About the Author
ANDREY PLATONOVICH PLATONOV (1899–1951) was the son of a railway worker. The eldest of ten children, he started work at the age of 15 as a mechanic and assistant engine driver. He began publishing poems and articles in 1918, at the same time as studying engineering. Throughout much of the 1920s he worked as a land reclamation expert. Between 1927 and 1932 he wrote his most politically controversial works, some of them first published in the Soviet Union only in the late 1980s. Other stories were published at the time, but subjected to vicious criticism. Stalin is reputed to have written “scum” in the margin of the story “For Future Use”, and to have said to Fadeev (later to be Secretary of the Writers’ Union), “Give him a good belting – for future use.” During the 1930s Platonov made several confessions of error, but went on writing stories only marginally more acceptable to the authorities. His 15-year-old son was sent to the camps in 1938 and released three years later, only to die of the tuberculosis he had contracted there. During the Second World War Platonov worked as a war correspondent and published several volumes of stories, but came under attack again immediately after the war. He died in 1951, probably of tuberculosis caught from his son. To this day unpublished works continue to surface in Russian journals: Happy Moscow, which was never finished, was first published in Russia only in 1991, and a play, Noah’s Ark, in 1993.
ROBERT CHANDLER’s translations from the Russian include Vasily Grossman’s Life and Fate and Igor Golomstock’s Totalitarian Art. He is a co-translator of several volumes of Platonov, and the translator of the Everyman’s Poetry editions of Sappho and Apollinaire.
ELIZABETH CHANDLER is a co-translator of two other volumes of Platonov, The Return and The Portable Platonov.
ANGELA LIVINGSTONE is a Research Professor at the University of Essex. She has published books on Pasternak and Lou Andreas Salome, is the translator of Marina Tsvetaeva’s epic poem “The Ratcatcher” and her essays on poetry, and is a co-translator of The Return and The Portable Platonov.
NADYA BOUROVA’S translations into Russian include stories by Edna O’Brien, Sean O’Casey and Virginia Woolf. She is a co-translator of The Portable Platonov.
ERIC NAIMAN teaches at the University of California, Berkeley. He is the author of Sex in Public: The Incarnation of Early Soviet Ideology.
Also by Andrey Platonov in English translation
THE PORTABLE PLATONOV
THE FOUNDATION PIT
THE RETURN
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Author
Also by Andrey Platonov
Title Page
Preface
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Notes
Copyright
PREFACE
PLATONOV IS A MASTER, ONE OF THE GREATEST WRITERS of the last century in any language. It is a privilege to have the task of translating such remarkable work into English for the first time.
The ideal translator of Platonov would be perfectly bilingual and have an encyclopaedic knowledge of Soviet life. He would be able to detect deeply buried allusions not only to the classics of Russian and European literature, but also to speeches by Stalin, to articles by such varied figures as Bertrand Russell and Lunacharsky (the first Bolshevik Commissar for Enlightenment), to copies of Pravda from the thirties and to long-forgotten minor works of Socialist Realism. He would be a gifted and subtle punster. Most important of all, his ear for English speech-patterns would be so perfect that he could maintain the illusion of a speaking voice, or voices, even while the narrator or the individual characters are using extraordinary language or expressing extraordinary thoughts. Much has been written about Platonov’s creativity with language; not enough has been written about the subtlety with which – even in straight narrative – he reproduces the music of speech, its constantly shifting intonations and rhythms. If Platonov’s command of tone and idiom were less perfect, his linguistic experimentation would by now seem self-conscious and dated. In short, Platonov is a poet, and almost every line of his finest work poses problems for the translator. A perfect translation, like the original, would sound not only extraordinary and shocking, but also – in some indefinable way – right and natural.
I realized several years ago that I could translate Platonov only with an enormous amount of help from others. Translating can be lonely work; sharing the task with others has been a joy. And I feel Platonov would have enjoyed the thought of this volume being the product of collective labour. I am deeply grateful to all my co-translators: Nadya Bourova, with her near-perfect command of both English and Russian; my wife Elizabeth, with her sensitivity to matters of rhythm, idiom and tone; Angela Livingstone, with her profound understanding of the nature of translation and her refusal to settle for a plausible second-best; and Eric Naiman, with his sensitivity to word-play and his deep knowledge of Platonov’s times.
