"Ah, good morning, my little dear! You don't recognize me? Sly thing, such pretty eyes you have!" at which Lieutenant Pirogov was going to chuck her nicely under the chin with his finger.
But the blonde uttered a timorous exclamation and asked with the same sternness:
"What can I do for you?"
"Let me look at you, that's all," Lieutenant Pirogov said with a very pleasant smile, getting closer to her; but, noticing that the timorous blonde wanted to slip out the door, he added, "I'd like to order some spurs, my little dear. Can you make spurs for me? Though to love you, what's needed is not spurs but a bridle. Such pretty hands!"
Lieutenant Pirogov was always very courteous in conversations of this sort.
"I'll call my husband right now," the German lady cried and left, and a few minutes later Pirogov saw Schiller come out with sleepy eyes, barely recovered from yesterday's drinking.
Looking at the officer, he recalled as in a vague dream what had happened yesterday. He did not remember how it had been, but felt that he had done something stupid, and therefore he received the officer with a very stern air.
"I can't take less than fifteen roubles for spurs," he said, wishing to get rid of Pirogov, because as an honorable German he was very ashamed to look at anyone who had seen him in an improper position. Schiller liked to drink without any witnesses, with two or three friends, and at such times even locked himself away from his workmen.
"Why so much?" Pirogov asked benignly.
"German workmanship," Schiller uttered coolly, stroking his chin. "A Russian would make them for two roubles."
"Very well, to prove that I like you and want to become acquainted with you, I'll pay the fifteen roubles."
Schiller stood pondering for a moment: being an honest German, he felt a bit ashamed. Wishing to talk him out of the order, he announced that it would be two weeks before he could make them. But Pirogov, without any objection, declared his consent.
The German lapsed into thought and stood pondering how to do his work better, so that it would actually be worth fifteen roubles. At that moment, the blonde came into the workshop and began rummaging around on the table, which was all covered with coffeepots. The lieutenant took advantage of Schiller's thoughtfulness, got close to her, and pressed her arm, which was bare up to the shoulder. Schiller did not like that at all.
"Mein' Frau!" he cried.
" Was wollen Sie dock?" answered the blonde.
"Geh'n Sie to the kitchen!"
The blonde withdrew.
"In two weeks, then?" said Pirogov.
"Yes, in two weeks," Schiller replied ponderingly. "I have a lot of work now."
"Good-bye! I'll be back."
"Good-bye," answered Schiller, locking the door behind him.
Lieutenant Pirogov decided not to abandon his quest, even though the German lady had obviously rebuffed him. He did not understand how he could be resisted, the less so as his courtesy and brilliant rank gave him full right to attention. It must be said, however, that Schiller's wife, for all her comeliness, was very stupid. Though stupidity constitutes a special charm in a pretty wife. I, at least, have known many husbands who are delighted with their wives' stupidity and see in it all the tokens of childlike innocence. Beauty works perfect miracles. All inner shortcomings in a beauty, instead of causing repugnance, become somehow extraordinarily attractive; vice itself breathes comeliness in them; but if it were to disappear, then a woman would have to be twenty times more intelligent than a man in order to inspire, if not love, at least respect. However, Schiller's wife, for all her stupidity, was always faithful to her duty, and therefore Pirogov was hard put to succeed in his bold enterprise; but pleasure is always combined with the overcoming of obstacles, and the blonde was becoming more and more interesting for him day by day. He began inquiring about the spurs quite frequently, so that Schiller finally got tired of it. He bent every effort towards quickly finishing the spurs he had begun; finally the spurs were ready.
"Ah, what excellent workmanship!" Lieutenant Pirogov exclaimed when he saw the spurs.
"Lord, how well made! Our general doesn't have such spurs."
A sense of self-satisfaction spread all through Schiller's soul. His eyes acquired a very cheerful look, and he was completely reconciled with Pirogov. "The Russian officer is an intelligent man," he thought to himself.
"So, then, you can also make a sheath, for instance, for a dagger or something else?"
"Oh, very much so," Schiller said with a smile.
"Then make me a sheath for a dagger. I'll bring it. I have a very good Turkish dagger, but I'd like to make a different sheath for it."
