Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  I should be delighted to keep you informed about what happens here. I’ve already told you something about the most important man here, the one Sophie calls Papa. He’s a very strange man.

  Ah! At last! Yes, I knew: they look at everything from a political angle. Let’s see what Papa is like:

  … a very strange man. He doesn’t say very much. He very rarely speaks; but a week ago he was talking to himself constantly, saying: “Will I get it or won’t I?” He would take a slip of paper in one hand, then clench the empty one and say to me, “Will I get it or won’t I?” Once he put the question to me, “What do you think, Madgie? Will I get it or won’t I?” I couldn’t understand a single thing; I just sniffed his boots, then walked away. Then, ma chère, Papa came in a week later feeling on top of the world. All that morning uniformed gentlemen called on him and congratulated him about something. At the table he was more exuberant than I had ever seen him, cracking jokes, and after dinner he lifted me up to his neck and said: “See, Madgie, what’s this?” I could see some sort of ribbon. I sniffed at it, but I couldn’t detect any aroma; finally I gave it a sly lick: a bit salty.

  Hm, I think this little cur is too … so she won’t get whipped! So, he’s ambitious! I’ll make a note of that.

  Goodbye, ma chère, I must be off … etc…. etc. I’ll finish the letter tomorrow. Well, hello! Now I’m back with you. Today my mistress Sophie …

  Ah! well, let’s see what Sophie’s like. Oh! Canaille … All right, all right … we’ll continue.

  … my mistress Sophie was in terrible confusion. She was getting ready to go to a ball, and I was glad because I would be able to write to you while she was away. My Sophie greatly enjoys going to a ball, although she always gets angry while she’s getting dressed. I just cannot understand, ma chère, how anyone can derive pleasure from going to a ball. Sophie always gets back home from a ball at six o’clock in the morning, and I can nearly always tell by her pale, drawn look if she wasn’t given anything to eat there, the poor thing. I must admit that I could never live like that. If I didn’t get my grouse and gravy or roast chicken wings … well, I don’t know what would happen to me. That gravy goes well with porridge, too, but carrots or turnips, or artichokes will never taste good …

  Extraordinary unevenness of style. It’s immediately obvious that it wasn’t written by a human being. It starts off all right but finishes in a canine style. Let’s have a look at another little note. A longish one. Hm! And there’s no date on it.

  Oh, my dear, one can feel the approach of spring now. My heart is thumping as if in expectation of something. There’s a constant noise in my ears so that I frequently stand with one paw in the air, listening at the door for several minutes. I’ll confess to you that I have a number of suitors. I often watch them from the window. Oh! If only you knew what monsters some of them are. One is a very unprepossessing common mongrel, frightfully stupid, there’s even stupidity written all over his face, and he walks along the street with such an air of importance and he imagines he’s a very upper-class individual, and that everybody else is looking at him. Not a bit of it, I paid no attention to him at all; just as if I didn’t see him. But there’s such a terrifying Great Dane who comes and stops in front of my window! If it were to stand on its hind legs—which I don’t think the lout could do—then he’d be a head taller than my Sophie’s papa, who is fairly tall and of ample proportions. That numbskull must be frightfully cheeky. I growled at him but it didn’t bother him one bit. He hardly frowned! He thrust out his tongue, dangled his huge ears and stared in through the window—a real clod! But surely you don’t think, ma chère, that my heart is indifferent to all requests—ah, no … If only you had seen a certain cavalier, named Trésor, climbing over my neighbor’s wall. Ah! Ma chère, what a nice little snout he has!

