One day, while strolling along Meshchanskaya, he kept glancing at the house adorned by Schiller's shingle with its coffeepots and samovars; to his great joy, he saw the blonde's head leaning out the window and watching the passers-by. He stopped, waved his hand, and said: "Gut Morgen!" The blonde greeted him as an acquaintance.
"Say, is your husband at home?"
"Yes," answered the blonde.
"And when is he not at home?"
"He's not at home on Sundays," the stupid blonde answered.
"Not bad," Pirogov thought to himself, "I must take advantage of it."
And next Sunday, out of the blue, he appeared before the blonde. Schiller was indeed not at home. The pretty hostess got frightened; but this time Pirogov behaved quite prudently, treated her very respectfully and, bowing, showed all the beauty of his tightly fitted waist. He joked very pleasantly and deferentially, but the silly German woman replied to everything in monosyllables. Finally, having tried to get at her from all sides and seeing that nothing would amuse her, he offered to dance. The German woman accepted at once, because German women are always eager to dance. Pirogov placed great hopes in this: first, she already enjoyed it; second, it would demonstrate his tournure and adroitness; third, while dancing he could get closer and embrace the pretty German, and thus start it all going-in short, the result would be complete success. He started some sort of gavotte, knowing that German women need gradualness. The pretty German stepped out into the middle of the room and raised her beau- tiful little foot. This position so delighted Pirogov that he rushed to kiss her. The German woman began to scream, thereby increasing her loveliness still more in Pirogov's eyes; he showered her with kisses. When suddenly the door opened and in came Schiller with Hoffmann and the cabinetmaker Kuntz. These worthy artisans were all drunk as cobblers.
But I will let my readers judge of Schiller's wrath and indignation for themselves.
"Ruffian!" he cried in the greatest indignation. "How dare you kiss my wife? You are a scoundrel, not a Russian officer. Devil take it, Hoffmann my friend, I am a German, not a Russian swine!"
Hoffmann responded in the affirmative.
"Oh, I will not the horns have! Take him by the collar, Hoffmann my friend, I will not," he went on, swinging his arms violently, and his face was close in color to the red flannel of his waistcoat. "I have lived in Petersburg for eight years, I have my mother in Swabia and my uncle in Nuremberg; I am a German, not a horned beef! Off with everything, Hoffmann my friend! Hold his arm and leg, Kuntz my comrat!"
And the Germans seized Pirogov by his arms and legs.
He vainly tried to fight them off; the three artisans were the most stalwart fellows of all the Petersburg Germans, and they behaved so rudely and impolitely with him that I confess I can find no words to describe this sorry event.
I'm sure that Schiller was in a bad fever the next day, that he trembled like a leaf, expecting the police to come every moment, that he would have given God knows what for all of yesterday's events to have been a dream. But what's done cannot be undone. Nothing could compare with Pirogov's wrath and indignation. The very thought of such a terrible insult drove him to fury. He thought Siberia and the lash the very least of punishments for Schiller. He flew home so that, having changed, he could go straight to the general and describe for him in the most vivid colors the violence of the German artisans. He also wanted to petition general headquarters at the same time. And if the punishment of general headquarters was insufficient, he would go straight to the state council, or else to the sovereign himself.
But all this ended somehow strangely: he stopped at a pastry shop on his way, ate two puff pastries, read something from The Northern Bee, and left the place already in a less wrathful state. Besides, the rather pleasant, cool evening induced him to take a little stroll on Nevsky Prospect; toward nine o'clock he calmed down and decided it was not nice to trouble the general on a Sunday, and besides he had undoubtedly been summoned somewhere; and therefore he went to a soiree given by one of the heads of the college of auditors, where there was a very pleasant gathering of functionaries and officers. He enjoyed the evening he spent there, and so distinguished himself in the mazurka that not only the ladies but even their partners were delighted.
