Pay heed, then, to the terms I set,
And luck perhaps will still be yours.
All inequality I can forget.
I challenge you: who will say aye?
My nights I offer for a fee:
Say, which of you agrees to buy
At the price of life one night with me?”
“This subject should be given to the marquise George Sand,7 as shameless a woman as your Cleopatra. She would rework your Egyptian anecdote for present-day morals.”
“Impossible. It would have no verisimilitude. This anecdote is perfectly antique. Such an exchange is as unfeasible now as building pyramids.”
“Why unfeasible? Can it be that among present-day women not one can be found who would wish to test in reality the truth of what is repeated to her every moment—that her love is dearer to them than life?”
“Let’s say it would be interesting to find out. But how can this scientific testing be organized? Cleopatra had every possibility of making her debtors pay. But we? We certainly can’t write such terms down on official paper and have it notarized in the civil court.”
“In that case we could rely on word of honor.”
“How so?”
“The woman can take her lover’s word of honor that he’ll shoot himself the next day.”
“And the next day he goes abroad, and she’s left a fool.”
“Yes, if he agrees to remain forever dishonored in the eyes of the woman he loves. And are the terms themselves really so harsh? Is life such a treasure that one is sorry to buy happiness at the cost of it? Judge for yourself: the first prankster to come along, whom I despise, says something about me that cannot harm me in any way, and I offer my head to his bullet—I have no right to deny this satisfaction to the first bully who comes along and decides to test my sang-froid. Am I going to play the coward when it comes to my own bliss? What is life, if it’s poisoned by dejection and empty desires! And what good is it, if its pleasures are exhausted?”
“Are you really capable of entering into such a contract?”
At that moment Volskaya, who had been sitting silently all the while with lowered eyes, quickly shot a glance at Alexei Ivanych.
“I’m not speaking about myself. But a man who is truly in love will of course not hesitate for a single moment…”
“What? Even for a woman who doesn’t love you? (And one who would agree to your terms surely doesn’t love you.) The thought alone of such brutality must destroy the wildest passion…”
“No, I would see in her acceptance only a fervid imagination. As for requited love…I don’t demand that of her: if I love, whose business is it?…”
“Stop it—God knows what you’re saying. So this is what you didn’t want to tell about—”
The young countess K., a chubby, homely thing, tried to give an important expression to her nose, which resembled an onion stuck onto a turnip, and said:
“Even nowadays there are women who value themselves more highly…”
Her husband, a Polish count, who had married her for her money (mistakenly, they say), lowered his eyes and drank off his cup of tea.
“What do you mean by that, Countess?” asked the young man, barely holding back a smile…
“I mean,” the countess K. replied, “that a woman who respects herself, who respects…” Here she became confused; Vershnev came to her aid.
“You think that a woman who respects herself does not desire the death of a sinner8—isn’t it so?”
The conversation changed course.
Alexei Ivanych sat down beside Volskaya, bent over as if studying her embroidery, and said to her in a half whisper: “What do you think of Cleopatra’s terms?”
Volskaya said nothing. Alexei Ivanych repeated his question.
“What can I tell you? Nowadays, too, some women value themselves highly. But nineteenth-century men are too coldblooded, too reasonable, to agree to such terms.”
“Do you think,” Alexei Ivanych said in a suddenly altered voice, “do you think that in our time, in Petersburg, here, a woman can be found who would have enough pride, enough inner strength, to lay down Cleopatra’s terms to her lover?…”
“I think so; I’m even certain.”
“You’re not deceiving me? Just think: that would be too cruel, more cruel than the terms themselves…”
Volskaya looked at him with fiery, piercing eyes and in a firm voice said: “No.”
Alexei Ivanych stood up and disappeared at once.
* * *
*1 “Who is being fooled here?”
*2 ‘She had so much lust that she often sold herself; so much beauty that many bought a night with her at the price of death.’
