MARTOBER 86, BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT
TO-DAY our executive clerk came to summon me to the Department. It was three weeks, he said, since I had been there last.
But men are unfair, with this way of reckoning in weeks. The Jews invented it because it’s their Rabbi’s washing time. However I went to the Department, just for the fun of it. The head of the section was expecting that I should salute him and apologize before him; but I only looked at him in a detached way, not too angrily and not too graciously, and sat down in my place, pretending not to notice anything. As I looked at all that office rabble I thought to myself: What if you knew who is sitting in the midst of you! . . . Great God! wouldn’t there be a hullabaloo! The head of the section himself would at once start doubling himself in two before me, the way he bows to the Director. Some papers were placed before me to make a précis of them. But I did not move a finger. A few minutes later there was a general commotion: the Director was coming. Many of the officials ran forward to attract his attention, but I did not budge. As he passed our section they all buttoned up their coats, but not I. A Director, indeed! That I should get up before him—never! And is he really a Director? He’s a cork, and not a Director. A cork, an ordinary cork, the kind you cork bottles with. What amused me most was when someone put a paper before me to countersign. They expected, no doubt, that I would put at the very bottom of the sheet, So-and-So, Clerk in Charge of the Table. Catch me! In the very central space, where the Director of the Department signs his name, I wrote “Ferdinand VIII”! You should have seen the religious silence that ensued! But I only waved my hand, and said: “I don’t insist on any signs of allegiance”; then I walked out. I went straight to the Director’s apartment. He was not at home. The footman did not want to let me in, but I said words to such effect that he let his hands drop. I found my way straight to her dressing-room. She was sitting before the looking-glass. When I came in she jumped up and stepped back. I did not, however, tell her that I was the King of Spain. I only said that there was happiness in store for her, such as she could have no idea of, and that in spite of the intrigues of enemies we should be united. That was all I wished to say, and I walked out. Oh, what a crafty creature woman is! Only now have I realized what woman is. Until now no one knew whom she was in love with. I have been the first to discover it. Woman is in love with the Devil. Yes, quite seriously. Physiologists write all sorts of nonsense saying that she is this or that,—but she loves nothing but the Devil. There she is, in a box of the first tier, fixing her opera-glass. You imagine she is looking at that fat man with decorations? Not at all; she is looking at the Devil, who is standing behind his back. Now he has hidden himself in the fat man’s coat. Now he is making signs to her. And she will marry him, sure enough. And all those fathers, holders of office, all that set of theirs who fawn on everyone and push their way to court, and call themselves patriots and what not,—it’s bonuses, bonuses, all these patriots want! They’d sell their father and mother and God for money,—ambitious snobs, Judases! All this is caused by ambition, and ambition is caused by a little vessel situated under the tongue, and in the vessel there is a small worm no bigger than a pin’s head, and all this is made by a barber who lives in Gorokhovaya Street. I forget his name, but I know for a fact that in concert with a certain midwife he is trying to spread Mahomedanism all over the world, and I am told that in France the majority of the people have already adopted the religion of Mahomet.
NO DATE. THE DAY WAS DATELESS
I WALKED incognito in the Nevsky. The Emperor drove past. All the town took off their hats, and I did the same, without, however, letting any sign escape me that I was the King of Spain. I thought it improper to disclose my identity in this way before the crowd, because I ought to begin by being presented at Court. The only thing that has prevented my doing so is that I have not got a Spanish national dress. Some kind of mantle is indispensable. I was going to order one from a tailor, but they are perfect asses; besides, they pay no attention to their work, they have started profiteering, and most of them are now engaged in paving the streets. So I decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I have only worn twice. But in order that those rascals should not ruin it I decided to do the work myself, locking the door so that no one might see me at it. I cut it all to pieces with scissors, because the cut has to be quite different.
