Nevsky Prospect

There is nothing finer than Nevsky Prospekt, not in Petersburg anyway: it is the making of the city. What splendor does it lack, that fairest of our city thoroughfares? I know that not one of the poor clerks that live there would trade Nevsky Prospekt for all the blessings of the world. Not only the young man of twenty-five summers with a fine mustache and a splendidly cut coat, but even the veteran with white hairs sprouting on his chin and a head as smooth as a silver dish is enthusiastic over Nevsky Prospekt. And the ladies! Nevsky Prospekt is even more attractive to the ladies. And indeed, to whom is it not attractive? As soon as you step into Nevsky Prospekt you are in an atmosphere of gaiety. Though you may have some necessary and important business, yet as soon as you are there you forget all about it. This is the one place where people put in an appearance without being forced to, without being driven there by the needs and commercial interests that swallow up all Petersburg. A man met on Nevsky Prospekt seems less of an egoist than in the other streets where greed, selfishness, and covetousness are apparent in all who walk or drive along them. Nevsky Prospekt is the general channel of communication in Petersburg. The man who lives on the Petersburg or Viborg Side who hasn’t seen his friend at Peski or at the Moscow Gate for years may be sure to meet him on Nevsky Prospekt. No directory list at an information bureau supplies such accurate information as Nevsky Prospekt. All-powerful Nevsky Prospekt! Sole place of entertainment for the poor man in Petersburg! How wonderfully clean are its surfaces, and, my God, how many feet leave their traces on it! The clumsy, dirty boots of the ex-soldier, under whose weight the very granite seems to crack, and the miniature, ethereal little shoes of the young lady who turns her head toward the glittering shop windows as the sunflower turns to the sun, and the rattling saber of the ambitious lieutenant which marks a sharp scratch along it—all print the scars of strength or weakness on it! What changes pass over it in a single day! What transformations it goes through between one dawn and the next!

Let us begin with earliest morning, when all Petersburg smells of hot, freshly baked bread and is filled with old women in ragged clothes who are making their raids on the churches and on compassionate passers-by. At such a time, Nevsky Prospekt is empty: the stout shopkeepers and their assistants are still asleep in their linen shirts or soaping their noble cheeks and drinking their coffee; beggars gather near the doors of the cafe where the drowsy Ganymede, who the day before flew around with the cups of chocolate like a fly, crawls out with no necktie on, broom in hand, and throws stale pies and scraps at them. Working people move through the streets: sometimes peasants cross the avenue, hurrying to their work, in high boots caked with mortar which even the Ekaterieninsky Canal, famous for its cleanness, could not wash off. At this hour it is not proper for ladies to walk out, because Russian people like to explain their meaning in rude expressions such as they would not hear even in a theater. Sometimes a drowsy government clerk trudges along with a portfolio under his arm, if the way to his department lies through Nevsky Prospekt. It may be confidently stated that at this period, that is, up to twelve o’clock, Nevsky Prospekt is not the goal for any man, but simply the means of reaching it: it is filled with people who have their occupations, their anxieties, and their annoyances, and are not thinking about the avenue. Peasants talk about ten kopeks or seven coppers; old men and women wave their hands or talk to themselves, sometimes with very striking gesticulations, but no one listens to them or laughs at them with the exception perhaps of street boys in homespun smocks, streaking like lightning along Nevsky Prospekt with empty bottles or pairs of boots from the cobblers in their arms. At that hour you may put on what you like, and even if you wear a cap instead of a hat, or the ends of your collar stick out too far from your necktie, no one notices it.

At twelve o’clock tutors of all nationalities descend upon Nevsky Prospekt with their young charges in fine cambric collars. English Joneses and French Cocos walk arm in arm with the nurslings entrusted to their parental care, and with becoming dignity explain to them that the signboards over the shops are put there so that people may know what is to be found within. Governesses, pale Misses, and rosy Mademoiselles walk majestically behind their light and nimble charges, telling them to hold themselves more upright or not to drop their left shoulder; in short, at this hour Nevsky Prospekt plays its pedagogic part. But as two o’clock approaches, the governesses, tutors, and children are fewer; and finally are crowded out by their tender papas walking arm in arm with their high-strung wives in gaudy dresses of every possible color. Gradually these are joined by all who have finished their rather important domestic duties, such as talking to the doctor about the weather and the pimple that has come out on their nose, inquiring after the health of their horses and their promising and gifted children, reading in the newspaper a leading article and the announcements of the arrivals and departures, and finally drinking a cup of tea or coffee. They are joined, too, by those whose enviable destiny has called them to the blessed vocation of clerks on special duties, and by those who serve in the Department of Foreign Affairs and are distinguished by the dignity of their pursuits and their habits. My God! What splendid positions and duties there are! How they elevate and sweeten the soul! But, alas, I am not in the service and am denied the pleasure of watching the refined behavior of my superiors. Everything you meet on the Nevsky Prospekt is brimming over with propriety: the men in long jackets with their hands in their pockets, the ladies in pink, white, or pale blue satin coats and stylish hats. Here you meet unique whiskers, drooping with extraordinary and amazing elegance below the necktie, velvety, satiny whiskers, as black as sable or as coal, but alas! invariably the property of members of the Department of Foreign Affairs. Providence has denied black whiskers to clerks in other departments; they are forced, to their great disgust, to wear red ones. Here you meet marvelous mustaches that no pen, no brush could do justice to, mustaches to which the better part of a life has been devoted, the objects of prolonged care by day and by night; mustaches upon which enchanting perfumes are sprinkled and on which the rarest and most expensive kinds of pomade are lavished; mustaches which are wrapped up at night in the most expensive vellum; mustaches to which their possessors display the most touching devotion and which are the envy of passers-by. Thousands of varieties of hats, dresses, and kerchiefs, flimsy and bright-colored, for which their owners feel sometimes an adoration that lasts two whole days, dazzle everyone on Nevsky Prospect. A whole sea of butterflies seem to have flown up from their flower stalks and to be floating in a glittering cloud above the beetles of the male sex. Here you meet waists of a slim delicacy beyond dreams of elegance, no thicker than the neck of a bottle, and respectfully step aside for fear of a careless nudge with a discourteous elbow; your heart beats with apprehension lest an incautious breath snap in two the exquisite products of art and nature. And the ladies’ sleeves that you meet on Nevsky Prospekt! Ah, how exquisite! They are like two balloons and the lady might suddenly float up into the air, were she not held down by the gentleman accompanying her; for it would be as easy and agreeable for a lady to be lifted into the air as for a glass of champagne to be lifted to the lips. Nowhere do people bow with such dignity and ease as on Nevsky Prospekt. Here you meet with a unique smile, a smile that is the acme of art, that will sometimes melt you with pleasure, sometimes make you bow your head and feel lower than the grass, sometimes make you hold it high and feel loftier than the Admiralty spire. Here you meet people conversing about a concert or the weather with extraordinary dignity and sense of their own importance. Here you meet a thousand incredible types and figures. Good heavens! what strange characters are met on Nevsky Prospekt! There are numbers of people who, when they meet you, invariably stare at your boots, and when they have passed, turn around to have a look at the skirts of your coat. I have never been able to discover the reason for it. At first I thought they were bootmakers, but they’re not: they are for the most part clerks in various departments and many of them are very good at referring a case from one department to another; or they are people who spend their time walking about or reading the paper in restaurants—in fact they are usually very respectable people. In this blessed period between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, when everyone seems to be walking on Nevsky Prospekt, there is a display of all the finest things the genius of man has produced. One displays a smart overcoat with the best beaver on it, the second —a lovely Greek nose, the third—superb whiskers, the fourth—a pair of pretty eyes and a marvelous hat, the fifth—a signet ring on a jaunty forefinger, the sixth—a foot in a bewitching shoe, the seventh—a necktie that excites wonder, and the eighth—a mustache that reduces one to stupefaction. But three o’clock strikes and the display is over, the crowd grows less thick… At three o’clock there is a fresh change. Suddenly it is like spring on Nevsky Prospekt; it is covered with government clerks in green uniforms. Hungry titular, lower court, and other councilors do their best to quicken their pace. Young collegiate registrars and provincial and collegiate secretaries are in haste to be in time to parade on Nevsky Prospekt with a dignified air, trying to look as if they had not been sitting in an office for the last six hours. But the elderly collegiate secretaries and titular and lower court councilors walk quickly with bowed heads: they are not disposed to amuse themselves by looking at the passers-by; they have not yet completely torn themselves away from their office cares; in their heads is a full list of work begun and not yet finished; for a long time, instead of the signboards, they seem to see a cardboard rack of papers or the full face of the head of their office.