A Story from Roman Life
Caesar was traveling, Titus Petronius1 and I were following him at a distance. After sunset slaves put up a tent, placed couches; we lay down to feast and converse merrily; at dawn we set out again and fell sweetly asleep each on his own lectica, weary from the heat and the night’s pleasures.
We reached Cumae and were already thinking of going further, when a messenger came to us from Nero. He brought Petronius an order from Caesar to return to Rome and there await the deciding of his fate following a hateful denunciation.
We were horror-stricken. Petronius alone listened indifferently to his sentence, dismissed the messenger with a gift, and announced to us his intention to stay in Cumae. He sent his favorite slave to choose and rent a house for him and awaited his return in a cypress grove dedicated to the Eumenides.2
We surrounded him uneasily. Flavius Aurelius asked if he meant to stay long in Cumae and whether he was not afraid of irritating Nero by his disobedience.
“I not only do not mean to disobey him,” Petronius replied with a smile, “but I even intend to forestall his wishes. But you, my friends, I advise to return. On a clear day a traveler rests in the shade of an oak tree, but during a thunderstorm he prudently distances himself from it, fearing bolts of lightning.”
We all expressed a wish to stay with him, and Petronius affectionately thanked us. The servant came back and led us to the house he had chosen. It was on the edge of town. It was managed by an old freedman, in the absence of the owner, who had left Italy long ago. Under his supervision, several slaves kept the rooms and gardens clean. In the wide entryway we found statues of the nine muses; by the door stood two centaurs.
Petronius paused on the marble threshold and read the greeting inscribed on it: Welcome! A sad smile appeared on his face. The old steward led him to the library, where we examined several scrolls and then went on to the master’s bedroom. It was simply decorated. There were only two family statues in it. One portrayed a matron sitting in a chair, the other a girl playing with a ball. A small lamp stood on a night table by the bed. Here Petronius stayed to rest and dismissed us, inviting us to gather there in the evening.
I could not fall asleep; sorrow filled my soul. I saw in Petronius not only a generous benefactor, but also a friend, sincerely attached to me. I respected his vast mind; I loved his beautiful soul. From his conversation I drew a knowledge of the world and of men, which were known to me more from the speculations of the divine Plato than from my own experience. His judgments were usually quick and correct. Indifference toward everything saved him from partiality, and sincerity in regard to himself made him perspicacious. Life could not offer him anything new; he had tasted all pleasures; his senses slumbered, dulled by habit, but his mind kept an astonishing freshness. He liked the play of ideas, as he did the harmony of words. He listened eagerly to philosophical discussions and wrote verses no worse than Catullus.
I went out to the garden and for a long time walked along its winding paths, shaded by old trees. I sat down on a bench in the shadow of a spreading poplar, beside which stood the statue of a young satyr fashioning a reed pipe. Wishing to drive my sad thoughts away somehow, I took out a writing tablet and translated one of the odes of Anacreon, which I have kept in memory of that sad day:
> Gray they’ve grown, thin they’ve grown,
My locks, the honor of my head,
The teeth have weakened in my gums,
The fire of my eyes grows dim.
Not many days are left to me
Of this sweet life to be seen off,
The Parcae keep a strict account,
Tartarus awaits my shade—
Dreadful the cold of the nether vault,
The way in is open to us all,
But there is no coming out of it…
All go down—and lie forgot.3
The sun was sinking towards the west; I went to Petronius. I found him in the library. He was pacing about; with him was his personal doctor, Septimius. Seeing me, Petronius stopped and recited facetiously:
Proud steeds are known
By the brand they bear,
The arrogant Parthian
By his tall headpiece,
Happy lovers I know
By looking in their eyes.4
“You’ve guessed right,” I replied to Petronius and gave him my tablets. He read my verses. A cloud of pensiveness passed over his face and dispersed at once.