I FORGET THE DATE. NOR WAS THERE ANY MONTH: WHAT IT WAS, THE DEVIL ALONE KNOWS
THE mantle is ready. Mavra shrieked when I put it on. Nevertheless, I can’t yet be presented at Court: the deputation from Spain has not arrived yet. It would not be proper to go without the delegates: my dignity would be cheapened. I am expecting them any minute.
The 1st
I AM exceedingly surprised at the tardiness of the delegates. What can have detained them? Can it be France? Probably, she is the most unfriendly power. I went to inquire at the post office whether the Spanish delegates had arrived; but the postmaster was extraordinarily stupid and knew nothing. “No,” he said, “we have had no Spanish delegates, but if you wish to post a letter, we will take it at the existing rates.” Damn it! what’s in a letter? Letters are rot. Only druggists write letters, and then only after dipping their tongues in vinegar, or else their faces would be all covered with warts.
MADRID. FEBRUARIUS 30
SO here I am in Spain, and it happened so quickly that I have scarcely had the time to recover. This morning the Spanish delegates presented themselves, and we started together in a carriage. The extraordinary rapidity of our journey struck me as strange. We drove so fast that within half an hour we had reached the Spanish frontier. But of course now there are iron railways all over Europe, and steamers go very rapidly. A singular country this Spain! In the first room we entered there were a number of people with shaved heads. However, I realized at once that they were either grandees or soldiers, because they shave their heads. The behaviour of the Lord Chancellor, who led me by the arm, struck me as exceedingly strange. He pushed me into a little room and said: “Sit there, and if you go on calling yourself King Ferdinand, I’ll knock that nonsense out of you.” But I knew that this was only an ordeal, so I answered in the negative, whereupon the Chancellor struck me twice on the back with a stick, and it hurt so that I almost cried out, but I restrained myself, recollecting that it was a custom of chivalry, on the admission to any high dignity, for Spain still practises customs of chivalry. When I was alone I decided to occupy myself with public affairs. I discovered that China and Spain were one and the same country, and if they are still considered to be different countries this is only due to sheer ignorance. I recommend anyone to try to write Spain on a bit of paper, and he will find that he has written China. But I was particularly worried by an event that was due to happen to-morrow. To-morrow at seven o’clock a strange phenomenon will occur: the Earth will fall on the Moon. The celebrated English scientist, Wellington, affirms this in his writings too. To tell the truth, I felt some anxiety when I visualized the extraordinary brittleness and tenderness of the Moon. The Moon, you will have heard, is made in Hamburg, and very badly made too. I am surprised that England hasn’t seen to that. It was made by a lame cooper, and one sees at once that the fool had not the slightest notion of the way moons are made. He put in tarred cord and one part of olive oil; and that has produced such a fearful stench all over the Earth that one has to hold one’s nose. And that, too, is the reason why the Moon is such a tender sphere that human beings can’t live there, so it is only inhabited by noses. And that is the reason why we can’t see our own noses, because they are all in the Moon. And when I reflected that the Earth is a heavy substance and that its pressure would grind our noses to powder, I was overcome with such anxiety that I put on my shoes and stockings and hastened to the Council Room to give orders to the police to prevent the Earth from falling on the Moon. The shaven grandees, whom I found in great numbers in the Council Room, were very intelligent people, and when I said: “Gentlemen, we must save the Moon, because the Earth
is trying to fall on it!” they all rushed to carry out my royal desire, and many of them began climbing the walls to try to reach the Moon; but at that moment the High Chancellor entered. At the sight of him the grandees dispersed. I as King remained alone. But to my astonishment the Chancellor struck me with his stick, and drove me back to my room. Such is the power of ancient customs in Spain!
