“If you will excuse me …”
“Clear off!” answered Schiller in a drawling voice.
This perplexed Lieutenant Pirogov. Nobody had ever addressed him like this before. The faint smile which was just beginning to appear on his face suddenly vanished. With a feeling of offended dignity, he said,
“I find it rather strange, my dear sir … you must not have noticed … I’m an officer….”
“What’s an officer to me? I’m a Schwabian German.” “I too (and with that Schiller thumped the table with his fist) am able to be officer; eighteen months a junker, two years a lieutenant and next day I’m already an officer. But I don’t want to enlist. This is what I think of officers: Pfooey!” said Schiller, extending his palm and snorting into it.
Lieutenant Pirogov saw that the only thing left for him to do was to withdraw; such a course of action, totally unbecoming in one of his rank, was disagreeable to him. Several times on the stairs he stopped short, trying to muster his courage and think of a way of making Schiller realize how impertinent he had been. Finally he came to the conclusion that it was possible to excuse Schiller on the grounds that the latter’s head was saturated with beer; and in addition the image of the pretty blonde appeared to him and he decided to consign all this to oblivion. The next morning, very early, Lieutenant Pirogov went to the tinsmith’s workshop. In the hallway he was met by the pretty blonde who asked him in a rather stern voice, which suited her little face very well:
“What do you want?”
“Oh, good day, my dear! Don’t you recognize me? You little rogue, what beautiful eyes you’ve got!”
As he said that, Liuetenant Pirogov tried to give her a gentle pat under her chin. But the blonde let out a startled cry and with the same severity asked:
“What do you want?”
“To see you, that’s all,” said Lieutenant Pirogov, smiling quite pleasantly and moving in closer; but, noticing that the timid blonde was trying to slip out the door, he added; “I need to order some spurs, my dear. You can make spurs, can’t you? Although as far as loving you is concerned, it’s a halter I need, not spurs. What beautiful little hands you’ve got!” Lieutenant Pirogov was always very charming in declarations of this sort.
“I’ll tell my husband this minute,” exclaimed the German girl and went out, and in a few minutes Pirogov saw Schiller emerging with sleep-blurred eyes, not yet fully recovered from the previous day’s binge. Looking at the officer, he remembered, as though in a dream, the events of the previous day. He couldn’t remember now what state he’d been in, but he sensed that he’d done something stupid, and so he received the officer with a very sullen face.
“I can’t make a pair of spurs for less than fifteen rubles,” he said, wishing to get rid of Pirogov because he, as an honorable German, felt very embarrassed coming face to face with someone who had seen him in such a disgraceful condition. Schiller liked to drink completely unobserved, with two or three friends, and at such times even locked himself in, away from his own workmen.
“Why so expensive?” asked Pirogov in a pleasant tone. “German work,” said Schiller nonchalantly, stroking his chin. “A Russian would take the job on for two rubles.”
“With your permission, and in order to prove that I like you and would like to make your acquaintance, I’ll pay the fifteen rubles.”
Schiller thought it over for a moment; he, an honorable German, felt somewhat guilty. And wishing to make Pirogov withdraw his order, he explained that it would take a minimum of two weeks. But Pirogov agreed to this completely and without making any protests.
The German thought for a while and pondered about how best to do the job so that it really would be worth fifteen rubles. At that moment the blonde came into the workshop and began to rummage about on the table, which was cluttered with coffee mugs. The lieutenant took advantage of Schiller’s preoccupation, went up to her and squeezed her arm, which was bare right up to the shoulder. Schiller took great exception to this.
“Meine Frau,” he shouted.
“Was wollen Sie doch?” answered the blonde.
“Gehen Sie to the kitchen.” The blonde went out.
“So then, in two weeks?” said Pirogov.
“Yes, in two weeks,” answered Schiller, deep in thought. “Just at the moment I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Goodbye. I’ll call in again.”
“Goodbye,” answered Schiller, closing the door behind him.
