as red as a boiled lobster. "Me not want to sell the crocodile! I would not
for the crocodile a million thalers take. I took a hundred and thirty
thalers from the public to-day, and I shall to-morrow ten thousand take,
and then a hundred thousand every day I shall take. I will not him sell."
Ivan Matveitch positively chuckled with satisfaction. Controlling
myself--for I felt it was a duty to my friend--I hinted coolly and
reasonably to the crazy German that his calculations were not quite
correct, that if he makes a hundred thousand every day, all Petersburg will
have visited him in four days, and then there will be no one left to bring
him roubles, that life and death are in God's hands, that the crocodile may
burst or Ivan Matveitch may fall ill and die, and so on and so on.
The German grew pensive.
"I will him drops from the chemist's get," he said, after pondering, "and
will save your friend that he die not."
"Drops are all very well," I answered, "but consider, too, that the thing
may get into the law courts. Ivan Matveitch's wife may demand the
restitution of her lawful spouse. You are intending to get rich, but do you
intend to give Elena Ivanovna a pension?"
"No, me not intend," said the German in stern decision.
"No, we not intend," said the _Mutter_, with positive malignancy.
"And so would it not be better for you to accept something now, at once, a
secure and solid though moderate sum, than to leave things to chance? I
ought to tell you that I am inquiring simply from curiosity."
The German drew the _Mutter_ aside to consult with her in a corner where
there stood a case with the largest and ugliest monkey of his collection.
"Well, you will see!" said Ivan Matveitch.
As for me, I was at that moment burning with the desire, first, to give the
German a thrashing, next, to give the _Mutter_ an even sounder one, and,
thirdly, to give Ivan Matveitch the soundest thrashing of all for his
boundless vanity. But all this paled beside the answer of the rapacious
German.
After consultation with the _Mutter_ he demanded for his crocodile fifty
thousand roubles in bonds of the last Russian loan with lottery voucher
attached, a brick house in Gorohovy Street with a chemist's shop attached,
and in addition the rank of Russian colonel.
"You see!" Ivan Matveitch cried triumphantly. "I told you so! Apart from
this last senseless desire for the rank of a colonel, he is perfectly
right, for he fully understands the present value of the monster he is
exhibiting. The economic principle before everything!"
"Upon my word!" I cried furiously to the German. "But what should you be
made a colonel for? What exploit have you performed? What service have you
done? In what way have you gained military glory? You are really crazy!"
"Crazy!" cried the German, offended. "No, a person very sensible, but you
very stupid! I have a colonel deserved for that I have a crocodile shown
and in him a live _hofrath_ sitting! And a Russian can a crocodile not show
and a live _hofrath_ in him sitting! Me extremely clever man and much wish
colonel to be!"
"Well, good-bye, then, Ivan Matveitch!" I cried, shaking with fury, and I
went out of the crocodile room almost at a run.
I felt that in another minute I could not have answered for myself. The
unnatural expectations of these two block-heads were insupportable. The
cold air refreshed me and somewhat moderated my indignation. At last, after
spitting vigorously fifteen times on each side, I took a cab, got home,
undressed and flung myself into bed. What vexed me more than anything was
my having become his secretary. Now I was to die of boredom there every
evening, doing the duty of a true friend! I was ready to beat myself for
it, and I did, in fact, after putting out the candle and pulling up the
bedclothes, punch myself several times on the head and various parts of my
body. That somewhat relieved me, and at last I fell asleep fairly soundly,
in fact, for I was very tired. All night long I could dream of nothing but
monkeys, but towards morning I dreamt of Elena Ivanovna.
IV
The monkeys I dreamed about, I surmise, because they were shut up in the
case at the German's; but Elena Ivanovna was a different story.
I may as well say at once, I loved the lady, but I make
haste--post-haste--to make a qualification. I loved her as a father,
neither more nor less. I judge that because I often felt an irresistible
desire to kiss her little head or her rosy cheek. And though I never
carried out this inclination, I would not have refused even to kiss her
lips. And not merely her lips, but her teeth, which always gleamed so
charmingly like two rows of pretty, well-matched pearls when she laughed.
