[10] Pan is Polish for Mister.
THE LOVE OF A SCENE-PAINTER
BY “SKITALITZ”
[Illustration]
_“Skitalitz,” meaning “wanderer,” is the nom de plume of a very
talented young author by the name of A. Petrov. He is about 36 years
old and a native of Nijni-Novgorod. Students of Russian literature have
generally thought “Skitalitz” to be a nom de plume of Leonid Andreiev,
but that is incorrect. Nearly all his works have been published by the
“Znaniye” Company, which is backed by Gorki, and which until lately
was the standard of Russian literature. “Skitalitz” writes poetry as
well as prose. His works have been translated into the chief European
languages, English included._
[Illustration]
THE LOVE OF A SCENE-PAINTER
BY “SKITALITZ”
Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907,
by P. F. Collier & Son.
The scene-painter Kostovsky had gone on a spree just at a time when he
should not have done so: preparations were afoot for the presentation
of a spectacular play, the success of which wholly depended upon the
beauty of the decorations. The posters were already scattered all over
the city; it was necessary to hurry forward the different arrangements
and to paint the new scenery, and now something happened that the
stage-manager had feared all along: Kostovsky went on a spree.
This always occurred just at a time when he was indispensable. As if
an evil spirit prompted him just at such time and the forbidden liquid
became more tempting than ever, he felt an unconquerable longing to
experience a feeling of guilt, to act against the will of every one,
against his own interests, but certainly not against the promptings of
the Evil One, who had, for the time being, wholly taken possession of
him.
His impetuous nature, full of talent, could not exist, it seemed,
without powerful impressions--and he found them only in carousing. The
days of revelry were for him always full of interesting encounters and
strange adventures peculiar only to himself. But as soon as he came to
his senses and sobered up, he took to his work with a sort of furious
energy: everything around him at such times was at a fever-heat of
excitement and he himself was burning with the fire of inspiration.
Only because he was a wonderful scene-painter, a genius of his craft,
he was not discharged. He hurt the reputation of the company with his
scandals, adventures, and careless, soiled dress, his whole plebeian
appearance; but for all that, from under his brush came the most
exquisite, artistically executed decorations, for which the public
often called the “decorator” before the curtain, and about which the
press remarked afterward.
Behind the scenes the members of the company kept aloof from Kostovsky,
and no one wanted to be on intimate terms with him; the chorus-singers
“drank,” too, but considered themselves of a higher breed than the
workman-decorator, and did not want him in their society, and the
chorus-girls and ballet-dancers treated him like some sexless being,
kept aloof from him, and looked at him with a grimace of disgust. He,
on his part, also took little interest in them.
He admired only Julia, a little ballet-dancer, and even her he loved
only as an artist, when she danced on the stage enveloped in the
electric rays of the reflector which he himself manipulated. He liked
the turn of her pretty little head, and he admired her, distinguishing
her in the crowd of the other ballet-dancers by an exceptionally bright
ray. “In life” he never spoke to her, and she pretended that she did
not notice his attentions at all.
Living in a strange solitude, without love or friends, not having
the sympathy of any one in the company, but being at the same time
“indispensable” to it, he experienced an immeasurable feeling of
“offense,” and caroused, as happened now when he was so badly “needed.”
The stout stage-manager stood on the stage after the rehearsal and
spoke about Kostovsky with the business-manager of the troupe, an
elegant, dark-complexioned man of the Hebrew type.
The broad, fat face of the stage-manager expressed restrained wrath,
anxiety, and sorrow.
“Well, just tell me, please,” he spoke tearfully, while in his heart a
storm was raging, “what am I to do now? What am I to do n-o-w?”
And, crossing his fat hands helplessly on his paunch, he wrathfully and
sorrowfully looked at his companion.
“Hoggishness, that is all!” replied the business-manager. “He started
to drink on the steamer when we were coming here and has not sobered up
yet. And do you know, he fell into the sea on the way here! That was
a joke. I was suddenly awakened by the cry: ‘Man overboard!’ I sprang
to my feet. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Kostovsky!’ ‘Ah, Kostovsky, and I thought
it was--some one else!’ And I again went to bed as if nothing had
happened, because, in my opinion, Kostovsky is not a man, but a pig.”