From four o’clock Nevsky Prospekt is empty, and you hardly meet a single government clerk. Some seamstress from a shop runs across Nevsky Prospekt with a box in her hands. Some pathetic victim of a benevolent attorney, cast adrift in a frieze overcoat; some eccentric visitor to whom all hours are alike; a tall, lanky Englishwoman with a handbag and a book in her hand; a foreman in a high-waisted coat of cotton with a narrow beard, a ramshackle figure, back, arms, head, and legs all twisting and turning as he walks deferentially along the pavement; sometimes a humble craftsman… those are the only people that we meet at that hour on Nevsky Prospekt.

But as soon as dusk descends upon the houses and streets and the policeman covered with a piece of coarse material climbs up his ladder to light the lamp, and engravings which do not venture to show themselves by day peep out of the lower windows of the shops, Nevsky Prospekt revives again and begins to stir. Then comes that mysterious time when the street lamps throw a marvelous alluring light upon everything. You meet a great number of young men, for the most part bachelors, in warm frock coats and overcoats. There is a suggestion at this time of some aim, or rather something like an aim, something extremely unaccountable; the steps of all are more rapid and altogether very uneven; long shadows flit over the walls and pavement and their heads almost reach the Police Bridge. Young collegiate registrars, provincial and collegiate secretaries walk up and down for hours, but the elderly collegiate registrars, the titular and lower court secretaries are for the most part at home, either because they are married, or because the German cook living in their house gives them a very good dinner. Here you may meet some of the respectable-looking old gentlemen who with such dignity and propriety walked on Nevsky Prospekt at two o’clock. You may see them now racing along like the young government clerks to peep under the hat of some lady spotted in the distance, whose thick lips and fat cheeks plastered with rouge are so attractive to many, and above all to the shopmen, workmen, and shopkeepers, who promenade in crowds, always in coats of German cut and usually arm in arm.

“Hey!” cried Lieutenant Pirogov on such an evening, nudging a young man who walked beside him in a dress coat and cloak. “Did you see her?”

“I did; lovely, a perfect Bianca of Perugino.”

“But which do you mean?”

“The lady with the dark hair… And what eyes! Good God, what eyes! Her attitude and stunning figure and the lines of the face… exquisite!”

“I am talking of the blonde who passed after her on the other side. Why don’t you go after the brunette if you find her so attractive?”

“Oh, how can you!” cried the young man in the dress coat, turning crimson. “As though she were one of the women who walk on Nevsky Prospekt at night. She must be a very distinguished lady,” he went on with a sigh. “Why, her cloak alone is worth eighty rubles.”

“You fool!” cried Pirogov, giving him a violent shove in the direction in which the brilliant cloak was fluttering. “Move on, you idiot, don’t waste time. I’ll follow the blonde.”

“We know what you all are,” Pirogov thought to himself, with a self-satisfied and confident smile, convinced that no beauty could withstand him.

The young man in the dress coat and cloak with timid and tremulous step walked in the direction in which the bright-colored cloak was fluttering, at one moment shining brilliantly as it approached a street lamp, at the next shrouded in darkness as it moved further away. His heart throbbed and he unconsciously quickened his pace. He dared not even imagine that he could have a claim on the attention of the beauty who was retreating into the distance, and still less could he admit the evil thought suggested by Lieutenant Pirogov. All he wanted was to see the house, to discover where this exquisite creature lived who seemed to have flown straight down from heaven onto the Nevsky Prospekt, and who would probably fly away, no one could tell where. He darted along so fast that he was continually jostling dignified, gray-whiskered gentlemen off the pavement. This young man belonged to a class which is a great exception among us, and he no more belonged to the common run of Petersburg citizens than a face that appears to us in a dream belongs to the world of actual fact. This exceptional class is very rare in the town where all are officials, shopkeepers, or German craftsmen. He was an artist. A strange phenomenon, is it not? A Petersburg artist. An artist in the land of snows. An artist in the land of the Finns where everything is wet, flat, pale, gray, foggy. These artists are utterly unlike the Italian artists, proud and ardent as Italy and her skies. The Russian artist on the contrary is, as a rule, mild, gentle, retiring, carefree, and quietly devoted to his art; he drinks tea with a couple of friends in his little room, modestly discusses his favorite subjects, and does not trouble his head at all about anything superfluous. He frequently employs some old beggar woman, and makes her sit for six hours on end in order to transfer to canvas her pitiful, almost inanimate countenance. He draws a sketch in perspective of his studio with all sorts of artistic litter lying about, copies plaster-of-Paris hands and feet, turned coffee-colored by time and dust, a broken easel, a palette lying upside down, a friend playing the guitar, walls smeared with paint, with an open window through which there is a glimpse of the pale Neva and poor fishermen in red shirts. Almost all these artists paint in gray, muddy colors that bear the unmistakable imprint of the north. For all that, they all work with instinctive enjoyment. They are often endowed with real talent, and if only they were breathing the fresh air of Italy, they would no doubt develop as freely, broadly, and brilliantly as a plant at last brought from indoors into the open air. They are, as a rule, very timid; stars and thick epaulets reduce them to such a confused state that they ask less for their pictures than they had intended. They are sometimes fond of dressing smartly, but anything smart they wear always looks too startling and rather like a patch. You sometimes meet them in an excellent coat and a muddy cloak, an expensive velvet vest and a coat covered with paint, just as on one of their unfinished landscapes you sometimes see the head of a nymph, for which the artist could find no other place, sketched on the background of an earlier work which he had once painted with pleasure. Such an artist never looks you straight in the face; or, if he does look at you, it is with a vague, indefinite expression. He does not transfix you with the vulturelike eye of an observer or the hawklike glance of a cavalry officer. This is because he sees at the same time your features and the features of some plaster-of-Paris Hercules standing in his room, or because he is imagining a picture which he dreams of producing later on. This makes him often answer incoherently, sometimes quite incomprehensibly, and the muddle in his head increases his shyness. To this class belonged the young man we have described, an artist called Piskarev, retiring, shy, but carrying in his soul sparks of feeling, ready at a fitting opportunity to burst into flame. With secret dread he hastened after the lady who had made so strong an impression on him, and he seemed to be surprised at his audacity. The unknown girl who had so captured his eyes, his thoughts, and his feelings suddenly turned her head and glanced at him.