She laughed extraordinarily often. Ivan Matveitch in demonstrative moments
used to call her his "darling absurdity"--a name extremely happy and
appropriate. She was a perfect sugar-plum, and that was all one could say
of her. Therefore I am utterly at a loss to understand what possessed Ivan
Matveitch to imagine his wife as a Russian Yevgenia Tour? Anyway, my dream,
with the exception of the monkeys, left a most pleasant impression upon me,
and going over all the incidents of the previous day as I drank my morning
cup of tea, I resolved to go and see Elena Ivanovna at once on my way to
the office--which, indeed, I was bound to do as the friend of the family.
In a tiny little room out of the bedroom--the so-called little
drawing-room, though their big drawing-room was little too--Elena Ivanovna
was sitting, in some half-transparent morning wrapper, on a smart little
sofa before a little tea-table, drinking coffee out of a little cup in
which she was dipping a minute biscuit. She was ravishingly pretty, but
struck me as being at the same time rather pensive.
"Ah, that's you, naughty man!" she said, greeting me with an absent-minded
smile. "Sit down, feather-head, have some coffee. Well, what were you doing
yesterday? Were you at the masquerade?"
"Why, were you? I don't go, you know. Besides, yesterday I was visiting our
captive...." I sighed and assumed a pious expression as I took the coffee.
"Whom?... What captive?... Oh, yes! Poor fellow! Well, how is he--bored? Do
you know ... I wanted to ask you.... I suppose I can ask for a divorce
now?"
"A divorce!" I cried in indignation and almost spilled the coffee. "It's
that swarthy fellow," I thought to myself bitterly.
There was a certain swarthy gentleman with little moustaches who was
something in the architectural line, and who came far too often to see
them, and was extremely skilful in amusing Elena Ivanovna. I must confess
I hated him and there was no doubt that he had succeeded in seeing Elena
Ivanovna yesterday either at the masquerade or even here, and putting all
sorts of nonsense into her head.
"Why," Elena Ivanovna rattled off hurriedly, as though it were a lesson she
had learnt, "if he is going to stay on in the crocodile, perhaps not come
back all his life, while I sit waiting for him here! A husband ought to
live at home, and not in a crocodile...."
"But this was an unforeseen occurrence," I was beginning, in very
comprehensible agitation.
"Oh, no, don't talk to me, I won't listen, I won't listen," she cried,
suddenly getting quite cross. "You are always against me, you wretch!
There's no doing anything with you, you will never give me any advice!
Other people tell me that I can get a divorce because Ivan Matveitch will
not get his salary now."
"Elena Ivanovna! is it you I hear!" I exclaimed pathetically. "What villain
could have put such an idea into your head? And divorce on such a trivial
ground as a salary is quite impossible. And poor Ivan Matveitch, poor Ivan
Matveitch is, so to speak, burning with love for you even in the bowels of
the monster. What's more, he is melting away with love like a lump of
sugar. Yesterday while you were enjoying yourself at the masquerade, he was
saying that he might in the last resort send for you as his lawful spouse
to join him in the entrails of the monster, especially as it appears the
crocodile is exceedingly roomy, not only able to accommodate two but even
three persons...."
And then I told her all that interesting part of my conversation the night
before with Ivan Matveitch.
"What, what!" she cried, in surprise. "You want me to get into the monster
too, to be with Ivan Matveitch? What an idea! And how am I to get in there,
in my hat and crinoline? Heavens, what foolishness! And what should I look
like while I was getting into it, and very likely there would be some one
there to see me! It's absurd! And what should I have to eat there? And ...
and ... and what should I do there when.... Oh, my goodness, what will they
think of next?... And what should I have to amuse me there?... You say
there's a smell of gutta-percha? And what should I do if we
quarrelled--should we have to go on staying there side by side? Foo, how
horrid!"
"I agree, I agree with all those arguments, my sweet Elena Ivanovna," I
interrupted, striving to express myself with that natural enthusiasm which
always overtakes a man when he feels the truth is on his side. "But one
thing you have not appreciated in all this, you have not realised that he
cannot live without you if he is inviting you there; that is a proof of
love, passionate, faithful, ardent love.... You have thought too little of
his love, dear Elena Ivanovna!"