“How did he come to fall into the water? Was he drunk?”
“Of course he must have been drunk. He fell asleep on the deck and was
forgotten. The vessel lurched and he rolled over.”
“Ho-ho-ho!” the stage-manager’s deep laugh rang out.
“He-he-he!” chorused the business-manager in his thin, piping laugh.
“But what is still funnier, the sea would have none of him, and he
was fished out even before he had time to become entirely awake. A
wonderful accident, really! The sea even refused to swallow such a
rascal!”
“But where is he now?” inquired the stage-manager after he had ceased
laughing, and a little softened by the story of Kostovsky’s mishap at
sea.
“Here. He is sobering up a little in the wardrobe. They searched for
him all over town, and at last they found the darling in a tavern
engaged in a hot battle with some apprentice; they did not even allow
him to finish the fistic argument, but pulled them apart, and brought
him here. Now he is nursing a beautiful black eye.”
“Bring him in here, the rascal.”
The young man ran briskly across the stage and vanished behind the
scenes. And immediately the empty theatre loudly resounded with his
piping voice:
“Kostovsky! Kostovsky!”
“He will come at once,” the man said on returning, and winked his eye
as if wishing to say: “The comedy will start immediately.”
A slow, unsteady step was heard approaching, and upon the stage
appeared the man who had caused so much bad blood and ill-feeling and
whom the sea would not accept.
He was of middle height, sinuous, muscular, and slightly
round-shouldered, dressed in a coarse blue blouse full of paint spots
and girded by a leather strap; his trousers, bespattered with paint,
he wore tucked into his tall boots. Kostovsky had the appearance of
a common workman, with long, muscular hands like those of a gorilla,
and probably of great strength; his far from good-looking but very
characteristic face, with its prominent cheek-bones and long, reddish
mustaches, breathed of power. From under knitted brows gloomily, and
at the same time good-naturedly, looked out a pair of large blue eyes.
The main peculiarity of this face was an expression of impetuousness
and energy; his left eye was embellished by a large discoloration--the
mark of a well-aimed blow--and his coarse, reddish locks bristled out
rebelliously in all directions. On the whole, Kostovsky impressed one
as a bold, untamable being.
He bowed, at once shamefacedly and proudly, and did not offer any one
his hand.
“What are you up to now, Kostovsky? Eh?” the stage-manager spoke in a
freezingly cold manner. “The play is announced for to-morrow and we
shall have to revoke it! What are you doing me all this injury for? Is
it honest of you? Why are you drinking? Just look what an ornament you
have under the eye! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
Kostovsky took a step backward, thrust his long fingers through his
locks, and suddenly became alight with a passionate, indomitable
emotion:
“Mark Lukich!” he exclaimed in a dull, husky, but convincing voice: “I
drank! That is true! But now--basta! I will make everything necessary!
To-day is Saturday and there is no performance, I shall not go out of
here till to-morrow! I shall work the whole night through! I! I--Ach,
thou great God!”
Kostovsky waved his hands in the air, and it seemed that he was
suddenly possessed with a desperate energy. He longed for work as for
expiation.
“But do you understand what there is to be done? Entirely new scenery
must be painted. And painted good! Do you understand? Painted g-o-o-d!”
“I shall paint it well, no fear of that!” exclaimed Kostovsky
enthusiastically, once more running all his ten fingers through his
coarse locks. After musingly pacing the stage for some moments, he
stopped before the stage-manager.
“Please tell me all about it, what sort of scenery is wanted, and for
what it is needed,” he said in a more calm voice.
“You see, this will be the second act. Two people are lost in the
steppe at night. The place must be a dull, obscure wilderness, a
terrible fear possesses them, and supernatural things take place there.
You must paint for us this steppe; everything must be in it: the
impression of remoteness, the darkness and clouds, and so vividly that
a shiver of dread should run through the public.”
“That is enough!” interrupted Kostovsky. “I shall paint you the
steppe. I will work the whole night on the stage by lamplight and
to-morrow everything will be ready. Have you the necessary material?”
“Everything is ready, all that is necessary is to work!” put in the
business-manager.
