Diary of a Madman and Other Stories (6 page)

Piskarev stood in silent astonishment: “A carriage, a footman in livery! . . . No, there was a mistake somewhere obviously.”

“Listen, my friend,” he said nervously, “you have probably come to the wrong place. Your mistress has doubtless sent you for someone else and not for me.”

“No, sir, I have not made a mistake. Surely you escorted my mistress on foot to a house in the Liteynaya and a room on the fourth floor.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then please come straight away, my mistress wants to see you without fail and asks you to be good enough to come to them direct at their house.”

Piskarev ran downstairs! A carriage was indeed standing in the court-yard. He got in, the doors slammed, the wheels and hooves thundered over the stone road and the illuminated silhouettes of houses with bright signs sped by the carriage windows. Piskarev pondered all the way but could not decide how to take this adventure. A private house, a carriage, a liveried footman. . . . He could not reconcile all this with the room on the fourth floor, the dusty windows and the piano out of tune. The carriage stopped before a brightly illuminated porch and he was immediately amazed by the row of equipages, the coachmen's chatter, the brightly lit windows and the strains of music. A footman in a rich livery helped him out of the carriage and escorted him into the vestibule with its marble columns, its lackeys covered with gold, its scattered cloaks and fur-coats and its bright lamp. A spacious staircase with shining bannisters and scented with perfumes rose aloft. He was already mounting the stairs, already entering the first salon, frightened and taken aback with his first step forward by the terrific throng of people.

The extraordinary medley of faces confused him utterly; he felt as if some demon had crumbled up the world into a multitude of different pieces and had shuffled all these pieces without rhyme or reason. The gleaming shoulders of the women and the black dress-coats of the men, the chandeliers, the lamps, airy, fluttering gauzes, ethereal ribbons and an immense double-bass, peering from behind the rails of a fine orchestra-stand—everything seemed brilliant to him. He saw at one glance so many reverend old men and middle-aged men with decorations on their evening-coats, so many ladies stepping lightly, proudly and gracefully along the parquet or sitting in rows; he heard so many French and English words; and in addition the young people in black dress-coats were so noble-looking, spoke or were silent with such dignity, knew so well how to say nothing unnecessary, joked so loftily, smiled so courteously, wore such magnificent side-whiskers, knew how to show their remarkable hands so artistically as they adjusted their neckties; the ladies were so airy, so immersed in complete self-satisfaction and rapture, and cast down their eyes so bewitchingly—that . . . But Piskarev's humble look alone, as he leant nervously against a pillar, showed that he was utterly disconcerted.

At this moment a crowd surrounded a group of dancers. They whirled round, wrapped in the transparent creations of Paris, in dresses spun from the air itself, their small feet glanced disdainfully off the parquet and were more ethereal than if they had not touched it at all. But one amongst them was pre-eminent, the most beautiful, the most wonderfully dressed. An inexpressible, most subtle harmony of taste was diffused through her toilet and at the same time she herself seemed oblivious of it, as if it had happened thus of its own accord. She gazed and did not gaze at the throng of spectators around her, her beautiful eyelashes drooped indifferently and the dazzling whiteness of her face caught the eyes most brightly when a delicate shadow flew over her brow as she inclined her head.

Piskarev exerted all his powers to move the throng and gaze at her; but much to his disappointment someone's great head with dark outstanding hair, kept hiding her from view; and, moreover, the crowd pressed him in so firmly that he dared not move back or forward, for fear of somehow pushing some privy councillor. At length he managed to edge his way forward and glanced down at his clothes wanting to adjust them more decorously. God Almighty, what was this? He was wearing a frock-coat which was covered in paint: in his haste to drive off he had forgotten to change into a more suitable dress. He blushed to his ears, and bowed his head, and wanted to drop through the ground, but for this there was definitely no room: gentlemen-of-the-chamber in shining uniforms had crowded up behind him in a veritable wall. He was beginning to wish he were further away from the beauty with the wonderful brow and eyelashes. He raised his eyes fearfully lest she was looking at him. Heavens! She was standing before him. . . . But what, what could this mean? “It's she!” he cried almost at the top of his voice. And indeed it was the same lady whom he had met on the Nevski Prospect and followed to her apartments.