"I won't, I won't, I won't hear anything about it!" waving me off with her
pretty little hand with glistening pink nails that had just been washed and
polished. "Horrid man! You will reduce me to tears! Get into it yourself,
if you like the prospect. You are his friend, get in and keep him company,
and spend your life discussing some tedious science...."
"You are wrong to laugh at this suggestion"--I checked the frivolous woman
with dignity--"Ivan Matveitch has invited me as it is. You, of course, are
summoned there by duty; for me, it would be an act of generosity. But when
Ivan Matveitch described to me last night the elasticity of the crocodile,
he hinted very plainly that there would be room not only for you two, but
for me also as a friend of the family, especially if I wished to join you,
and therefore...."
"How so, the three of us?" cried Elena Ivanovna, looking at me in surprise.
"Why, how should we ... are we going to be all three there together?
Ha-ha-ha! How silly you both are! Ha-ha-ha! I shall certainly pinch you all
the time, you wretch! Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!"
And falling back on the sofa, she laughed till she cried. All this--the
tears and the laughter--were so fascinating that I could not resist rushing
eagerly to kiss her hand, which she did not oppose, though she did pinch my
ears lightly as a sign of reconciliation.
Then we both grew very cheerful, and I described to her in detail all Ivan
Matveitch's plans. The thought of her evening receptions and her _salon_
pleased her very much.
"Only I should need a great many new dresses," she observed, "and so Ivan
Matveitch must send me as much of his salary as possible and as soon as
possible. Only ... only I don't know about that," she added thoughtfully.
"How can he be brought here in the tank? That's very absurd. I don't want
my husband to be carried about in a tank. I should feel quite ashamed for
my visitors to see it.... I don't want that, no, I don't."
"By the way, while I think of it, was Timofey Semyonitch here yesterday?"
"Oh, yes, he was; he came to comfort me, and do you know, we played cards
all the time. He played for sweet-meats, and if I lost he was to kiss my
hands. What a wretch he is! And only fancy, he almost came to the
masquerade with me, really!"
"He was carried away by his feelings!" I observed. "And who would not be
with you, you charmer?"
"Oh, get along with your compliments! Stay, I'll give you a pinch as a
parting present. I've learnt to pinch awfully well lately. Well, what do
you say to that? By the way, you say Ivan Matveitch spoke several times of
me yesterday?"
"N-no, not exactly.... I must say he is thinking more now of the fate of
humanity, and wants...."
"Oh, let him! You needn't go on! I am sure it's fearfully boring. I'll go
and see him some time. I shall certainly go to-morrow. Only not to-day;
I've got a headache, and besides, there will be such a lot of people there
to-day.... They'll say, 'That's his wife,' and I shall feel ashamed....
Good-bye. You will be ... there this evening, won't you?"
"To see him, yes. He asked me to go and take him the papers."
"That's capital. Go and read to him. But don't come and see me to-day. I am
not well, and perhaps I may go and see some one. Good-bye, you naughty
man."
"It's that swarthy fellow is going to see her this evening," I thought.
At the office, of course, I gave no sign of being consumed by these cares
and anxieties. But soon I noticed some of the most progressive papers
seemed to be passing particularly rapidly from hand to hand among my
colleagues, and were being read with an extremely serious expression of
face. The first one that reached me was the _News-sheet_, a paper of no
particular party but humanitarian in general, for which it was regarded
with contempt among us, though it was read. Not without surprise I read in
it the following paragraph:
"Yesterday strange rumours were circulating among the spacious ways and
sumptuous buildings of our vast metropolis. A certain well-known
_bon-vivant_ of the highest society, probably weary of the _cuisine_ at
Borel's and at the X. Club, went into the Arcade, into the place where an
immense crocodile recently brought to the metropolis is being exhibited,
and insisted on its being prepared for his dinner. After bargaining with
the proprietor he at once set to work to devour him (that is, not the
proprietor, a very meek and punctilious German, but his crocodile), cutting
juicy morsels with his penknife from the living animal, and swallowing them
with extraordinary rapidity. By degrees the whole crocodile disappeared
into the vast recesses of his stomach, so that he was even on the point of
attacking an ichneumon, a constant companion of the crocodile, probably
imagining that the latter would be as savoury. We are by no means opposed
to that new article of diet with which foreign _gourmands_ have long been
familiar. We have, indeed, predicted that it would come. English lords and
