Diary of a Madman and Other Stories (8 page)

And if it hadn't been for the sudden appearance of Lieutenant Pirogov, there is no doubt that Hoffmann would have cut off Schiller's nose just like that, because he was already holding his knife in position, as for cutting out a sole.

Schiller felt very annoyed that suddenly a stranger's unbidden face had obstructed him so inopportunely. Though he was under the intoxicating influence of beer and wine, he felt that it was rather unseemly to find himself in the presence of a stranger in such a position and in the middle of such a scene. Meanwhile Pirogov, bowing slightly, said with the charm which was so natural to him: “Forgive me. . . .”

“Get out!” answered Schiller slowly. This put Lieutenant Pirogov in a quandary. Such treatment was new to him. The smile hovering on his lips suddenly vanished. With a feeling of injured dignity, he said: “I am surprised, dear sir, . . . you have probably not noticed . . . I am an officer . . .”

“What's an officer! I'm a Swabian German. Myself ” (at which Schiller struck the table with his fist) “will be an officer: cadet for a year and a half, lieutenant two years, tomorrow I at once an officer am. But I don't want to serve. With an officer I do this: tphoo!” And Schiller opened his palm and spat at it.

Lieutenant Pirogov saw that nothing remained for him to do except leave; however, such a course, unsuited to his rank, was unpleasant for him. He halted on the stairs several times, as though wishing to pull himself together and decide how he could make Schiller feel the full extent of his rudeness. Finally, he came to the conclusion that Schiller might be excused as his head was full of beer and wine, and when he recalled the pretty blonde he decided to forget the incident. Next day, Lieutenant Pirogov appeared early in the morning in the metal-smith's workshop. In the first room the pretty blonde met him and asked in a rather rough voice which suited her pretty face very well: “What is it you want?”

“Ah, good morning, my dear! Don't you recognise me? What pretty eyes, you little rogue!” At which Lieutenant Pirogov wanted to chuck her under the chin in his charming way, but the blonde made a frightened exclamation and asked with the same roughness: “What is it you want?”

“Just to see you, I don't want anything more,” said Lieutenant Pirogov, smiling rather pleasantly and drawing nearer, but noticing that the timid blonde wanted to slip away through the door, he added: “I want to order some spurs, my dear. Can you make me a pair of spurs? Though one doesn't need a spur for loving you, but a bridle, rather. What pretty hands!”

Lieutenant Pirogov was always very charming in explanations of this kind.

“I'll call my husband at once,” cried the German girl and went out. Several moments later, Pirogov saw Schiller entering with sleepy eyes, hardly recovered yet from the previous night's drunken orgy. A glance at the officer reminded him in a blurred kind of dream of yesterday's incident. He could not remember anything exactly as it had been, but he felt that he had done something foolish, and therefore received the officer with a dour expression. “I can't take less than fifteen roubles for spurs,” he said, wishing to be rid of Pirogov; because as an honest German, he felt very conscience-struck to be confronted with the man who had seen him in an indecent condition. Schiller liked to take his drink without any witnesses, with two or three friends, locking himself away even from his workmen.

“Why so expensive?” asked Pirogov gently.

“German workmanship,” retorted Schiller coldly stroking his chin, “a Russian would take it on for two roubles.”

“Very well, to show I like you and that I wish to be acquainted with you, I shall pay fifteen roubles!”

Schiller remained deep in thought for a moment: as an honest German, he again felt rather conscience-struck. Wishing himself to dissuade Pirogov from giving the order, he announced that he could not have the spurs ready for a fortnight. But Pirogov made no objection and expressed perfect satisfaction.

The German began pondering how he could best do the work so that it would really be worth fifteen roubles.

At this point the blonde entered the workshop and began burrowing about on the table which was loaded with coffee-pots. The lieutenant made use of Schiller's thoughtfulness and stepping closer to her, squeezed her arm, which was bare to the shoulder.

This displeased Schiller very much. “Mein Frau!” he exclaimed.

“Was wollen Sie doch?” answered the blonde.

“Gehen Sie into the kitchen!”

The blonde disappeared.

“In a fortnight, then?” said Pirogov.

“Yes, in a fortnight,” answered Schiller thoughtfully: “I have a great deal of work on hand at the moment.”

“Good-bye! I'll call again!”

“Good-bye,” answered Schiller shutting the door after him.

