Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  Piskarev told him about his insomnia. “Very well, then, I’ll let you have some opium, but you must draw me a beautiful woman. And I mean beautiful! With black eyebrows and eyes as big as olives; with me lying beside her smoking a pipe! You hear! She’s got to be good looking! A real beauty!” Piskarev promised everything. The Persian went out for a moment and returned with a small jar filled with a dark liquid, carefully poured part of it into another jar and gave it to Piskarev with instructions to use no more than seven drops in a little water. Piskarev avidly seized this precious jar, which he would not have sold for a pile of gold, and dashed off home.

  When he got home he poured a few drops into a glass of water and, drinking it down, collapsed on the bed to sleep.

  Lord! What joy! She! She was back! But in a completely different form. Oh, how pretty she was as she sat by the window of a bright little country cottage! Her clothes breathed such simplicity as only poets’ thoughts are clothed in. Her coiffure Lord, how simple that coiffure was and how it suited her! A pretty little scarf was lightly flowing about her pretty neck; everything about her was modest, everything about her displayed a mysterious, inexplicable sense of taste. How delightfully and gracefully she walked! How musical was the sound of her footsteps and the swish of her simple dress! How beautiful her arm was, encircled by a bracelet with locks of dear ones’ hair! She spoke to him with tears in her eyes: “Don’t despise me: I am not at all the kind of girl you took me for. Look at me, look me in the eye and tell me: surely I’m not capable of what you thought.”

  “Oh, no, no! Just let anyone dare think, just let …” But he wakened, agitated, unnerved, with tears in his eyes. “It would have been better had you never existed, had never been born and had remained no more than the creation of some inspired artist. I would never have left the canvas, I would have gazed at you and kissed you for eternity. I would have lived and breathed you as the most beautiful of dreams, and I would have been happy. That would have been all I desired. I would have invoked you, as my guardian angel, on going to sleep and on awakening, and I would have waited for you when I had to create something divine and holy. But now … what a terrible life! What purpose does she serve by living? Surely a madman’s life brings no joy to his relatives and friends who were once so fond of him. Lord, what kind of life is ours! An eternal conflict between dreams and reality!” Such thoughts occupied him almost constantly. He could think of nothing, he ate practically nothing and awaited the night and his desired dream with the impatience and passion of a lover. This constant concentration of his thoughts on one thing finally assumed such control over his whole being and imagination that the desired vision appeared to him almost every day, always in a way which was opposite to reality, because his thoughts were always pure like those of a child. Through these dreams their subject became more pure and was completely transformed.

  The doses of opium inflamed his thoughts even more and if ever there was a man driven by love to the greatest degree of insanity, so relentlessly, terribly, destructively and ruinously—then this was that unfortunate soul.

  Of all his dreams there was one which was more joyous for him than all the rest: in it he had a vision of his studio, in which he was so happy, sitting so contentedly with a palette in his hands. And she was there too, now his wife, sitting by his side, her beautiful elbow resting on the back of his chair, and she was surveying his work. In her eyes, weary and tired, the burden of joy was evident; everything in the room breathed paradise; everything was so bright, so tidy. Lord! She lowered her delightful head onto his chest. This was the most enthralling dream he had ever known. He got up after it feeling somehow refreshed and less distraught than before. Strange thoughts came to him. “Perhaps,” he thought, “she was drawn into vice by some terrible event over which she had no control; perhaps the workings of her soul incline towards repentance; perhaps she would like to get herself out of this terrible situation. And surely I can’t stand by, indifferent, and watch her destroy herself when all I have to do is hold out my hand to save her from going under.” And his thoughts went further. “Nobody knows me,” he said to himself, “and I am no more concerned about what others do than they are about me. If she displays genuine repentance and changes her life, then I’ll marry her. I must marry her, and surely I would be doing something far better than many who marry their housekeepers or sometimes even the most despicable of creatures. Mine, however, will be an entirely altruistic act, perhaps even great: I’ll be returning something of rare beauty to the world.”