Good God, what divine features! The dazzling whiteness of the exquisite brow was framed by hair lovely as an agate. They curled, those marvelous tresses, and some of them strayed below the hat and caressed the cheek, flushed by the chill of evening with a delicate fresh color. A swarm of exquisite visions hovered about her lips. All the memories of childhood, all the visions that rise from dreaming and quiet inspiration in the lamplight—all seemed to be blended, mingled, and reflected on her delightful lips. She glanced at Piskarev and his heart quivered at that glance; her glance was severe, a look of anger came into her face at the sight of this impudent pursuit; but on that lovely face even anger was bewitching. Overcome by shame and timidity he stood still, dropping his eyes; but how could he lose this divine being without discovering the sanctuary in which she was enshrined? Such was the thought in the mind of the young dreamer, and he resolved to follow her. But, to avoid her notice, he fell back a good distance, looked aimlessly from side to side, and examined the signboards on the shops, yet he did not lose sight of a single step the unknown lady took. Passers-by were less frequent; the street became quieter. The beauty looked around and he fancied that her lips were curved in a faint smile. He trembled all over and could not believe his eyes. No, it was the deceptive light of the street lamp which had thrown that trace of a smile upon her lips; no his own imagination was mocking him. But he held his breath and everything in him quivered, all his feelings were ablaze and everything before him was lost in a sort of mist; the pavement seemed to be moving under his feet, carriages drawn by trotting horses seemed to stand still, the bridge stretched out and seemed broken in the center, the houses were upside down, a sentry box seemed to be reeling toward him, and the sentry’s halberd, and the gilt letters of the signboard and the scissors painted on it, all seemed to be flashing across his very eyelash. And all this was produced by one glance, by one turn of a pretty head. Hearing nothing, seeing nothing, understanding nothing, he followed the light traces of the lovely feet, trying to moderate the swiftness of his own steps which moved in time with the throbbing of his heart. At moments he was overcome with doubt whether the look on her face was really so gracious; and then for an instant he stood still; but the beating of his heart, the irresistible violence and turmoil of his feelings drove him forward. He did not even notice a four-storied house that loomed before him; four rows of windows, all lighted up, burst upon him all at once, and he was brought to a sudden stop by striking against the iron railing of the entrance. He saw the lovely stranger fly up the stairs, look around, lay a finger on her lips, and make a sign for him to follow her. His knees trembled, his feelings, his thoughts were aflame. A thrill of joy, unbearably acute, flashed like lightning through his heart. No, it was not a dream! Good God, what happiness in one instant! What a lifetime’s rapture in two minutes!

But was it not all a dream? Could it be true that this girl for whom he would gladly have given his life for one heavenly glance, that she who made him feel such bliss just to be near the house where she lived, could she really have been so kind and attentive to him? He flew up the stairs. He was conscious of no earthly thought; he was not aflame with earthly passion. No, at that moment he was pure and chaste as a virginal youth burning with the vague spiritual craving for love. And what would have awakened base thoughts in a dissolute man, in him made them still holier. This confidence, shown him by a weak and lovely creature, laid upon him the sacred duty of chivalrous austerity, the sacred duty to carry out all her commands. All that he desired was that those commands should be as difficult, as hard to carry out as possible, so that more effort be required to overcome all obstacles. He did not doubt that some mysterious and at the same time important circumstance compelled the unknown lady to confide in him; that she would certainly require some important service from him, and he felt in himself enough strength and resolution for anything.

The staircase went around and around, and his thoughts whirled around and around with it. “Be careful!” a voice rang out like a harpstring, sending a fresh thrill through him. On the dark landing of the fourth floor the blonde stranger knocked at a door; it was opened and they went in together. A woman of rather attractive appearance met them with a candle in her hand, but she looked so strangely and impudently at Piskarev that he dropped his eyes. They went into the room. Three female figures in different corners of the room met his eye. One was laying out cards; another was sitting at the piano and with two fingers strumming out a pitiful travesty of an old polonaise; the third was sitting before a mirror combing her long hair, and had apparently no intention of discontinuing her toilette because of the arrival of an unknown visitor. An unpleasant untidiness, usually only seen in the neglected rooms of bachelors, was everywhere apparent. The furniture, which was fairly good, was covered with dust. Spiders’ webs stretched over the carved cornice; through the open door of another room he caught the gleam of a spurred boot and the red edging of a uniform; a man’s loud voice and a woman’s laugh rang out without restraint.

Good God, where had he come! At first he would not believe it, and began looking more attentively at the objects that filled the room; but the bare walls and uncurtained windows betrayed the absence of a careful housewife; the faded faces of these pitiful creatures, one of whom was sitting just under his nose and staring at him as coolly as though he were a spot on someone’s dress—all convinced him that he had come into one of those revolting places in which the pitiful vice that springs from a poor education and the terrible overpopulation of a great town finds shelter, one of those places in which man sacrilegiously tramples and derides all that is pure and holy, all that makes life beautiful, where woman, the beauty of the world, the crown of creation, is transformed into a strange, equivocal creature, where she loses with her purity of her heart all that is womanly, revoltingly adopts the swagger and impudence of man, and ceases to be the delicate, the lovely creature, so different from us. Piskarev looked at her from head to foot with troubled eyes, as though trying to make sure whether this was really she who had so enchanted him and had brought him flying from Nevsky Prospekt. But she stood before him lovely as ever; her eyes were even more heavenly. She was fresh, not more than seventeen; it could be seen that she had not long been in the grip of vice; it had as yet left no trace upon her cheeks, they were fresh and faintly flushed with color; she was lovely.

He stood motionless before her and was ready to allow himself to be once again deceived. But the beautiful girl was tired of this long silence and gave a meaning smile, looking straight into his eyes. That smile was full of a sort of pitiful insolence; it was so strange and as incongruous with her face as a sanctimonious air with the brutal face of a bribetaker or a manual of bookkeeping with a poet. He shuddered. She opened her lovely lips and began saying something, but all that she said was so stupid, so vulgar… As though intelligence were lost with innocence! He wanted to hear no more. He was absurd! Simple as a child! Instead of taking advantage of such graciousness, instead of rejoicing at such an opportunity, as anyone else in his place would probably have done, he dashed away like a wild antelope and ran out into the street.

He sat in his room with his head bowed and his hands hanging loose, like a poor man who has found a precious pearl and at once dropped it into the sea. “Such a beauty, such divine features! And where? In such a place…” That was all that he could say.

Nothing, indeed, moves us to such pity as the sight of beauty touched by the putrid breath of vice. Ugliness may go with it, but beauty, tender beauty… In our thoughts it blends with nothing but purity and innocence. The beauty who had so enchanted poor Piskarev really was a rare and extraordinary exception. Her presence in those vile surroundings seemed even more incredible. All her features were so purely molded, the whole expression of her lovely face wore the stamp of such nobility, that it was impossible to think that vice already held her in its grip. She should have been the priceless pearl, the whole world, the paradise, the wealth of a devoted husband; she should have been the lovely, gentle star of some quiet family circle, and with the faintest movement of her lovely lips should have given her sweet commands there. She would have been a divinity in the crowded ballroom, on the glistening parquet, in the glow of candles surrounded by the silent adoration of a crowd of admirers; but, alas! by some terrible machination of the fiendish spirit, eager to destroy the harmony of life, she had been flung with satanic laughter into this horrible swamp.

Exhausted by heartbreaking pity, he sat before a candle that was burned low in the socket. Midnight was long past, the belfry chime rang out half-past twelve, and still he sat without stirring, neither asleep nor fully awake. Sleep, abetted by his stillness, was beginning to steal over him, and already the room was beginning to disappear, and only the light of the candle still shone through the dreams that were overpowering him, when all at once a knock at the door made him start and wake up. The door opened and a footman in gorgeous livery walked in. Never had a gorgeous livery peeped into his lonely room. At such an hour of the night!… He was amazed, and with impatient curiosity looked intently at the footman who entered.

“The lady,” the footman pronounced with a deferential bow, “whom you visited some hours ago bade me invite you and sent the carriage to fetch you.”

Piskarev was speechless with amazement: the carriage, a footman in livery!… No, there must be some mistake—

“My good man,” he said timidly, “you must have come to the wrong door. Your mistress must have sent you for someone else and not for me.”

“No, sir, I am not mistaken. Did you not accompany my mistress home? It’s in Liteyny Street, on the fourth floor.”

“I did.”