travellers make up regular parties for catching crocodiles in Egypt, and
consume the back of the monster cooked like beefsteak, with mustard, onions
and potatoes. The French who followed in the train of Lesseps prefer the
paws baked-in hot ashes, which they do, however, in opposition to the
English, who laugh at them. Probably both ways would be appreciated among
us. For our part, we are delighted at a new branch of industry, of which
our great and varied fatherland stands pre-eminently in need. Probably
before a year is out crocodiles will be brought in hundreds to replace this
first one, lost in the stomach of a Petersburg _gourmand_. And why should
not the crocodile be acclimatised among us in Russia? If the water of the
Neva is too cold for these interesting strangers, there are ponds in the
capital and rivers and lakes outside it. Why not breed crocodiles at
Pargolovo, for instance, or at Pavlovsk, in the Presnensky Ponds and in
Samoteka in Moscow? While providing agreeable, wholesome nourishment for
our fastidious _gourmands_, they might at the same time entertain the
ladies who walk about these ponds and instruct the children in natural
history. The crocodile skin might be used for making jewel-cases, boxes,
cigar-cases, pocket-books, and possibly more than one thousand saved up in
the greasy notes that are peculiarly beloved of merchants might be laid by
in crocodile skin. We hope to return more than once to this interesting
topic."
Though I had foreseen something of the sort, yet the reckless inaccuracy of
the paragraph overwhelmed me. Finding no one with whom to share my
impression, I turned to Prohor Savvitch who was sitting opposite to me, and
noticed that the latter had been watching me for some time, while in his
hand he held the _Voice_ as though he were on the point of passing it to
me. Without a word he took the _News-sheet_ from me, and as he handed me
the _Voice_ he drew a line with his nail against an article to which he
probably wished to call my attention. This Prohor Savvitch was a very queer
man: a taciturn old bachelor, he was not on intimate terms with any of us,
scarcely spoke to any one in the office, always had an opinion of his own
about everything, but could not bear to import it to any one. He lived
alone. Hardly any one among us had ever been in his lodging.
This was what I read in the _Voice_.
"Every one knows that we are progressive and humanitarian and want to be on
a level with Europe in this respect. But in spite of all our exertions and
the efforts of our paper we are still far from maturity, as may be judged
from the shocking incident which took place yesterday in the Arcade and
which we predicted long ago. A foreigner arrives in the capital bringing
with him a crocodile which he begins exhibiting in the Arcade. We
immediately hasten to welcome a new branch of useful industry such as our
powerful and varied fatherland stands in great need of. Suddenly yesterday
at four o'clock in the afternoon a gentleman of exceptional stoutness
enters the foreigner's shop in an intoxicated condition, pays his entrance
money, and immediately without any warning leaps into the jaws of the
crocodile, who was forced, of course, to swallow him, if only from an
instinct of self-preservation, to avoid being crushed. Tumbling into the
inside of the crocodile, the stranger at once dropped asleep. Neither the
shouts of the foreign proprietor, nor the lamentations of his terrified
family, nor threats to send for the police made the slightest impression.
Within the crocodile was heard nothing but laughter and a promise to flay
him (_sic_), though the poor mammal, compelled to swallow such a mass, was
vainly shedding tears. An uninvited guest is worse than a Tartar. But in
spite of the proverb the insolent visitor would not leave. We do not know
how to explain such barbarous incidents which prove our lack of culture
and disgrace us in the eyes of foreigners. The recklessness of the Russian
temperament has found a fresh outlet. It may be asked what was the object
of the uninvited visitor? A warm and comfortable abode? But there are many
excellent houses in the capital with very cheap and comfortable lodgings,
with the Neva water laid on, and a staircase lighted by gas, frequently
with a hall-porter maintained by the proprietor. We would call our readers'
attention to the barbarous treatment of domestic animals: it is difficult,
of course, for the crocodile to digest such a mass all at once, and now he
lies swollen out to the size of a mountain, awaiting death in insufferable
agonies. In Europe persons guilty of inhumanity towards domestic animals
have long been punished by law. But in spite of our European enlightenment,
in spite of our European pavements, in spite of the European architecture
of our houses, we are still far from shaking off our time-honoured
traditions.
"Though the houses are new, the conventions are old."