  When he had devised his simple plan, he felt the color rush to his cheeks; he walked over to the mirror and was himself shocked by his sunken cheeks and the pallor of his face. He began to smarten himself up, taking great care; he washed, smoothed down his hair; put on a few frock coat, a smart waistcoat, threw on a cape and went out of the house. He breathed in the fresh air and his heart responded to the feeling of freshness, like a convalescent who has decided to venture out of doors for the first time after a prolonged illness. His heart was pounding as he drew near to that street which he had not set foot on since that fateful meeting.

  He searched for the house for a long time; it was as if his memory was playing tricks on him. Twice he walked up and down the street, not knowing which house to stop in front of. Finally one seemed likely. He ran quickly up the steps and knocked on the door: the door opened and who came out to meet him? His ideal, his mysterious image, the model for the pictures in his dreams—the girl who had become life itself for him in such a terrible, agonizing, blissful way. She stood in front of him: he trembled, his legs could scarcely support him for weakness, he was seized by a sudden fit of joy. She stood before him, so beautiful, though her eyes were sleepy and a certain pallor had crept over her face, which had lost some of its freshness. But she was still beautiful.

  “Ah,” she exclaimed, seeing Piskarev and rubbing her eyes (it was already two o’clock): “why did you run away from us back then?”

  Exhausted, he sat down on a chair and looked at her.

  “I’ve only just awakened. I was brought home this morning at seven o’clock. I was quite drunk,” she continued, smiling.

  Oh, better you were mute and missing your tongue than to say such things! She had suddenly revealed the whole panorama of her life to him. However, despite this, and wrestling with his emotions, he decided on trying to see if his exhortations would have any effect on her. Mustering his courage, he began in a quivering, but at the same time passionate, voice to describe her dreadful predicament to her. She listened to him with an attentive look and that feeling of surprise which we display at the sight of something strange and unexpected. Faintly smiling, she glanced at her friend sitting in the corner who, breaking off from cleaning her comb, also listened attentively to the new preacher.

  “It’s true that I’m a poor man,” said Piskarev at last, after lengthy and persuasive exhortations. “But we’ll work, we’ll each try to out do the other, to make a better life for ourselves. There’s nothing sweeter than to owe everything to one’s own labors. I will sit over at my paintings, you’ll sit at my side and give me the inspiration for my work while you’re busy sewing or doing some other handiwork, and we’ll lack for nothing.”

  “Not likely” she interrupted what he was saying with an expression of scorn. “I’m nobody’s washerwoman or seamstress to be made to work.”

  Lord! All the despicable and degraded aspects of her life were revealed in these words—a life full of emptiness and idleness, the faithful companions of vice.

  “Marry me!” said her friend, who had hitherto been sitting in silence in the corner, with a cheeky look in her eyes. “If you make me your wife, I’ll sit like this! “And with that her pitiful face assumed a witless expression which threw the beautiful girl into fits of laughter.

  Oh, that was too much! That was more than he could stand! He turned and ran, his feelings and thoughts out of control. His mind clouded over: he wandered about all day in a stupor, aimlessly, seeing and
hearing nothing. It is impossible to say if he found anywhere to spend the night or not; but the next day, kept going by some blind instinct, he found his way back to his own room, pallid, with a terrified aspect, his hair disheveled and signs of insanity on his face. He locked himself in his room, admitted nobody and asked for nothing. Four days passed, during which time the locked door was not opened even once; at last a week had passed and the door still remained locked. People hurled themselves against the door and began to call out to him, but there was no reply; finally they smashed the door in and found his lifeless body with the throat cut. A razor, dripping blood, was lying on the floor. From the convulsively outstretched arms and terrifyingly distorted look on his face one could tell that his hand had faltered and he had suffered for a long time before his sinful soul had departed from his body.