“Then, if so, please make haste; my mistress is very anxious to see you, and begs you come straight to her house.”

Piskarev ran down the stairs. A carriage was, in fact, standing in the courtyard. He got into it, the door was slammed, the cobbles of the pavement resounded under the wheels and the hoofs, and the illuminated panorama of houses and lamps and signboards passed by the carriage windows. Piskarev pondered all the way and could not explain this adventure. A house of her own, a carriage, a footman in gorgeous livery… He could not reconcile all this with the room on the fourth floor, the dusty windows, and the jangling piano. The carriage stopped before a brightly lighted entrance, and he was at once struck by the procession of carriages, the talk of the coachmen, the brilliantly lighted windows, and the strains of music. The footman in gorgeous livery helped him out of the carriage and respectfully led him into a hall with marble columns, with a porter in gold lace, with cloaks and fur coats flung here and there, and a brilliant lamp. An airy staircase with shining banisters, fragrant with perfume, led upward. He was already mounting it; hesitating at the first step and panic-stricken at the crowds of people, he went into the first room. The extraordinary brightness and variety of the scene completely staggered him; it seemed to him as though some demon had crumbled the whole world into bits and mixed all these bits indiscriminately together. The gleaming shoulders of the ladies and the black tailcoats, the chandeliers, the lamps, the ethereal floating gauze, the filmy ribbons, and the fat bass looking out from behind the railing of the orchestra—everything was dazzling. He saw at the same instant such numbers of respectable old or middle-aged men with stars on their evening coats and ladies sitting in rows or stepping so lightly, proudly, and graciously over the parquet floor; he heard so many French and English words; moreover, the young men in black evening clothes were filled with such dignity, spoke or kept silence with such gentlemanly decorum, were so incapable of saying anything inappropriate, made jokes so majestically, smiled so politely wore such superb whiskers, so skillfully displayed their elegant hands as they straightened their neckties; the ladies were so ethereal, so steeped in perfect self-satisfaction and rapture, so enchantingly cast down their eyes, that… but Piskarev’s subdued air, as he leaned timidly against a column, was enough to show that he was completely overwhelmed. At that moment the crowd stood around a group of dancers. They whirled around, draped in the transparent creations of Paris, in garments woven of air itself; effortlessly they touched the parquet floor with their lovely feet, as ethereal as though they walked on air. But one among them was lovelier, more splendid, and more brilliantly dressed than the rest. An indescribable, subtle perfection of taste was apparent in all her attire, and at the same time it seemed as though she cared nothing for it, as though it had come unconsciously, of itself. She looked and did not look at the crowd of spectators crowding around her, she cast down her lovely long eyelashes indifferently, and the gleaming whiteness of her face was still more dazzling when she bent her head and a light shadow lay on her enchanting brow.

Piskarev did his utmost to make his way through the crowd and get a better look at her; but to his intense annoyance a huge head of curly black hair was continually screening her from him; moreover, the crush was so great that he did not dare to press forward or to step back, for fear of jostling against some privy councilor. But at last he squeezed his way to the front and glanced at his clothes, anxious that everything should be neat. Heavenly Creator! What was his horror! he had on his everyday coat, and it was all smeared with paint; in his haste to leave he had actually forgotten to change into suitable clothes. He blushed up to his ears and, dropping his eyes in confusion, would have gone away, but there was absolutely nowhere he could go; court chamberlains in brilliant uniforms formed an inexorable compact wall behind him. By now his desire was to be as far away as possible from the beauty of the lovely brows and eyelashes. In terror he raised his eyes to see whether she were looking at him. Good God! she stood facing him…. What did it mean? “It is she!” he cried almost at the top of his voice. It was really she—the one he had met on Nevsky Prospekt and had escorted home.

Meanwhile she raised her eyelashes and looked at all with her bright eyes. “Aie, aie, aie, how beautiful!…” was all he could say with bated breath. She scanned the faces around her, all eager to catch her attention, but with an air of weariness and indifference she looked away and met Piskarev’s eyes. Oh heavens! What paradise! Oh God, for strength to bear this! Life cannot contain it, such rapture tears it asunder and bears away the soul! She made a sign to him, but not by hand nor by inclination of the head; no, it was in her ravishing eyes, so subtle, so imperceptible that no one else could see it, but he saw it! He understood it! The dance lasted a long time; the languorous music seemed to flag and die away and again it broke out, shrill and thunderous; at last the dance was over. She sat down. Her bosom heaved under the light cloud of gossamer, her hand (Oh, heavens! what a wonderful hand!) dropped on her knee, rested on her filmy gown which seemed to be breathing music under her hand, and its delicate lilac hue made that lovely hand look more dazzlingly white than ever. Just to touch it and nothing more! No other desires—they would be insolence…. He stood behind her chair, not daring to speak, not daring to breathe. “Have you been bored?” she asked. “I have been bored too. I see that you hate me….” she added, lowering her long eyelashes.

“Hate you? I?… I?…?” Piskarev, completely overwhelmed, tried to say something, and he would probably have poured out a stream of incoherent words, but at that moment a court chamberlain with a magnificently curled shock of hair came up making witty and polite remarks. He agreeably displayed a row of rather good teeth, and at every jest his wit drove a sharp nail into Piskarev’s heart. At last someone fortunately addressed the court chamberlain with a question.

“How unbearable it is!” she said, lifting her heavenly eyes to him. “J will sit at the other end of the room; be there!” She glided through the crowd and vanished. He pushed his way through the crowd like one possessed, and in a flash was there.

Yes, it was she! She sat like a queen, finer than all, lovelier than all, and her eyes sought him.

“Are you here?” she asked softly. “I will be frank with you: no doubt you think the circumstances of our meeting strange. Can you imagine that I belong to the degraded class of beings among whom you met me? You think my conduct strange, but I will re. veal a secret to you. Can you promise never to betray it?” she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.

“Oh I will, I will, I will!…”

But at that moment an elderly man shook hands with her and began speaking in a language Piskarev did not understand. She looked at the artist with an imploring gaze, and gestured to him to remain where he was and await her return; but much too impatient, he could not obey a command even from her lips. He followed her, but the crowd parted them. He could no longer see the lilac dress; in consternation he forced his way from room to room and elbowed all he met mercilessly, but in all the rooms gentlemen were sitting at whist plunged in dead silence. In a corner of the room some elderly people were arguing about the superiority of military to civil service; in another some young men in superb dress coats were making a few light remarks about the voluminous works of a poet. Piskarev felt that a gentleman of venerable appearance had taken him by the button of his coat and was submitting some very just observation to his criticism, but he rudely thrust him aside without even noticing that he had a very distinguished order on his breast. He ran into another room—she was not there; into a third—she was not there either. “Where is she? Give her to me! Oh, I cannot live without another look at her! I want to hear what she meant to tell me!” But his search was in vain. Anxious and exhausted, he huddled in a corner and looked at the crowd. But everything seemed blurred to his strained eyes. At last the walls of his own room began to grow distinct. He raised his eyes: before him stood a candlestick with the light flickering in the socket; the whole candle had burned away and the melted wax lay on his table.

So he had been asleep! My God, what a splendid dream! And why had he awakened? Why had it not lasted one minute longer? She would no doubt have appeared again! The unwelcome dawn was peeping in at his window with its unpleasant, dingy light. The room was in such a gray, untidy muddle… Oh, how revolting was reality! What was it compared to dreams? He undressed quickly and got into bed, wrapping himself up in a blanket, anxious to recapture the dream that had flown. Sleep certainly did not take long to come, but it presented him with something quite different from what he desired: at one moment Lieutenant Pirogov with his pipe, then the porter of the Academy, then an actual civil councilor, then the head of a Finnish woman who had sat for him for a portrait, and such absurd things.

