Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and His Auntie

Abstract

Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and His Auntie Nikolai Gogol (bio) —translated from the Russian by Michael R. Katz TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: This short story was included in Nikolai Gogol's first collection, Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka (1831–32), published as the work of one Rudy Panko, a Ukrainian beekeeper who had allegedly transcribed some of the tales told by his colorful visitors. "Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and His Auntie" stands out from this collection, and Vladimir Nabokov argued in his brilliant little study of Gogol that it marked the first appearance of the mature Gogol, the future author of The Petersburg Tales The Government Inspector, and Dead Souls. In his Lectures on Russian Literature, Nabokov writes that "the real plot (as always with Gogol) lies in the style." Previous translations even recent ones, miss this essential point. They translate the plot, but not Gogol's weird, linguistically inventive style with its perfectly timed humor. As a result, they produce a word-forword, syntax-for-syntax version that sacrifices tone and misconstrues overall sense. Gogol's humor depends on peculiar word choice, odd shifts in tone, mischievous playfulness, and unexpected timing; I have attempted here to capture those elements. –MRK There's a story connected to this story: it was told by Stepan Ivanovich Kurochka from Gadyach. You should know that my memory is incredibly bad: whatever you tell me goes in one ear and out the other. It's just like pouring water through a sieve. Knowing this about myself, I deliberately asked him to write it down in a notebook. Well, God grant him good health; he was always kind to me, so he picked up a notebook and wrote it down. I put it in the drawer of a small table; I think you know it well: it stands in the corner just where you come in the door . . . But I forget, you've never visited me there. My old woman, with whom I've lived for about thirty years, never learned to read—there's no reason to hide it. So one day I notice she's baking little meat pies on some sort of paper. She makes the most wonderful pies, dear readers; you won't find better ones anywhere. I happen to look at the underside of a pie and there I see some written words. I felt it at once in my heart; I went to the little table—half the notebook was missing! She had taken those pages for her pies. What could I do? There's no sense in quarreling at our age! Last year I happened to pass through Gadyach. Before reaching town, I tied a knot in my handkerchief on purpose so as not to forget to ask Stepan Ivanovich [End Page 93] about it. That wasn't all: I promised myself that as soon as I sneezed in town, I'd remember it. But it was all in vain. I drove through town, sneezed, blew my nose into my handkerchief, but still forgot all about it; I remembered only when I'd gone about six miles past the town gate. What was to be done? I had to publish it without the ending. However, if someone absolutely wants to know what happened subsequently in this tale, all he should do is go to Gadyach and ask Stepan Ivanovich. He'll relate it with great pleasure, only he'll tell the whole story from the beginning. He lives not far from the stone church. There's a small lane: as soon as you turn into it, his house will be at the second or third gate. Better still: when you see a large post in the yard with a quail sitting on top, and a heavyset old woman in a green skirt comes out to meet you (there's no harm in saying that he's a bachelor), it's his house. However, you can meet him at the market where he goes every morning before nine o'clock to select some fish and greens for his table and where he chats with Father Antip or the Jewish tax-farmer.1 You'll recognize him immediately because nobody else...