  Thus perished poor Piskarev, the victim of a mindless passion; the quiet, timid, humble, childishly simple-hearted artist, carrying within him that spark of genius which in time might have flared up expansively and glowingly. No one shed a tear for him; there was no one to be seen watching by his lifeless body, except for the usual presence of the constable and the indifferent face of the town doctor. His coffin was conveyed to the Okhta in silence; there were no religious rites, even. A solitary soldier-guard walked behind it, crying, and that was really only because he had drunk a drop too much vodka. Even Lieutenant Pirogov did not come to view the corpse of the poor, wretched man to whom he had extended his high patronage when he was alive. Moreover, Pirogov had other things on his mind: he was preoccupied with a very unusual event. But let’s return to him. I don’t like corpses and the deceased, and it always upsets me when a long funeral procession passes and an invalid soldier, dressed like some sort of Capuchin monk, takes a pinch of snuff with his left hand because he is holding the torch in his right. It always vexes me deep down to see a resplendent catafalque and velvet coffin; but my vexation is tinged with sorrow when I see a drayman pulling along a pauper’s completely unadorned pine coffin, behind which a solitary beggar woman, having met the procession at a cross-roads, trudges for want of something to do.

  We, left Lieutenant Pirogov, I believe, at the point where he parted from poor Piskarev and shot off after the blonde. This blonde was a dainty, rather attractive creature. She stopped in front of every shop and gazed at the sashes, scarves, earrings, gloves and other knick-knacks, while she swirled around ceaselessly, looking all around her and behind her. “You, my little darling, belong to me!” said Pirogov, confidently, continuing his pursuit with his face thrust into his coat collar in case he met someone he knew. But it won’t do any harm to tell the reader what sort of person Pirogov was.

  But before we say what sort of person Lieutenant Pirogov was, it won’t do any harm to say a few words about the society to which Pirogov belonged. There are officers in Petersburg who constitute a sort of middle class in society. You’ll always find them at soirees or dinners at the home of a state councilor or an acting councilor who has earned his rank by forty years of hard work. Daughters, pale and completely colorless, like Petersburg itself, some of whom are past their prime, a tea-table, a piano, house parties—all these are inextricably associated with the gleaming epaulette which shines in the lamplight between a virtuous little blonde and the black coat of her brother or of some friend of the family. It is extremely difficult to rouse these cold-hearted young ladies and make them laugh: to do this one needs great skill or, rather, no skill at all. It is essential not to say anything either too intelligent or too amusing, but to talk in terms of the trivialities which women love to hear. In this respect, credit must be given to the above-mentioned gentlemen. They are particularly gifted when it comes to making these colorless beauties laugh and listen. Exclamations, smothered in laughter, such as: “Oh stop it! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, saying such ridiculous things,” are often their greatest reward. Such gentlemen are seldom, or rather never, encountered in high society. They are completely shouldered out by those society calls aristocrats; they are, however considered learned and well-bred. They love to discuss literature; they praise Bulgarin, Pushkin and Grech, and talk disparagingly, and with sarcastic wit, of A. A. Orlov. They never miss a single public lecture, whether it concerns accountancy or even forestry. At the theater, whatever play is on, you’ll always find one of them, except perhaps if it’s a Filatka farce, which is so offensive to their discerning taste. In the theater they’re permanent fixtures. These are the theater manager’s most profitable customers. They’re particularly fond of good poetry in a play, and also enjoy bellowing their “encores”; many of them, by teaching in government establishments or by coaching pupils for them, eventually acquire a carriage and pair. Then their circle becomes wider and they finally succeed in marrying a piano-playing merchant’s daughter who has a hundred thousand, more or less, in ready cash and many, many bearded kinfolk. However, they cannot attain this honor before working their way up to the rank of at least colonel. For this reason the bearded Russian merchants, despite the fact that they still reek of cabbage, have no desire whatever to see their daughters marry anything less than a general, or at the very least, a colonel. Such are the principal characteristics of young men of this class. But Lieutenant Pirogov had a great many unique talents. He could give an excellent recital of verse from Dmitry Donskoi and Woe from Wit, and had mastered the exacting art of blowing smoke rings from his pipe so skillfully he could string nearly a dozen of them together one on top of the other. He could relate an anecdote very well, showing that a cannon is one thing and a unicorn another. But its rather difficult to list all the talents with which nature had endowed Pirogov. He loved to talk about actresses and dancers, but not so coarsely as a young ensign would normally express himself on such a matter. He was very satisfied with his rank to which he had recently been promoted and although at times, lying on his couch, he would say “Oh! Oh! Vanity of vanities! What does it matter that I’m a lieutenant?” in secret he was extremely proud of his new rank; in conversations he often tried to hint at it in a roundabout way, and once in the street, when he came across some petty clerk who failed to show him sufficient respect, he immediately stopped the man and in a few sharp words let him know that before him stood not just any officer, but a lieutenant. He tried to be particularly eloquent in his remarks, since at the time a couple of attractive ladies were passing by. Pirogov, generally speaking, demonstrated a passion for everything elegant, and encouraged the artist Piskarev; however, this was probably because of a consuming urge to see his own virile face on canvas. But that’s enough about Pirogov’s qualities. The man is such a wonderful creature that it would not be possible to enumerate fully all his qualities just off the cuff, and the more one examines him the more new characteristics become apparent, and a description of them would be endless. And so, Pirogov continued in his pursuit of the unknown girl, from time to time putting questions to her which she would answer tersely, abruptly and with incomprehensible utterances. They walked through the dark Kazan Gate, onto Meshchanskaia Street, a street full of tobacconists and dingy little shops, of German craftsmen and Finnish nymphets. The blonde was running quickly and flitted in through the gate of a rather grub-by-looking house. Pirogov went after her. She ran up a narrow, dark staircase and in at a door through which Pirogov also boldly went. He found himself in a large room with black walls and a soot-covered ceiling. On the table lay a heap of iron screws, locksmith’s tools, gleaming coffee pots and candlesticks; the floor was littered with copper and iron filings. Pirogov immediately grasped that this was a craftsman’s apartment. The unknown girl dashed through into a side-room. He hesitated for a second, then obeying the Russian rule, continued ahead decisively. He entered a room which, totally unlike the first, was tidy and neat, indicating that the tenant was a German. He was struck by an unusually strange sight.

