“Who is there?” he asked with vexation, inwardly cursing his servants, who were never in the ante-room when they were wanted.
The stranger entered. He was tall and spare, and ap- peared to be about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy face were very expressive: his pale, lofty forehead, shaded by locks of black hair, his sparkling black eyes, aquiline nose, and thick beard surrounding his sunken, tawny cheeks, showed him to be a foreigner. He wore a black dress-coat, already whitened at the seams, and summer trousers (although the season was well into the autumn); under his threadbare black cravat, upon a yellowish shirt-front, glittered an imitation diamond; his shaggy hat seemed to have seen good and bad weather. Meeting such a man in a wood, you would have taken him for a robber; in society — for a political conspirator; in an ante-room — for a charlatan, a seller of elixirs and arsenic.
“What do you wish?” Charsky asked him in French.
“Signor,” replied the foreigner, with profound bows: “Lei foglia perdonarmi se...”
Charsky did not offer him a chair, and he rose himself: the conversation was continued in Italian.
“I am a Neapolitan artist,” said the stranger: “circumstances compelled me to leave my native land; I have come to Russia, trusting to my talent.”
Charsky thought that the Neapolitan was preparing to give some violoncello concerts and was disposing of his tickets from house to house. He was just about to give him twenty-five rubles in order to get rid of him as quickly as possible, when the stranger added:
“I hope, signor, that you will give friendly support to your confrere, and introduce me into the houses to which you have entree.”
It was impossible to offer a greater affront to Char- sky’s vanity. He glanced haughtily at the individual who called himself his confrère.
“Allow me to ask, what are you, and for whom do you take me?” he said, with difficulty restraining his indignation.
The Neapolitan observed his vexation.
“Signor,” he replied, stammering: “Ho creduto... ho sentito...la vostra Eccelenza... mi perdonera...”
“What do you wish?” repeated Charsky drily.
“I have heard a great deal of your wonderful talent; I am sure that the gentlemen of this place esteem it an honor to extend every possible protection to such an excellent poet,” replied the Italian: “and that is why I have ventured to present myself to you....”
“You are mistaken, signor,” interrupted Charsky. “The calling of poet does not exist among us. Our poets do not solicit the protection of gentlemen; our poets are gentlemen themselves, and if our Maecenases (devil take them!) do not know that, so much the worse for them. Among us there are no ragged abbés, whom a musician would take off the streets to write him a libretto. Among us, poets do not go on foot from house to house, begging for help. Moreover, they must have been joking, when they told you that I was a great poet. It is true that I once wrote some wretched epigrams, but thank God, I haven’t anything in common with versifiers, and do not wish to have.”
The poor Italian became disconcerted. He looked around him. The pictures, marble statues, bronzes, and the costly baubles on Gothic what-nots, struck him. He understood that between the haughty dandy, standing before him in a tufted brocaded cap, gold-colored Chinese dressing-gown and Turkish sash — and himself, a poor wandering artist, in threadbare cravat and shabby dress-coat — there was nothing in common. He stammered out some unintelligible excuses, bowed, and wished to retire. His pitiable appearance touched Charsky, who, in spite of the pettiness of his character, had a good and noble heart. He felt ashamed of the irritability caused by the wound to his vanity.
“Where are you going?” he said to the Italian.
“Wait... I was compelled to decline an unmerited title and confess to you that I was not a poet. Now let us speak about your business. I am ready to serve you, if it be in my power to do so. Are you a musician?”
“No, Eccelenza,” replied the Italian; “I am a poor improviser.”
“An improviser!” cried Charsky, feeling all the cruelty of his reception. “Why didn’t you say sooner that you were an improviser?”
And Charsky pressed his hand with a feeling of sincere regret.
His friendly manner encouraged the Italian. He spoke naively of his plans. His exterior was not deceptive. He was in need of money, and he hoped somehow in Russia to improve his domestic circumstances. Charsky listened to him with attention.
“I hope,” said he to the poor artist, “that you will have success; society here has never heard an improviser. Curiosity will be aroused. It is true that the Italian language is not in use among us; you will not be understood, but that will be no great misfortune; the chief thing is that you should be in the fashion.”
“But if nobody among you understands Italian,” said the improviser, becoming thoughtful, “who will come to hear me?”
“Have no fear about that — they will come: some out of curiosity, others to pass away the evening somehow or other, others to show that they understand Italian. I repeat, it is only necessary that you should be in the fashion, and you will be in the fashion — here is my hand.”
Charsky dismissed the improviser very cordially, after having taken his address, and the same evening he set to work to do what he could for him.
II
I am both king and slave, both worm and god.
Derzhavin.
THE next day, in the dark and dirty corridor of a tavern, Charsky found number 35. He stopped at the door and knocked. It was opened by the Italian.
“Victory!” Charsky said to him: “your affairs are in a good way. The Princess N — offers you her salon; yesterday, at the rout, I succeeded in enlisting half of Saint Petersburg; get your tickets and announcements printed. If I cannot guarantee a triumph for you, I ‘ll answer for it that you will at least be a gainer in pocket...”