Lieutenant Pirogov decided not to abandon his quest, having been so cursorily rejected by the German woman. He could not understand how anyone could resist him, particularly as his charming manner and impressive rank gave him every right to her attention. It is, however, necessary to point out that Schiller’s wife, for all her attractiveness, was extremely stupid. But in a pretty wife stupidity is a charming characteristic. At least I have known many husbands who were simply thrilled with their wives’ stupidity and took it as a sign of childlike innocence. Beauty can work absolute wonders. All the spiritual shortcomings in a beautiful girl, instead of evoking revulsion, somehow become unusually attractive; even vice can exude charm in them; but when beauty fades, then a woman needs to be twenty times more intelligent than a man if she is to elicit affection, or at least respect. But Schiller’s wife, for all her stupidity, was always faithful to her obligations and hence it was rather difficult for Pirogov to succeed in his daring undertaking; but satisfaction always accompanies the overcoming of obstacles, and the blonde became a greater source of interest for him with the passing of each day. He took to inquiring about the spurs at regular intervals so that, eventually, Schiller got sick and tired of it. He worked full out to get the spurs finished; finally they were ready.
“Oh what a beautiful job you’ve made of them!—Lieutenant Pirogov exclaimed, when he saw the spurs. “Lord, how splendid! Not even our general has a pair of spurs like these!”
Feelings of self-satisfaction penetrated right into Schiller’s heart. His eyes shone with delight and he became quite friendly towards Pirogov. “This Russian officer is an intelligent man,” he thought to himself.
“So I suppose you could make a sheath for a dagger or something?”
“Of course I could,” said Schiller, smiling.
“Well, make me a sheath for my dagger. I’ll bring it to you; I’ve got a beautiful Turkish one, but I’d like to get another sheath made for it.”
This hit Schiller like a bomb. His brows knitted. “So that’s your game?” he thought, inwardly cursing himself for having brought the work on himself. To refuse now would be dishonorable and the Russian officer had praised his work. Nodding his head slightly, he expressed his consent; but the kiss which Pirogov cheekily planted on the pretty blonde’s lips as he went out completely confounded him.
I consider it necessary here to briefly acquaint the reader with Schiller. Schiller was a typical German in the fullest sense of the word. From the age of twenty, from that happy time during which Russians live foot-loose and fancy free, Schiller had already planned out his life and he made no changes whatever in those plans. He made it a rule to get up at seven o’clock, to dine at two, to be exacting in everything and to get drunk on Sundays. He gave himself ten years to amass capital to the tune of fifty thousand, and all this was as certain and inevitable as fate, because an official will forget to curry favor with his chief’s porter before a German will decide to go back on his word. Under no circumstances would he increase his expenditure, and if the price of potatoes rose more than usual, then he would not fork out an extra kopek, but would reduce the amount consumed, and although he sometimes went a little hungry, he soon became accustomed to it. His punctiliousness went so far as to include his kissing his wife no more than twice a day, and to be sure of not kissing her an extra time he never put more than one teaspoon of hot pepper in his soup; but on Sundays Schiller relaxed this rule a little because he would drink two bottles of beer that day and a bottle of Kummel, which, however, he always cursed. He did
n’t drink at all like an Englishman who locks the door immediately after dinner and hits the bottle all alone. On the contrary, he, like a German, was an inspired drinker, and would drink either with Hoffmann the cobbler or the locksmith Kuntz, who was also a German and a heavy drinker. Such was the character of the noble Schiller, who now found himself in an extremely difficult position. Although he was an easygoing German, Pirogov’s behavior roused in him something akin to jealousy. He racked his brains, but could come up with no ideas on how to get rid of this Russian officer. Meanwhile, Pirogov, smoking his pipe with a group of friends—for Providence has decreed that where you find officers you also find pipes—smoking his pipe with a group of friends, he hinted meaningfully and with a pleasant smile on his lips at this intrigue with the pretty little German girl, with whom, to use his words, he was already on familiar terms, but in actual fact he had already lost almost all hope of making a conquest of her.
One day he was out for a stroll along Meshchanskaia Street, and he glanced at the house adorned by Schiller’s signboard with its coffee pots and samovars; to his great joy he saw a blonde head leaning out of a window and staring at the passersby. He stopped, waved to her and said, “Gut morgen.” The blonde nodded to him as to an acquaintance.