"Marvelous is the working of our world," I thought as I walked down Nevsky Prospect two days ago, calling to mind these two events. "How strangely, how inconceivably our fate plays with us! Do we ever get what we desire? Do we ever achieve that for which our powers seem purposely to prepare us? Everything happens in a contrary way. To this one fate gave wonderful horses, and he drives around indifferently without ever noticing their beauty- while another, whose heart burns with the horse passion, goes on foot and contents himself with merely clicking his tongue as a trotter is led past him. This one has an excellent cook, but unfortunately so small a mouth that it cannot let pass more than a couple of tidbits; another has a mouth as big as the archway of general headquarters, but, alas! has to be satisfied with some German dinner of potatoes. How strangely our fate plays with us!"
But strangest of all are the events that take place on Nevsky Prospect. Oh, do not believe this Nevsky Prospect! I always wrap myself tighter in my cloak and try not to look at the objects I meet at all. Everything is deception, everything is a dream, everything is not what it seems to be! You think this gentleman who goes about in a finely tailored frock coat is very rich? Not a bit of it: he consists entirely of his frock coat. You imagine that these two fat men who stopped at the church under construction are discussing its architecture? Not at alclass="underline" they're talking about how strangely two crows are sitting facing each other. You think that this enthusiast waving his arms is telling how his wife threw a little ball out the window at a completely unknown officer? Not at all, he's talking about Lafayette. 13 You think these ladies… but least of all believe the ladies. Peer less at the shop windows: the knickknacks displayed in them are beautiful, but they smell of a terrible quantity of banknotes. But God forbid you should peer under the ladies' hats! However a beauty's cloak may flutter behind her, I shall never follow curiously after her. Further away, for God's sake, further away from the street lamp! pass it by more quickly, as quickly as possible. You'll be lucky to get away with it pouring its stinking oil on your foppish frock coat. But, along with the street lamp, everything breathes deceit. It lies all the time, this Nevsky Prospect, but most of all at the time when night heaves its dense mass upon it and sets off the white and pale yellow walls of the houses, when the whole city turns into a rumbling and brilliance, myriads of carriages tumble from the bridges, postillions shout and bounce on their horses, and the devil himself lights the lamps only so as to show everything not as it really looks.
The Diary of a Madman
October 3.
Today an extraordinary adventure took place. I got up rather late in the morning, and when Mavra brought me my polished boots, I asked what time it was. On hearing that it had long since struck ten, I quickly hastened to get dressed. I confess, I wouldn't have gone to the office at all, knowing beforehand what a sour face the section chief would make. He has long been saying to me: "Why is it you've got such a hotchpotch in your head, brother? You rush about frantically, you sometimes confuse a case so much the devil himself couldn't sort it out, you start the title in lowercase, forget the date or number." Cursed stork! He must be envious that I sit in the director's study and sharpen pens for His Excellency. In short, I wouldn't have gone to the office if it weren't for the hope of seeing the treasurer and maybe cajoling at least some of my pay out of that Jew in advance. What a creature! For him to hand out any money a month ahead-Lord God, the Last Judgment would come sooner! Even if you beg on your life, even if you're destitute-he won't hand out anything, the hoary devil! Yet at home his own cook slaps him in the face. The whole world knows it. I don't see the profit of working in my department. Absolutely no resources. In the provincial government, in the civil courts and treasuries, it's quite a different matter: there, lo and behold, a man squeezes himself into a corner and scribbles away. His tailcoat is vile, his mug begs to be spat in, but just look what sort of country house he rents! Don't even try giving him a gilded china cup: "That," he says, "is a gift fit for a doctor." He wants to be given a pair of trotters, or a droshky, or a beaver coat worth some three hundred roubles. He looks like such a goody-goody, he talks with such delicacy-"Lend me your little knife to trim my little pen"-and then he skins a petitioner so that the man's left in nothing but his shirt. It's true, our work is noble, it's clean everywhere, as you never see it in the provincial government: the tables are mahogany, and the superiors address each other formally. Yes, 1 confess, if it weren't for the nobility of the work, I'd long since have quit the department.