“And that is the chief thing,” cried the Italian showing his delight in lively gestures characteristic of his Southern origin. “I knew that you would help me. Corpo di Bacco! You are a poet like myself, and there is no denying that poets are excellent fellows! How can I show my gratitude to you? Wait.... Would you like to hear an improvisation?”
“An improvisation!... Can you then do without public, without music, and without sounds of applause?”
“Nonsense, nonsense! Where could I find a better public? You are a poet: you will understand me better than they, and your quiet approbation will be dearer to me than a whole storm of applause.... Sit down somewhere and give me a theme.”
Charsky sat down on a suitcase (of the two chairs in the narrow cubicle, one was broken and the other piled with papers and linen). The improviser took a guitar from a chair, and stood before Charsky touching the strings with bony fingers and awaiting his order.
“Here is your theme, then,” Charsky said to him: “the poet himself chooses the subject of his songs; the crowd has not the right to command his inspiration.”
The eyes of the Italian began to sparkle: he tried a few chords, raised his head proudly, and passionate strophes — the expression of instantaneous feeling — fell rhythmically from his lips....
With open eyes the poet marches,
But seeing no one, seeming blind,
Now someone clutches at his garment,
And pulls him gently from behind!
“The fool! Where to? He must be dreaming.”
They cry: “This way — the road is clear.”
It is in vain they seek to guide him,
The heedless poet does not hear.
Such is the poet: like the wind
That man can neither call nor bind —
His flight is free as any eagle’s,
He asks no counsel in his art,
But like another Desdemona
Chooses the idol of his heart.
The Italian ceased.... Charsky was silent, amazed and touched.
“Well?” asked the improviser.
Charsky
seized his hand and pressed it firmly.
“Well, how was it?” asked the improviser.
“Wonderful!” replied the poet. “Another’s thought has scarcely reached your ears, and already it has become your own, as if you had nursed, fondled and developed it for a long time. And so for you there exists neither toil nor disenchantment, nor that uneasiness which precedes inspiration? Wonderful, wonderful!”
The improviser replied: “Every talent is inexplicable. How does the sculptor see, in a block of Carrara mar- ble, the hidden Jupiter, and how does he bring it to light with hammer and chisel by chipping off its envelope? Why does the idea issue from the poet’s head already equipped with four rhymes, and measured off in ordered, regular feet? Thus, nobody, except the improviser himself, can understand that rapidity of impression, that close connection between his own inspiration proper and the will of another; I myself would try in vain to explain it. But... I must think of my first evening. What is your opinion? What price could I charge for the tickets, so that it may not be too much for the public, and so that, at the same time, I may not be out of pocket? They say that La Signora Catalani charged twenty-five rubles. It’s a good price....”
It was very disagreeable for Charsky to fall suddenly from the heights of poesy down to the bookkeeper’s desk, but he understood wordly necessities very well, and he plunged into commercial calculations with the Italian. The latter, during this part of the business, exhibited such savage greed, such an artless love of gain, that he disgusted Charsky, who hastened to take leave of him, so that he might not lose altogether the feeling of ecstasy awakened within him by the brilliant improvisation. The preoccupied Italian did not observe this change, and he conducted Charsky into the corridor and out to the steps, with profound bows and assurances of eternal gratitude.
III
The price of a ticket is 10 rubles; the performance starts at seven o’clock.
Play-bill.
THE ballroom of Princess N — had been placed at the disposal of the improviser; a platform had been erected, and the chairs were arranged in twelve rows. On the appointed day, at seven o’clock in the evening, the room was illuminated; at the door, before a small table, to sell and receive tickets, sat a long-nosed old woman, in a gray hat with broken feathers, and with rings on all her fingers. Near the entrance to the house stood gendarmes.
The public began to assemble. Charsky was one of the first to arrive. He had played a large part in arranging for the performance, and wished to see the improviser, in order to learn if he was satisfied with everything. He found the Italian in a side room, looking at his watch with impatience. The improviser was attired in a theatrical costume. He was dressed in black from head to foot. The lace collar of his shirt was thrown open; his bare neck, by its strange whiteness, offered a striking contrast to his thick black beard; his hair was combed forward, and overshadowed his forehead and eyebrows.
All this was not very gratifying to Charsky, who did not care to see a poet in the dress of a wandering juggler. After a short conversation, he returned to the ballroom, which was now rapidly beginning to fill up. Soon all the rows of seats were occupied by brilliant ladies: the gentlemen crowded round the sides of the platform, along the walls, and behind the chairs at the back; the musicians, with their stands, occupied two sides of the platform. In the middle, upon a table, stood a porcelain vase.
The audience was a large one. Everybody awaited the commencement with impatience. At last, at half- past seven, the musicians made a stir, prepared their bows, and played the overture from “Tancredi.” All took their places and became silent. The last sounds of the overture ceased.... The improviser, welcomed by deafening applause which rose from all sides, advanced with profound bows to the very edge of the platform.
Charsky waited with uneasiness to see what would be the first impression created, but he perceived that the costume, which had seemed to him so unseemly, did not produce the same effect upon the audience; even Charsky himself found nothing ridiculous in the Italian, when he saw him upon the platform, with his pale face brightly illuminated by a multitude of lamps and candles. The applause subsided; the sound of voices ceased...