“Tell me, is your husband at home?”
“He is,” she answered.
“When is he not at home?”
“He’s always out on Sundays,” the silly little German girl said.
“That’s not bad,” thought Pirogov to himself, “I must take advantage of that.” And the following Sunday, out of the blue, he turned up at the blonde’s house. Schiller really was out. The pretty landlady took fright, but Pirogov conducted himself with more caution this time, behaving respectfully and, bowing, displayed his tightly-belted figure in all its beauty. He joked in a pleasant and agreeable way but the slow-witted little German girl only responded in monosyllables. Finally, having attempted his attack from all angles, and realizing that he was not making any headway, he invited her to dance. The German girl agreed to this in a flash, as all German women are very keen on dancing. All Pirogov’s hopes rested on this: in the first place, it gave her great pleasure, in the second place it would give him a chance to display his suppleness and agility, and in the third place, while dancing he could get closer to and embrace the pretty little German girl and lay the foundations for what was to follow; in short, his scheme worked beautifully. He began to hum some sort of gavotte, knowing that German women prefer something sedate. The pretty little German girl moved out into the middle of the room and lifted her beautiful little foot. This stance enraptured Pirogov to such an extent that he hastened to kiss her. The German girl began to cry out, but this only made her all the more charming in Pirogov’s eyes, and he smothered her with kisses. All of a sudden the door opened and in came Schiller, Hoffmann and the locksmith Kuntz. All these worthy artisans were as drunk as cobblers.
But I’ll leave it to the readers to form their own judgements regarding Schiller’s rage and indignation.
“You scoundrel!” he bawled with consummate indignation, “How dare you kiss my wife?! You’re no Russian officer, you’re a rogue. Devil take him, eh Hoffmann, my friend? I’m a German and no Russian pig!” Hoffmann answered affirmatively. “Nobody’s going to make a cuckold out of me! Grab him by the collar, Hoffmann my friend. Nobody’s going …” he continued, furiously waving his fists about, which made his face go as red as the material his waistcoat was made of. “I’ve been living in Petersburg for eight years, I have a Schwabian mother and an uncle living in Nuremburg; I’m a German and nobody is going to plant cuckold’s horns on me! Let’s kick him out, Hoffmann, my friend! Grab him by his arms and legs, Kamerad Kuntz! “And the Germans grabbed Pirogov by his arms and legs.
His efforts to break away were futile; these three artisans were the heftiest of Petersburg Germans. If Pirogov had been in full uniform, then, most likely, respect for his rank and position would have stopped the unruly Teutons. But he had come as a private, civilian person, in a suit-coat and without his epaulettes.
I am sure that Schiller the next day was in a terrible fever, that he was shaking like a leaf, expecting the arrival of the police at any moment, and that he would have given God knows what for all that had happened to have been just a dream. But what’s done is done. There was nothing to equal Pirogov’s rage and indignation. The mere thought of such a terrible insult was enough to make him furious. He considered Siberia and the lash too light a punishment for Schiller. He flew home to dress and go straight to the general and describe in the most vivid colors the German artisans’ violent conduct. At the same time he wanted to make a complaint in writing to Headquarters. And if Headquarters would not prescribe adequate punishment then he would go to the State council, if not to the Monarch himself.
But all this ended in a rather strange way: on his way he called in at a cafe, ate a couple of puff-pastries and read something from the Northern Bee, and when he emerged from there his rage had somewhat subsided. Moreover, the rather pleasant, cool evening induced him to take a stroll along Nevsky Prospect, and by nine o ‘clock he had calmed down completely and he decided that it was just not done to disturb the General on a Sunday, and moreover that doubtless he had probably been called away somewhere, and for this reason Pirogov set off to spend the evening with one of the directors of the control board, where there would be an agreeable company of officers and officials. There he spent a pleasurable evening and so outdid himself in the mazurka that the gentlemen, as well as the ladies, were entranced.
