Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  At twelve o’clock tutors of all nationalities invade Nevsky Prospect with their pupils in cambric collars. English Joneses and French Coqs walk arm in arm with the pupils entrusted to their parental supervision and with proper decorum explain to them how the signboards over the shops are intended as a means of informing people of what is to be found in the shops themselves. The governesses, these pale misses and pink-skinned Slavs, walk majestically along behind their dainty, fidgety little girls, ordering them to lift their shoulders a little higher and to hold themselves more erect; to sum up, at this time of day Nevsky Prospect is educational Nevsky Prospect. But the closer it gets to two o’clock the more the number of tutors, teachers and children decreases: finally they are replaced by their genteel sires, walking arm-in-arm with their gaudy, multi-colored excitable ladies. Little by little they are joined by those who have concluded important private errands—that is, those who have spoken to their doctors about the weather and the insignificant pimple which has erupted on their nose, those who have made inquiries about the health of their horses and their children, who have, by the way, shown great talent, those who have read a billboard or an important newspaper article about people arriving and departing, and finally those who have been drinking coffee or tea; these are joined by those whose enviable fate has endowed them with the revered profession of official-with-special-responsibilities. And these are joined by people who serve in the Department of Foreign Affairs and who are distinguished by the exalted nature of their occupations and habits. Lord! What splendid posts and jobs there are! How they ennoble and delight the soul! But alas! I am not a civil servant and am deprived of the pleasure of observing the bosses’ refined treatment of me! Everything you are likely to come across on Nevsky Prospect, everything, is permeated with good taste: men in long frock coats, with their hands thrust into their pockets, ladies in pink, white and pale blue satin redingotes and hats. Here you’ll see unique side-whiskers tucked into collars with rare and surprising artistry; velvety, satiny side-whiskers as black as sable or coal, but, alas, belonging only to members of the Department of Foreign Affairs. Providence has not endowed members of other departments with black side-whiskers and they must wear ginger ones, to their great displeasure. Here you’ll encounter wonderful mustaches no pen could describe and no paintbrush depict; mustaches to which the better half of a life has been devoted; the objects of long vigils by day and night, mustaches which have been doused in the most seductive perfumes and scents and colored by all the most expensive and rarest of pomades; mustaches which are wrapped in gossamer vellum paper for the night; mustaches for which their owners demonstrate a most touching affection and which become the envy of passersby. Thousands of kinds of hats, dresses, scarves—parti-colored ones, gauzy ones which sometimes retain the affection of their owners for two whole days, dazzle anyone who happens to be on Nevsky Prospect. It seems that a whole sea of butterflies has suddenly taken flight from its flower stems and surges like a glimmering cloud about the men, who resemble black beetles. Here you’ll see such waistlines as you’ve never even dreamed of: slender, narrow waists, no thicker than the neck of a bottle, for which you chivalrously step aside so as not to carelessly brush against them with a disrespectful elbow; your heart is overcome by timidity and fear, lest with just a careless breath you cause this most delightful product of nature and art to disintegrate. And what ladies’ sleeves you’ll see on Nevsky Prospect. Oh, what sheer delight! They look rather like two air balloons, which make you think that the lady would float up into the air if the gentleman did not have tight hold of her: because it’s as easy and as pleasant to lift a lady into the air as it is to raise a glass of champagne to your lips. Nowhere do people bow as gallantly or unaffectedly when they meet one another as they do on Nevsky Prospect. Here you’ll see that singular smile, that smile which is beyond art and which will sometimes make you melt away with pleasure, and will sometimes make you feel smaller than a blade of grass and lower your head, and also one which will sometimes make you feel taller than the Admiralty Tower and capable of lifting it up. Here you’ll meet people talking of a concert or the weather with such unusual refinement and feelings of personal dignity. Here you’ll meet a thousand inscrutable characters and types. Lord! What strange characters one meets on Nevsky Prospect! There are a great many people who, when they meet you, unfailingly stare at your boots, and, if you walk past they turn round to scrutinize your coattails. I’ve never been able to understand why this is so. At first I thought they were cobblers, but this is not the case: for the most part they work in various departments, and many of them are capable of writing a memorandum from one government department to another in excellent fashion; or they are people out for a walk, or reading the newspapers in the cafes—in a word, they are, for the most part, respectable people. And during that hallowed hour, from two to three in the afternoon, which may be termed the high spot of the afternoon on Nevsky Prospect, the supreme exhibition of Man’s finest products takes place. One person displays a dandyish tail-coat, edged with the finest beaver, another—a fine Greek nose, a third has excellent side-whiskers, a fourth—a pair of pretty eyes and a breathtaking hat, a fifth—a talisman ring on a foppish little finger, a sixth—a foot in an enchanting little shoe, a seventh—a remarkable tie, and an eighth—a mustache to amaze anyone. But the clock strikes three and the exhibition comes to an end, the crowd thins out At three o’clock—another change. It’s suddenly Spring on Nevsky Prospect, the street is covered with officials in green uniforms. Hungry titular, court, and other councilors try to make their way as fast as they possibly can. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries, hurry to seize their opportunity of walking along Nevsky Prospect with a bearing that shows they certainly haven’t spent the last six hours sitting in an office. But the old collegiate secretaries, the titular and court councilors, they walk along quickly and with bowed heads: they have no interest in scrutinizing the passersby; they still haven’t torn themselves completely away from their work; inside their heads there’s a jumble and veritable archive of matters begun and as yet unfinished; instead of signboards for a long while they see a box of documents or their office manager’s full face.