  Hell! What rubbish! How can anyone fill letters with such … nonsense? Give me the man! I want to see the man; I demand food of the sort which will feed and delight my soul; but instead, such nonsense … let’s turn over the page to see if it’s any better:

  Sophie was sitting at the little table sewing something. I was looking out of the window, as I like to watch the people walking past. Suddenly, in came the servant and said “Teplov!”—“Ask him in,” said Sophie, as she rushed to embrace me. “Ah, Madgie, Madgie! If only you knew who this is: he’s a dark-haired gentleman-of-the-bedchamber, and what eyes he’s got! They’re dark and bright, like fire.” And Sophie ran off to her room. A minute later a young gentleman-of-the-bedchamber with dark side-whiskers came in, walked over to the mirror, tidied his hair and surveyed the room. I began to growl and sat in my usual place. Sophie soon appeared and curtseyed gaily to his shuffling; and I continued to look out of the window, pretending not to notice anything; however, I did incline my head slightly to one side in an attempt to hear what they were talking about. Oh, ma chère! What nonsense they were talking. They were discussing how a certain lady had made a wrong step at a dance; also how a certain Bobov in his jabots looked like a stork and had almost fallen over, and how a certain Lidina thought her eyes were light blue, when all the time they were green—things like that. “How could one possibly compare the gentleman-of-the-bedchamber with Tresor?” I thought to myself. Heavens! What a difference! In the first place, the gentleman-of-the-bedchamber has a completely smooth, broad face encircled by side-whiskers as if he had tied a black kerchief around it; but Tresor has such a slender snout and a bald patch right on his forehead. You couldn’t compare Tresor’s waist with the gentleman-of-the-bedchamber’s. And his eyes, his ways and his manners are all wrong. Oh, what a difference! I don’t know, ma chère, what she sees in her Teplov. Why does she admire him so much?

  I think myself that there’s something wrong here. It’s not possible for her to be so fascinated by this gentleman-of-the-bedchamber. Let’s see what’s next:

  I think if she finds that gentleman-of-the-bedchamber attractive then she’ll soon be attracted to that official who sits in Papa’s office. Oh, ma chère, if only you knew what a monster he is. A real tortoise in a sack …

  Who could this official be?

  He has a really strange surname. He’s always sitting repairing quills. The hair on his head looks very much like hay. Papa always sends him in place of a servant.

  I think the filthy little cur means me. How have I got hair like straw?

  Sophie simply cannot restrain herself from laughing when she looks at him.

  You lie, you damned little cur! What a nasty tongue! As though I didn’t know this is the result of jealousy. As though I didn’t know whose jokes these are. These are the departmental director’s jokes. The man, you know, has vowed implacable hatred and so he keeps on hurting me at every step. But let’s look at just one more letter. There, perhaps, the matter will be explained.

  Ma chère Fidele, excuse me for not writing for so long. I have been in absolute ecstasy. A certain writer was quite justified in saying that love is a second life. Moreover, there have been a great many changes in our house. The gentleman-of-the-bedchamber comes around every day now. Sophie loves him to distraction. Papa is very happy. I’ve even heard from Gregory, who sweeps the floor and nearly always talks to himself, that the marriage will take place soon; because Papa definitely wants to see Sophie marry either a general or a gentleman-of-the-bedchamber or an army colonel …

  Damn and blast! I can’t read any further … It’s all about gentlemen-of-the-bedchamber or generals. It’s always the gentlemen-of-the-bedchamber or the generals who get the best things in this world. If you come across some meager treasure and you think it’s within your grasp—some gentleman-of-the-bedchamber or general will seize it from you. Damn it all! I wish I could become a general: not just to win her hand and everything, no, I’d like to see them grovel and perform all these different court pranks and subtleties, and then tell them: I spit on you both. Damn it all. It’s annoying! I tore the stupid cur’s letters into tiny shreds.