“How amazingly our world is arranged!” I thought, walking along Nevsky Prospect the day before yesterday and recalling these two events. “How strangely, how inscrutably Fate plays with us! Do we ever get what we desire? Do we achieve what our abilities seem especially suited for? Everything turns out contrary to expectations. Those who have been given fine horses by Fate ride about on them unaware of their beauty, while another, whose heart burns with a passion for horses, goes about on foot and has to be content with merely clicking his tongue when a fine trotter is led past him. One has a marvelous cook, but unfortunately, such a small mouth that he can’t eat more than two morsels; another has a mouth the size of the Headquarters arch, but alas! He must be content with some German dinner made from potatoes. How strangely our Fate plays with us!”
But strangest of all are the things which happen on Nevsky Prospect! Oh, never believe Nevsky Prospect! I always wrap my cloak around me more tightly when walking along it, and I try not to look at the things I see there. It’s all an illusion, it’s all a dream, nothing is what it seems! You think that a man walking along in a beautifully cut coat is rich? Not at all: his coat is all he possesses. You imagine that those two fat men stopped in front of a church under construction are discussing its architecture? Not at all: they’re talking about the two crows who alit opposite each other in such a strange manner. You think that that enthusiast, waving his arms about, is talking about how his wife threw a ball out of the window to an officer whom he did not know? Not at all. he’s talking about Lafayette. You think that these ladies … but you must believe the ladies least of all. Look even less at the shop windows: knick-knacks, beautifully displayed but smacking of vast amounts of money! But God preserve you from peeking under ladies’ hats. However much a beautiful lady’s cape may flutter in the distance, nothing would induce me to take a peek out of curiosity. Keep away, for God’s sake, keep away from the street lamp. Walk past as fast as you possibly can. Consider yourself lucky if you escape with only a few drops of its foul-smelling oil on your foppish coat! But not it’s only the street lamps, everything else breathes deception as well. It deceives at all hours, does Nevsky Prospect, but especially when night descends on it in a thick mass, throwing into relief the white and pastel walls of the houses, when the whole town is transformed into noise and brilliance, when hoards of carriages roll over bridges, the postillions shout and bounce about on their saddles and when the Devil hi
mself ignites the street lamps for the sole purpose of showing everything not in its true guise.
(1835) Translated by A. Tulloch, revised by A.L.
Diary of a Madman
October 3
Something extremely odd happened today. I got up rather late, and when Mavra brought me my cleaned boots I asked her the time. Hearing that ten had struck long ago, I hurried to get dressed as quickly as possible. I confess that I wouldn’t have gone to the office at all, had I known earlier what a sour face the chief of our department would pull. For ages now he’s been saying to me: “Tell me, my man, why’s your head always in such a muddle? Sometimes you dash about like one possessed, and you get your work so mixed up that Satan himself couldn’t sort it out, putting small letters in the title and not noting the date or number.” The damned heron! He’s obviously just jealous of my sitting in the director’s office sharpening quills for His Excellency. In a word, I wouldn’t have gone to the office had it not been for the hope of seeing the pay clerk and seeing what the chances were of getting, however small, an advance on my salary from that yid. Now there’s a creature for you! My God, Last Judgment will arrive before he’ll give anyone their month’s pay in advance. You can ask till you’re blue in the face, he won’t give you anything even if you’re dead broke, the gray-haired devil. But at home even his own cook slaps his face all the time. Everybody knows this. I can’t see any advantage in working in an office. Absolutely no future in it. But in provincial government, in civil and treasury offices it’s a completely different matter: there you’ll see someone huddled up in the corner, doing a bit of writing from time to time. His coat may be filthy and his mug may make you want to spit, but just have a look at the dacha he can rent! And don’t take him a gilt porcelain cup: “That’s a doctor’s present,” he’ll say; but do give him a pair of trotting horses, or a carriage or a three-hundred-ruble beaver-pelt. He’s such a quiet man to look at, and he says so politely, “Do just lend me your penknife to sharpen this one little quill,” and then he’ll fleece a petitioner, right down to the shirt on his back. On the other hand, it is true our office is very refined, and the standard of cleanliness there is such as you would never see in provincial government: the tables are mahogany, and the chiefs all address each other very formally. Yes, I confess, were it not for the dignified nature of the position, I’d have left the office long ago.
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