Schiller was as if hit by a bomb. His brows suddenly knitted. "There you go!" he thought, denouncing himself inwardly for having called down more work on himself. He considered it dishonest to refuse now; besides, the Russian officer had praised his work. Shaking his head a little, he gave his consent; but the kiss Pirogov brazenly planted right on the lips of the pretty blonde threw him into total perplexity.
I consider it not superfluous to acquaint the reader a little more closely with Schiller.
Schiller was a perfect German in the full sense of this whole word. From the age of twenty, that happy time when a Russian lives by hit-or-miss, Schiller had already measured out his entire life, and on no account would he make any exceptions. He had resolved to get up at seven, to have dinner at two, to be precise in all things, and to get drunk every Sunday. He had resolved to put together a capital of fifty thousand in ten years, and this was as sure and irresistible as fate, because a clerk will sooner forget to leave his card with his superior's doorman12 than a German will decide to go back on his word. On no account would he increase his expenses, and if the price of potatoes went up too much compared to usual, he did not spend a kopeck more but merely decreased the quantity, and though he occasionally went a bit hungry, he would nevertheless get used to it. His accuracy went so far as the decision to kiss his wife not more than twice a day, and to avoid somehow kissing her an extra time, he never put more than one teaspoon of pepper in his soup; on Sundays, however, this rule was not fulfilled so strictly, because Schiller then drank two bottles of beer and one bottle of caraway-seed vodka, which he nevertheless always denounced. He drank not at all like an Englishman, who bolts his door right after dinner and gets potted by himself. On the contrary, being a German, he always drank inspiredly, either with the cobbler Hoffmann or with the cabinetmaker Kuntz, also a German and a big drinker. Such was the character of the noble Schiller, who was finally put into an extremely difficult position. Though he was phlegmatic and a German, Pirogov's behavior still aroused something like jealousy in him. He racked his brain and could not figure out how to get rid of this Russian officer. Meanwhile, Pirogov, as he was smoking his pipe in a circle of his comrades—because Providence has so arranged it that where there are officers there are also pipes—smoking his pipe in a circle of his comrades, hinted significantly and with a pleasant smile at a little intrigue with a pretty German lady with whom, in his words, he was already on quite close terms and whom in reality he had all but lost hope of attracting to himself.
One day, while strolling along Meshchanskaya, he kept glancing at the house adorned by Schiller's shingle with its coffeepots and samovars; to his great joy, he saw the blonde's head leaning out the window and watching the passers-by. He stopped, waved his hand, and said:
"Gut Morgen!" The blonde greeted him as an acquaintance.
"Say, is your husband at home?"
"Yes," answered the blonde.
"And when is he not at home?"
"He's not at home on Sundays," the stupid blonde answered.
"Not bad," Pirogov thought to himself, "I must take advantage of it."
And next Sunday, out of the blue, he appeared before the blonde. Schiller was indeed not at home. The pretty hostess got frightened; but this time Pirogov behaved quite prudently, treated her very respectfully and, bowing, showed all the beauty of hi
s tightly fitted waist. He joked very pleasantly and deferentially, but the silly German woman replied to everything in monosyllables. Finally, having tried to get at her from all sides and seeing that nothing would amuse her, he offered to dance. The German woman accepted at once, because German women are always eager to dance. Pirogov placed great hopes in this: first, she already enjoyed it; second, it would demonstrate his tournure and adroitness; third, while dancing he could get closer and embrace the pretty German, and thus start it all going—in short, the result would be complete success. He started some sort of gavotte, knowing that German women need gradualness. The pretty German stepped out into the middle of the room and raised her beautiful little foot. This position so delighted Pirogov that he rushed to kiss her. The German woman began to scream, thereby increasing her loveliness still more in Pirogov's eyes; he showered her with kisses. When suddenly the door opened and in came Schiller with Hoffmann and the cabinetmaker Kuntz. These worthy artisans were all drunk as cobblers.
But I will let my readers judge of Schiller's wrath and indignation for themselves.
"Ruffian!" he cried in the greatest indignation. "How dare you kiss my wife? You are a scoundrel, not a Russian officer. Devil take it, Hoffmann my friend, I am a German, not a Russian swine!"
Hoffmann responded in the affirmative.