I also wish to thank Anne Berkeley, Lucy Chandler, Olga Kouznetsova, Lars Lih, Mark Miller, Dorothy Schwarz and David Tugwell, all of whom have subjected every page of this translation to unusually attentive scrutiny. Flora and Igor Golomstock, Natalya Kornienko, Olga Makarova, Natalya Poltavtseva, and Valery Vyugin have helped with particular difficulties in the original. I have gained insights from Anne Coldefy-Faucard’s French translation. Gabriel White, Eric Naiman’s research assistant at the University of California, has made an invaluable contribution to the notes. I am also grateful to Clint Walker for allowing us to quote in our notes from his fine article about Happy Moscow (forthcoming in Essays in Poetics, Keele).
* * *
One further point: one of the most notoriously untranslatable Russian words is toskà. Vladimir Nabokov has written: “No single word in English renders all the shades of toskà. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, lovesickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom …”1 Perhaps quixotically, we have decided in some instances to leave this word untranslated, to introduce Russian toskà to the pragmatic English. After all, if our language has room for ennui, why should it close the door to toskà?
* * *
Happy Moscow is unfinished. The original text was first published in Novy Mir No 9 (1991). The volume Strana Filosofov III (September 1999) includes a slightly different version of the text, prepared by Natalya Kornienko, which shows all of Platonov’s changes and revisions to his manuscript. Except where indicated, this is the version we have followed.
ROBERT CHANDLER
INTRODUCTION
ANDREY PLATONOV WAS A GOOD LISTENER. EAGERLY, with both horror and tenderness, he eavesdropped on the changes in the Russian language that accompanied the incarnation of communist ideology. A voracious reader in the fields of philosophy, politics, science, technology and literature, Platonov hoped for the transformation of man and the universe, but he could not help mourning everything that would have to perish in that process: not only his fellow men but anything bearing the imprint of humanity. His work is about the exhilarating power of the language that was so radically transforming Russia in the first two decades of Soviet power, but also about the way in which this language distorted human lives and minds. In a variety of styles ranging from the hideous to the sentimental to the comic, Platonov laid bare the destruction wrought by ideology’s attempts to remake both man and matter. Platonov makes us realize that no understanding of the Soviet “adventure” is possible unless one reflects upon the mutilating magic of words.
Platonov’s mature works are often disconcerting to first-time readers. He was far more interested in philosophy and language than in plot. With the notable exception of The Foundation Pit (1930), his novels and longer stories are episodic and unconcerned with the development of character. His chief preoccupations are philosophical issues as reflected or, more often, distorted in the political rhetoric of his day. In a genre that might best be termed “the ideological picaresque” Platonov’s heroes are philosophical “problems” such as the desire for moral purity, the relation of body to soul, the function of language, the meaning of materialism and – above all – the yearning for all-embracing community. Paradoxically, this craving for social unity is expressed in a loosely plotted form. Platonov’s reluctance to depict the desire for social cohesion in a more structured form seems to arise from a belief that cohesion can be achieved only at the cost of excision and purification. Unwilling to exclude, Platonov keeps returning to things which have been left out, to the remnants and wastes produced by the demand for philosophical coherence.
1
Born on 1 September 1899, the eldest child of a railway worker in Voronezh, Platonov left school at the age of 15 to help support his large family. His work in a series of machine shops and factories was interrupted by the Revolution, which significantly expanded his horizon of expectations. In early 1918 he enrolled in the Railway Polytechnic, where he specialized in electrical engineering. He also began to publish prolifically in several local newspapers. His early articles cover a wide variety of topics and are typical of the time in their striking enthusiasm for the reconstruction of the entire cosmos. They betray a range of influences – from the movement for Proletarian Culture (the Proletkul’t) sponsored by Aleksandr Bogdanov, to popular “decadent” Western thinkers such as Otto Weininger. Platonov also wrote poetry: short, sentimental verses that elegiacally celebrate maternity and nature, as well as wild proletarian fantasies that envision the fundamental remaking of nature in a world indistinguishable from a factory.
