Diary of a Madman and Other Stories Page 7

  “Very well, to show I like you and that I wish to be acquainted with you, I shall pay fifteen roubles!”

  Schiller remained deep in thought for a moment: as an honest German, he again felt rather conscience-struck. Wishing himself to dissuade Pirogov from giving the order, he announced that he could not have the spurs ready for a fortnight. But Pirogov made no objection and expressed perfect satisfaction.

  The German began pondering how he could best do the work so that it would really be worth fifteen roubles.

  At this point the blonde entered the workshop and began burrowing about on the table which was loaded with coffee-pots. The lieutenant made use of Schiller’s thoughtfulness and stepping closer to her, squeezed her arm, which was bare to the shoulder.

  This displeased Schiller very much. “Mein Frau!” he exclaimed.

  “Was wollen Sie doch?” answered the blonde.

  “Gehen Sie into the kitchen!”

  The blonde disappeared.

  “In a fortnight, then?” said Pirogov.

  “Yes, in a fortnight,” answered Schiller thoughtfully: “I have a great deal of work on hand at the moment.”

  “Good-bye! I’ll call again!”

  “Good-bye,” answered Schiller shutting the door after him.

  Lieutenant Pirogov decided not to abandon his quest, despite the fact that the German girl had given him a definite rebuff. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be unfriendly towards him, especially as his charm and his dazzling rank gave him full right to attention. It should also be mentioned that Schiller’s wife, in spite of all her prettiness, was very foolish. As a matter of fact, foolishness is particularly attractive in a pretty woman. At any rate I have known many husbands who are delighted with their wives’ foolishness, and see it as a sign of childlike innocence. Beauty works absolute miracles. All the spiritual shortcomings of a beautiful woman, instead of repelling, become somehow extraordinarily attractive; vice itself seems graceful in them: but as soon as beauty vanishes a woman must be twenty times cleverer than a man, to attract, if not love, at least respect. As a matter of fact, Schiller’s wife, foolish as she was, still remained true to her obligations, and therefore it was rather difficult for Pirogov to succeed in his bold undertaking; but the defeat of obstacles is always delightful and blonde became more interesting to him day after day. He began to make enquires about the spurs rather often, so that Schiller began to weary of him. He made every effort to complete the work on the spurs as quickly as possible: at last they were finished.

  “What perfect workmanship, I declare!” exclaimed Lieutenant Pirogov, on seeing the spurs. “Jove, how well-made they are! Our general himself hasn’t anything like this!”

  A feeling of self-satisfaction filled Schiller’s heart. His eyes began to look rather merry and he became quite reconciled in his mind to Pirogov. “The Russian officer knows a thing or two,” he thought to himself.

  “I imagine you could make a handle for a dagger and things of that kind, then?”

  “Oh yes, certainly!” said Schiller with a smile.

  “Then please make me a hilt for a dagger. I’ll bring it round; I have a fine Turkish dagger but I would like to have a different handle.”

  This pronouncement was like a bombshell to Schiller. His brow wrinkled suddenly. “Here we are again!” he thought to himself, cursing inwardly for bringing his work on himself. He considered it would be dishonorable to refuse now; and besides the Russian officer had praised his work. He expressed his agreement by nodding his head slightly; but the kiss which Pirogov pressed insolently on the pretty blonde’s mouth, made him extremely doubtful.