The Italian, expressing himself in bad French, requested the gentlemen present to indicate some themes, by writing them upon separate pieces of paper. At this unexpected invitation, all looked at one another in silence and nobody responded. The Italian, after waiting a little while, repeated his request in a timid and humble voice. Charsky was standing right under the platform; a feeling of uneasiness took possession of him; he had a presentiment that the business would not be able to go on without him, and that he would be compelled to write his theme. Indeed, several ladies turned their faces toward him and began to pronounce his name, at first in a low tone, then louder and louder. Hearing his name, the improviser sought him out with his eyes, and perceiving him at his feet, he handed him a pencil and a piece of paper with a friendly smile. To play a rôle in this comedy seemed very disagreeable to Charsky, but there was no help for it: he took the pencil and paper from the hands of the Italian and wrote some words. The Italian, taking the vase from the table, descended from the platform and presented the urn to Charsky, who dropped his theme into it. His example produced an effect: two journalists, in their capacity as literary men, considered it incumbent upon them to write each his theme; the secretary of the Neapolitan embassy, and a young diplomat recently returned from a journey and in ecstasies over Florence, placed in the vase their folded papers. At last, a very plain-looking girl, at the command of her mother, with tears in her eyes, wrote a few lines in Italian and, blushing to the ears, gave them to the improviser, the ladies in the meantime regarding her in silence, with a scarcely perceptible smile. Returning to the platform, the improviser placed the urn upon the table, and began to take out the papers one after the other, reading each aloud:
“La famiglia dei Cenci.... L’ultimo giorno di Pompeia.... Cleopatra e i suoi amanti.... La primavera veduta da una prigione.... Il trionfo di Tasso.”
“What does the honorable company command?” asked the Italian humbly. “Will it indicate itself one of the subjects proposed, or let the matter be decided by lot?”
“By lot!” said a voice in the crowd.... “By lot, by lot!” repeated the audience.
The improviser again descended from the platform, holding the urn in his hands, and casting an imploring glance along the first row of chairs, asked:
“Who will be kind enough to draw out the theme?”
Not one of the brilliant ladies, who were sitting there, stirred. The improviser, not accustomed to Northern indifference, was obviously in distress.... Suddenly he perceived on one side of the room a small white-gloved hand held up: he turned quickly and advanced toward a majestic young beauty, seated at the end of the second row. She rose without the slightest embarrassment, and, with the greatest simplicity in the world, plunged her aristocratic hand into the urn and drew out a rolled slip of paper.
“Will you please unfold it and read,” said the improviser to her.
The young lady unrolled the paper and read aloud:
“Cleopatra e i suoi amanti.”
These words were uttered in a low voice, but such a complete silence reigned in the room, that everybody heard them. The improviser bowed profoundly to the young lady, with an air of the deepest gratitude, and returned to his platform.
“Gentlemen,” said he, turning to the audience: “the lot has indicated as the subject of improvisation: ‘Cleopatra and her lovers.’ I humbly request the person who has chosen this theme, to explain to me his idea: what lovers are in question, perché la grande regina aveva molto?”
At these words, several gentlemen burst out laughing. The improviser was somewhat embarrassed.
“I should like to know,” he continued, “to what historical topic does the person, who has chosen this theme, allude?... I should feel very grateful if this person would kindly explain.”
Nobody hastened to reply. Several ladie
s directed their glances toward the plain-looking girl who had written a theme at the command of her mother. The poor girl observed this hostile attention, and became so embarrassed, that the tears came into her eyes.... Charsky could not endure this, and turning to the improviser, he said to him in Italian:
“It was I who proposed the theme. I had in view a passage in Aurelius Victor, who alleges that Cleopatra named death as the price of her love, and that there were found adorers whom such a condition neither frightened nor repelled. It seems to me, however, that the subject is somewhat difficult.... Could you not choose another?”
But the improviser already felt the approach of the god.... He gave a sign to the musicians to play. His face became terribly pale; he trembled as if in a fever; his eyes sparkled with a strange fire; he pushed his dark hair off his forehead with his hand, wiped his lofty brow, covered with beads of perspiration, with his handkerchief... then suddenly stepped forward and folded his arms across his breast.... The music ceased.... The improvisation began:
The palace shone. Sweet songs resounded
To lyres and flutes. The dazzling queen
With voice and look inspired the feasters
And kindled the resplendent scene;
Her throne drew all men’s hearts and glances,
But suddenly her fervor fled;
Pensive, she held the golden goblet,
And o’er it bent her wondrous head....
The regal feast seems hushed in slumber,
The guests, the choir, are still. But she
Now lifts her head up to address them
With an assured serenity:
“My love brings bliss, have you not sworn it?
That bliss the man who wills may buy;
Attend me: I shall make you equal,
Bid if you dare, the boon am I.
Who starts the auction-sale of passion?
I sell my love; but at a fee;
Who, at the cost of life, will purchase
The guerdon of a night with me?”
The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection) Page 73