But Kostovsky already felt the inspiration of the decorator. He turned
away from his superiors, no longer even aware of their presence,
and, standing in the centre of the stage, he shouted in a powerful,
imperious voice:
“Here, Pavel, hurry there! Vanka, here with you! Lively there, you sons
of the devil, Kostovsky means to work now!”
The stage-workman Pavel and the apprentice Vanka, a nimble, slouchy
fellow, passionately devoted to the stage, came rushing in and
immediately began to bustle about, spreading the enormous canvas and
bringing forward the paints and brushes.
“Well,” said the business-manager to the stage-manager, “thank God, he
has come to his senses at last; we will not be compelled now to revoke
the play! Let us go and have our dinner. He must not be interfered with
now.”
The whole night the stage was brightly illuminated, and in the empty
theatre reigned the quiet of the grave. Only the tread of Kostovsky
could be heard as, with his long brush in his hand, he continually
approached and retreated from his canvas; all around stood pails and
pots of paint.
He made rapid strides in his work. With a blue mark under his eye,
dirty with paint, with bristling hair and mustaches, he accomplished
with his enormous brush a titanic kind of work. His eyes were ablaze
and his face looked inspired. He created.
At eleven o’clock in the morning the whole company, which had gathered
for the rehearsal, stood agape before the creation of Kostovsky. The
actors, chorus-singers, male and female, and the ballet-dancers gazed
at the enormous canvas from the stage and afterward from the orchestra,
and freely expressed their opinions. The whole background of the stage
was occupied by the gigantic picture. It was the steppe. On the edge it
was overgrown with tall, dense burdocks and other steppe-grass, farther
could be seen a desolate-looking steppe-grave, thickly overgrown with
grass, and still farther unrolled the cheerless, dull steppe with a
wonderful, immeasurable perspective, a steppe out of the fairy-tales,
out of the times of knighthood--pathless and unpeopled. It seemed
to the onlookers that suddenly the famous Knight of the Russian
fairy-tale, Ilia Muromets, would appear from behind the mound and would
bawl out: “Is there a live man in this field?” But the bleak steppe
was silent, terribly, gloomily silent; looming up against the sky were
dark grave-mounds, and sinister, black, bushy clouds were gathering.
There was no end to these clouds and grave-mounds, and the measureless
vista of this steppe. The whole picture breathed gloom and oppressed
the soul. It seemed as if something terrible would immediately take
place, that the grave-mounds and the clouds had a symbolic meaning,
that they were in a way animated. True, when one stepped up too close
to Kostovsky’s scenery he could not make out anything: he saw before
him a mere daub and splash made with the large brush--hasty, bold
strokes, and nothing more. But the farther the spectator retreated from
the canvas the clearer appeared the picture of the enormous steppe,
spiritualized by a powerful mood, and the more attentively he looked at
it, all the more was he possessed by the feeling of uncanny dread.
“Well, what do you say to this!” hummed the crowd. “Devilish fellow,
Kostovsky! A real talent! Just see what deviltry he has let loose!”
“Well, that is nothing!” he replied naively. “We are simple workmen:
when we work we work, but when once we are bent on having a good time
we take our fill--that is how we are!”
They all laughed at him, but they spoke about him the whole day: he had
never succeeded so well as at this time.
And he continued at his work; it seemed as if his energy had only just
now become aroused. While the rehearsal was going on, he painted a
“Hindu Temple,” shouted at his helpers, and in the heat of inspiration
even railed at the stage-manager, who wanted to draw his attention to
something.
He was untamable, irresponsible, and great. Dirtier and more unkempt
than ever, he strutted through his workroom at the back of the stage,
painted the superbly beautiful, fantastic “Temple,” and lived through
the happiness of inspiration. His whole appearance, excited by the
sleepless night full of inspiration, was the embodiment of power and
passionate energy: the pale face with the blue discoloration under the
eye, the bristling locks, and the flaming eyes that seemed to emanate
blue rays--all this showed that the inspiration of Kostovsky did not
flash up for a moment, but that it burned long and steadily with an
inexhaustible, even light.
He was wholly engrossed by his “Temple,” when he suddenly felt close to
him some one’s light step, and an exquisite perfume was wafted to where
he stood. He turned around--before him stood Julia.
