THE WOMAN WHO COULD NOT READ

By MICHAEL ZOSHCHENKO

NOT so long ago I knew a woman in Leningrad who could not read. Her husband had quite an im- portant job as a Soviet official. He was a man with his head well screwed on: energetic, devoted to the cause of Socialism, and all that's required, you know. And though he was a common man from the country, and never had had higher education, yet during his life in town he learned a good many things, and could make speeches in front of any audience. He even could quite successfully argue with scientific men and specialists of all kinds, physiologists, electricians, and what not.

But his wife Pelagheia was a woman who could neither read nor write. Although they had both come to town at the same time, she had not learned anything at all, and was unable even to sign her name. Her husband was very much upset about this, and did not know what to do about it.

Especially as he was always extremely busy and had no time to spare for educating his wife. He often said to her : " Why don't you learn to read somehow, my dear, or at least learn to sign your name? Our country, you know, is slowly emerging from the darkness and barbarism in which it had been plunged for centuries. We are liquidating ignorance and illiteracy all around us. And here are you, the wife of a Director of the Agricultural Trust, unable to read or write, or understand anything that's written. You cannot imagine how this worries me."

But to this Pelagheia simply waved her hand at him and said: " Ach, Ivan Nikolaevich, why are you worrying about such trifles? Why should I waste my time on learning how to read? I did not do it when I was young, and now I'm getting on in years, and my fingers wouldn't bend the right way if I tried to hold a pencil and trace A B C. Why should I study? Studying is for young children—for pioneers. As for me, I'll get through the rest of my life without learning." Her husband, of course, sighed with grief and said: " Ekh, ekh, Pelagheia Ivanovna."

Once, however, he brought home a primer. " Here, Polia," he says, " is the latest primer for adults, based on the latest scientific findings. I'll teach you myself. And please don't argue about it." Pelagheia did not argue, but she smiled quietly, took the primer out of his hands, turned it about, then put it into a drawer, thinking it might come in useful some time, for someone's children.

Then one day she happened to sit down in order to do some sewing. Her husband's coat had to be patched: the sleeve had worn through. She sat down, took a needle and put her hand underneath the coat, preparing to sew. Some- thing rustled inside the coat. " Is it money?" thought Pelag- heia. She looked inside the pocket. It was a letter. A clean tidy envelope with a fine writing on it, and the paper seemed to be perfumed with eau-de-cologne or some other scent.

For a moment Pelagheia's heart stood still. " Can it be that Ivan Nikolaevich is deceiving me?" she thought. " Can he be carrying on a love correspondence with educated women and laughing at me, an illiterate fool, behind my back?" She looked at the envelope, took the letter out, opened it—but could not read it. For the first tune in her life Pelagheia felt sorry that she could not read. " I don't care whether it's mine or not, I must find out what's in this letter," she thought. " Perhaps all my life depends on it. Perhaps I'd better go back to my village and do peasant work again." And inside her she was boiling with vexation and anger. Her heart was simply turning over in her breast with grief.

She began to cry. She began to recollect all sorts of little things about Ivan Nikolaevich. Yes, he had certainly changed in the last few weeks or so He had begun to look after his moustache, and comb it every day. He also washed his hands far too often. And he had taken to wearing a new cloth cap. Pelagheia sat thinking these thoughts, looking at the letter, and weeping like a fountain. But, of course, she did not know what was in the letter because she could not read. She did not even understand the alphabet. And she was naturally ashamed to show the letter to a stranger.

At long last she finished crying, put the letter away into a drawer, patched up Ivan Nikolaevich's coat and waited for his return. When he came back, she showed no sign. Just the opposite: she spoke to him in a calm, even voice, and even hinted that she would rather like to have some lessons, and that she was fed up with being a dull and illiterate peasant woman. Ivan Nikolaevich was overjoyed at that. " Excellent," said he. " I will teach you myself."

" Very well, you teach me," said Pelagheia. And she gazed hard at her husband's trim little moustache. And again her heart stood still for a moment, and then turned over inside her with vexation and grief.

For months on end Pelagheia studied day after day. She patiently put letters together into syllables and then syllables into words. Then she traced letters and learned sentences by heart. And every evening she took the mysterious letter out of her drawer and puzzled over its secret meaning. It was not, however, very easy. Only after several months did Pelagheia master the art of reading written stuff. One morning, as soon as Ivan Nikolaevich had left for his work, she took the letter out and began to read it. She found it rather difficult to puzzle out the fine handwriting. But the faint scent of the eau-de-cologne coming from the letter egged her on. The letter was addressed to her husband.

" Esteemed Comrade Kuchkin," it read, " I am sending you the primer I had promised to get for you. I think that your wife will be able to master the art of reading and writing in two or three months. Do promise, my dear man, to make her do it. Talk to her, explain to her how disgraceful it is, in fact, to be an illiterate peasant woman.

" Just now, preparing for our anniversary, we are liquidat- ing illiteracy over the whole of the Union by every means, and yet somehow we tend to forget our own families.

" Please promise me to carry this through.

" With Communist greetings,

" MARIA BLOCIIINA."

Pelagheia read the letter through twice, and, with a feeling of some strange and new vexation, cried again. But, soon after, reflecting that everything was all right as far as Ivan Nikolaevich and her married life were concerned, she grew calmer and put away both the primer and the ill-fated letter. Altogether a surprising case of liquidation of illiteracy. (Translated by ELISAVETA FEN.)