  From four o’clock on Nevsky Prospect is deserted, and not a single official is to be seen there. The odd seamstress from a dressmaker’s might dash across Nevsky Prospect, carrying a small bandbox; some pitiful victim of a philanthropic attorney thrust into the world in a frieze coat; some passing eccentric for whom time is meaningless; some long, tall Englishwoman carrying a purse and small book in her hands; a cooperative worker, a Russian wearing a high-waisted calico frock coat and sporting a slender beard, who’s lived all his life in a hurry and whose every part, as he makes his way deferentially along the sidewalk, is in constant motion: back, arms, legs and head, and sometimes a low-class artisan … you won’t meet anyone else on Nevsky Prospect at this time.

  But as soon as dusk descends on the houses and streets and the watchman, wrapped in matting, clambers up the ladder to light the lamp, and the notice cards which dare not be shown in broad daylight appear in the shops’ lower windows, then Nevsky Prospect takes on new life and begins to stir. Then arrives that mysterious hour when the lamps bathe everything in a beckoning, wondrous light. You will see a great many young men, mostly unmarried, in warm frock coats or greatcoats. At this time a certain sense of purpose can be detected, or rather something resembling a sense of purpose, something completely inexplicable; everybody’s footsteps quicken and, generally speaking, become very erratic; elongated shadows, their heads reaching almost as far as the Politseisky (Police) Bridge, flash across the walls and pavements. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries stroll about for hours on end; but the old collegiate registrars, titular and court advisers usually stay indoors, either because such people are married or because the German cooks living in their houses cook such excellent dishes for them. Here you’ll find the respectable old men who at two o’clock
were strolling along Nevsky Prospect with such an air of importance and unbelievable sophistication. You’ll see them on the run, just like the young collegiate registrars, to have a sly look at a lady they’ve spotted in the distance, and whose full lips and cheeks, caked with rouge, are such a delight to many passersby, and particularly to the tradesmen, cooperative workers and merchants who can always be seen walking along in a group, all wearing German frock coats and usually arm-in-arm.

  “Stop!”—shouted Lieutenant Pirogov (Pie) just at that moment. holding back the young man who was walking along with him in a frock coat and cape. “Did you see?”

  “Yes, I did. An enchanting girl; a real Perugino’s Bianca.”

  “Whom are you talking about?”

  “About her, that one with the dark hair. And what eyes! Lord, what eyes! The way she holds herself, and her figure! And the shape of her face—all wonderful!”