She wore the costume of a ballet-dancer, that is, almost no costume,
as she had to dance at the rehearsal. She was a pretty little thing in
pink tights, white satin slippers, and short gauze skirts; her high,
strong bosom heaved tranquilly and peacefully, and her creamy face
smiled. Her black, almond-shaped, languid eyes looked tenderly and
promisingly at Kostovsky. In the costume of a ballet-dancer she looked
like a being just out of fairyland, and it was difficult to imagine a
being so totally different from Kostovsky as was this fairy. She was
all exquisite grace and litheness; he, ungainly, dark, and big, stood
before her abashed and confused, and gazed at her with delight and
admiration; the long brush was lowered to the floor to her feet.
Kostovsky forgot his work, and Julia broke into a ringing laugh, and,
sparkling with her sharp little teeth, she came nearer to him with her
light, graceful step, and, stretching out to him her beautiful little
hand, she boldly said: “How do you do, Kostovsky!”
* * * * *
Several months passed. The enormous opera-house was crowded to the
doors. Behind the scenes they were hot at work, crowding one another,
bustling and pushing. Through the curtain came the hum of the public
and the solemn waves of the orchestra music.
The stage-workmen ran about like men possessed, adjusting and shifting
the scenery, and from somewhere in the darkness above rose and
descended enormous canvases, the walls of temples, steeples, woods, and
sea-waves.
All this work was superintended by Kostovsky. He was unrecognizable,
his face looked years younger and brighter, his blue eyes were alight
with joy and happiness, his feet were encased in shiny patent-leather
boots, and he wore a well-fitting, elegant velvet jacket; his fair
locks were no longer bristling.
“Let down the bottom of the sea!” he commanded in a ringing voice.
The enormous canvas on which was depicted the bottom of the sea was
lowered. The decorator retreated a few steps and once more looked
lovingly at the “sea bottom.” This was his latest creation.
“Listen, Pavel!” he shouted, “when the mermaids begin to swim, you will
let Julia come first and lower than all the rest; let her down to the
very bottom!”
“It shall be done!”
At last everything was ready for the mermaids to swim through the
bottom of the sea. Kostovsky was already on the elevation, with the
electric reflector turned on the stage; he himself had to manage the
lighting up of the scenery and the actors. The “Bottom of the Sea”
became suffused with a tender, poetic light. This greenish-silvery
light seemed to penetrate the water as if with the bright sunlit day
above. And here at the bottom everything lived, knowing no light. In
the distance stood a coral-reef, and everywhere half-alive vegetation
greedily stretched its branches over the water, and all around floated
slimy medusæ.
Underneath, the first thing to meet the eye was the yawning mouth of
a submarine cave, from which were thrust out the arms of a hideous,
enormous devil-fish that, without moving, glared out of its two green
eyes.
And from amid this primitive, abnormal world appeared a wonderfully
beautiful woman with flowing hair and bare shoulders, with the form
of a fish below the waist, covered with shining, silvery scales. The
loveliness of her head and the beauty of her shoulders was enhanced by
the ugliness of the submarine world.
She swam like a fish, easily and gracefully, turning and twisting, her
scales sparkling and glittering; she was followed by another mermaid, a
whole school.
Lighted by the rays of the reflector, at the will of Kostovsky, they
became marvelous, fairy-like beauties.
But they were all eclipsed by one. She swam lower than all, and was
distinguished from all by the radiance of her beauty. She was lighted
better and more alluringly than the rest, the tenderest rays of the
reflector warmly and lovingly fell upon her, ran after her, and
lovingly caressed her graceful body, adding a seductive expression to
her face and making her eyes shine like stars. She seemed to be created
of light, and this light changed with every moment, and she changed
with it, garbed in thousands of different tints. A veritable queen of
the deep. She felt that the enchanter decorator had bestowed on her
a marvelous loveliness, that the delighted public was ready to break
forth into a storm of applause in honor of this beauty, and, swimming
close to the decorator, she gratefully waved her sparkling fish-tail,
over which, by the will of the generous, enamored decorator, suddenly
fell a shower of many-colored diamonds.
She swam behind the scenes, and he, rising on tiptoe and smiling
happily, sent her an airy kiss from behind the reflector.