JANUARY OF THE SAME YEAR WHICH HAPPENED AFTER FEBRUARIUS
I AM still unable to understand this country of Spain. The national customs and the court etiquette are quite unusual. I don’t understand them at all, at all. To-day they shaved my head, although I cried at the top of my voice that I had no intention of becoming a monk. But what became of me when they began dripping cold water on the crown of my head—I simply can’t endure the thought of it. I have never endured such hell. I was almost frantic with rage so that they had difficulty in holding me. I can’t see the meaning of this singular usage. It is stupid, meaningless! The folly of the kings who have not abolished it to this day is inconceivable. Considering all the circumstances, I am beginning to realize that I have fallen into the hands of the Inquisition, and that the man I first took to be the High Chancellor is in fact the Grand Inquisitor. Only I don’t see how a king can be subject to the Inquisition. Of course, France may have had a hand in it, and especially Polignac. Oh that rascal Polignac! He has sworn to harm me to my death. And he persecutes, and persecutes me. But I know, my friend, that you are no more than England’s catspaw. The English are great politicians. They are everywhere with their tricks. And all the world knows that when England takes a pinch it is France who sneezes.
The 25th
TO-DAY the Grand Inquisitor came into my room again, but as soon as I heard his steps in the distance I hid under a chair. Seeing I wasn’t there he began calling me. At first he shouted: “Poprishchin.” I didn’t breathe a word. He went on: “Axenti Ivanov! Titular Councillor! Gentleman!” I remained silent. “Ferdinand VIII, King of Spain!” I was on the point of poking out my head, but then I thought: “No, my good fellow, I’m not going to be taken in this way. I know your tricks: You will be dripping cold water on my head again.” But he had caught sight of me, and drove me from under the chair with a stick. It does hurt terribly, that damned stick does. However, my new discovery made up for everything: I have found out that every cock has got a Spain, and that it is situated under his feathers not far from his tail. The Grand Inquisitor went away, however, very angry, and threatening to have me punished. But I pay no attention to his impotent malice, knowing that he is no more than a machine, a tool in the hands of England.
HT 34 EHT MI.YRAE 349
NO, I have not the strength to endure it any longer. Oh Lord! the things they are doing to me! They pour cold water on my head! They will not hear, they will not look, they will not listen to me! What have I done to them? Why do they torment me? What do they want of a miserable wretch like me? What can I give them? I have nothing. I have not the strength, I cannot endure these agonies. My head is on fire and everything is whirling round. Save me, take me away! Give me a troika of horses swift as the wind! Take your seat, my coachman; ring out, my bell; dart upwards, my steeds, and carry me away from this world! On, on, to where we can see nothing, nothing! There is the sky whirling before me; a star twinkling in the distance; the forest rushes by with dark trees and the moon; blue mist lies spread beneath my feet; a chord resounds in the mind; on one side stretches the sea, on the other, Italy; and yonder, Russian huts can be seen. Is that my home in the blue distance? Is it my mother sitting before the window? Mother, save your poor son! Drop a tear on his poor aching head! See how they are tormenting him. Press your poor child to your breast! There is no place for him in the world! They drive him out! Mother, dear, have pity on your sick little boy! . . . And do you know that the Bey of Algiers has a wen just under his nose?