And, indeed, the houses are not new, at least the staircases in them are
not. We have more than once in our paper alluded to the fact that in the
Petersburg Side in the house of the merchant Lukyanov the steps of the
wooden staircase have decayed, fallen away, and have long been a danger for
Afimya Skapidarov, a soldier's wife who works in the house, and is often
obliged to go up the stairs with water or armfuls of wood. At last our
predictions have come true: yesterday evening at half-past eight Afimya
Skapidarov fell down with a basin of soup and broke her leg. We do not know
whether Lukyanov will mend his staircase now, Russians are often wise after
the event, but the victim of Russian carelessness has by now been taken to
the hospital. In the same way we shall never cease to maintain that the
house-porters who clear away the mud from the wooden pavement in the
Viborgsky Side ought not to spatter the legs of passers-by, but should
throw the mud up into heaps as is done in Europe," and so on, and so on.
"What's this?" I asked in some perplexity, looking at Prohor Savvitch.
"What's the meaning of it?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, upon my word! Instead of pitying Ivan Matveitch, they pity the
crocodile!"
"What of it? They have pity even for a beast, a _mammal_. We must be up to
Europe, mustn't we? They have a very warm feeling for crocodiles there too.
He-he-he!"
Saying this, queer old Prohor Savvitch dived into his papers and would not
utter another word.
I stuffed the _Voice_ and the _News-sheet_ into my pocket and collected as
many old copies of the newspapers as I could find for Ivan Matveitch's
diversion in the evening, and though the evening was far off, yet on this
occasion I slipped away from the office early to go to the Arcade and look,
if only from a distance, at what was going on there, and to listen to the
various remarks and currents of opinion. I foresaw that there would be a
regular crush there, and turned up the collar of my coat to meet it. I
somehow felt rather shy--so unaccustomed are we to publicity. But I feel
that I have no right to report my own prosaic feelings when faced with this
remarkable and original incident.
BOBOK
FROM SOMEBODY'S DIARY
Semyon Ardalyonovitch said to me all of a sudden the day before yesterday:
"Why, will you ever be sober, Ivan Ivanovitch? Tell me that, pray."
A strange requirement. I did not resent it, I am a timid man; but here they
have actually made me out mad. An artist painted my portrait as it
happened: "After all, you are a literary man," he said. I submitted, he
exhibited it. I read: "Go and look at that morbid face suggesting
insanity."
It may be so, but think of putting it so bluntly into print. In print
everything ought to be decorous; there ought to be ideals, while instead of
that....
Say it indirectly, at least; that's what you have style for. But no, he
doesn't care to do it indirectly. Nowadays humour and a fine style have
disappeared, and abuse is accepted as wit. I do not resent it: but God
knows I am not enough of a literary man to go out of my mind. I have
written a novel, it has not been published. I have written articles--they
have been refused. Those articles I took about from one editor to another;
everywhere they refused them: you have no salt they told me. "What sort of
salt do you want?" I asked with a jeer. "Attic salt?"
They did not even understand. For the most part I translate from the French
for the booksellers. I write advertisements for shopkeepers too: "Unique
opportunity! Fine tea, from our own plantations ..." I made a nice little
sum over a panegyric on his deceased excellency Pyotr Matveyitch. I
compiled the "Art of pleasing the ladies," a commission from a bookseller.
I have brought out some six little works of this kind in the course of my
life. I am thinking of making a collection of the _bon mots_ of Voltaire,
but am afraid it may seem a little flat to our people. Voltaire's no good
now; nowadays we want a cudgel, not Voltaire. We knock each other's last
teeth out nowadays. Well, so that's the whole extent of my literary
activity. Though indeed I do send round letters to the editors gratis and
fully signed. I give them all sorts of counsels and admonitions, criticise
and point out the true path. The letter I sent last week to an editor's
office was the fortieth I had sent in the last two years. I have wasted
four roubles over stamps alone for them. My temper is at the bottom of it
all.
I believe that the artist who painted me did so not for the sake of
literature, but for the sake of two symmetrical warts on my forehead, a
natural phenomenon, he would say. They have no ideas, so now they are out
for phenomena. And didn't he succeed in getting my warts in his
portrait--to the life. That is what they call realism.