He lay in bed till the middle of the day, longing to dream again, but she did not appear. If only she had shown her lovely features for one minute, if only her light step had rustled, if only her hand, shining white as driven snow, had for one instant appeared before him.

Dismissing everything, forgetting everything, he sat with a crushed and hopeless expression, full of nothing but his dream. He never thought of touching anything; his eyes were fixed in a vacant, lifeless stare upon the windows that looked into the yard, where a dirty watercarrier was pouring water that froze in the air, and the cracked voice of a peddler bleated like a goat, “Old clothes for sale.” The sounds of everyday reality rung strangely in his ears. He sat on till evening in this manner, and then flung himself eagerly into bed. For hours he struggled with sleeplessness; at last he overcame it. Again a dream, a vulgar, horrid dream. “God, have mercy! For one minute, just for one minute, let me see her!”

Again he waited for the evening, again he fell asleep. He dreamed of a government clerk who was at the same time a government clerk and a bassoon. Oh, this was intolerable! At last she appeared! Her head and her curls… she gazed at him… for—oh, how brief a moment, and then again mist, again some stupid dream.

At last, dreaming became his life and from that time his life was strangely turned upside down; he might be said to sleep when he was awake and to come to life when he was asleep. Anyone seeing him sitting dumbly before his empty table or walking along the street would certainly have taken him for a lunatic or a man deranged by drink: his eyes had a perfectly vacant look, his natural absent-mindedness increased and drove every sign of feeling and emotion out of his face. He only revived at the approach of night.

Such a condition destroyed his health, and the worst torture for him was the fact that sleep began to desert him altogether. Anxious to save the only treasure left him, he used every means to regain it. He had heard that there were means of inducing sleep—one need only take opium. But where could he get opium? He thought of a Persian who sold shawls and, whenever he saw Piskarev, asked him to paint a beautiful woman for him. He decided to go to him, assuming that he would be sure to have the drug he wanted.

The Persian received him, sitting on a sofa with his legs crossed under him. “What do you want opium for?” he asked.

Piskarev told him about his sleeplessness.

“Very well, you must paint me a beautiful woman, and I will give you opium. She must be a real beauty: let her eyebrows be black and her eyes be as big as olives; and let me be lying near her smoking my pipe. Do you hear, she must be beautiful! She must be beautiful!”

Piskarev promised everything. The Persian went out for a minute and came back with a little jar filled with a dark liquid; he carefully poured some of it into another jar and gave it to Piskarev, telling him to take not more than seven drops in water. Piskarev greedily clutched the precious little jar, with which he would not have parted for a pile of gold, and dashed home.

When he got home he poured several drops into a glass of water and, swallowing it, lay down to sleep.

Oh God, what joy! She! She again, but now in quite a different world! Oh, how charmingly she sat at the window of a bright little country house! In her dress was the simplicity in which the poet’s thought is clothed. And her hair! Merciful heavens! how simple it was and how it suited her. A short shawl was thrown lightly around her graceful throat; everything about her was modest, everything about her showed a mysterious, inexplicable sense of taste. How charming her graceful carriage! How musical the sound of her steps and the rustle of her simple gown! How lovely her arm encircled by a bracelet of hair! She said to him with a tear in her eye: “Don’t look down upon me; I am not at all what you take me for. Look at me, look at me more carefully and tell me: am I capable of what you imagine?”

“Oh no, no! May he who should dare to think it, may he…”

But he awoke, deeply moved, harassed, with tears in his eyes. “Better that you had not existed! had not lived in this world, but had been an artist’s creation! I would never have left the canvas, I would have gazed at you forever and kissed you! I would have lived and breathed in you, as in the loveliest of dreams, and then I should have been happy. I should have desired nothing more; I would have called upon you as my guardian angel at sleeping and at waking, and I would have gazed upon you if ever I had to paint the divine and holy. But as it is… how terrible life is! What good is it that she lives? Is a madman’s life a source of joy to his friends and family who once loved him? My God! what is our life! An eternal battle between dream and reality!” Such ideas absorbed him continually. He thought of nothing, he almost gave up eating, and with the impatience and passion of a lover waited for the evening and his coveted dreams. The continual concentration of his thoughts on one subject at last so completely mastered his whole being and imagination that the coveted image appeared before him almost every day, always in positions that were the very opposite of reality, for his thoughts were as pure as a child’s. Through these dreams, the subject of them became in his imagination purer and was completely transformed.

The opium inflamed his thoughts more than ever, and if there ever was a man passionately, terribly, and ruinously in love to the utmost pitch of madness, he was that luckless man.

Of all his dreams one delighted him more than any: he saw himself in his studio. He was in good spirits and sitting happily with the palette in his hand! And she was there. She was his wife. She sat beside him, leaning her lovely elbow on the back of his chair and looking at his work. Her eyes were languid and weary with excess of bliss; everything in his room breathed of paradise; it was so bright, so neat. Good God! she leaned her lovely head on his bosom… He had never had a better dream than that. He got up after it fresher, less absent-minded than before. A strange idea came into his mind. “Perhaps,” he thought, “she has been drawn into vice by some terrible misfortune, through no will of her own; perhaps her soul is disposed to penitence; perhaps she herself is longing to escape from her awful position. And am I to stand aside indifferently and let her ruin herself when I have only to hold out a hand to save her from drowning?” His thoughts carried him further. “No one knows me,” he said to himself, “and no one cares what I do, and I have nothing to do with anyone either. If she shows herself genuinely penitent and changes her mode of life, I will marry her. I ought to marry her, and no doubt will do much better than many who marry their housekeepers or sometimes the most contemptible creatures. My action will be disinterested and very likely a good deed. I shall restore to the world the loveliest of its ornaments!”

Making this reckless plan, he felt the color flushing in his cheek; he went up to the mirror and was frightened at his hollow cheeks and the paleness of his face. He began carefully dressing; he washed, smoothed his hair, put on a new coat, a smart vest, flung on his cloak, and went out into the street. He breathed the fresh air and had a feeling of freshness in his heart, like a convalescent who has gone out for the first time after a long illness. His heart throbbed when he turned into the street which he had not passed through again since that fatal meeting.

He was a long time looking for the house. He walked up and down the street twice, uncertain before which to stop. At last one of them seemed to him to be the one. He ran quickly up the stairs and knocked at the door: the door opened and who came out to meet him? His ideal, his mysterious divinity, the original of his dream pictures—she who was his life, in whom he lived so terribly, so agonizingly, so blissfully—she, she herself, stood before him! He trembled; he could hardly stand on his feet for weakness, overcome by the rush of joy. She stood before him as lovely as ever, though her eyes looked sleepy, though a pallor had crept over her face, no longer quite so fresh; but still she was lovely.

“Ah!” she cried on seeing Piskarev and rubbing her eyes (it was two o’clock in the afternoon); “why did you run away from us that day?”

He sat down in a chair, feeling faint, and looked at her.

“And I am only just awake; I was brought home at seven in the morning. I was quite drunk,” she added with a smile.

Oh, better you had been dumb and could not speak at all than uttering such words! She had shown him in a flash the whole panorama of her life. But, in spite of that, struggling with his feelings, he made up his mind to try whether his admonitions would have any effect on her. Pulling himself together, he began in a trembling but ardent voice depicting her awful position. She listened to him with a look of attention and with the feeling of wonder which we display at the insight of something strange and unexpected. She looked with a faint smile toward her friend who was sitting in a corner, and who stopped cleaning a comb and also listened with attention to this new preacher.

“It is true that I am poor,” said Piskarev, at last, after a prolonged and persuasive appeal, “but we will work, we will do our best, side by side, to improve our position. Yes, nothing is sweeter than to owe everything to one’s own work. I will sit at my pictures, you shall sit by me and inspire my work, while you are busy with sewing or some other handicraft, and we shall not want anything.”

