recorded in April 2015 at Modern Cult Records by Steve Good. Photos by Misha Feigin1,3 music by Misha Feigin. 2,4,5 music by Misha Feigin & Susan Alcorn. 5 – originally recorded in December of 2006, electronically processed by Steve Good in 2015.

Tracklist: 1. Relativity [3:05] 2. The Crossing [10:37] 3. Adjustment [2:07] 4. And Still part 1 and part 2 [9:40] 5. String Space [15:45] Total Time: 41:25

“What I’ve done with the piece is to use the sequence of numbers corresponding to the elevation of the terrain in a straight line going from the east coast to the west coast of the United States at the latitude of Louisville, Kentucky as an impulse response which I convolved audio editing with the piece. Convolution is the process of multiplying the values of one linear sequence of numbers by every other member of a 2nd linear sequence of numbers. Convolution Reverb is used widely to apply a “space” to a recorded sound.” — Steve Good

Buy The Crossing (CD, MP3 or LP version) here…

tribal diaries

Tribal Diaries by Misha Feigin (C) 2015
Tribal Diaries by Misha Feigin (C) 2015

Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Cindy Rayner, Michael Kessler for their generous help that allowed me to complete this book. I also thank Harold Maier and Tony Woolard for sharing with me their knowledge of American history. The collage and back cover photo by Misha Feigin

Foreword

One cold and dreary February afternoon in Moscow, I kissed my mother good-bye. waved to my friends and lovers, and embarked on the journey of my life to the Brave New World across the ocean. Soon I was on my way to the forbidden and luring place, another side of everything I had experienced so far in my ever suffering and intensely profound homeland. It was the time when tectonic plates of history moved, breaking countries into pieces, sending waves of people to new shores. The way of life in Russia was rapidly changing. The old order deteriorated in no time. In the social and political vacuum, the gangsters, party bureaucrats, and secret services became major powerbrokers. Local social and ethnic communities were quickly transformed into markets producing a few haves and plenty of have-nots. The end of the century was near, climate change was on the horizon, and the global warning broadcasted gloom and doom. I arrived in America equipped with a back-pack, a suitcase, a guitar, three hundred dollars in my pocket, and a determination to mix in into the celebrated creative exuberance of the Big Apple. In one day, I became a rootless cosmopolitan * and was soon roaming free in the streets on Manhattan.

Now, many years later, I still can recollect practically moment by moment my first day in New York as well as many other first experiences I have had in my new life. Putting together this book, I relied not only on such poignant memories but also on the notes I began to take upon my arrival to New York. I continued taking snapshots of experiences and observations during my frequent expeditions in 48 states of the U.S., in Germany and a few other European countries for the next seventeen years. Once uprooted, you become an outsider everywhere you go, and being an outsider relieves you from the compulsion to take sides or subscribe to any particular ideology. It is an auspicious point in time to begin Tribal Diaries.

*The Jews were called “rootless cosmopolitans” during the Stalin’s anti-Semitic campaign after the World War II.

Tribal Diaries by Misha Feigin (C) 2015

Buy Tribal Diaries by Misha Feigin here…