  I think it would not be irrelevant to acquaint the reader somewhat more closely with Schiller. Schiller was absolutely German in the full sense of that word. From the time when he was only twenty years of age, from that happy time, which a Russian spends gadding about, Schiller had made plans for his whole life and never in any circumstances made any exceptions to his rules. He decided to get up at seven o’clock, to dine at two, be precise in everything and get drunk every Sunday. He set himself the task of making a capital of fifty thousand in ten years, and this was true and irrevocable as fate, because a clerk will sooner forget to glance into the entrance hall of his chief’s apartments, than a German go back on his word. He never increased his expenditure in any circumstances; and if the price of potatoes went up exceptionally he never spent an extra penny, but merely decreased the quantity he bought, and though he sometimes remained rather hungry, he soon grew accustomed to that. His tidiness went to such lengths that he rationed himself to kissing his wife not more than twice a day, and to prevent himself kissing her an extra time he never put more than one teaspoonful of pepper in his soup; it’s true that on Sundays this rule was not so strictly adhered to, because Schiller used to drink two bottles of beer and one bottle of carroway vodka which he always blamed. He did not drink like your Englishman who locks his door immediately after dinner and gets pickled alone. On the contrary, like a German, he always drank with spirit, either with the cobbler Hoffmann or with Kuntz the carpenter, another German and a great drinker. This then was the character of the worthy Schiller, who was finally placed in an extremely awkward position. Although he was phlegmatic and a German, Pirogov’s actions aroused in him something akin to jealousy. He thought till he was blue in the face and could not find a way to get rid of this Russian officer. Meanwhile, Pirogov, puffing at a pipe among his friends—since Destiny has arranged that wherever you get officers you get pipes—puffing at a pipe amongst his friends, hinted meaningly with a charming smile at an intrigue with a pretty German, with whom, to judge from his words, he was already on most intimate terms, and whom in reality he had almost lost hope of winning over to his side.

  One day walking in the Meshchanskaya and gazing at the house which bore Schiller’s sign with its coffee-pots and samovars, to his great delight he saw the blonde’s head hanging out of a window and watching the passers-by. He stopped, waved his hand and said: “Gut’ Morgen.” The blonde waved to him as to a friend.

  “Is your husband in?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “When is he not at home?”

  “He’s not at home on Sundays,” the foolish little blonde answered.

  “That’s not bad,” Pirogov thought to himself, “we must make use of that,” and next Sunday he appeared before the blonde like a bolt from the blue. Schiller was certainly not at home. The pretty mistress of the house was frightened; but this time Pirogov was rather careful, treated her with great respect, and bowing showed off the full beauty of his lissome, tight-laced figure. He joked very pleasantly and respectfully, but the foolish little German only replied in monosyllables. Finally having tried everything and found nothing to amuse her, he suggested they should dance. The German agreed immediately because German girls are always eager to dance. Pirogov built great hopes on this: in the first place it was something she enjoyed, secondly it would demonstrate his tournure and grace, thirdly dances bring people close together and he would be able more easily to embrace the pretty German and make a beginning; in short he thought this would bring complete success. He began to hum some sort of gavotte, knowing one must go gradually with German girls. The pretty girl moved to the middle of the room and raised a lovely foot. This attitude delighted Pirogov so madly that he flung himself forward to kiss her. The German began to cry out and by this increased her attractiveness still more in Pirogov’s eyes. He covered her with kisses. Suddenly the door opened and Schiller came in with Hoffmann and the carpenter Kuntz. All these worthy craftsmen were as drunk as lords.

  But I will leave my readers to imagine Schiller’s anger and indignation.

  “Insolence!” he shouted furiously, “how dare you kiss my wife! You’re a scoundrel, not a Russian officer. Devil take it, isn’t it so, Hoffmann my friend, I’m a German not a Russian swine.” (Hoffmann answered in the affirmative). “No horns for me! Take him by the collar friend Hoffmann, I don’t want
to,” he added, waving his hands about violently, while his face began to resemble the red stuff of his waistcoat. “I’ve lived eight years in St. Petersburg, my mother’s in Swabia and my uncle in Nuremberg, I’m a German and not a horned sirloin! Out with the lot of him, friend Hoffmann! Take him by the arms and legs, Kamerad Kuntz!”

  And the Germans seized Pirogov by his arms and legs.

  He struggled in vain: these three craftsmen were the stoutest folk of all the St. Petersburg Germans and were so rude and discourteous to him that I must admit I cannot find words to describe this distressing incident.