  Before him sat Schiller, not the Schiller who wrote William Tell and A History of the Thirty Years’ War, but the famous Schiller, the master tinsmith of Me
shchanskaia Street. Near Schiller stood Hoffmann, not the writer Hoffmann, but the better-than-average cobbler from Offitserskaia (Officer) Street, the staunch friend of Schiller. Schiller was sitting on a chair, drunk, tapping his foot and saying something animatedly. All this would not have been particularly surprising to Pirogov, but he was surprised at the strange positions the two were in. Schiller was seated, his rather fat nose and head pointing upwards, and Hoffmann was holding his nose with two fingers and was twirling the blade of his cobblers’ knife just above it. Both of them were speaking in German and so Lieutenant Pirogov, who only knew the German “Gut morgen,” could understand nothing of this drama. However, Schiller’s words amounted to this:

  “I don’t want it, I don’t need my nose!” he said, waving his arms about. “My nose alone uses up to three pounds of snuff a month. And I put my money into some filthy Russian shop, because the German shop doesn’t stock Russian snuff, I put forty kopeks per month into the filthy shop for every pound; that makes it one ruble twenty kopeks; and twelve times a ruble twenty kopeks makes fourteen rubles forty kopeks. Do you hear, Hoffmann, my friend? Fourteen rubles forty kopeks on my nose alone! And on holidays I take rappee, because I don’t want to sniff filthy Russian snuff on holidays. In a year I sniff two pounds of rappee, at two rubles a pound. Six and fourteen make twenty rubles forty kopeks on snuff alone. That’s daylight robbery! I ask you, my friend, is that not so?”

  Hoffmann, who was also drunk, answered in the affirmative.

  “Twenty rubles forty kopeks! I’m a Schwabian German; I have a king in Germany. I don’t want my nose! Cut off my nose! There’s my nose!”

  And had it not been for Pirogov’s sudden appearance, Hoffmann, no doubt, would have cut off Schiller’s nose without more ado, for he was already holding the knife as if he were about to cut out a shoe-leather.

  Schiller seemed very annoyed at this unknown, uninvited person, who had interrupted him at such an inopportune moment. And, despite the fact that he was in such a drunken daze from wine and beer, he felt it was rather indecent to be seen by an onlooker in such a state and performing such a deed. Meanwhile Pirogov made a slight bow and in his characteristically pleasant way said: