“Got you, didn’t I!”
And I reply:
“And you still haven’t learned French!”
And he replies:
“Why should I study: I rattle away nicely now on what I’ve taught myself.”
X
In Petersburg I felt that they were not so much dissatisfied with me, but worse, that they looked at me somehow pityingly, somehow strangely.
Viktor Nikitich himself saw me for just a moment and said nothing, but he told the director, who was married to a kinswoman of mine, that to him I seemed unwell …
There was no explanation. A week later it was Christmas, and then the New Year. Festive turmoil, naturally—the expectation of awards. I was not so greatly concerned, the less so as I knew I would be awarded the White Eagle. On the eve, my kinswoman, the director’s wife, sent me a gift of the medal and ribbon, and I put it in a drawer together with an envelope containing a hundred roubles for the couriers who were to bring me the official order.
But during the night Ivan Petrovich suddenly nudged me in the side and made a fig right under my nose. He had been much more delicate when alive, such a thing did not suit his harmonious nature at all, but now he stuck a fig at me just like a prankster, and said:
“That’s enough for you right now. I must go to poor Tanya,” and he melted away.
I got up in the morning. No couriers with the order. I hastened to my in-law to find out what it meant.
“Can’t fathom it,” he says. “It was there, listed, and suddenly it’s like it got cut at the printer’s. The count crossed it out and said he’d announce it personally … You know, there’s some story that’s harmful to you … Some official, after leaving you, died somehow suspiciously … What was it about?”
“Drop it,” I say, “do me a favor.”
“No, really … the count even asked after your health several times … Various persons wrote from there, including the archpriest, the father confessor of them all … How could you let yourself get mixed up in such a strange business?”
I listen and—like Ivan Petrovich himself from beyond the grave—feel only a desire to stick my tongue out at him or show him a fig.
But Ivan Petrovich, after I was awarded a fig instead of the White Eagle, disappeared and did not show up again for exactly three years, when he paid me his final and most tangible visit.
XI
Again it was Christmas and the New Year and the same expectation of awards. I had already been passed over repeatedly, and did not trouble myself about it. No give, no care. There was a New Year’s party at my cousin’s—very merry—lots of guests. The healthy ones stayed for supper, but I was looking for a chance to slip away before supper, and was edging towards the door, when suddenly, amidst the general talk, I hear these words:
“My wanderings are now over: mama’s with me. Tanyusha has settled down with a good man. I’ll pull my last stunt and zhe mon vay!”† And then suddenly he sang in a drawl:
Farewell, my own,
Farewell, my native land.
“Aha,” I think, “he’s shown up again, and what’s more he’s speaking French … Well, I’d better wait for somebody, I won’t go downstairs alone.”
And he deigns to walk past me dressed in the same uniform with the splendid pomegranate tie, and he had just passed by when the front door suddenly slammed so that the whole house shook.
The host and servants ran to see whether anyone had gotten to the guests’ fur coats, but everything was in place, and the door was locked … I kept mum, so that no one would say “hallucinations” again and start asking about my health. It slammed, and that’s that—lots of things can slam …
I sat it out so as not to leave alone and returned home safely. My man was no longer the one who had traveled with me and to whom Ivan Petrovich had given lessons in making cut-outs, but another; he met me looking sleepy and lit my way. We passed by the side table and I saw something lying there covered with white paper … I looked: it was my Order of the White Eagle, of which, you remember, my cousin had made me a gift that time … It had always been under lock and key. How could it suddenly appear? Of course, I’ll be told: “He probably took it out himself in a moment of distraction.” I won’t argue about that, but there was something else: on my bedside table there was a small envelope addressed to me, and the hand seemed familiar … It was the same hand that had written: “Life is given us for joy.”
“Who brought it?” I ask.
And my man points straight at the photograph of Ivan Petrovich, which I keep as a memento from Tanyusha, and says: “This gentleman.”
“Surely you’re mistaken.”
“No, sir,” he says, “I recognized him at first glance.”
In the envelope there turned out to be an official stamped copy of the order: I had been awarded the White Eagle. And what was still better, I slept for the rest of the night, though I heard something somewhere singing the stupidest words: “Now’s my chaunce, now’s my chaunce, zhe allay o contradaunce.”‡
From the experience of the life of spirits taught me by Ivan Petrovich, I realized that this was Ivan Petrovich “rattling away in self-taught French” as he flew off, and that he would never trouble me again. And so it turned out: he took his revenge and then forgave me. That’s clear. But why everything in the world of spirits is so confused and mixed up that human life, which is more valuable than anything, is revenged by frivolous frights and a medal, and flying down from the highest spheres is accompanied by the stupidest singing of “Now’s my chaunce, zhe allay o contradaunce”—that I don’t understand.
* Not so loud! Trans.
† I.e., Je m’en vais, I’m going away. Trans.
‡ I.e., je allais au contredanse, illiterate French for “I’m going to the contradance.” Trans.
A Flaming Patriot
Of foreign government celebrities, I have seen the late Napoleon III at the inauguration of a boulevard in Paris, Prince Bismarck at a health spa, MacMahon on parade, and the present-day Austrian emperor Franz Joseph over a mug of beer.
The most memorable impression was made on me by Franz Joseph, though at the same time he caused a capital quarrel between two of my lady compatriots.
The story is worth telling.
I have been abroad three times, traveling twice by the Russian “high road” directly from Petersburg to Paris, and the third time, owing to circumstances, making a detour and stopping in Vienna. I wanted, at the same time, to visit a certain Russian lady worthy of respect.
It was the end of May or the beginning of June. The train I was traveling by brought me to Vienna at around four o’clock in the afternoon. I did not have to look for quarters: in Kiev I had been furnished with a reference that saved me any trouble. As soon as I arrived, I settled in, and an hour later I had put myself in order and gone to see my compatriot.
At that hour, Vienna was also doing herself up: a heavy summer shower passed over and then suddenly a radiant sun began to sparkle in the perfectly blue sky. The beautiful city, having washed, looked still more beautiful.
The streets my guide led me along all seemed very elegant, but as we drew nearer to Leopoldstadt, their elegance became still more noticeable. The buildings were bigger, stronger, and more majestic. My guide stopped by one of them and said that this was the hotel I wanted.
We entered through a majestic archway into a vast hall, decorated in the Pompeian style. To the right and left of this hall were heavy doors of dark oak: the opposite wall was draped luxuriously in red cloth. In the middle of the hall stood a carriage hitched to a pair of live horses, and on the box sat a coachman.
This magnificent hall was simply nothing other than the “gateway.” We were standing under such “gates” as I had never yet seen either in Petersburg or in Paris.
To the right was the porter’s lodge. It was also remarkable; remarkable, too, was the magnificent porter himself, with his chamberlain’s figure: he sat there like a golden beetle displayed behind an enormo
us plate-glass window. He could see all around him. And next to him, for the sake of pomp or for some other convenience, stood three assistants, all of them wearing aglets. If the necessity arose of putting someone out or not letting him in, such a porter would not, of course, dirty his hands with it.
To my question, “Is my acquaintance here?”—one of the assistants replied: “She is,” and when I asked, “Might I see her?”—the assistant told the porter, who moved an eyebrow diplomatically and explained to me himself:
“Strictly speaking, I do not think it would be convenient for the princess to receive you now—a carriage has come for her, and her excellency is about to go for a ride. But if it is very necessary …”
“Yes,” I interrupted, “it is very necessary.”
“In that case, I ask you for a moment’s patience.”
It was clear that I had to do with a real diplomat and to argue over a moment’s patience would be out of place.
We bowed to each other.
The porter pushed an electric button on the table, before which stood his papal throne with its high gothic back, and, putting his ear to the receiver, explained to me after a moment:
“The princess is already coming downstairs.”
I stood waiting for her.
A moment later, my acquaintance appeared on the white marble steps, accompanied by her elderly Russian maid, Anna Fetisovna, long known to me, who plays a role in this little story. The princess met me with the sweet affability that had always distinguished her, and, saying that she was about to go for her after-dinner promenade, invited me to ride with her.
She wanted to show me the Prater. I had nothing against that, and we drove off: I beside the princess on the rear seat, and Anna Fetisovna facing us.
Contrary to what is maintained, that abroad everyone drives much more slowly than in Russia, we raced very quickly down the streets of Vienna. The horses were brisk and spirited, the coachman an expert at his trade. The Viennese drive a pair harnessed to the shafts as handsomely and deftly as the Poles do. Our coachmen don’t know how to drive like that. They’re very heavy and they fuss with the reins—they don’t have that free, ribbon-like movement and all that “elevation,” which there is so much of in the Krakower and the Viennese.
Before I could bat an eye, we were already in the Prater.
I am not going to make the slightest attempt to describe this park; I will tell only what is necessary for a proper elucidation of the coming scene.
I remind you that it was about five o’clock in the afternoon and just after a heavy rain. Fresh moisture still lay everywhere: the heavy gravel of the paths looked brown, clear drops sparkled on the leaves of the trees.
It was pretty damp, and I don’t know whether the dampness or the rather early hour was the reason for it, but all the best alleys of the park, along which we were driving, were completely deserted. At most we met some gardener in a jacket, with a rake and spade on his shoulder, and no one else; but my kind hostess remembered that, besides this, so to speak, fair part of the park, there was also a rough part, called the Kalbs-Prater or “Calf’s Park”—the place where the rough Viennese promenaded.
“They say it may be interesting,” said the princess, and she told the coachman at once to drive to the Kalbs-Prater.
The coachman turned left, called out his guttural “Hup,” snapped his whip, and it was as if the ground began to give way under us, we seemed to be going down somewhere, falling, as though dropping into a lower sphere.
The situation harmonized beautifully with the social reality. The picture was rapidly changing: the alleys were becoming narrower and were kept less clean, scraps of paper flashed here and there on the sand and at the edges of the flowerbeds. Then, too, we began to meet people, all of them on foot, first the vendors of the famous Viennese sausages, then the public. Some trudged along with children. The local public was obviously not afraid of dampness, but only feared losing a moment of precious time.