NEVSKI PROSPECT
A TALE
THERE is nothing to compare with the Nevski Prospect, at any rate in St. Petersburg; for that city it comprises everything. The Beauty of the capital!—what splendours does this street not know? I’m certain that not one of the town’s pale and clerkish inhabitants would exchange the Nevski Prospect for any earthly blessing. Not only the possessor of twenty-five years, a handsome moustache and an amazingly tailored frock-coat, but even the man whose chin sprouts white hairs and whose head is as smooth as a silver dish, waxes enthusiastic about the Nevski Prospect. And the ladies! Oh, to the ladies the Nevski Prospect is an even greater delight! But who is not delighted with it? You hardly enter the Nevski Prospect, when you catch the fragrance of the purest sauntering. Even if you had some important essential business, you would probably forget it all as soon as you stepped into the street. This is the one single place where people do not show themselves because they have to, where they are not driven by necessity and the commercial interest which embraces the whole of St. Petersburg. It seems as if the man one meets in the Nevski Prospect is less of an egoist than those in the Morskaya, Gorokhovaya, Liteynaya, Meshchanskaya and other streets, where greed, self-interest and necessity are stamped on the passers-by and on those flying along in carriages and drozhki. The Nevski Prospect is the common meeting-ground of St. Petersburg. A man who lives in the Petersburg or Viborg district and who has not been to see his friend at the Sands or the Moscow Gates for several years, can be certain that they will come across each other here. No address book and no inquiry office can produce such correct information as the Nevski Prospect. Omnipotent Nevski Prospect! Unique incitement for the poor man in St. Petersburg to take a walk. How clean-swept are its pavements and, heavens, how many feet have left their trace upon it! The clumsy dirty boot of the retired soldier beneath whose weight the very granite seems to crack, and the miniature slipper, light as smoke, of the young lady who turns her little head towards the dazzling shop windows like a sunflower towards the sun, and the hopeful ensign’s rattling sabre, which draws a sharp scratch over its surface—everything is avenged upon it by the power of strength or the power of weakness. How swift the phantasmagoria which develops there in the course of a single day! How many metamorphoses it undergoes within twenty-four hours! Let us begin from very early morning when all St. Petersburg smells of hot newly-baked bread and is crowded with old women in tattered dresses and cloaks effecting their incursions upon the churches and compassionate passers-by.
Then the Nevski Prospect is empty: the burly shopkeepers and their clerks are either still sleeping in their holland shirts or lathering the honorable cheek and drinking coffee; beggars gather at the doors of the pastry-cooks where the sleepy Ganymede who flew about like a fly yesterday with cups of chocolate, crawls out now with a broom in his hand, without a tie, and flings them stale patties and leavings. Along the streets amble men who must; occasionally Russian peasants cross the road hurrying to work in boots muddied with lime, which even the canal of Catherine the Great, famous for its cleanliness, could not possibly cleanse. It is usually indecorous for ladies to walk out at this time, because the Russian people like to express themselves in words so crude that ladies are not likely to meet with them even at the theatre. Now and then a somnolent clerk ambles by with his brief-case under his arm, if his way to the office lies across the Nevski Prospect. One can say definitely that at this time, until twelve o’clock that is, the Nevski Prospect is not an end in itself for anybody, but serves merely as a means: gradually it becomes thronged with persons who have their own occupations, their own worries and cares, but none of whom gives the Prospect a thought. The Russian peasant talks about a ten-kopek piece or about seven grosh of copper, the old men and old women gesticulate with their arms or talk to themselves, sometimes with rather striking gestures, but no one listens to them or laughs at them with the possible exception of urchins in striped linen aprons, with empty flagons or mended shoes in their hands, running like streaks of lightning along the Nevski Prospect. During this time, whatever you may have on, even if you wear a peaked cap instead of a hat, even if your col
lars stick out too far beyond your cravat–no one will notice.
At noon tutors of all nations invade the Nevski Prospect with their charges in lawn collars, English Joneses and French Coqs go hand in hand with the nurslings entrusted to their parental vigilance and explain to them with fitting gravity that the signboards above the shops are put there so that one can tell by means of them what the shops themselves contain. Governesses, pale misses and rosy Slavs walk in state behind their light, agile little girls, bidding them lift their shoulders a trifle and hold themselves straighter; in short, at this time the Nevski Prospect is a pedagogic Nevski Prospect.