Though his father had a strong class sensibility, Platonov himself had attended a parish school and, like many authors in the Proletkul’t, was not averse to using religious imagery and language. Unlike many other young proletarian writers, however, he appears to have read widely among the Russian spiritual philosophers active at the turn of the twentieth century. He was particularly impressed by Nikolay Fyodorov (1829–1903), a highly eccentric but influential thinker whose Philosophy of the Common Task proposed the physical resurrection of the dead as part of a massive spiritual and scientific undertaking that would combine the conquest of nature with the overcoming of the tragic modern split between mind and body. Essential to the success of this undertaking was the subjugation of sexual urges and the replacement of the sexual instinct by a pious imperative to remember (to recall and, quite literally, piece together) the dead. Less avowedly scientific, but equally utopian, the philosophical writings of Vladimir Solovyov (1853–1900) enshrined the related notions of “sobornost’” – social and spiritual collectivity – and “vseedinstvo” – all-encompassing unity. Like Fyodorov, Solovyov deplored sexual activity on the grounds that it led to people uniting on an animalistic and insufficiently communal basis and so impeded “all-penetrating” collectivity. Chastity was an essential step if mankind was to reach the highest, nonsexual level of love. Although neither Fyodorov nor Solovyov was a Marxist, their works had a strong appeal for the traditionally ascetic, self-sacrificing Russian intelligentsia, and their focus on the importance of community made their views susceptible to an improbable fusion with a Marxist-Leninist worldview.2
Another paradoxical influence for a young Communist writer was Russian Symbolism’s preoccupation with the power of incantation. In the nineteenth century the limitations imposed on political expression had conferred upon literature in Russia a privileged status as a harbinger of, and vehicle for, social and economic change. In the first 15 years of the twentieth century, the Russian Symbolists took this notion further, finding in the popular, rural tradition of spells and incantations a model for more radical transformative expressions.3 In the aesthetic manifestos of Andrey Bely and, later, Velimir Khlebnikov, language does not just reflect; it creates, or conjures, a world into being and is a primary sphere of voluntaristic endeavour.4
Although the Bolsheviks, as militant materialists, would never have acknowledged Bely or Khlebnikov as their avatars,5 they too were enamoured of charismatic potential and prophetic, privileged voluntarism. They saw the Party’s role as one of active intervention but, in the cataclysmic struggle engulfing Russia, words were as important as bullets; the newspapers and leaflets intended for barely literate workers and peasants constituted an essential second front.6 Not surprisingly, the triumph of Bolshevism was easily envisioned as the victory of a new language. The official discourse, disseminated by authoritative Party and governmental organs, encompassed not only revolutionary acronyms, but also a new style of speaking (and thinking), a new stock of slogans, images and genres. Stalin’s speeches accord tremendous importance to language itself: “Everyone is talking about the successes of Soviet power in the area of the kolkhoz movement. […] What does this all say?”7 For Stalin, events were primarily discursive and metadiscursive, often to a dizzying degree: “Remember the latest events in our Party. Remember the latest slogans, which the Party has put forward lately in connection with the new class shifts in our country. I am speaking about slogans, such as the slogan of self-criticism, the slogan of heightened struggle with bureaucracy and the purge of the Soviet apparatus, the slogan of organization, etc.”8 In a country where everything is political, slogans become indistinguishable from events and are intended to have immediate consequences in the real world. (It is not for nothing that we speak of a Soviet dictatorship.) Essentially, one can see the entire premise of Socialist Realism – that writers, “the engineers of human souls”, should show life in its “revolutionary unfolding” and thus speed the advent of the inevitable future – as a form of incantation.