When a poor man marries, the night’s too short for him; still shorter is the hour of rest for such hardworking and parsimonious people as the southern Germans, in whom, however, the need for pleasure is almost as great as in the French.
There was no movement in the opposite direction—we were overtaking everyone. Obviously, the goal of all their striving lay ahead; it was there where we, too, were hurrying and from where some sort of sounds began to reach us, growing louder moment by moment. Strange sounds, like the buzzing of a bee between a window and curtain. But now through the treetops flashed the high pediment of a large wooden building; the carriage bore left again and suddenly came to a stop. We were at the intersection of two paths. Before us opened a rather large lawn, on the other side of which stood a large wooden house in the Swiss style, and before it, on the grass, stretched long tables, and at them sat a multitude of different people. Before each guest stood his mug of beer, and on the open gallery four musicians were playing and a Hungarian couple were whirling in a dance. Here was where the musical sounds had come from, which in the distance had resembled the buzzing of a bee between a window and curtain. That buzzing could be heard now as well, with the difference that now one could hear in the sounds something that kept catching at some nerve and spilling out all around with moaning, with ringing, with defiance.
“They’re dancing a czardas: I advise you to pay attention to them,” said the princess. “You won’t often come across it: no one is able to perform the czardas like the Hungarians. Coachman, drive up closer.”
The coachman edged closer, but the horses had barely gone two steps when he stopped them again.
We had advanced, of course, but were still too far away to be able to have the possibility of scrutinizing the dancers, and therefore the princess again told the coachman to move closer. It seemed, however, that he did not hear this repetition, but then, when the princess told him the same thing a third time, the coachman not only touched up the reins, but loudly cracked his whip and all at once brought our carriage out into the middle of the lawn.
Now we could see everything in detail and were ourselves seen by everyone. Several persons among those sitting at the tables turned at the crack of the whip, but at once turned back to the dancers, and only one fat waiter was left looking at us from the steps of the lower terrace, but as if he were waiting for some fitting moment, when a suitable exchange of mutual relations should take place between us.
I tried in the most conscientious way to follow the advice of my lady and wanted to watch the czardas without taking my eyes from it, but a chance occasion drew my attention to something else.
We had barely stopped, when the coachman half turned slightly towards the carriage and said:
“Kaiser!”
“Wo ist der Kaiser?”*
Instead of an answer, the driver directed the extended little finger of his glove to the left, towards the opposite end of the lawn, where, at an intersection identical to the one we had just left, there could now be seen two horse heads of a light bay, goldish color.
Only those two fine heads could be seen, in composite bridles studded with turquoise, while the carriage itself remained at the same distance at which our coachman had first wanted to keep us.
“That,” I thought to myself, “is indeed very tactful, but then he won’t see anything very well from there, nor will he allow us to admire him. And that’s vexing.”
Only there was no need to be vexed: at that same moment, looking towards where the horses stood, I saw without any difficulty a tall, slightly stooping, but gallant man in a blue Austrian jacket and simple military cap.
This was his apostolic majesty, the senior member of the house of Habsburg, the reigning emperor Franz Joseph. He was quite alone and walked straight to the tables set up on the lawn, where the cobblers of Vienna were sitting. The emperor came up and sat on the end of a bench at the first table, next to a tall worker in a light gray blouse, and the fat waiter in that same second placed a black felt circle on the table before him an
d set down on it an expertly drawn mug of beer.
Franz Joseph took the mug in his hand, but didn’t drink from it; while the dance lasted, he went on holding it in his hand, but when the czardas was finished, the emperor silently held out his mug to his neighbor. The man understood at once what he must do: he clinked with his sovereign and, immediately turning to his other neighbor, exchanged clinks with him. Thereupon, as many people as were there, they all stood up, all clinked with each other, and breathed out over the whole lawn a concerted, unanimous “Hoch!”† This “hoch” is not shouted loudly and boomingly there, but like a good, heartfelt sigh.
The emperor drained his mug in one breath, bowed, and left.
The bay horses carried him back down the same road that we also took, following after him. But now the considerable power of the impression produced by this incident was riding with us, and it was all lodged chiefly in Anna Fetisovna. The maid, to our no little surprise, was crying! … She sat before us, covering her eyes with a white handkerchief and pressing it with her hands.
“Anna Fetisovna, what’s the matter?” the princess addressed her with a kindly and gentle jocularity.
The woman went on crying.
“What are you crying about?”
Anna Fetisovna uncovered her eyes and said:
“Just like that—about nothing.”
“No, really?”
The maid sighed deeply and replied:
“Suchlike simplicity moves me.”
The princess winked at me and said jokingly:
“Toujours servile! C’est ainsi que l’on arrive aux cieux.”‡
But the joke somehow did not come off. Anna Fetisovna’s emotion endowed this trifling incident with a different meaning.
We returned to the hotel and found there yet another visitor. This was an Austrian baron who was intending to go to Russia and was studying Russian. We had tea, and Anna Fetisovna served us. We talked of many things: of Russia, of Petersburg acquaintances, of our rate of exchange, of who was our best embezzler, and, finally, of our meeting that day with Franz Joseph.
The Enchanted Wanderer and Other Stories Page 44