Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings

  The pasha who had been in command at Jassy found out about this and, in accordance with the terms of the peace treaty, requested the extradition of the bandit by the Russian authorities.

  The police launched a search. They discovered that Kirdzhali was in fact in Kishinev.9 They caught him one evening in the house of a fugitive monk while he was eating his supper in the dark with seven comrades.

  Kirdzhali was placed under armed guard. He made no attempt to conceal the truth and confessed that he was Kirdzhali. ‘But,’ he added, ‘since crossing the Prut I have not touched the tiniest bit of anyone’s property, nor have I given offence to the lowliest gipsy. To the Turks, Moldavians and Wallachians I am of course a brigand, but to the Russians I am a guest. When Safyanos had fired all of his grape-shot and came to collect for his last ammunition, buttons, nails,watch-chains and yataghan knobs from the wounded, I gave him twenty beshlyks10 and so was left without any money. God knows that I, Kirdzhali, have been living on charity! So why do the Russians now deliver me to my enemies?’ After this Kirdzhali fell silent and calmly waited for his fate to be decided.

  He did not have to wait long. The authorities, who were not obliged to look on brigands from a romantic point of view and who were convinced of the justice of the pasha’s demands, ordered Kirdzhali to be sent to Jassy.

  A man of intellect and feeling,11 at that time a young, obscure civil servant who now occupies an important position, vividly described his departure to me.

  At the prison gates stood a karutsa… Perhaps you do not know what a karutsa is. It is a low, wicker carriage to which, until not long ago, six or eight wretched nags were usually harnessed. A moustached Moldavian in a sheepskin cap, sitting astride one of them, would constantly shout and crack his whip, and his nags would run along at quite a respectable trot. If one of them should happen to tire he would unharness it with terrible curses and abandon it on the road without any concern for its fate. On the return journey he was sure to find it in exactly the same place, quietly grazing on the green steppe. It was quite common for travellers who had departed from one posting-stage with eight horses to arrive at the next with only a pair. This was the case fifteen years ago. Nowadays in Russianized Bessarabia they have adopted the Russian-style harness and the Russian cart.

  Such a karutsa was standing at the prison gate in 1821, on one of the last days of September. Jewesses, slovenly dressed and shuffling along in their slippers, Arnouts in ragged, picturesque costumes, shapely Moldavian women with black-eyed children in their arms, surrounded the karutsa. The men remained silent, the women were in a fever of expectation.

  The gates opened and several police officials came out into the street; they were followed by two soldiers leading the fettered Kirdzhali.

  He seemed about thirty years of age. The features of his swarthy face were regular and severe. He was tall, broad-shouldered and gave the impression of remarkable physical strength. A brightly coloured Turban, worn slantwise, covered the side of his head; a wide sash girded his slim waist; a dolman12 of thick blue cloth, a loose-fitting knee-length shirt and fine soft shoes completed his costume. His expression was calm and proud.

  One of the officials, a red-faced old man in a faded uniform, from which dangled three buttons, pinched with his tin spectacles the purple knob that served him for a nose, unfolded a piece of paper and started reading in Moldavian, with a nasal twang. Now and then he haughtily glanced at the fettered Kirdzhali, to whom the document apparently referred. Kirdzhali listened to him attentively.

  The official finished reading, folded the piece of paper and shouted threateningly at the people, ordering them to make way and the karutsa to be brought up. Then Kirdzhali turned to him and spoke a few words of Moldavian; his voice trembled, his expression changed; he burst into tears and fell at the feet of the police official, his fetters rattling. The official recoiled in fright. The soldiers were about to set Kirdzhali back on his feet, but he stood up on his own, gathered up his fetters, stepped into the karutsa and cried, ‘Let’s go!’ A gendarme seated himself beside him, the Moldavian cracked his whip and the karutsa rolled away.

  ‘What did Kirdzhali say to you?’ the young civil servant asked the police official.

  ‘He asked me,’ replied the police official, smiling, ‘to look after his wife and child who live not far from Kiliya in a Bulgarian village. He’s afraid they might suffer because of him. These people are so stupid!’

  The young civil servant’s story affected me deeply. I felt sorry for poor Kirdzhali. For a long time I heard nothing about his fate. Several years later I happened to meet that young civil servant again. We started talking about the past.

  ‘What about your friend Kirdzhali?’ I asked. ‘Do you know what became of him?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he replied and told me the following story.

  After Kirdzhali was taken to Jassy he was brought before the pasha, who condemned him to be impaled. The execution was postponed until some holiday. Meanwhile he was kept in prison.

  The prisoner was guarded by seven Turks (simple people and just as much brigands at heart as Kirdzhali); they respected him and, with that avidity typical of all Orientals, listened to his strange stories.