In Platonov’s early, journalistic period, he seems to have accepted uncritically the Marxist, spiritual and linguistic utopias available to him. His articles are imbued with the ideological fervour one would expect from a participant in the Civil War; at the same time they frequently incorporate a Solovyovian or Fyodorovan doctrine of self-negating brotherhood and chastity for which one would be hard-pressed to find a source in Marx. When more pragmatic policies were adopted by the Party soon after the Red Army’s victory, Platonov seems to have voiced his disgust.9 In late 1921 he was expelled from the Party, which he had joined just a year before. Platonov spent most of the first half of the decade engaged in engineering work; as a land reclamation specialist, he assisted in the planning and construction of a large number of dams and other irrigation projects. Yet he went on writing stories and articles, with a particular focus on what we might now call science fiction. In 1926 he moved to Moscow, where he continued to work as an engineer but also established himself as one of the most unusual figures on the Soviet literary scene: a genuinely proletarian writer whose peculiar use of ideological language generated profoundly ambivalent works. In his works of the late 1920s – most notably the novels Chevengur and The Foundation Pit – we find a writer who still subscribes, at some deep emotional level, to the utopian sentiments of his youth but who has become increasingly critical of the havoc created by the untempered pursuit of noble ideas. The heroes of Chevengur believe in an apocalyptic, quasi-religious Utopia; as they strive to exterminate the local “bourgeoisie”, they dream of universal brotherhood and of their own version of the Holy Grail: the corpse of Rosa Luxemburg. Their actions betray an inability to distinguish the literal and figurative dimensions of language; Platonov portrays these killers as horrifying, yet attractive, victims of utopian ideals and rhetoric. Don Quixote has returned as a collective of mass murderers. In both Chevengur and The Foundation Pit – which describes an attempt to create a gigantic home for the entire proletariat – the noble collectivist spirit is portrayed as ultimately suicidal. Sasha Dvanov, the hero of Chevengur, seeks a final incarnation of Utopia in a watery grave, while Nastya, the little girl who symbolizes the hopes of the future, is buried in the ever-deepening foundation pit.
Platonov sent Chevengur to Maksim Gorky, who had been interested in his work ever since he read Platonov’s first published collection of stories. Gorky was impressed by the power of Platonov’s writing but criticized the “overly drawn-out” structure of the novel. More importantly, however, he pronounced the work unprintable in Soviet Russia:
Publication will be prevented by your anarchic cast of mind, which is evidently inherent in the nature of your “spirit”. Whether you wanted to or not, you have portayed reality in a lyrical-satirical light, and that clearly is not acceptable to our censor. For all the tenderness of your attitude towards people, they are painted ironically by you, they appear before the reader not so much as revolutionaries, but as “cranks” and “half-wits”.10
Neither Chevengur nor The Foundation Pit appeared in Russia until the time of perestroika. And when Platonov succeeded in publishing works in the leading literary journals, both he and the journals themselves inevitably attracted fierce criticism. For three years he was unable to publish a single story. A certain measure of redemption came only in 1934 when Platonov was included in a brigade of writers sent to Turkmenia. This trip led to the publication of one tale, though its major literary fruit, the novel Dzhan, remained unpublished for three decades.
2
Platonov began writing Happy Moscow during this period of enforced silence. His drafts and notebooks reveal that he began working on the novel in 1932 or 1933.11 In early 1936 he signed a contract with a publishing house, but the novel never appeared. Platonov may have abandoned Happy Moscow because he realized that it was unpublishable, but we cannot be sure: his sense of what was or was not publishable had never been reliable. The abandonment of the novel coincided with the discovery of new outlets for stories and critical articles, and Platonov seems from this time to have directed his energy towards work in these less risky, smaller genres.
1933 began with Stalin’s announcement that the first Five Year Plan had been fulfilled a year early. The following three or four years were a time of triumphalism. Socialism was declared to have achieved its “ultimate and irreversible victory” in Russia.12 The Second Five-Year Plan brought a new focus on the joys of consumption. Earlier advertisements for Soviet products had invariably displayed images of the factories that produced them; now posters depicted happy families enjoying these products in the home.13 The opening of facilities designed for the leisure of the socialist victors was heralded as a sign of the times; jazz halls and parks “of culture and rest” were part of a new lifestyle of pleasure suddenly available to, and even incumbent upon, all loyal Soviet subjects. The newspapers trumpeted the importance of each individual citizen to the success of the Soviet enterprise; in a 1935 speech Stalin attacked “indifference” to the fates of individuals and exhorted the graduates of the Red Army Academy to “learn to value people, to value cadres, to value each worker capable of contributing to our general good.”14 Stalin’s speeches introduced the