“Indeed!” she interrupted his speech with an expression of scorn. “I am not a washerwoman or a seamstress who has to work!”

Oh God! In those words the whole of an ugly, degraded life was portrayed, the life of the true followers of vice, full of emptiness and idleness!

“Marry me!” her friend who had till then sat silent in the corner put in, with a saucy air. “When I am your wife I will sit like this!” As she spoke she pursed up her pitiful face and assumed a silly expression, which greatly amused the beauty.

Oh, that was too much! That was more than he could bear! He rushed away with every thought and feeling in a turmoil. His mind was clouded: stupidly, aimlessly, he wandered about all day, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. No one could say whether he slept anywhere or not; only next day, by some blind instinct, he found his way to his room, pale and looking terrible, with his hair disheveled and signs of madness in his face. He locked himself in his room and admitted no one, asked for nothing. Four days passed and his door was not once opened; at last a week had passed, and still the door was locked. People went to the door and began calling him, but there was no answer; at last the door was broken open and his corpse was found with the throat cut. A bloodstained razor lay on the floor. From his arms flung out convulsively and his terribly distorted face, it might be concluded that his hand had faltered and that he had suffered in agony before his soul left his sinful body.

So perished the victim of a frantic passion, poor Piskarev, the gentle, timid, modest, childishly simple-hearted artist whose spark of talent might with time have glowed into the full bright flame of genius. No one wept for him; no one was seen beside his dead body except the police inspector and the indifferent face of the town doctor. His coffin was taken to Okhta quickly, without even religious rites; only a soldier who followed it wept, and that only because he had had a glass too many of vodka. Even Lieutenant Pirogov did not come to look at the dead body of the poor luckless artist to whom he had extended his exalted patronage. He had no thoughts to spare for him; indeed, he was absorbed in a very exciting adventure. But let us turn to him. I do not like corpses, and it is always disagreeable to me when a long funeral procession crosses my path and some veteran dressed like a Capuchin monk takes a pinch of snuff with his left hand because he has a torch in his right. I always feel annoyed at the sight of a magnificent catafalque with a velvet pall; but my annoyance is mingled with sadness when I see a cart dragging the red, uncovered coffin of some poor fellow and only some old beggar woman who has met it at the crossways follows it weeping, because she has nothing else to do.

I believe we left Lieutenant Pirogov at the moment when he parted with Piskarev and went in pursuit of the blonde charmer. The latter was a lively, rather attractive little creature. She stopped before every shop and gazed at the sashes, kerchiefs, earrings, gloves, and other trifles in the shop windows, was continually twisting and turning and gazing about her in all directions and looking behind her. “You’ll be mine, you darling!” Pirogov said confidently, as he pursued her, turning up the collar of his coat for fear of meeting someone of his acquaintance. We should, however, let the reader know what sort of person Lieutenant Pirogov was.

But before we describe Lieutenant Pirogov, we should say something of the circle to which Lieutenant Pirogov belonged. There are officers who form a kind of middle class in Petersburg. You will always find one of them at every evening party, at every dinner given by a civil councilor or an actual civil councilor who has risen to that grade through forty years of service. A couple of pale daughters, as colorless as Petersburg, some of them already gone to seed, the tea table, the piano, the impromptu dance, are all inseparable from the gay epaulet which gleams in the lamplight between the virtuous young lady and the black coat of her brother or of some old friend of the family. It is extremely difficult to arouse and divert these phlegmatic misses. To do so requires a great deal of skill, or rather perhaps the absence of all skill. One has to say what is not too clever or too amusing and to talk of the trivialities that women love. One must give credit for that to the gentlemen we are discussing. They have a special gift for making these drab beauties laugh and listen. Exclamations, smothered in laughter, of “Oh, do stop! Aren’t you ashamed to be so absurd!” are often their highest reward. They rarely, one may say never, get into higher circles: from those regions they are completely crowded out by the so-called aristocrats. At the same time, they pass for well-bred, highly educated men. They are fond of talking about literature; praise Bulgarin, Pushkin, and Gretch, and speak with contempt and witty sarcasm of A. A. Orlov. They never miss a public lecture, though it may be on bookkeeping or even forestry. You will always find one of them at the theater, whatever the play, unless, indeed, it be one of the farces of the “Filatka” class, which greatly offend their fastidious taste. They are priceless at the theater and the greatest asset to managers. They are particularly fond of fine verses in a play, and they are greatly given to calling loudly for the actors; many of them, by teaching in government establishments or preparing pupils for them, arrive at the moment when they can afford a carriage and a pair of horses. Then their circle becomes wider and in the end they succeed in marrying a merchant’s daughter who can play the piano, with a dowry of a hundred thousand, or something near it, in cash, and a lot of bearded relations. They can never achieve this honor, however, till they have reached the rank of colonel at least, for Russian merchants, though there may still be a smell of cabbage about them, will never consent to see their daughters married to any but generals or at least colonels. Such are the leading characteristics of this class of young men. But Lieutenant Pirogov had a number of talents belonging to him individually. He recited verses from Dimitry Donsky and Woe from Wit with great effect, and had a talent for blowing smoke out of a pipe in rings so successfully that he could string a dozen of them together in a chain; he could tell a very good story to the effect that a cannon was one thing and a unicorn was another. It is difficult to enumerate all the qualities with which fate had endowed Pirogov. He was fond of talking about actresses and dancers, but not quite in such a crude way as young lieutenants commonly hold forth on that subject. He was very much pleased with his rank in the service, to which he had only lately been promoted, and although he did occasionally say as he lay on the sofa: “O dear, vanity, all is vanity. What if I am a lieutenant?” yet his vanity was secretly much flattered by his new dignity; he often tried in conversation to allude to it in a roundabout way, and on one occasion when he jostled against a copying clerk in the street who struck him as uncivil he promptly stopped him and, in a few but vigorous words, pointed out to him that there was a lieutenant standing before him and not any other kind of officer. He was especially eloquent in his observations because two very nice-looking ladies were passing at the moment. Pirogov displayed a passion for everything artistic in general and encouraged the artist Piskarev; this may have been partly due to a desire to see his manly face portrayed on canvas. But enough of Pirogov’s good qualities. Man is such a strange creature that one can never enumerate all his good points, and the more we look into him the more new characteristics we discover and the description of them would be endless. And so Pirogov continued to pursue the unknown blonde, and from time to time he addressed her with questions to which she responded infrequently with abrupt and incoherent sounds. They passed by the dark Kazansky gate into Meshchansky Street—a street of tobacconists and little shops, of German artisans and Finnish nymphs. The fair lady ran faster than ever, and scurried in at the gate of a rather dirty-looking house. Pirogov followed her. She ran up a narrow, dark staircase and went in at a door through which Pirogov boldly followed her. He found himself in a big room with black walls and a grimy ceiling. A heap of iron screws, locksmith’s tools, shining tin coffeepots, and candlesticks lay on the table; the floor was littered with brass and iron filings. Pirogov saw at once that this was a workman’s lodging. The unknown charmer darted away through a side door. He hesitated for a minute, but, following the Russian rule, decided to push forward. He went into the other room, which was quite unlike the first and very neatly furnished, showing that it was inhabited by a German. He was struck by an extremely strange sight: before him sat Schiller. Not the Schiller who wrote William Tell and the History of the Thirty Years’ War, but the famous Schiller, the ironmonger and tinsmith of Meshchansky Street. Beside Schiller stood Hoffmann—not the writer Hoffmann, but a rather high-class bootmaker who lived in Ofitsersky Street and was a great friend of Schiller’s. Schiller was drunk and was sitting on a chair, stamping and saying something excitedly. All this would not have surprised Pirogov, but what did surprise him was the extraordinary attitude of the two figures. Schiller was sitting with his head upraised and his rather thick nose in the air, while Hoffmann was holding this nose between his finger and thumb and was flourishing the blade of his cobbler’s knife over its surface. Both men were talking in German, and so Lieutenant Pirogov, whose knowledge of German was confined to “Gut Morgen,” could not make out what was going on. However, what Schiller said amounted to this: “I don’t want it, I have no need of a nose!” he said, waving his hands, “I use three pounds of snuff a month on my nose alone. And I pay in a dirty Russian shop, for a German shop does not keep Russian snuff. I pay in a dirty Russian shop forty kopeks a pound—that makes one ruble twenty kopeks, twelve times one ruble twenty kopeks—that makes fourteen rubles forty kopeks. Do you hear, friend Hoffmann? Fourteen rubles forty kopeks on my nose alone! And on holidays I take a pinch of rappee, for I don’t care to use that rotten Russian snuff on a holiday. In a year I use two pounds of rappee at two rubles a pound. Six and fourteen makes twenty rubles forty kopeks on snuff alone. It’s robbery! I ask you, my friend Hoffmann, isn’t it?” Hoffmann, who was drunk himself, answered in the affirmative. “Twenty rubles and forty kopeks! Damn it, I am a Swabian! I have a king in Germany. I don’t want a nose! Cut off my nose! Here is my nose.”