“When I read such poems,” he said, “I’m always curious to know how those who were so struck by the thought of death died themselves. Anacreon assures us that Tartarus terrifies him, but I don’t believe him—just as I don’t believe the cowardice of Horace. Do you know his ode?
Which of the gods restored to me
The one with whom I first campaigned
And shared the horror of mortal combat,
When we were led by desperate Brutus
In the pursuit of phantom freedom?
With whom I’d forget the alarms of war
In a tent over a cup of wine,
And my locks, entwined with ivy,
I would anoint with Syrian myrrh?
Remember the hour of dreadful battle,
When I, a trembling quiritis,
Fled and shamefully dropped my shield,
Making vows and saying prayers?
How frightened I was! How fast I fled!
But Hermes suddenly covered me
In a cloud and whirled me far away
And saved me from a certain death.5
“The cunning poet wanted to make Augustus and Maecenas laugh at his cowardice so as not to remind them of the brother-in-arms of Cassius and Brutus. Say what you like, I find more sincerity in his exclamation:
Sweet and seemly it is to die for your country.”6
Maria Schoning
ANNA HARLIN TO MARIA SCHONING,
April 25, W.
Dear Maria,
What has become of you? It is more than four months now that I have not received a single line from you. Are you in good health? If I had not been constantly occupied, I would have come to visit you, but you know: twelve miles is no joke. Without me the household would come to a stop; Fritz understands nothing about it—a real child. Maybe you have gotten married? No, surely you would have remembered your friend and given me the joyful news of your happiness. In your last letter you wrote that your poor father was still ailing; I hope that the spring has helped him and that he is better now. About myself I can say, thank God, that I am healthy and happy. The work goes so-so, but I still do not know how to set prices or bargain. And it is time I learned. Fritz is quite well, but for some time now his wooden leg has been bothering him. He walks little, and in bad weather he moans and groans. However, he is as cheerful as ever, still likes his glass of wine, and still has not finished telling me about his campaigns. The children are growing and getting pretty. Frank is becoming quite a fellow. Imagine, dear Maria, he is already chasing after girls—isn’t that something?—and he is not even three years old. And what a rowdy! Fritz cannot stop admiring him and spoils him terribly; instead of calming the child down, he eggs him on and rejoices at all his pranks. Mina is much more composed; true, she is a year older. I am beginning to teach her to read. She catches on very quickly, and it seems she will be pretty. But what are good looks? Let her be kind and reasonable—then most likely she will be happy.
P.S. I am sending you a shawl as a present; put it on next Sunday, dear Maria, when you go to church. It was a gift from Fritz; but red goes better with your dark hair than with my blonde. Men do not understand these things. Blue and red are all the same to them. Forgive, dear Maria, my babbling away with you. Answer me quickly. Give my sincere respects to your father. Write me about his health. I will never forget that I spent three years under his roof, and he treated me, a poor orphan, not as a hired servant, but as a daughter. Our pastor’s wife advises him to use red pimpinella instead of tea, a very ordinary flower—I’ve found its Latin name—any apothecary will show it to you.
MARIA SCHONING TO ANNA HARLIN
April 28
I received your letter last Friday (read it only today). My poor father passed away that same day, at six o’clock in the morning; the funeral was yesterday.