most quoted slogan of the period: “life has become better, life has become merrier”.15 The new focus on the enjoyment of life brought with it a demand for the cultivation of popular taste: newly urbanized peasants were instructed about what works of classical literature they should read, how they should groom themselves, how they should furnish their apartments (with tablecloths and lamp shades).16 This campaign for “cultured life” (kul’turnost’) was essentially a crash-course in the adoption of bourgeois practices, now repackaged as the tokens of socialist prosperity. “Happiness”, a word previously coded as bourgeois and self-indulgent, became a marker of the fortunate condition of Soviet society as a whole. The word “prosperity”, too, became a slogan of the day; Stalin used it to attack ascetic attitudes within the Party and the working class, declaring that “socialism can conquer only on the basis of the high productivity of labour, at a higher level than under capitalism, on the basis of an abundance of products and of all sorts of consumer goods, on the basis of a prosperous and cultured life for all members of society.”17
The new high level of productivity was epitomized by the Stakhanovite movement: a campaign that encouraged increased economic output by loudly proclaiming the achievements of especially productive workers and rewarding them with new suits, record players, radios and – above all – trips to Moscow. Moscow became the consummate symbol of the Stalinist paradise; the city was torn apart by new building projects, the most prominent of which may have been the construction of the Moscow Metropolitan. The city was portrayed in books and movies as a fairy-tale capital; a place where “cultured” dreams came true. All this, of course, was a myth; living standards remained low, the Stakhanovite movement generated rising production norms that most workers could not possibly meet, and the Soviet Union grew ever more repressive.18 Yet this depiction of prosperity was entirely in keeping with the doctrine of Socialist Realism, enshrined by the First Congress of the Union of Writers in 1934. Writers were supposed to reflect in present-day surroundings the rapidly approaching world of the future, and in the fulfilment of this task they were joined by film-makers and, above all, journalists. Even the cartographers took part; the German immigrant Wolfgang Leonhard later recalled that when he arrived in Moscow in the mid-1930s, he had to orient himself by using the only two maps he could find: one published in 1925 and the other, more recent, showing how the city would look in the mid-1940s.19
Concomitant with the enshrining of pleasure as a token of ascendant communism was a reaccentuation of the fertile female form and the reproductive body. Sexuality had been a topic of great ideological concern in the 1920s, where it was often seen as a threat to the communist enterprise. Now sexual reproduction – the demographic proof of collective joy – was the order of the day. As Stalin put it in characteristically cheery fashion:
Now everyone here is saying that the material condition of workers has significantly improved, that life has become better, happier. This, of course, is true. But this is causing the population to reproduce much faster than in olden times. Mortality has fallen, the birth rate is up, and the demographic gain is thus incomparably greater, This, of course, is good, and we applaud it. (Merry animation in the hall.)
Platonov was deeply disturbed by this focus on merriment, pleasure and prosperity. In “Among Animals and Plants”,20 a savage, moving story written at this time, he inverts the stereotypical plot of More’s Utopia, where the ideal (and, lest we forget, satirically portrayed) society is a remote island hidden from the “normal” world. In Platonov’s story, the hero is a worker on an isolated railway line in the North who “understands” (through the radio, newspapers and books) that a paradise has been built and exists all around him but is himself unable to see or sense it. He obtains access to this world only when he stages an accident, cripples himself in saving his fellow workers from injury and is rewarded with a trip to Moscow. (His wife, apparently thinking of the likes of Moscow Chestnova, is afraid he will meet pretty parachutists there!) Self-mutilation is seen as the admission ticket to the new Utopia.
The slogans of the mid-1930s seem to have reawakened the ascetic tendencies that were so strong in the young Platonov; Happy Moscow and other writings portray the new Soviet preoccupation with pleasure as virtually obscene. In an article sent to Gorky but unpublished until just a few years ago, Platonov explained one aspect of his dissatisfaction:
One must not thrust oneself forward and get drunk on life: our time is better and more serious than blissful pleasure. Every one who gets drunk will be caught and will perish without fail – like a little mouse, who crawls into a mousetrap, in order to “get drunk” on the lard used as bait. There is a lot of lard around us, but every piece is bait.21
Platonov saw the essence of “socialist tragedy” (the title of his article) in contemporary man’s lack of readiness to cope with the power of technology. Technology was fast allowing man to regulate all-important elemental processes, but man was still inadequate to these tasks and so susceptible to all sorts of physical and ideological temptations. Ideology, Platonov explained in the same article, “is located not on an external height, not in the ‘superstructure’, but in the very heart of man and in the centre of his social being”.