But the nearer it is to two o’clock, the more rare become the governesses, the pedagogues and children: finally, they are quite outnumbered by their delicately-nurtured parents, who go arm-in-arm with their brightly-colored variegated lady-friends with delicate nerves. Gradually they are joined by all those who have completed their rather important household affairs, who have just spoken with their doctor about the weather and a small pimple which has happened on the nose, have informed themselves about the health of their horses and their children, have shown great genius, in fact, reading a theatre or concert announcement and an important article in the paper about the latest arrivals and departures, and, finally, have partaken of a cup of coffee and of tea; they, in turn, are joined by those to whom an enviable fate has assigned the blessed calling of clerks with special commissions; and these are joined by persons serving in the Foreign Office and distinguished by the nobility of their occupations and habits. Heavens, what wonderful employments and offices there are! How they uplift and rejoice the heart! But alas! I am not an official and am deprived of the pleasure of observing the delicacy of my superiors’ attitude towards me. Everything you encounter in the Nevski Prospect is full of propriety: the gentlemen in long frock-coats with their hands in their pockets, the ladies in rose, white and pale blue satin redingotes, and elegant hats. Here you meet with unique side-whiskers, tucked with unusual and astounding taste beneath the cravat, velvet whiskers, satin whiskers, black as sable or coal, but alas! belonging solely to the Foreign Office. Providence has refused black side-whiskers to men serving in the other departments, they are compelled to their extreme displeasure to wear red ones. Here you will find marvellous moustaches which neither pen nor brush could depict; moustaches to which the best part of a lifetime has been devoted, the objects of long vigils by day and night; moustaches upon which the most ravishing perfumes and aromas have been poured and which have been anointed with the most precious and rarest sorts of pomades; moustaches which are wrapped in fine vellum paper for the night; moustaches upon which their possessor’s tenderest attachment breathes and which are the envy of passers-by. A thousand varieties of ladies’ hats, gowns, kerchiefs, bright and wispy, which sometimes retain their owners’ partiality for two whole days at a time, are bound to dazzle anyone in the Nevski Prospect. It looks as if a whole sea of butterflies has suddenly risen from the flow-erstalks and is waving in a dazzling cloud above the black beetles of the male sex. Here you will meet with waists such as you have never even dreamed of: fine narrow waists, no wider than the neck of a bottle, on meeting which you will step aside respectfully to avoid pushing against them rudely with a careless elbow; fear and trembling will assail your heart lest even some careless breath of yours might injure this most wondrous product of nature and art. And what ladies’ sleeves you will meet in the Nevski Prospect! Ach, what perfection! They are rather like two air balloons so that the lady might suddenly float up in the air, if she was not supported by a gentleman; because it is as easy and pleasant to lift a lady in the air as to lift a glass of champagne to one’s lips. In no other place do two people bow so graciously and readily as they do in the Nevski Prospect. Here you will meet unique smiles, the products of the highest art, now a smile to make you melt with delight, now one which makes you feel lower than the grass and forces you to bow your head, and again a smile to make you feel taller than the spire of the Admiralty and hold your head high. Here you will meet people who converse of a concert or the weather with an exceptional air of breeding and a sense of their own importance. Here you will meet with a thousand inscrutable temperaments and phenomena. God, what strange types are to be found in the Nevski Prospect! There are a great number of people who, when they meet you, invariably glance at your shoes and if you pass them, they look back so that they can see your coat-tails. I can’t understand why to this day. At first, I thought they were cobblers, but this was quite wrong however; for the most part they work in different official departments, the majority of them can write an address from one government office to another in the most perfect manner, or else they are people who occupy their time with strolling about and reading papers in teashops—in a word, for the most part they are all respectable people. In this blessed time between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, a time which could be called the focal point of the Nevski Prospect, the main exhibition of all man’s best creations takes place. One shows off a modish frock-coat with the best beaver fur, another a perfect Greek nose, a third carries a pair of peerless side-whiskers, then a lady—two pretty eyes and an amazing little hat, a fifth has a signet ring with a talisman on his elegant little finger, another lady—a foot in a charming slipper, a seventh has an astonishing cravat, an eighth—a moustache to plunge one into stupefaction. But as soon as it strikes three the exhibition is over and the crowd grows thin.
Diary of a Madman and Other Stories Page 3
