MIKHAIL ZOSHCHENKO
His lips are made up and his eyebrows penciled.
On his face is a smile-a drunken and rather embarrassed
smile. Someone says:
"Seryozha, come .and sit with us."
Now I see it is Esenin.
He sits down heavily at our table. He looks angrily at one
of the drunks. He mutters:
"I'll push your face in ... get out ..."
I pat Esenin's hand. He calms down. He smiles again
sadly, and with embarrassment.
Behind the made-up mouth I see pale lips.
Someone else comes over to our table.
Someone shouts: "We must put the tables together."
They start moving the tables.
I go outside.
At Gorky's
We go into the kitchen. On the stove are large copper sauce-
pans.
We go through the kitchen into the dining room.
Gorky comes towards us.
There is something elegant in his noiseless walk and in his
movements and gestures.
He doesn't smile as a host ought to, but his face is friendly.
He sits down at the table in the dining room. We settle
down on chairs and on a low brightly-colored divan. I see Fedin,
Vsevolod Ivanov in a soldier's great coat, Slonimsky and Gruz–
dey.. , .
Coughing from time to time, Gorky talks about literature,
the people, and the tasks of a writer.
He speaks in an interesting and even absorbing way. But I
hardly listen to him. I watch him drumming his fingers nervously
on the table, and almost imperceptibly smiling to himself. I
watch his amazing face-a clever, rather coarse and far from
simple face.