"Oh, I will not the horns have! Take him by the collar, Hoffmann my friend, I will not," he went on, swinging his arms violently, and his face was close in color to the red flannel of his waistcoat. "I have lived in Petersburg for eight years, I have my mother in Swabia and my uncle in Nuremberg; I am a German, not a horned beef! Off with everything, Hoffmann my friend! Hold his arm and leg, Kuntz my comrat!"
And the Germans seized Pirogov by his arms and legs.
He vainly tried to fight them off; the three artisans were the most stalwart fellows of all the Petersburg Germans, and they behaved so rudely and impolitely with him that I confess I can find no words to describe this sorry event.
I'm sure that Schiller was in a bad fever the next day, that he trembled like a leaf, expecting the police to come every moment, that he would have given God knows what for all of yesterday's events to have been a dream. But what's done cannot be undone. Nothing could compare with Pirogov's wrath and indignation. The very thought of such a terrible insult drove him to fury. He thought Siberia and the lash the very least of punishments for Schiller. He flew home so that, having changed, he could go straight to the general and describe for him in the most vivid colors the violence of the German artisans. He also wanted to petition general headquarters at the same time. And if the punishment of general headquarters was insufficient, he would go straight to the state council, or else to the sovereign himself.
But all this ended somehow strangely: he stopped at a pastry shop on his way, ate two puff pastries, read something from The Northern Bee, and left the place already in a less wrathful state. Besides, the rather pleasant, cool evening induced him to take a little stroll on Nevsky Prospect; toward nine o'clock he calmed down and decided it was not nice to trouble the general on a Sunday, and besides he had undoubtedly been summoned somewhere; and therefore he went to a soiree given by one of the heads of the college of auditors, where there was a very pleasant gathering of functionaries and officers. He enjoyed the evening he spent there, and so distinguished himself in the mazurka that not only the ladies but even their partners were delighted.
"Marvelous is the working of our world," I thought as I walked down Nevsky Prospect two days ago, calling to mind these two events. "How strangely, how inconceivably our fate plays with us! Do we ever get what we desire? Do we ever achieve that for which our powers seem purposely to prepare us? Everything happens in a contrary way. To this one fate gave wonderful horses, and he drives around indifferently without ever noticing their beauty—while another, whose heart burns with the horse passion, goes on foot and contents himself with merely clicking his tongue as a trotter is led past him. This one has an excellent cook, but unfortunately so small a mouth that it cannot let pass more than a couple of tidbits; another has a mouth as big as the archway of general headquarters, but, alas! has to be satisfied with some German dinner of potatoes. How strangely our fate plays with us!"
But strangest of all are the events that take place on Nevsky Prospect. Oh, do not believe this Nevsky Prospect! I always wrap myself tighter in my cloak and try not to look at the objects I meet at all. Everything is deception, everything is a dream, everything is not what it seems to be! You think this gentleman who goes about in a finely tailored frock coat is very rich? Not a bit of it: he consists entirely of his frock coat. You imagine that these two fat men who stopped at the church under construction are discussing its architecture? Not at all: they're talking about how strangely two crows are sitting facing each other. You think that this enthusiast waving his arms is telling how his wife threw a little ball out the window at a completely unknown officer? Not at all, he's talking about Lafayette. 13 You think these ladies . . . but least of all believe the ladies. Peer less at the shop windows: the knickknacks displayed in them are beautiful, but they smell of a terrible quantity of banknotes. But God forbid you should peer under the ladies' hats! However a beauty's cloak may flutter behind her, I shall never follow curiously after her. Further away, for God's sake, further away from the street lamp! pass it by more quickly, as quickly as possible. You'll be lucky to get away with it pouring its stinking oil on your foppish frock coat. But, along with the street lamp, everything breathes deceit. It lies all the time, this Nevsky Prospect, but most of all at the time when night heaves its dense mass upon it and sets off the white and pale yellow walls of the houses, when the whole city turns into a rumbling and brilliance, myriads of carriages tumble from the bridges, postillions shout and bounce on their horses, and the devil himself lights the lamps only so as to show everything not as it really looks.
THE DIARY OF A MADMAN
October 3.