Lieutenant Pirogov decided not to abandon his quest, despite the fact that the German girl had given him a definite rebuff. He couldn't understand how anyone could be unfriendly towards him, especially as his charm and his dazzling rank gave him full right to attention. It should also be mentioned that Schiller's wife, in spite of all her prettiness, was very foolish. As a matter of fact, foolishness is particularly attractive in a pretty woman. At any rate I have known many husbands who are delighted with their wives' foolishness, and see it as a sign of childlike innocence. Beauty works absolute miracles. All the spiritual shortcomings of a beautiful woman, instead of repelling, become somehow extraordinarily attractive; vice itself seems graceful in them: but as soon as beauty vanishes a woman must be twenty times cleverer than a man, to attract, if not love, at least respect. As a matter of fact, Schiller's wife, foolish as she was, still remained true to her obligations, and therefore it was rather difficult for Pirogov to succeed in his bold undertaking; but the defeat of obstacles is always delightful and blonde became more interesting to him day after day. He began to make enquires about the spurs rather often, so that Schiller began to weary of him. He made every effort to complete the work on the spurs as quickly as possible: at last they were finished.

“What perfect workmanship, I declare!” exclaimed Lieutenant Pirogov, on seeing the spurs. “Jove, how well-made they are! Our general himself hasn't anything like this!”

A feeling of self-satisfaction filled Schiller's heart. His eyes began to look rather merry and he became quite reconciled in his mind to Pirogov. “The Russian officer knows a thing or two,” he thought to himself.

“I imagine you could make a handle for a dagger and things of that kind, then?”

“Oh yes, certainly!” said Schiller with a smile.

“Then please make me a hilt for a dagger. I'll bring it round; I have a fine Turkish dagger but I would like to have a different handle.”

This pronouncement was like a bombshell to Schiller. His brow wrinkled suddenly. “Here we are again!” he thought to himself, cursing inwardly for bringing his work on himself. He considered it would be dishonorable to refuse now; and besides the Russian officer had praised his work. He expressed his agreement by nodding his head slightly; but the kiss which Pirogov pressed insolently on the pretty blonde's mouth, made him extremely doubtful.

I think it would not be irrelevant to acquaint the reader somewhat more closely with Schiller. Schiller was absolutely German in the full sense of that word. From the time when he was only twenty years of age, from that happy time, which a Russian spends gadding about, Schiller had made plans for his whole life and never in any circumstances made any exceptions to his rules. He decided to get up at seven o'clock, to dine at two, be precise in everything and get drunk every Sunday. He set himself the task of making a capital of fifty thousand in ten years, and this was true and irrevocable as fate, because a clerk will sooner forget to glance into the entrance hall of his chief's apartments, than a German go back on his word. He never increased his expenditure in any circumstances; and if the price of potatoes went up exceptionally he never spent an extra penny, but merely decreased the quantity he bought, and though he sometimes remained rather hungry, he soon grew accustomed to that. His tidiness went to such lengths that he rationed himself to kissing his wife not more than twice a day, and to prevent himself kissing her an extra time he never put more than one teaspoonful of pepper in his soup; it's true that on Sundays this rule was not so strictly adhered to, because Schiller used to drink two bottles of beer and one bottle of carroway vodka which he always blamed. He did not drink like your Englishman who locks his door immediately after dinner and gets pickled alone. On the contrary, like a German, he always drank with spirit, either with the cobbler Hoffmann or with Kuntz the carpenter, another German and a great drinker. This then was the character of the worthy Schiller, who was finally placed in an extremely awkward position. Although he was phlegmatic and a German, Pirogov's actions aroused in him something akin to jealousy. He thought till he was blue in the face and could not find a way to get rid of this Russian officer. Meanwhile, Pirogov, puffing at a pipe among his friends—since Destiny has arranged that wherever you get officers you get pipes—puffing at a pipe amongst his friends, hinted meaningly with a charming smile at an intrigue with a pretty German, with whom, to judge from his words, he was already on most intimate terms, and whom in reality he had almost lost hope of winning over to his side.

One day walking in the Meshchanskaya and gazing at the house which bore Schiller's sign with its coffee-pots and samovars, to his great delight he saw the blonde's head hanging out of a window and watching the passers-by. He stopped, waved his hand and said: “Gut' Morgen.” The blonde waved to him as to a friend.