And had it not been for Lieutenant Pirogov’s suddenly appearing, Hoffmann would certainly, for no rhyme or reason, have cut off Schiller’s nose, for he already had his knife in position, as though he were going to cut a sole.

Schiller seemed very much annoyed that an unknown and uninvited person should so inopportunely interrupt him. Although he was in a state of intoxication, he felt that it was rather improper to be seen in the presence of an outsider in such a state and engaged in such proceedings. Meanwhile Pirogov made a slight bow and, with his characteristic agreeableness, said: “Excuse me…!”

“Get out!” Schiller responded emphatically.

Lieutenant Pirogov was taken aback at this. Such treatment was absolutely new to him. A smile which had begun faintly to appear on his face vanished at once. With a feeling of wounded dignity he said: “I am surprised, sir… I suppose you have—not observed… I am an officer…”

“And what’s an officer? I’m a Swabian.” (At this Schiller banged the table with his fist.) “I can be an officer; a year and half a cadet, two years a lieutenant, and tomorrow an officer. But I don’t want to serve. This is what I’d do to officers: phoo!” Schiller held his open hand before him and spat into it.

Lieutenant Pirogov saw that there was nothing for him to do but withdraw. Such a proceeding, however, was quite out of keeping with his rank, and was disagreeable to him. He stopped several times on the stairs as though trying to rally his forces and to think how to make Schiller feel his impudence. At last he decided that Schiller might be excused because his head was full of beer; besides, he recalled the image of the charming blonde, and he made up his mind to consign the incident to oblivion.

Early next morning Lieutenant Pirogov appeared at the tinsmith’s workshop. In the outer room he was met by the blonde charmer, who asked him in a rather severe voice, which went admirably with her little face: “What do you want?”

“Oh, good morning, my cutie! Don’t you recognize me? You little rogue, what delicious eyes!”

As he said this Lieutenant Pirogov tried very charmingly to chuck her under the chin; but the lady uttered a frightened exclamation and with the same severity asked: “What do you want?”

“To see you, that’s all that I want,” answered Lieutenant Pirogov, smiling rather agreeably and going nearer; but noticing that the timid beauty was about to slip through the door, he added: “I want to order some spurs, my dear. Can you make me some spurs? Though indeed no spur is needed to make me love you; a bridle is what one needs, not a spur. What charming little hands!”

Lieutenant Pirogov was particularly agreeable in declarations of this kind.

“I will call my husband at once,” cried the German, and went out, and within a few minutes Pirogov saw Schiller come in with sleepy-looking eyes; he had only just waked up after the drunkenness of the previous day. As he looked at the officer he remembered as though in a confused dream what had happened the previous day. He could recall nothing exactly as it was, but felt that he had done something stupid and so received the officer with a very sullen face. “I can’t ask less than fifteen rubles for a pair of spurs,” he said, hoping to get rid of Pirogov, for as a respectable German he was ashamed to look at anyone who had seen him in an undignified condition. Schiller liked to drink without witnesses, in company with two or three friends, and at such times locked himself in and would not admit even his own workmen.

“Why are they so expensive?” asked Pirogov genially.

“German work,” Schiller pronounced coolly, stroking his chin. “A Russian will undertake to make them for two rubles.”

“Well, to show you that I like you and should be glad to make your acquaintance, I will pay fifteen rubles.”

Schiller pondered for a minute; as a respectable German he felt a little ashamed. Hoping to put him off, he declared that he could not undertake it for a fortnight. But Pirogov, without making any objections, readily agreed to this.

The German mused and began wondering how he could best do the work so as to make it really worth fifteen rubles.

At this moment the blonde charmer came into the room and began looking for something on the table, which was covered with coffeepots. The lieutenant took advantage of Schiller’s deep thought, stepped up to her, and pressed her arm, which was bare to the shoulder.

This was very distasteful to Schiller. “Meine Frau!”

“Was wollen Sie doch?”  said the blonde to her husband.

“Gehn Sie to the kitchen!” The blonde withdrew.

“In two weeks then?” said Pirogov.

“Yes, in two weeks,” replied Schiller, still pondering. “I have a lot of work now.”

“Goodbye for now, I will call again.”

“Goodbye,” said Schiller, closing the door after him.

Lieutenant Pirogov made up his mind not to relinquish his pursuit, though the blonde had so plainly rebuffed him. He could not conceive that anyone could resist him, especially as his politeness and the brilliant rank of a lieutenant gave him a full claim to attention. It must be mentioned also that despite her attractiveness Schiller’s wife was extremely stupid. Stupidity, however, adds a special charm to a pretty wife. I have known several husbands, anyway, who were enraptured by the stupidity of their wives and saw in it evidence of childlike innocence. Beauty works perfect miracles. All spiritual defects in a beauty, far from exciting revulsion, become somehow wonderfully attractive; even vice adds an aura of charm to the beautiful; but when beauty disappears, a woman needs to be twenty times as intelligent as a man merely to inspire respect, to say nothing of love. Schiller’s wife, however, for all her stupidity was always faithful to her duties, and consequently it was no easy task for Pirogov to succeed in his bold enterprise. But there is always a pleasure in overcoming difficulties, and the blonde became more and more attractive to him every day. He began inquiring pretty frequently about the progress of the spurs, so that at last Schiller was weary of it. He did his utmost to finish the spurs quickly; at last they were done.

“Oh, what splendid workmanship,” cried Lieutenant Pirogov on seeing the spurs. “Good Heavens, how well they’re made! Our general hasn’t spurs like that.”

A feeling of self-complacency filled Schiller’s soul. His eyes began to sparkle, and he felt inwardly reconciled to Pirogov. “The Russian officer is an intelligent man,” he thought to himself.

“So, then, you could make a sheath for a dagger or for anything else?”

“Indeed I can,” said Schiller with a smile.

“Then make me a sheath for a dagger. I will bring it you. I have a very fine Turkish dagger, but I want to have another sheath for it.”

This was like a bomb dropped upon Schiller. His brows suddenly knitted.

“So that’s what you are after,” he thought to himself, inwardly swearing at himself for having praised his own work. To refuse it now he felt would be dishonest; besides, the Russian officer had praised his workmanship. Slightly shaking his head, he gave his consent; but the kiss which Pirogov impudently printed on the lips of the pretty wife as he went out reduced the tinsmith to stupefaction.