All in the company knew of this love affair behind the scenes: Julia
always left the theatre in the company of Kostovsky, they stayed at the
same hotel, and his room adjoined hers. Kostovsky was always with her,
enjoying to the full the pleasure that the contemplation of her beauty
afforded him, while she willingly allowed him to pay court to her. He
followed her like a faithful dog, and waited long and patiently at
the door of the women’s dressing-room while she leisurely removed the
make-up from her face, dressed, and chatted with the other girls.
This time, after the conclusion of the performance, he had to wait
particularly long at the foot of the stairs; one after another the
closely wrapped little figures came down the stairs and went off with
the men who were awaiting them, just as the scene-painter was awaiting
Julia. But “she” was not to be seen.
Sad and troubled, Kostovsky stood at his place, looking about him
indifferently and continually throwing expectant glances at the door
of the dressing-room. And the door opened less and less often, as
almost all the women had already departed.
At last Rosa, a vivacious Jewish chorus girl, came out. “What are you
standing here for?” she drawled, lifting her brows in surprise and
making a sly grimace. “I am the very last one, there is no one else,
and Julia left long ago. It seems you did not notice when she went out.”
“What, is she gone?” asked Kostovsky, and on his face appeared a pained
expression.
“Ha-ha-ha!” Rosa’s silvery laugh rang out; “very simple, she left
before the end of the performance in the company of her new admirer,
and you, my sweet one, have tired her long ago!”
The scene-painter stepped back and caught himself by the head. “It is
not true!” he said in a dull voice.
“Well, I like that!” Rosa said excitedly, “and it is your own doing,
too! She only wished to be pushed ahead. You always light her up so
that the whole front row is after her! She has made a career for
herself, and does not need you any longer.” And Rosa ran laughingly
down the stairs.
Kostovsky stood long motionless on the same place, and, enveloped in
the quiet and darkness of the empty theatre, he felt that, little by
little, then stronger and stronger, his breast was filled with acute
pain.
When Kostovsky knocked at the door of Julia’s room she received him
very coldly. Her moist eyes looked indifferently and tranquilly from
under her thick, black eyelashes; her black hair, carelessly pinned,
lay like a luxurious crown, and two thick curls fell over her full
cheeks. She wore a wide kimono of some cheap sheer material, and light
slippers.
“Julia,” whispered Kostovsky, breathless with excitement.
“Sit down!” she said carelessly, not noticing anything especial in his
appearance, and added: “And try to occupy yourself with something. I
really haven’t any time to entertain you.”
“Julia!”
She half-leaned upon the bed and became wholly absorbed in her book.
He was irritated by this woman’s unnecessary artfulness; why use these
artifices, which offended him the more, because she could easily tell
him outright and settle it?
“Julia, you speak to me as to a visitor who has to be entertained? Why
this ceremony?”
“There is no ceremony about it!” she replied in a displeased tone.
“It--simplifies our relations, that is all: every one occupies
himself--with what he pleases. I am--reading. And you occupy yourself
with something else, and if you feel ennui--go away.”
She was driving him out.
Kostovsky was beside himself with rage at this “simplifying of
relations,” and at her sudden leaving off of the familiar “thou” and
adopting the more conventional “you.”
“Listen to me,” he said, in a voice full of irritation, and likewise
availing himself of the term “you.” “I wish to speak to you, and will
not wait till you finish reading.”
She did not reply, and, half-reclining on the bed, she continued
looking at the open book. A painful silence ensued.
Kostovsky sat at the table and quietly gazed at Julia. Leaning on her
elbows on the pillow, she had thrown herself into a graceful, kittenish
pose, her little feet encased in their tiny, light slippers, impishly
hid under the folds of her kimono, and from their hiding-place teased
Kostovsky. The lovely curves of her body showed through the thin dress,
the wide sleeves left visible her chubby arms to the elbow; and she
was, as a whole, so sweet and graceful that Kostovsky, hating her at
this moment, longed to take her in his arms.
He turned his eyes away from her. The room was poorly furnished--a
cheap hotel room, lighted by electricity. Near the door stood the
wardrobe with her costumes, in the centre the table, and near the
window the dresser and a mirror. On a rack close to the entrance into
the room hung her plush jacket, trimmed with tiny cats’ paws. He looked
long and with hatred at this jacket with its cats’ paws, and recalled
how amiably she used to meet him before, forcing him into a chair and
smoothing his bristly locks tenderly, and how pleasant it was to feel
the tender touch of the little hand.