“Is your husband in?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“When is he not at home?”

“He's not at home on Sundays,” the foolish little blonde answered.

“That's not bad,” Pirogov thought to himself, “we must make use of that,” and next Sunday he appeared before the blonde like a bolt from the blue. Schiller was certainly not at home. The pretty mistress of the house was frightened; but this time Pirogov was rather careful, treated her with great respect, and bowing showed off the full beauty of his lissome, tight-laced figure. He joked very pleasantly and respectfully, but the foolish little German only replied in monosyllables. Finally having tried everything and found nothing to amuse her, he suggested they should dance. The German agreed immediately because German girls are always eager to dance. Pirogov built great hopes on this: in the first place it was something she enjoyed, secondly it would demonstrate his
tournure
and grace, thirdly dances bring people close together and he would be able more easily to embrace the pretty German and make a beginning; in short he thought this would bring complete success. He began to hum some sort of gavotte, knowing one must go gradually with German girls. The pretty girl moved to the middle of the room and raised a lovely foot. This attitude delighted Pirogov so madly that he flung himself forward to kiss her. The German began to cry out and by this increased her attractiveness still more in Pirogov's eyes. He covered her with kisses. Suddenly the door opened and Schiller came in with Hoffmann and the carpenter Kuntz. All these worthy craftsmen were as drunk as lords.

But I will leave my readers to imagine Schiller's anger and indignation.

“Insolence!” he shouted furiously, “how dare you kiss my wife! You're a scoundrel, not a Russian officer. Devil take it, isn't it so, Hoffmann my friend, I'm a German not a Russian swine.” (Hoffmann answered in the affirmative). “No horns for me! Take him by the collar friend Hoffmann, I don't want to,” he added, waving his hands about violently, while his face began to resemble the red stuff of his waistcoat. “I've lived eight years in St. Petersburg, my mother's in Swabia and my uncle in Nuremberg, I'm a German and not a horned sirloin! Out with the lot of him, friend Hoffmann! Take him by the arms and legs, Kamerad Kuntz!”

And the Germans seized Pirogov by his arms and legs.

He struggled in vain: these three craftsmen were the stoutest folk of all the St. Petersburg Germans and were so rude and discourteous to him that I must admit I cannot find words to describe this distressing incident.

I'm convinced that next day Schiller was in a fever, trembling like a leaf, expecting the advent of the police at any moment, that he would have given God knows what to think everything which passed on the previous day was a dream. But what has been has been and you can't change it. Nothing could equal Pirogov's anger and indignation. The very thought of such an insult made him wild. He considered Siberia and the cat the least punishment Schiller could expect. He rushed home to change and go straight to the general to whom he would describe the rebellion of the German workmen in the most striking colors. He wanted to make a request in writing to the Chief of Staff; and if the punishment decided upon was not satisfactory, he wanted to go higher and higher still.

But all this had rather a peculiar ending: on his way home he entered a confectioner's, ate a couple of flaky pastries, glanced through the
Northern Bee
and left in a less wrathful frame of mind. In addition, the rather cool evening made him stroll along the Nevski Prospect a while; towards 9 o'clock he calmed down and decided that it would be a bad thing to trouble the general on a Sunday; also, he was undoubtedly invited somewhere, and so he set off to spend the evening at the house of a certain director of the control department, where there was a very charming gathering of clerks and officers from his regiment. He spent the evening there with great enjoyment and distinguished himself in the mazurka so much that he filled not only the ladies, but their partners with enthusiasm.

“This world of ours is wonderfully arranged!” I thought, wandering along the Nevski Prospect the day before yesterday and calling to mind these two adventures. “How strange, how unforeseen is the game which fate plays with us! Do we ever get what we desire! Do we ever attain to that for which our powers seem to be purposely prepared! Everything happens contrariwise. To one man fate gives the most wonderful horses, and he rides them with complete indifference, without even noticing their beauty, whilst another whose whole heart is on fire with a passion for horse-flesh, walks by on foot and has to be content with clicking his tongue when a racehorse is led past. One man has an excellent chef, but unfortunately such a small mouth that he can't swallow more than a couple of little pieces; another has a mouth the size of the arch of the War Office, but, alas, has to remain satisfied with some sort of German dinner of potatoes. How strangely our fate plays with us!”