In essence, Happy Moscow is about the gulf between, on the one hand, the technology and even the language of “triumphant” socialism, and, on the other hand, human souls, hearts and minds. Socialism is hollow if it is only for the best and the brightest and does not concern itself with those in danger of being left behind. The desire for happiness is natural, but happiness ought not to be exclusive, nor should it be founded on either egotism or abstractions. Happiness should come from a (still elusive) compatibility of ideology and the heart; abstract schemes for social transformation will bring benefit only if informed by intimate love for other human beings and the physical world. Happy Moscow castigates the premature, triumphant celebration of individual and pseudo-collective pleasure; at the same time, “thinking two thoughts at once”, the novel reveals the painful price paid by individual ascetics who love the whole of humanity so much that they are ashamed of intimacy with another person and even of the material necessity of having (or being) a self.
3
The hero of Platonov’s novel is not so much an individual woman as the idea and the language of Collectivity. Moscow herself (as a synecdoche for the metropolitan showcase and thus for the Soviet ideal as a whole) is a kind of Every Citizen; repeatedly she is introduced to the reader obliquely – a woman is described in a particular situation and then – presto! – that woman turns out to be Moscow Chestnova. Moving from one occupation to the next, Moscow represents the antithesis of bourgeois (and novelistic!) individualism; her identity is unfixed, she repeatedly reincarnates.
Moscow desires to participate in every aspect of the new world taking shape around her. She takes seriously (and absurdly!) the Dostoevskian dictate that “All are responsible for all” and longs to ensure that absolutely everything functions well – from the heating of water in the pipes of dance-hall showers, to the driving of piles into the Moscow River, to the conception of “new people”. (In Dostoevsky’s formulation all people are responsible for one another; Moscow, as a devoted materialist, is also responsible for the functioning of all technology and all things.) As a woman, she selflessly gives herself to one man after another, becoming a sexual hypostasis of the communal ideal, the home where there will always be room for someone else to fit.22 Indeed, as an object of desire, she embodies the yearning encouraged by Stalinist ideology – Moscow as the ideal centre which the entire nation strives to penetrate. (Her lovers seem to be acting in accordance with the famous Chekhovian refrain “V Moskvu, v moskvu” – (in)to Moscow, (in)to Moscow.) Moscow’s sexual activity parodies the Solovyovian ideal of collectivity, or, more accurately, it shows how debased that notion has become in Stalin’s Russia. Not unexpectedly, Happy Moscow depicts sexual union as unsatisfying; true to Solovyov’s paradigm, those who engage in it feel less, rather than more unified with the surrounding community.23 (After having sexual relations with Moscow, Sartorius feels only “indifference to the interests of life”.) In the terminology of Otto Weininger, whom Platonov read avidly both in his youth and later,24 Moscow is an embodiment of both “types” of women – the Mother and the Prostitute. Her relationship to the world is not only sexual but umbilical: “had it been possible to connect the whole world to it, her heart could have regulated the course of events”. Paradoxically, Moscow’s sexual promiscuity is a kind of ideological asceticism. She does not allow herself to find happiness with a single man, because she feels compelled to devote herself to everyone around her. What good is her life to her, she asks, “without the whole of the USSR?”
At the novel’s conclusion, Sartorius follows Moscow in attempting to transcend the limits of individuality; he changes his identity, finds a new job, gives himself a crash-course in Stalinist “culturedness” and moves in with a new wife and family. Finally he buys someone else’s passport, disappears from Platonov’s text, and the novel refers to him henceforth only as “Grunyakhin”; language and, above all, the language of official documents, is a serious matter.25
Platonov understands that the Soviet corruption of the communist ideal has occurred in large measure through the degradation of language. The word obshchiy (meaning “general,” “shared,” “mutual” or “common”) is accorded exceptional prominence in this novel about community. Occasionally the word passes by almost imperceptibly, in common idioms, or as part of compound words which reveal themselves to be ideological puns only when examined more closely. Thus, for example, the young Moscow writes her essay for school za obshchim stolomobshchezhitieso-obshchayutsyadrug’s drugom myslyuobshchee dobrov obshchem ona byla khorosha i nich’yaall in allobshchiyobshchiyobshchiy letniy sumrakobshchaya starukha