She quickly flung away her book, and angrily rose from the bed.
“You have nothing to speak to me about!” she exclaimed, reddening.
“Everything has been said already! It is time to end this spoony love
affair, this sentimental driveling!”
“Spooniness--sentimental driveling,” he bitterly repeated. “Julia! What
has come between us?”
“There is nothing between us, nothing could be!” she energetically
declared. “We have nothing in common--nothing whatsoever--and--we must
put an end to our acquaintanceship!”
She gave the table a push and sat down in the darkest corner of the
room, looking at him from there with her large, black eyes. Her eyes
had always the same expression; no matter at whom they looked, they
seemed to be inviting and promising something without the knowledge of
their possessor. Spurning him, she at the same time lured him on.
“I understand!” he spoke sadly, and pushed his chair close to her.
“You wish to part with me; they say you have another--some one from
the first row of the orchestra. Well, let us part. But why all this
subterfuge and why quarrel? I do not wish that all this should end
so badly--with a quarrel. I wish at least to keep the memory. But,
Julia, know that all those--from the first row--despise you--humiliate
you--love in you only the flesh. And I--Why I--l-o-v-e you, the devil
take you, accursed one!”
He grasped her arm above the elbow and shook her with his large paws.
“Phui! How rude! He abuses me! Let me go! Let me go, I say; you will
dislocate my arm! Ruffian!”
She longed to quarrel with him. And he, on his part, felt an influx
of ferocious wrath, a passionate longing to tear, lacerate, beat, and
throw her out.
He grasped her arms still tighter. His eyes turned a greenish color,
his teeth gave out a grating sound.
“Ai!” she cried. But he fell on his knees before her.
“Sweetest, dearest, my golden one, my sun, my joy! You are my--all;
all my thoughts, all my feelings, everything is for you, from you,
and--about you! Oh, I am rude; I am--a brute, but I love you! Without
you there is no life for me; I will again sink to the bottom from which
you raised me! Well, darling, well, my happiness, forgive me. You see I
kiss your hands, your dress. Forgive!”
And on his bent knees this big, powerful man caught the tiny hands of
the tiny woman and kissed them, kissed her dress, and wept.
When he lifted his head he suddenly caught her glance directed toward
him, a strange, attentive glance. In this glance of her moist, black
eyes there was no love, nor pity for him; nor even contempt, but
something offensive, resembling curiosity, but more heartless than
curiosity. It was the curiosity of a vivisectionist, the curiosity he
exhibits when dissecting a live rabbit, or that of a naturalist when he
sticks his pin through a rare beetle, and looks on at its contortions.
He even now interested her--but only as something primitive, original:
his sharp transitions from rudeness to tenderness, the strangeness
of the declaration, the sudden fits of ferocious rage only to humble
himself before her and to weep a moment later--all this was very
interesting.
But Kostovsky’s mind was suddenly illuminated, as if by lightning: he
understood all at once the real relation of Julia toward him, and felt
that he had received a deadly wound at her hands, that she was only
interested in him, but she had never loved him, could not love him;
that she was a being from a world other than his--that he was a total
stranger to her. The words died away in his heart. He grew silent,
caught his hat, and without another glance at Julia rushed out of the
room and the hotel.
Kostovsky found himself suddenly in a dirty dramshop, where his steps
had almost unconsciously led him. He had not drunk for a long time,
but now he felt a terrible necessity for the dramshop, the noise, the
clinking of the glasses, and the smell of bad vodka.
He sat in a corner of the dramshop, alone, at a small table. Before him
stood a large bottle of vodka and the noxious side-dishes peculiar to
such resorts. The dirty table-cloth was stained with vodka and beer,
and the kerosene hanging-lamp dimly lighted the room, filled with tipsy
people. They were all bawling, drinking, and clinking their glasses;
the pale-faced waiters ran around, serving the drinks, and in the
adjoining room cracked the billiard-balls, and some one of the players,
whenever he hit the ball, sang out in a merry tenor voice a popular
song: “Wherever I go, or stroll, I see only Ju-li-a, only Ju-li-a.”