  A close link was forged between guards and prisoner. One day Kirdzhali told them,

  ‘Brothers! My hour is near. No one can escape his fate. I shall soon be parting from you. I should like to leave you something to remember me by.’

  The Turks pricked up their ears.

  ‘Three years ago,’ continued Kirdzhali, ‘when I was plundering with the late Mikhaylaki, we buried in the steppe, not far from Jassy, a kettle filled with gold coins. Now, it’s clear that neither myself nor he will ever take possession of that kettle. So be it: take it for yourselves and share it like good friends.’

  At this the Turks almost went out of their minds. How could they find that secret spot they wondered. They thought long and hard, and at length decided that Kirdzhali himself should lead them to it.

  Night fell. The Turks removed the fetters from the prisoner’s feet, bound his hands with a rope and left the town for the steppe with him.

  Kirdzhali led them, going from mound to mound in the same direction. They walked for a long time. Finally Kirdzhali stopped near a large stone, measured twenty paces towards the south, stamped and said, ‘Here.’

  The Turks organized themselves. Four of them drew their yataghans and began digging, while three remained on guard. Kirdzhali sat on the stone and watched them work.

  ‘Well? How much longer?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t you reached it yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ the Turks replied, and they worked so hard that the sweat rolled off them in great drops.

  Kirdzhali began to show signs of impatience.

  ‘What a crowd!’ he said. ‘Don’t even know how to dig properly. I would have finished the whole job in a couple of minutes. Untie my hands and give me a yataghan.’

  The Turks pondered for a while and started conferring.

  ‘All right!’ they decided. ‘Let’s untie his hands and give him a yataghan. What harm is there in that? He is one – and there are seven of us.’

  And the Turks untied his hands and gave him a yataghan.

  At last Kirdzhali was free and armed. What must he have felt then!… He started digging swiftly, and the guards helped him… Suddenly he plunged his yataghan into one of them and, leaving the blade in his chest, snatched two pistols from behind his sash.

  The remaining six, seeing Kirdzhali armed with two pistols, fled. These days Kirdzhali is carrying on his plundering near Jassy. Not long ago he wrote to the Governor, demanding five thousand levs13 from him and threatening, should the money not be paid, to set fire to Jassy and reach the Governor himself. The five thousand levs were brought to him.

  That is Kirdzhali for you!

  EGYPTIAN NIGHTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  – Quel est cet homme?

  – Ha c’est un bien grand talent, il fait de sa voi
x tout ce qu’il veut.

  – Il devrait bien, madame, s’en faire une culotte.1

  Charsky was a native of St Petersburg. He was not yet thirty years of age; he was not married; he was not burdened with government service. His late uncle, who had been a vice-governor in the good old days, had left him quite a substantial estate. His life could have been most agreeable, but he had the misfortune to write and publish verses. In journals he was called a poet, but in servants’ quarters a story-teller.

  Despite the great privileges enjoyed by poets (it must be confessed that apart from the right to use the accusative instead of the genitive case and other kinds of so-called poetic licence, we are not aware of Russian poets enjoying any particular privileges), despite the manifold privileges they enjoy, these people are subjected to a great many disadvantages and much unpleasantness. The bitterest misfortune of all, the most intolerable for a poet, is the appellation with which he is branded and which he can never shake off. The public views him as their own property; in their opinion he was born for their benefit and pleasure. Should he return from the country, the first person he meets will ask: Haven’t you brought us anything new? Should he come to reflect upon his chaotic affairs or the illness of someone dear to him, at once a vulgar smile will accompany the trite exclamation: No doubt he’s writing something! Should he fall in love, his fair lady will buy an album in the English shop and then expect an elegy from him. Should he approach someone he hardly knows in order to discuss an important business matter, that person will summon his son and compel him to read the verses of so-and-so; and then the boy will regale the poet with a reading of his own verses, in mutilated form. And these are the flowers of his muse! What then must the disasters be? Charsky acknowledged that the compliments, the questions, the albums and little boys irritated him to such an extent that he was constantly forced to restrain himself from committing some act of rudeness.