Meanwhile she raised her eyelashes and gazed at them all with her clear eyes. “Ai, ai, ai, how lovely she is! . . .” was all he could say with bated breath. Her eyes passed round the whole circle, thirsting to attract her attention during the interval, but with a kind of weary inattention she soon turned away and met Piskarev's gaze. Oh, what heaven! What paradise! Give strength, O Lord, to bear it! Life cannot support it, it will overwhelm and bear away the soul! She made a sign, but not with her hand or with a motion of her head, no, her annihilating eyes reflected this sign in such a delicate unnoticeable expression that no one could see it, but he saw it, he understood it. The dance continued interminably; the weary music seemed to fade and die away and then burst out again, whining and thundering; at last the dance was over. She sat down, tired, and her breast rose and fell beneath the faint, misty gauze; her hand (heavens, what a wonderful hand) fell on her knee, crushed her airy dress beneath it and the dress seemed to exhale music, and its pale lilac hue showed up all the more the bright whiteness of this lovely hand. Just to brush against her—nothing more! No other desires—they were all to rude.... He stood behind her chair, not daring to speak or even to breathe. “You were bored?” she said: “I was bored, too. I see you hate me,” she added, dropping her long lashes.

“Hate you? I? I . . .” Piskarev, who was completely bewildered, wanted to say, and he probably would have uttered a whole heap of disconnected words, but at this moment a chamberlain came up with witty and pleasant remarks and a wonderfully curled quiff on his head. He showed rather pleasantly a row of quite tolerable teeth and with each witticism drove a sharp nail into Piskarev's heart. At last someone, luckily, turned to the chamberlain with some sort of question.

“How intolerable it is!” said she, raising her heavenly eyes to his. “I shall sit down at the other end of the ballroom; be there!” She slipped through the crowd and vanished. He pushed his way through like a madman and was there.

Was this she? She sat like a queen, superior to all, more beautiful than all and searched for him with her eyes.

“Are you there?” she murmured softly. “I shall be frank with you: the circumstances of our meeting probably seem strange to you. Can you possibly think that I could belong to the despised class among whom you met me? My actions will seem odd to you, but I will let you into a secret. Can I rely on you never to divulge it?” and she fixed her eyes earnestly upon him.

“Oh, you can, you can, you can! . . .”

But at this moment a rather elderly man came up, said something to her in a language Piskarev could not understand and gave her his arm. She gave Piskarev an imploring look and signed to him to remain where he was till she returned, but in a fit of impatience he had not the strength of mind to listen to any bidding, even to one from her lips. He set off to follow her; but the crowd parted them. He could no longer see the lilac dress; he walked from one room into another anxiously and pushed everyone who got in his way mercilessly, but in every room there were important personages at whist, buried in a dead silence. In one corner several elderly people were arguing about the superiority of a military as opposed to a civil career; in another a group of young people in wonderful dress-coats made casual remarks about the voluminous labors of a hard-working poet. Piskarev felt an elderly man of reverend aspect seize him by the button of his frock-coat and put forward some judicious remarks for his consideration, but he pushed him aside rudely, without even noticing that the man was wearing a rather important decoration round his neck. He rushed into another room . . . she was not there. Into a third . . . or there either. “Where is she? Give her to me! Oh, I can't live without seeing her! I want to hear what she was trying to tell me!” But his search proved vain. Anxious and worn out, he leant against a pillar and searched the throng; but his eyes were overstrained and showed him everything in a blurred way. Finally, the walls of his own room appeared clearly to him. He raised his eyes; a candlestick stood before him, the light almost out at its base; the whole candle had melted; the grease lay on his dilapidated table.

So he had been asleep! God, what a wonderful dream! Why had he woken up? Why hadn't he waited one minute longer? she would probably have appeared again! A disappointing dawn looked in at his window with its unpleasant dim light. His room was in such a grey, dull disorder. . . . Oh, how repulsive reality was! What was it beside the dream? He undressed hurriedly and lay down in bed wrapped in a blanket, desiring to bring the vanished dream-vision back by force. Sleep was not slow to overtake him, only it showed him everything but what he wanted to see: how Lieutenant Pirogov appeared with his pipe, now the porter from the academy, or an actual councillor of state, or the head of a Finnish woman whose portrait he had once painted, and similar rubbish.