TODAY AN EXTRAORDINARY adventure took place. I got up rather late in the morning, and when Mavra brought me my polished boots, I asked what time it was. On hearing that it had long since struck ten, I quickly hastened to get dressed. I confess, I wouldn't have gone to the office at all, knowing beforehand what a sour face the section chief would make. He has long been saying to me: "Why is it you've got such a hotchpotch in your head, brother? You rush about frantically, you sometimes confuse a case so much the devil himself couldn't sort it out, you start the title in lowercase, forget the date or number." Cursed stork! He must be envious that I sit in the director's study and sharpen pens for His Excellency. In short, I wouldn't have gone to the office if it weren't for the hope of seeing the treasurer and maybe cajoling at least some of my pay out of that Jew in advance. What a creature! For him to hand out any money a month ahead—Lord God, the Last Judgment would come sooner! Even if you beg on your life, even if you're destitute—he won't hand out anything, the hoary devil! Yet at home his own cook slaps him in the face. The whole world knows it. I don't see the profit of working in my department. Absolutely no resources. In the provincial government, in the civil courts and treasuries, it's quite a different matter: there, lo and behold, a man squeezes himself into a corner and scribbles away. His tailcoat is vile, his mug begs to be spat in, but just look what sort of country house he rents! Don't even try giving him a gilded china cup: "That," he says, "is a gift fit for a doctor." He wants to be given a pair of trotters, or a droshky, or a beaver coat worth some three hundred roubles. He looks like such a goody-goody, he talks with such delicacy—"Lend me your little knife to trim my little pen"—and then he skins a petitioner so that the man's left in nothing but his shirt. It's true, our work is noble, it's clean everywhere, as you never see it in the provincial government: the tables are mahogany, and the superiors address each other formally. Yes, I confess, if it weren't for the nobility of the work, I'd long since have quit the department.
I put on my old overcoat and took an umbrella, because it was pour
ing rain. There was nobody in the streets; only peasant women with their skirts pulled over their heads and Russian merchants under umbrellas and messenger boys caught my eye. Of the gentry I met only a fellow clerk. I saw him at an intersection. As I noticed him, I said to myself at once,
"Oh-ho! No, dear heart, you're not going to the office, you're rushing after that thing running ahead of you and ogling her little feet." Our fellow clerk is quite a customer! By God, he won't yield to any officer; if a pretty thing in a bonnet passes by, he's sure to tag after her. While I was thinking that, I saw a carriage drive up to a shop I was walking past. I recognized it at once: it was our director's carriage. "But he has no business in that shop," I thought, "it must be his daughter." I pressed myself to the wall. The lackey opened the doors, and she fluttered out of the carriage like a little bird. As she glanced right and left, as she flashed her eyebrows and eyes . . . Lord God! I'm lost, I'm utterly lost! And why does she have to go out in such rainy weather! Go on, now, tell me women don't have a great passion for all these rags. She didn't recognize me, and I tried to wrap myself up the best I could, because the overcoat I had on was very dirty, and old-fashioned besides. Now everyone wears cloaks with tall collars, and mine is short, overlapping; and the broadcloth isn't waterproof at all. Her lapdog didn't manage to get through the door into the shop and was left in the street. I know this dog. She's called Medji. A minute hadn't passed when I suddenly heard a piping little voice: "Hello, Medji!" Well, I'll be!
Who said that? I looked around and saw two ladies walking under an umbrella: one a little old lady, the other a young one; but they had already passed by when I heard beside me: "Shame on you, Medji!" What the devil! I saw Medji and the little dog that was following the ladies sniff each other. "Oh-ho!" I said to myself, "what, am I drunk or something? Only that seldom seems to happen with me." "No, Fidele, you shouldn't think so," I myself saw Medji say it, "I've been bow-wow! I've been bow-wow-wow! very sick." Ah, you pup! I confess, I was very surprised to hear her speak in human language. But later, when I'd thought it over properly, I at once ceased to be surprised. Actually, there have already been many such examples in the world. They say in "England a fish surfaced who spoke a couple of words in such a strange language that scholars have already spent three years trying to define them and still haven't found anything out. I also read in the papers about two cows that came to a grocer's and asked for a pound of tea. But, I confess, I was much more surprised when Medji said, "I wrote to you, Fidele. It must be that Polkan didn't deliver my letter!" May my salary be withheld! Never yet in my life have I heard of a dog being able to write. Only a gentleman can write correctly. Of course, there are sometimes merchants' clerks and even certain serfs who can write a bit; but their writing is mostly mechanical— no commas, no periods, no style.
The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol Page 32