  I’m convinced that next day Schiller was in a fever, trembling like a leaf, expecting the advent of the police at any moment, that he would have given God knows what to think everything which passed on the previous day was a dream. But what has been has been and you can’t change it. Nothing could equal Pirogov’s anger and indignation. The very thought of such an insult made him wild. He considered Siberia and the cat the least punishment Schiller could expect. He rushed home to change and go straight to the general to whom he would describe the rebellion of the German workmen in the most striking colors. He wanted to make a request in writing to the Chief of Staff; and if the punishment decided upon was not satisfactory, he wanted to go higher and higher still.

  But all this had rather a peculiar ending: on his way home he entered a confectioner’s, ate a couple of flaky pastries, glanced through the Northern Bee and left in a less wrathful frame of mind. In addition, the rather cool evening made him stroll along the Nevski Prospect a while; towards 9 o’clock he calmed down and decided that it would be a bad thing to trouble the general on a Sunday; also, he was undoubtedly invited somewhere, and so he set off to spend the evening at the house of a certain director of the control department, where there was a very charming gathering of clerks and officers from his regiment. He spent the evening there with great enjoyment and distinguished himself in the mazurka so much that he filled not only the ladies, but their partners with enthusiasm.

  “This world of ours is wonderfully arranged!” I thought, wandering along the Nevski Prospect the day before yesterday and calling to mind these two adventures. “How strange, how unforeseen is the game which fate plays with us! Do we ever get what we desire! Do we ever attain to that for which our powers seem to be purposely prepared! Everything happens contrariwise. To one man fate gives the most wonderful horses, and he rides them with complete indifference, without even noticing their beauty, whilst another whose whole heart is on fire with a passion for horse-flesh, walks by on foot and has to be content with clicking his tongue when a racehorse is led past. One man has an excellent chef, but unfortunately such a small mouth that he can’t swallow more than a couple of little pieces; another has a mouth the size of the arch of the War Office, but, alas, has to remain satisfied with some sort of German dinner of potatoes. How strangely our fate plays with us!”

  But strangest of all are the adventures which befall one in the Nevski Prospect. Oh do not trust this Nevski Prospect! I always wrap my cloak more firmly about me when I walk in it, and try not to gaze at the objects I meet with. It’s all a trick, a dream, all unlike what it seems. You think that the gentleman who is strolling along in that excellently made coat, is very rich—quite the contrary: that coat is the whole extent of his fortune. You think those two fat gentlemen standing before the church that’s being built there are appraising the architecture; quite the contrary: they are talking about how peculiar those two crows are, perched opposite each other. You think that enthusiast, waving his hands about, is talking about how his wife threw a pellet through the window at an officer he had never met—quite the contrary: he is discussing Lafayette. You think those ladies . . . but trust ladies least of all. Don’t gaze into shop windows overmuch: the frippery they display is lovely but smells of the awful property of assignations. But may the Lord defend you from gazing under the brims of ladies’ hats. However enticingly the cloak of a beautiful woman floats on the distance in the evening, I would not let my curiosity follow after her for anything. For heaven’s sake keep further, further away from the lamp! and pass by as quickly as possible! You’ll be fortunate if you escape from it with only a smelly oily stain on your elegant coat. But not only the lamp, everything is full of deception. This Nevski Prospect lies always, but more than ever, when the thick mass of night settles over it and makes the white and yellowish walls of houses stand out, when the whole town becomes thunderous and dazzling, a myriad carriages roll down the streets, postillions shout and mount their horses, and the devil himself lights the lamps in order to show everything in an unreal light.

  THE PORTRAIT

  PART I

  NOWHERE did so many people pause as before the little picture-shop in the Shtchukinui Dvor. This little shop contained, indeed, the most varied collection of curiosities. The pictures were chiefly oil-paintings covered with dark varnish, in frames of dingy yellow. Winter scenes with white trees; very red sunsets, like raging conflagrations, a Flemish boor, more like a turkey-cock in cuffs than a human being, were the prevailing subjects. To these must be added a few engravings, such as a portrait of Khozreff-Mirza in a sheepskin cap, and some generals with three-cornered hats and hooked noses. Moreover, the doors of such shops are usually festooned with bundles of those publications, printed on large sheets of bark, and then colored by hand, which bear witness to the native talent of the Russian.