  December 3

 
It cannot be. Nonsense! There can’t be a marriage! What if he is a gentleman-of the-bedchamber? It’s nothing but a rank, you know: it’s not a visible object you can take hold of. Just because he ‘s a gentleman-of-the-bedchamber doesn’t mean he’s got a third eye in his forehead. His nose isn’t made of gold, you know, it’s just the same as mine or anybody else’s; he sniffs with it but he doesn’t eat with it, he sneezes but he doesn’t cough with it. Several times now I’ve tried to fathom how all these differences arise. Why am I a titular councilor, and for what reason am I a titular councilor? Perhaps I’m some count or general and only think I’m a titular councilor? Perhaps I don’t know what I am. How many examples have there been in history: some ordinary man, not even a nobleman, but just some petty bourgeois or even a peasant, and suddenly it’s discovered that he’s a grandee and sometimes even the monarch. If a peasant can sometimes turn out to be something like that, then what could a nobleman turn out to be? Suddenly, let’s suppose, I walk in wearing a general’s uniform: on my right shoulder there is an epaulette and on my left shoulder there’s an epaulette, across my shoulder there’s a light blue ribbon—what then? What song would my beauty sing then? And what would Papa himself, our director, say? Oh, there’s an ambitious man! He’s a Mason, he’s a Mason through and through; although he pretends to be this that and the other I noticed at once, he was a Mason: if he shakes hands with anyone he only offers two fingers. So why should I not this very minute be promoted to governor-general or a quartermaster or something like that? I should like to know why I’m a titular councilor? Why exactly a titular councilor?

  December 5

  I spent all this morning reading the newspapers. Strange things are going on in Spain. Even I can’t understand them. They write that the throne is vacant and that the nobles are in a difficult position about choosing an heir and because of this riots have broken out. It seems extremely strange to me. How can you have a vacant throne? They say some donna or other must ascend to the throne. You can’t have a donna ascending to the throne. It’s not possible. You have to have a king on the throne. Yes, they say, there’s no king, it’s impossible to be without a king. A state cannot be without a king. The king exists, but he’s just lying low somewhere. It’s quite possible that he’s staying away for family or other reasons, or because the threat of neighboring powers like France and other lands forces him to stay in hiding, or there may be other reasons.

  December 8

  I had every intention of going to the office, but various reasons and reflections kept me from doing so. I still can’t get the Spanish affairs out of my mind. How could a donna possibly become a queen? It would never be allowed. And, in the first place, England wouldn’t allow it. Then there are the political affairs of all Europe: the Austrian emperor, our monarch … I confess that these events have mortified and shaken me to such an extent that I haven’t been able to settle down to do anything all day. Mavra passed the remark that I was extremely distracted at dinner. And certainly I did, I think, throw two plates onto the floor, absent-mindedly, and they smashed there and then. After dinner I went down the hills. I gained nothing instructive out of that. I spent most of the time lying on my bed and pondered the affairs of Spain.

  Year 2000, April 43rd

  Today is the day of greatest celebration. There’s a king in Spain. He has been found. I am this king. And I only found out about it this very day. I confess it struck me like lightning. I don’t understand how I could think or imagine that I was a titular councilor. How could that ridiculous idea have got into my head? It’s a good thing nobody thought of putting me in a lunatic asylum. Now everything is revealed to me. Now I see it all as if spread out on the palm of my hand. But I couldn’t understand it till now; everything till now has been in a sort of haze. And I think that it all stems from people imagining that the human brain is in the head; not at all: it’s borne on the wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea. First of all I explained to Mavra who I am. When she heard that the King of Spain was standing in front of her, she threw up her hands and almost died of horror. She, the stupid woman, had never even seen the King of Spain. I, however, tried to calm her and with kind words tried to assure her of my benevolence, and that I was not at all angry at her for having sometimes cleaned my boots so badly. But these are ignorant folk. One should not talk to them about such elevated matters. She took fright because she is convinced that all the kings of Spain are like Philip II. But I was able to convince her that there was no similarity between me and Philip and that I don’t possess a single Capuchin monk … I did not go to the office … To the Devil with that! No, friends, don’t lure me there; I’m not going to start copying out your filthy papers.

  Martober 86th.

  Between day and night.