“Oh, the devil!” muttered Kostovsky, pouring out the tenth glass,
and gloomily draining it. He was irritated because even here in the
dramshop “she” was persecuting him. He had decided to “forget” her for
evermore: he hated and despised her, and did not wish to remember her
at all.
The dramshop enveloped him in its sounds and smells, and eased his
suffering with its well-known coloring of something intimate, free,
something he had lived through in the past.
But, little by little, his thoughts withdrew from the dramshop, and
“she” appeared once more, and would no longer leave him.
She was now in the costume of a “mermaid,” with the body of a fish
covered with silver scales, radiant under the many colored rays of the
reflector, seductively beautiful. She lured him after her with her
enticing smile, and swam away far, far into the boundless sea. And the
man in love with a mermaid felt that he was perishing, that he would
never more return to his former carelessness, power, and strength of
soul. And he recollected his former life before he knew the mermaid and
her kisses. True, he had caroused then, but that was not drunkenness,
it was dare-deviltry, his power was seeking a free outlet. His heart
was athirst for dash and merriment. So, like the legendary fisherman,
he had found in his net a mermaid. He lifted her in his arms, kissed
and caressed her, and--good-by to carefree life! The man was ruined by
the mermaid!
“Oh, devil!” Kostovsky roared, draining his glass, and thinking thereby
to drive off the troublesome thoughts; but “she” continued to torture
him pitilessly, appearing before him every moment in another costume,
now as a fairy, a shepherdess, and again as a mermaid, or she swam
close to him in a wide house-gown, and her thick, black curls fell over
her forehead and upon her full, pink cheeks. And her whole figure was
as if flooded by radiant, poetic rays.
“And when with friends I drain the heady cup, I see before me all the
while Julia, Julia,” came from the billiard-room the merry, tenor
voice. Gradually the dramshop filled with a mist, through which the
lights burned very low, and the noise of the revelers reached but
indistinctly and seemed far off, resembling far-away sea-breakers. The
dramshop filled with sea-waves, which rose and fell. And from the waves
swam out a mermaid who was laughingly luring Kostovsky to her.
For a moment he lifted his head, and again saw before him the bottle,
poured out another glass, and drained it; the mist became denser,
rolled before his eyes. But he still saw, rising amidst the wine-vapors
high over the bottle, her poetic, sweet image.
* * * * *
When Kostovsky was at last found again after a search of several days
in the different dramshops of the city, and brought to his senses, the
opera, with its “sea-bottom” and mermaids, was again produced.
Now Kostovsky once more looked his old self: the unkempt, carelessly
dressed scene-painter was even more gloomy than before; his locks
bristled and his mustaches stood on end worse than ever.
He stood gloomily on his elevation behind the scenes, lighting up the
mermaids with the rays from his reflector. His soul was filled with
cold and gloom and obduracy. Now he himself kept aloof from everybody,
hated the whole troupe, and lived alone.
And the “mermaids” swam over the “sea-bottom.”
But it was no longer the former radiant, poetic light which shone upon
them; the light which the decorator threw upon them now was a sad, pale
light, and under its rays they seemed inanimate, sickly, and half-dead.
But when Julia appeared--swimming as formerly lower than the
rest--sinister, dark-blue rays came pouring upon her, and she looked
more like a fury than a mermaid. Her face was blue, horrible, with
black lips and black cavities instead of eyes, and the slippery
fish-body was as if covered with a loathsome slime.
A mutter of disgust ran through the theatre.
And the decorator also lit up with the same light the “sea-bottom”
with all its monsters; and like a symbol of nightmare and sadness the
green-eyed devil-fish came out of the darkness, and the noxious medusas
began to move around.
The blue body of Julia seemed to swim in this loathsome mass, and at
last blended with it into one living, monstrous, deformed creature.
The scene-painter slowly turned the glasses of the reflector, gazed
upon the work of the light he had created, and it seemed to him that
he had destroyed forever the former charm of the woman--that she whom
he had loved had never been beautiful; and it seemed to him that now
only he saw her in her real light, and that she only became divinely
beautiful when lighted by the bright rays of his love.