He remained in bed till midday wishing to fall asleep; but she did not appear. If only she would show her lovely features for one second, if only her light step might sound, if only her bare bright hand like snow beyond the clouds would pass before him!

Brushing everything aside, forgetting everything, he sat with a defeated, hopeless expression on his face, obsessed with the dream alone. He did not think of touching anything; his eyes gazed out of the window without any participation or life, where it looked on the yard and a dirty water-carrier distributed water which froze in the air, and the bleating voice of a hawker jarred: “Any old clothes.” The realities of everyday sounded strangely in his ears. He sat out the whole day like this and then fell greedily into bed. He battled against sleeplessness for a long time and finally conquered it. Again some dream or other, a trivial nasty dream. “O God, have mercy, for one minute, show me her for just one minute.” He waited for evening once more, fell asleep again, and again dreamed of a clerk who was both a clerk and a bassoon. Oh, it was intolerable ! At last she appeared! Her head and hair.... She looked out.... Oh, for so short a time! And again a mist, again some stupid dream.

Ultimately dreams became his life, and from this time his whole life took a peculiar turn: one could say, that he slept through reality and awoke in sleep. If someone had seen him sitting motionless at his table, or walking along his street, he would probably have taken Piskarev for a lunatic or a man ruined by strong drink; his expression was absolutely devoid of meaning and his natural absent-mindedness finally developed until it was sufficiently powerful to drive all feelings and movement from his face. He revived only as night approached.

Such a state of affairs ruined his health, and the fact that sleep began to leave him altogether became the most terrible torture to him. In his desire to save his one treasure he used every means to retain it. He had heard that there is a means to restore a dream—you merely have to take opium. But where could one get opium? He remembered a certain Persian who owned a shawl shop and who nearly always begged Piskarev when they met to paint him a beautiful woman. Piskarev decided to go to him, thinking that he was bound to have opium.

The Persian received him, sitting on a divan with his feet tucked under him. “Why do you want opium?” he asked. Piskarev told him about his sleeplessness.

“All right, I'll give you some opium, if you paint me a beautiful girl. A good one, mind you. With black brows and eyes as large as olives; and me lying beside her and smoking my pipe! You hear, a good one! A really beautiful girl!”

Piskarev promised everything. The Persian went out for a minute and returned with a small tin full of a dark liquid. He poured out part of this carefully into another tin and gave it to Piskarev with instructions not to take more than seven drops in water. He greedily seized the precious tin which he would not have exchanged for a crock of gold and rushed home breathlessly.

Arriving back, he poured out a few drops into a glass of water and swallowing it, threw himself down to sleep.

Heavens, what joy! She came! She again, only now in a completely new world! How beautifully she sat in the window of a bright country cottage! Her dress exhaled the simplicity in which only a poet's thought is clothed. The style of her hair.... Heavens, how simple it was and how it suited her! A short kerchief was wound lightly round her shapely neck; everything about her was simple, everything was mysterious and inexpressibly tasteful. How dear was her graceful walk! How musical the sound of her footsteps and of her plain dress! How lovely her arm clasped by a bracelet made of hair! She said to him with tears in her eyes: “Don't despise me: I'm not what you took me to be. Look at me, look at me closely and say whether I am capable of what you think?”

“Oh, no, no! Let him who dares think it, let him . . .”

But he woke up touched and upset with tears in his eyes. “It would be better if you didn't exist, had no being in the world, were just the creation of an inspired artist! I would not leave the canvas, I would gaze at you always and embrace you, I would live and breathe you, a most perfect dream, and then I would be happy. I would let desire go no further. I would invoke you as a guardian angel in sleeping and waking, and would wait for you when I had to represent the divine and holy. But now . . . What an awful life! What good is it that she is alive? Is the life of a madman pleasant for his friends and relations who never loved him? God, what a life is ours! A constant discord between dream and reality!” Thoughts much like these occupied him unceasingly. He thought of nothing else, hardly even ate anything and waited for the desired apparition with the eager passion of a lover. The constant concentration of ideas on one object finally attained such power over his life and his imagination, that the desired image appeared to him almost daily and always in circumstances contrary to real life, because his thoughts were absolutely pure like the thoughts of a child. By means of these dream visions their object itself seemed to become pure and to be transfigured.