I think it will not be superfluous to make the reader better acquainted with Schiller himself. Schiller was a real German in the full sense of the word. From the age of twenty, that happy time when the Russian lives without a thought of the next day, Schiller had already mapped out his whole life and did not deviate from his plan under any circumstances. He made it a rule to get up at seven, to dine at two, to be punctual in everything, and to get drunk every Sunday. He set, as a goal, saving fifty thousand in the course of ten years, and all this was as certain and as unalterable as fate, for sooner would a government clerk forget to look in at the porter’s lodge of his chief than a German would bring himself to break his word. Never under any circumstances did he increase his expenses, and if the price of potatoes went up much above the ordinary he did not spend one copper more on them but simply diminished the amount he bought, and although he was left sometimes feeling rather hungry, he soon got used to it. His exactitude was such that he made it his rule to kiss his wife twice in twenty-four hours but not more, and that he might not exceed the number he never put more than one small teaspoonful of pepper in his soup; on Sunday, however, this rule was not so strictly kept, for then Schiller used to drink two bottles of beer and one bottle of herb-flavored vodka which, however, he always abused. He did not drink like an Englishman, who locks his doors directly after dinner and gets drunk in solitude. On the contrary, like a German he always drank with inspiration either in the company of Hoffmann the bootmaker or with Kuntz the carpenter, who was also a German and a great drunkard. Such was the disposition of the worthy Schiller, who was indeed placed in a very difficult position. Though he was phlegmatic and a German, Pirogov’s behavior excited in him a feeling resembling jealousy. He racked his brains and could not think of how to get rid of this Russian officer. Meanwhile Pirogov, smoking a pipe in the company of his fellow officers— since Providence has ordained that wherever there is an officer there is a pipe—alluded significantly and with an agreeable smile on his lips to his little intrigue with the pretty German, with whom he was, according to his account, already on the best of terms, though as a matter of fact he had almost lost all hope of winning her favor.

One day he was walking along Meshchansky Street looking at the house adorned by Schiller’s signboard with coffeepots and samovars on it; to his great joy he caught sight of the blonde charmer’s head thrust out of the window watching the passers-by. He stopped, blew her a kiss, and said: “Gut Morgen.”

The fair lady bowed to him as to an acquaintance.

“Is your husband at home?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“And when is he out?”

“He is not at home on Sundays,” said the foolish little German.

“That’s not bad,” Pirogov thought to himself. “I must take advantage of that.”

And the following Sunday he suddenly and unexpectedly stood facing the blonde German. Schiller really was not at home. The pretty wife was frightened; but Pirogov on this occasion behaved rather warily, he was very respectful in his manner, and, making his bows, displayed all the elegance of his supple figure in his close-fitting uniform. He made polite and agreeable jests, but the foolish little German responded with nothing but monosyllables. At last, having made his attack from all sides and seeing that nothing would entertain her, he suggested that they dance. The German agreed immediately, for all German girls are passionately fond of dancing. Pirogov rested great hopes upon this: in the first place it gave her pleasure, in the second place it displayed his figure and dexterity; and thirdly he could get so much closer to her in dancing and put his arm around the pretty German and lay the foundation for everything else; in short, he reckoned on complete success resulting from it. He began humming a gavotte, knowing that Germans must have something sedate. The pretty German walked into the middle of the room and lifted her shapely foot. This attitude so enchanted Pirogov that he flew to kiss her. The lady began to scream, and this only enhanced her charm in Pirogov’s eyes. He was showering kisses on her when the door suddenly opened and Schiller walked in, with Hoffmann and Kuntz the carpenter. All these worthy persons were as drunk as cobblers.

But… I leave the reader to imagine the wrath and indignation of Schiller.

“Ruffian!” he shouted in the utmost indignation. “How dare you kiss my wife? You are a son of a bitch and not a Russian officer. Go to hell! That’s right, isn’t it, friend Hoffmann? I am a German and not a Russian swine.” (Hoffmann gave him an affirmative answer.) “Oh, I don’t want to wear horns!  Take him by the collar, friend Hoffmann; I won’t have it,” he went on, brandishing his arms violently, while his whole face was the color of his red vest. “I have been living in Petersburg for eight years, I have a mother in Swabia and an uncle in Nuremburg. I am a German and not a horned ox. Undress him, my friend Hoffmann. Hold him by his arms and his legs, comrade Kuntz!”

And the Germans seized Pirogov by his arms and his legs.

He tried in vain to get away; these three tradesmen were among the sturdiest people in Petersburg, and they treated him so roughly and disrespectfully that I cannot find words to do justice to this unfortunate incident.

I am sure that next day Schiller was in a high fever, that he was trembling like a leaf, expecting from moment to moment the arrival of the police, that he would have given anything in the world for what had happened on the previous day to be a dream. But what has been cannot be changed. No comparison could do justice to Pirogov’s anger and indignation. The very thought of such an insult drove him to fury. He thought Siberia and the lash too slight a punishment for Schiller. He flew home to dress himself and go at once straight to the general to paint for him in the most vivid colors the seditious insolence of the Germans. He meant to lodge a complaint in writing with the general staff; and, if the punishment meted out to the offenders was not satisfactory, to carry the matter to higher authorities.

But all this ended rather strangely; on the way to the general he went into a cafe, ate two cream puffs, read something out of The Northern Bee and left the cafe with his wrath somewhat cooled. Then a pleasant fresh evening led him to take a few turns along Nevsky Prospekt; by nine o’clock he had recovered his serenity and decided that he had better not disturb the general on Sunday; especially as he would be sure to be away somewhere. And so he went to spend the evening with one of the directors of the control committee, where he met a very agreeable party of government officials and officers of his regiment. There he spent a very pleasant evening, and so distinguished himself in the mazurka that not only the ladies but even their partners were moved to admiration.

“Marvelously is our world arranged,” I thought as I walked two days later along Nevsky Prospekt, and mused over these two incidents. “How strangely, how unaccountably Fate plays with us! Do we ever get what we desire? Do we ever attain what our powers seem specially fitted for? Everything goes contrary to what we expect. Fate gives splendid horses to one man and he drives in his carriage without noticing their beauty, while another who is consumed by a passion for horses has to go on foot, and all the satisfaction he gets is clicking with his tongue when trotting horses are led past him. One has an excellent cook, but unluckily so small a mouth that he cannot take more than two pecks; another has a mouth as big as the arch of the Staff headquarters, but alas, has to be content with a German dinner of potatoes. What strange pranks Fate plays with us!”

But strangest of all are the incidents that take place on Nevsky Prospekt. Oh, do not trust that Nevsky Prospekt! I always wrap myself more closely in my cloak when I pass along it and try not to look at the objects which meet me. Everything is a cheat, everything is a dream, everything is other than it seems! You think that the gentleman who walks along in a splendidly cut coat is very wealthy?—not at all. All his wealth lies in his coat. You think that those two stout men who stand facing the church that is being built are criticizing its architecture?—not at all: they are talking about how peculiarly two crows are sitting facing each other. You think that that enthusiast waving his arms about is describing how his wife was playing ball out of window with an officer who was a complete stranger to him?—not so at all, he is talking of Lafayette. You imagine those ladies… but ladies are least of all to be trusted. Do not look into the shop windows; the trifles exhibited in them are delightful but they have an odor of money about them. But God save you from peeping under the ladies’ hats! However attractively in the evening a fair lady’s cloak may flutter in the distance, nothing would induce me to follow her and try to get a closer view. Keep your distance, for God’s sake, keep your distance from the street lamp! and pass by it quickly, as quickly as you can! It is a happy escape if you get off with nothing worse than some of its stinking oil on your foppish coat. But even apart from the street lamp, everything breathes deception. It deceives at all hours, the Nevsky Prospekt does, but most of all when night falls in masses of shadow on it, throwing into relief the white and dun-colored walls of the houses, when all the town is transformed into noise and brilliance, when myriads of carriages roll over bridges, postilions shout and jolt up and down on their horses, and when the devil himself lights the street lamps to show everything in false colors.