  “I’m talking about the blonde who passed her on the other side. Why don’t you follow the brunette, since you seem to fancy her so much?”

  “How could I?” exclaimed the young man in the dress coat, blushing. “That would be like saying she was one of those ladies who walk to and fro along Nevsky Prospect of an evening,” he continued, sighing. “She must be very well-to-do, why, her cape alone must be worth about eighty rubles.”

  “Fool!” shouted Pirogov, forcibly pushing him in the direction of the lady’s brightly colored cape. “Go on, you numbskull, you’re missing your chance! And I’ll go after that blonde!”

  The two friends parted company.

  “We know you, all of you,” Pirogov thought to himself, smiling in a self-satisfied, conceited way, totally convinced that no beauty existed who could resist him.

  The young man in the frock coat and cape set off with a shy and hesitant gait, in the direction of the many-hued cape, which was now was bathed in a bright light as it approached the light of the street lamp, and now momentarily concealed in darkness as it moved away. His heart pounded and he increased his speed without realizing it. He didn’t even dare to think he might have some right to the attention of the beautiful girl who had flown away into the distance, let alone admit to any shady thoughts of the kind hinted at by Lieutenant Pirogov; but he did want just to see the house and make a note of where this delightful creature lived, this creature who, it seemed, had flown down from Heaven straight onto Nevsky Prospect, and, doubtless would fly away again Heaven knows where. He was flying along so quickly that he kept on knocking middle-aged, gray-whiskered gentlemen off the sidewalk. This young man belonged to that class of people who seem such a strange phenomenon to us and who belong to the citizens of Petersburg about as much as a face appearing to us in a dream belongs to the material world. This exclusive class is very unusual in a city where everybody is officials, merchants or German craftsmen. He was an artist. They are a strange phenomenon, aren’t they? A Petersburg artist! An artist in the land of snows, an artist in the land of the Finns, where everything is damp, slippery, flat, pale, gray or misty. These artists are totally unlike Italian artists, who are proud and passionate like Italy and her sky; on the contrary, these are for the most part kind, timid, shy, easy-come-easy-go people, quietly in love with their art, who drink, tea with a couple of friends in their small rooms and unaffectedly talk about their favorite subject, heedless of all else. They are always inviting some old beggar-woman back to their rooms and making her sit for six whole hours so that they can transpose her pitiful, lifeless face onto canvas. They draw the perspective of their own rooms, in which there’s all sort of artists’ rubbish: plaster hands and feet, coffee-colored with time and dust, broken artists’ work benches, an overturned palette, a friend playing a guitar, paint-spattered walls and an open window, through which are glimpsed the pale Neva and fishermen in red shirts. Almost everything they own has a murky gray cast to it—the indelible stamp of the North. But with all this they labor over their work with genuine enjoyment. They often nurture real talent within them, and if only the fresh breeze of Italy could blow on them this talent doubtless would blossom as freely, expansively and brilliantly as a plant which is taken at last out of doors and into the fresh air. They’re generally very shy: the star and broad epaulette throw them into such confusion that they automatically lower the prices of any of their works. Occasionally they like to play the dandy, but their dandyism always seems too abrasive and has a slap-dash look. You’ll sometimes see them wearing an excellent tailcoat with a soiled cape, an expensive velvet waistcoat and a paint-stained frock coat. Just as, on one of their unfinished landscapes you’ll sometimes see sketched at the bottom the head of a nymph which the artist, unable to another spot for it, had dashed off in outline on the filthy primer coat of a previous work he’d once painted for pleasure. They never look you straight in the eye; or if they do, then they do so in a somewhat hazy, indecisive way, theirs is not the penetrating hawk-like stare of an examiner or the falcon glance of a cavalry officer. This stems from the fact that they see at the same time both your features and those of some plaster Hercules standing in their room, or they’re imagining a picture of their own, one which they’re still thinking of doing. For this reason they often answer incoherently, sometimes off the point, and the jumbled-up subjects in their mind only increase their timidity. And to such a breed belongs the young man we’ve just described, the artist Piskarev, shy and timid, but concealing feelings in his soul which, at the right moment, were ready to