The Dragon: Fifteen Stories by Yevgeny Zamyatin

By Yevgeny Zamyatin

Zamyatin is healthier recognized for the bright dystopian novel We, one of many nice classics of technological know-how fiction. The Dragon is a suite of fifteen of his brief tales (including a sixty seven web page novella) released among 1918 and 1935. additionally it is an creation via the translator, Mirra Ginsburg, and the textual content of the letter Zamyatin wrote to Stalin within which he requested to be allowed to "go overseas ... with the correct to come once it turns into attainable in our nation to serve nice rules with out cringing ahead of little men". The tales are all stories of daily life prior to, in the course of and after the revolution, yet are relatively tough to categorise extra — "realist fairy tales", maybe.

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All right, all right! Now you can blubber all you want,” Baryba repeated like a refrain. He got rid of Polka, and remained a while longer in the cellar, stretched on a pile of potatoes, resting. ryba grinned, pleased with himself. He said aloud to Chebotarikha: “Well, you old featherbed, take that! ” And he showed her a fig in the dark. He came out of the cellar, squinting against the looked under the shed: Urvanka was puttering there, back to him. sun. He with his THE DRAGON 22 8 They were having tea closely, observing him.

I’ll bet you’re lying, Innokenty. It’s just a waste. ” Ivanikha was a dry old crone, tall, bony, with shaggy eye- A Provincial Tale 43 brows like “What an the monks without much courtesy. want? VVhat kind of spell are you after? Or do owl. ” puttering, clanking with her pots at me? I on on the stove. “No, we’re here about . been robbed. ” . a Well, spell Father the on Yevsey here has eh? We've thief, . Father Innokenty was afraid of Ivanikha. He wanted to cross himself, but maybe she wouldn’t stand for it: the devil knows, she might get sore and then you would get nothing out of her.

All day he lounged about in sweet idleness. At dusk he’d snooze off on the oven next to the purring Vaska. He ate his fill. VVhat a life! He ate from morning until night, until he'd break into sweat, until he couldn’t breathe. That a the way of the was house. In the moming—tea with and doughnuts baked buns would sit there in her white that) , a kerchief “Why do you on steamed milk, with all sorts of with buttermilk. Chebotarikha night jacket (not so white at her head. ryba would ask. they taught you?

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