  On one was the Tzarevna Miliktrisa Kirbitievna; on another the city of Jerusalem. There are usually but few purchasers of these productions, but gazers are many. Some truant lackey probably yawns in front of them, holding in his hand the dishes containing dinner from the cook-shop for his master, who will not get his soup very hot. Before them, too, will most likely be standing a soldier wrapped in his cloak, a dealer from the old-clothes mart, with a couple of penknives for sale, and a huckstress, with a basketful of shoes. Each expresses admiration in his own way. The muzhiks generally touch them with their fingers; the dealers gaze seriously at them; serving boys and apprentices laugh, and tease each other with the colored caricatures; old lackeys in frieze cloaks look at them merely for the sake of yawning away their time somewhere; and the hucksters, young Russian women, halt by instinct to hear what people are gossiping about, and to see what they are looking at.

  At the time our story opens, the young painter, Tchartkoff, paused involuntarily as he passed the shop. His old cloak and plain attire showed him to be a man who was devoted to his art with self-denying zeal, and who had no time to trouble himself about his clothes. He halted in front of the little shop, and at first enjoyed an inward laugh over the monstrosities in the shape of pictures.

  At length he sank unconsciously into a reverie, and began to ponder as to what sort of people wanted these productions? It did not seem remarkable to him that the Russian populace should gaze with rapture upon “Eruslanoff Lazarevitch,” on “The Glutton” and “The Carouser,” on “Thoma and Erema.” The delineations of these subjects were easily intelligible to the masses. But where were there purchases for those streaky, dirty oil-paintings? Who needed those Flemish boors, those red and blue landscapes, which put forth some claims to a higher stage of art, but which really expressed the depths of its degradation? They did not appear the works of a self-taught child. In that case, in spite of the caricature of drawing, a sharp distinction would have manifested itself. But here were visible only simple dullness, steady-going incapacity, which stood, through self-will, in the ranks of art, while its true place was among the lowest trades. The same colors, the same manner, the same practised hand, belonging rather to a manufacturing automaton than to a man!

  He stood before the dirty pictures for some time, his thoughts at length wandering to other matters. Meanwhile the proprietor of the shop, a little grey man, in a frieze cloak, with a beard which had not been shaved since Sunday, had been urging him to buy for some time, naming prices, without even knowing what pleased him or what he wanted. “Here, I’ll take a silve
r piece for these peasants and this little landscape. What painting! it fairly dazzles one; only just received from the factory; the varnish isn’t dry yet. Or here is a winter scene—take the winter scene; fifteen rubles; the frame alone is worth it. What a winter scene!” Here the merchant gave a slight fillip to the canvas, as if to demonstrate all the merits of the winter scene. “Pray have them put up and sent to your house. Where do you live? Here, boy, give me some string!”

  “Hold, not so fast!” said the painter, coming to himself, and perceiving that the brisk dealer was beginning in earnest to pack some pictures up. He was rather ashamed not to take anything after standing so long in front of the shop; so saying, “Here, stop! I will see if there is anything I want here!” he stooped and began to pick up from the floor, where they were thrown in a heap, some worn, dusty old paintings. There were old family portraits, whose descendants, probably could not be found on earth; with torn canvas and frames minus their gilding; in short, trash. But the painter began his search, thinking to himself, “Perhaps I may come across something.” He had heard stories about pictures of the great masters having been found among the rubbish in cheap print-sellers’ shops.

  The dealer, perceiving what he was about, ceased his importunities, and took up his post again at the door, hailing the passers-by with, “Hither, friends, here are pictures; step in, step in; just received from the makers!” He shouted his fill, and generally in vain, had a long talk with a rag-merchant, standing opposite, at the door of his shop; and finally, recollecting that he had a customer in his shop, turned his back on the public and went inside. “Well, friend, have you chosen anything?” said he. But the painter had already been standing motionless for some time before a portrait in a large and originally magnificent frame, upon which, however, hardly a trace of gilding now remained.