burst into flame. With secret trembling he hurried along after the subject who had made such a strong impression on him, and he himself seemed surprised at his own audacity. The unknown creature on whom his eyes, thoughts and feelings were fixed suddenly turned her head and looked at him. Lord! What heavenly features! The dazzling whiteness of her delightful forehead was framed in beautiful jet-black hair. They curled, those wonderful locks, and some of them, cascading down from beneath her hat, caressed her cheeks, which were touched with a delicate fresh pinkies due to the evening chill. Her lips were sealed by a host of the most delightful dreams. All those things which recall memories of our childhood and which provide dreams and quiet inspiration in the light of a glowing lamp—all these, it seemed, gathered, merged and were expressed in her harmonious lips. She looked at Piskarev, and that look made his heart flutter; she looked sternly at him, a sense of the vexation evoked by such impudent pursuit overspread her features; but on this beautiful face even anger was captivating. Overcome with shame and timidity, Piskarev (Squeak) simply stood there with his eyes lowered; but how could he let such a divine being out of his sight without even discovering the sacred place in which she condescended to abide? Such were the thoughts which entered the young dreamer’s head, and he decided to continue the chase. But to avoid being noticed, he moved further back, casually looked in both directions and examined the signboards, but all the while he didn’t allow a single step the girl took to escape his notice. Pedestrians began to flash past less often, the street was becoming quieter; the beautiful girl turned around, and it seemed to him that a slight smile flashed across her lips. He was all a-quiver and could not believe his own eyes. No, it was the lamp with its deceptive light drawing on her face something like a smile; no, it was his own dreams laughing at him. But his breath faltered within his breast and was converted there into an undefined trembling, all his senses were on fire and everything in front of him was swallowed up by a kind of mist. The sidewalk swam beneath him, carriages with galloping horses seemed stock still, the bridge stretched and snapped at its arch, a house was standing upside down, a sentry box stooped to meet him, and the watchman’s halberd together with the golden lettering of a signboard and the pair of scissors pictured on it shone as if they hung on his very eyelashes. And all this was the effect of a single glance, a single turn of a beautiful little head. Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, noticing nothing, he scurried along in the traces of those beautiful little feet, trying to regulate the speed of his steps, which were keeping time with his heartbeats. At times he was over
come by doubts: was the expression on her face really so favorable—and then he would stop for a moment, but his heart-beats, the invincible force and turmoil of all his feelings urged him on. He didn’t even notice how a four-story building suddenly appeared in front of him, with four rows of windows, all lit up and all looking at him at once, and the balustrade by the entryway barred his way with an iron jolt. He saw the unknown lady fly up the stairs, look around, put her finger to her lips and signal him to follow her. His knees trembled; his emotions and thoughts were on fire; a lightning flash of joy, unbearably sharp, pierced his heart. No, this was no longer a dream! Lord, how much happiness in a single moment! A lifetime’s ecstasy in two minutes!

  But was this not all a dream? Was it possible that this woman, in exchange for whose single heavenly glance he was prepared to surrender his whole life, and to approach whose house he considered the most inexpressible of pleasures, was it possible that she was really favorably inclined towards him and attentive of him just now? He flew up that staircase. He was experiencing no earthly thoughts; he was consumed by no earthly passion; no, at that moment he was pure and chaste, like a virginal youth, still breathing an undefined spiritual craving for love. And what would in a licentious man have roused daring thoughts was the very thing which, on the contrary, sanctified them to him. This trust which the weak, beautiful creature displayed to him, this trust placed him under a vow of chivalrous self-restraint, a vow to carry out her every command as if he were her slave. He only wished that these commands be as demanding and difficult to execute as possible so that he could fly to overcome them with a greater exertion of strength. He did not doubt that some secret and at the same time important occurrence had obliged this unknown girl to confide in him; and that without doubt, great favors would be demanded of him, and he could already feel inside himself a strength and decisiveness equal to anything.