I never imagined that death was so near. All the time recently he was feeling much better, and Dr. Költz had hopes for his full recovery. On Monday he even strolled in our little garden and went as far as the well without getting out of breath. Returning to his room, he felt slightly feverish; I put him to bed and ran to Dr. Költz. He was not at home. Returning to my father, I found him fallen asleep. I thought that sleep might calm him completely. Dr. Költz came in the evening. He examined the sick man and was displeased with his condition. He prescribed him a new medicine. During the night father woke up and asked to eat; I gave him soup; he swallowed one spoonful and did not want any more. He fell asleep again. The next day he had spasms. Dr. Költz never left his side. By evening the pain subsided, but he became so restless that he could not stay in one position for five minutes at a time. I had to keep turning him from one side to the other…Towards morning he quieted down and lay asleep for two hours or so. Dr. Költz left, telling me that he would be back in a couple of hours. Suddenly my father raised himself a little and called me. I came to him and asked what he wanted. He said to me: “Maria, why is it so dark? Open the blinds.” I became frightened and said to him: “Father, don’t you see…the blinds are open.” He started feeling around him, seized my hand, and said: “Maria! Maria, I’m very ill…I’m dying…let me bless you…quickly!” I threw myself on my knees and put his hand on my head. He said: “Lord, reward her; Lord, I entrust her to you.” He fell silent, his hand suddenly felt heavy. I thought he had fallen asleep again, and for several minutes I did not dare to move. Suddenly Dr. Költz came in, removed his hand from my head, and said to me: “Let him be now, go to your room.” I looked: father lay pale and motionless. It was all over.
The good Dr. Költz did not leave our house for a whole two days and arranged everything, because I was not up to it. During the last days I was the only one looking after the sick man, there was no one to relieve me. I remembered you often and bitterly regretted that you were not with us…
Yesterday I got out of bed and was following the coffin; but I suddenly felt ill. I knelt down, so as to take leave of him from a distance. Frau Rothberg said: “What an actress!” Just imagine, dear Anya, those words gave me back my strength. I followed the coffin with astonishing ease. In the church it seemed extremely bright to me, and everything around me swayed. I did not weep. I felt suffocated, and kept wanting to laugh.
He was carried to the cemetery behind St. Jacob’s church, and in my presence was lowered into the grave. I suddenly wanted to dig it up then, because I had not finished taking leave of him. But many people were still walking about the cemetery, and I was afraid that Frau Rothberg would say again: “What an actress!”
How cruel not to allow a daughter to take leave of her dead father as she wishes…
On returning home, I found some strangers, who told me it was necessary to seal all of my late father’s possessions and papers. They left me my little room, after taking everything out of it except the bed and one chair. Tomorrow is Sunday. I sh
all not wear your shawl, but I thank you very much for it. I send my regards to your husband, and kiss Frank and Mina. Good-bye.
I write standing at the window, and have borrowed an inkstand from the neighbors.
MARIA SCHONING TO ANNA HARLIN
Dear Anna,
Yesterday an official came to me and announced that all of my late father’s possessions must be put up for auction for the benefit of the town treasury, because he had not been assessed for his true worth and the inventory of his possessions showed he was much richer than had been thought. I understand none of it. Lately we had been spending a great deal on medicines. I have only 23 thalers left for expenses—I showed them to the officials, who said, however, that I could keep the money, because the law had no claim to it.
Our house will be sold next week; and I do not know what to do with myself. I went to the herr burgomeister. He received me well, but to my appeals replied that he could do nothing for me. I do not know where to find employment. If you need a maidservant, write to me; you know that I can help you with the housework and the handwork, and besides that I will look after the children and Fritz, if he falls ill. I have learned how to care for the sick. Please write if you have need of me. And do not be embarrassed. I am sure that this will not change our relations in the least and that you will remain for me the same kind and indulgent friend.
Old Schoning’s little house was full of people. They crowded around the table, which was presided over by the auctioneer. He shouted: “Flannelette waistcoat with brass buttons…* * * thalers. Going once, going twice…—No higher bidder?—Flannelette waistcoat * * * thalers—sold.” The waistcoat went to the hands of its new owner.
The buyers inspected with disparagement and curiosity the objects put up for auction. Frau Rothberg examined the dirty underwear, which had not been washed after Schoning’s death; she fingered it, shook it out, repeating, “Trash, rags, tatters,” and raised her bids by pennies. The tavern owner Hirtz bought two silver spoons, a half-dozen napkins, and two china cups. The bed on which Schoning had died was bought by Karolina Schmidt, a heavily rouged girl with a modest and humble air.
Novels, Tales, Journeys Page 52