  Today our executor came round to get me to go to the office, as I have not been to work for over three weeks. I did go to the office for a joke. The department head thought I would bow to him and start apologizing, but I looked at him indifferently, not too angrily and not too favorably, and I sat down in my place, as if I hadn’t noticed anybody. I glanced at all the office scum and thought: “If only you knew who is sitting among you … Heavens above! What a commotion you would cause, and the department head himself would start bowing from the waist as he now bows to the director …” They placed some papers in front of me so that I could make a précise of them. But I didn’t lift a finger. A few minutes later things started to get busy. Someone said the director was coming. Many of the officials hurried to outdo each other and show off in front of him. But I stayed put. When he was walking past our department, everyone buttoned up their coats; but I did absolutely nothing! So he’s the director! Am I supposed to stand in his presence—never! What sort of a director is he? He’s a cork, not a director. An ordinary cork, a simple cork, nothing more. The sort you cork up bottles with. But for me the funniest thing was when they shoved papers at me to copy out. They thought I would write on the very bottom of the page: “such-and-such” or “head clerk”. How could it be otherwise? But in the most important place, where the department head signs, I scribbled “FERDINAND VIII.” You should have seen the respectful silence which reigned; but I just waved my hand, saying: “Such signs of allegiance are not necessary!”—and went out. I went straight from there to the director’s flat. He was not at home. The servant didn’t want to let me in, but I said such things to him that he just threw up his hands. I made straight for the dressing room. She was sitting in front of the mirror, she jumped up and backed away from me. I did not, however, tell her that I was the King of Spain. I merely told her that happiness awaited her of a kind she could never imagine, and that, despite my enemies’ machinations, we would be together. That was all I wished to say and went out. Oh, they’re cunning creatures, women! I have only just grasped what a woman is. Until now nobody had found out who she was in love with. I’m the first to discover it: womankind is in love with the Devil. Yes, no joking, scientists write nonsense saying a woman is this or that—but she loves nobody but the Devil. You can see her in a first-tier box adjusting her lorgnette. You think she is looking at that fat man wearing a star? Not at all, she’s looking at the Devil standing behind him. Now he’s concealed himself in the fat man’s star. Now he’s beckoning to her with his finger! And she’ll marry him. She will. And they’re all alike, their fathers the officials, all alike; they play up to anyone and everyone and grovel at court, calling themselves patriots: but it’s dividends, dividends that these patriots are after. They’d sell their own mother, father and God for money, ambitious men they are! Traitors! It’s all because of ambition, ambition which comes from having a tiny pimple under the tongue and in it a little worm no bigger than a pinhead, and the person behind all this is a certain barber who lives on Gorokhovaia Street. I don’t remember his name; but it’s a well-known fact that he and a certain midwife want to spread Mohammedanism throughout the world, and that’s why, they say, most people in France profess the Mohammedan faith.

  No
date.

  The day had no number.

  Walked incognito along Nevsky Prospect. His Majesty the Tsar drove past. Everyone took off his cap, and I also; but I gave no sign that I was the King of Spain. I considered it improper to reveal myself suddenly in the presence of all the others, because my esteemed peer would surely ask me why the King of Spain had not yet presented himself in court. And indeed one should first present oneself to the court. The only thing stopping me was that I still don’t possess any clothing suitable for a king. If only I could lay my hands on some regalia. I’d like to order it from a tailor, but they’re such asses, and moreover, they’re so careless with their work, and they’ve gone in for speculating and most of them are now laying paving stones for a living. I decided to make regalia out of a new uniform which I had worn only twice. But to avoid having it ruined by those rogues I decided to make it myself, with the door locked, so nobody would see. I cut the whole thing up with scissors, because the cut has to be completely different and the fabric had to give a look of ermine tails.

  I don’t remember the date. Nor was there any month.

  Devil only knows when it was.

  My regalia is all ready and made up. Mavra cried out when I put it on. However, I still have no intention of making an appearance at court. There have not yet been any deputations from Spain. It’s not done to go without any deputies. No importance would be attached to my rank. I await them by the hour.

  The 1 st.

  I am surprised at the exceptional tardiness of the deputies. What could be the reason for the hold-up? Surely it’s not France? Yes, that’s the most malicious of Powers. I went to the post office to check if the Spanish deputies had arrived. But the postmaster is extremely stupid; he doesn’t know anything: no, he says there are no Spanish deputies here, but if you would care to write any letters then we’ll follow the established procedures. Devil take them all! What good would a letter do? Letters are rubbish. Apothecaries write letters …