  Charsky made every possible attempt to rid himself of that insufferable appellation. He shunned the company of his literary brethren and preferred men of the world to them, even the most empty-headed. His conversation was extremely trite and never touched upon literature. In his dress he always followed the very latest fashions with the shyness and superstition of a young Muscovite arriving in St Petersburg for the first time in his life. Nothing in his study, which was furnished like a lady’s bedroom, suggested a writer; there were no piles of books on or under the tables; the sofa was not stained with ink; there was no sign of that disorder which reveals the presence of the Muse and the absence of broom and brush. Charsky was in despair if any of his society friends caught him with pen in hand. It is difficult to comprehend to what trifles a man otherwise endowed with talent and soul can stoop. At one time he would pretend to be a passionate horse-lover, at another a desperate gambler, then the most refined gourmet, even though he was quite unable to distinguish between horses of mountain or Arabian breed, could never remember what were trumps and secretly preferred a baked potato to all the many inventions of French cuisine. He led the most distracted existence; he was to be seen at every ball, he overate at every diplomatic dinner, and at every soirée he was as inevitable as Rezanov2 ice-cream.

  However, he was a poet and his passion was invincible: when the ‘silly fit’ (thus he termed his inspiration) came upon him, Charsky would lock himself in his study and write from morning until late at night. To his genuine friends he admitted that only then did he know real happiness. The rest of the time he passed strolling about, standing on ceremony, dissembling and constantly hearing the famous question: ‘Haven’t you written anything new?’

  One morning Charsky experienced that happy spiritual state when dreams take shape in one’s mind and one finds vivid, unexpected words to embody one’s visions; when verses easily flow from the pen and sonorous rhymes rush to meet harmonious thoughts. Charsky was plunged heart and soul in sweet oblivion… neither the world, nor the world’s opinion, nor his own personal fancies existed for him. He was writing poetry.

  Suddenly his study door creaked and an unfamiliar head appeared. Charsky started and frowned.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he asked irritably, inwardly cursing his servants who were never in the hall when they were needed.

  A stranger entered.

  He was tall, thin and seemed about thirty. The features of his swarthy face were most striking: a pale, high forehead shadowed by black locks of hair, sparkling eyes, an aquiline nose and thick beard surrounding his sunken, brownish yellow cheeks showed that he was a foreigner. He was wearing a black frock-coat that was already turning white at the seams; summer trousers (although the season was late autumn); under his threadbare black cravat, upon a yellowish shirt-front, sparkled an artificial diamond; his shaggy hat, it seemed, had seen both good and bad weather. If you were to meet this man in a forest you would take him for a robber; in society, for a political conspirator; in someone’s hall, for a charlatan trading in elixirs and arsenic.

  ‘What do you want?’ Charsky asked him in French.

  ‘Signor,’ replied the stranger, bowing low. ‘Lei voglia perdonarmi se…’3

  Charsky did not offer him a chair and he himself rose to his feet; the conversation continued in Italian.

  ‘I am a Neapolitan artist,’ said the stranger. ‘Circumstances have compelled me to leave my native country. I have come to Russia, trusting in my talent.’

  Charsky thought that the Neapolitan was intending to give some violoncello concerts and was going from house to house to sell tickets. He was about to give him twenty-five roubles to get rid of him as quickly as possible when the stranger added, ‘I hope, Signor, that you will render friendly assistance to your confrère and introduce me to those houses where you have entrée.’

  It would have been impossible to deal Charsky’s vanity a more painful blow. He glanced arrogantly at the man who had called him confrère.

  ‘Permit me to ask who you are and for whom you take me?’ he asked, controlling his indignation with difficulty.

  The Neapolitan observed his annoyance.

  ‘Signor,’ he replied, stammering, ‘ho creduto… ho sentito… la vostra Eccelenza mi perdonera…’4

  ‘What do you want?’ Charsky coldly repeated.

  ‘I have heard much about your amazing talent. I am convinced that the gentlemen here consider it an honour to give every possible protection to such an excellent poet,’ replied the Italian, ‘and this is why I have dared present myself to you…’

  ‘You are mistaken, Signor,’ Charsky interrupted. ‘The calling of poet does not exist here. Our poets do not need the protection of gentlemen. Our poets are gentlemen themselves, and if our Maecenases5 (devil take them!) do not realize that, then so much the worse for them. With us there are no abbés in rags whom a musician would take off the streets to compose a libretto for him. With us, poets do not tramp from house to house begging for assistance. Moreover, they were probably joking when they told you I was a great poet. True, at one time I did write some wretched epigrams, but thank God I have nothing in common with our versifying friends, nor do I wish to.’

  The poor Italian was confused. He looked around. The paintings, marble statues, bronzes, expensive bric-à-brac displayed on Gothic what-nots amazed him. He understood that between the arrogant dandy standing before him in a tufted brocade skull-cap, gold-coloured Chinese dressing-gown and Turkish sash, and himself, a poor, wandering artist with threadbare cravat and shabby frock-coat, there was nothing in common. He muttered some incoherent apologies, bowed and prepared to leave. His pathetic appearance touched Charsky who, in spite of some faults in his character, had a kind and noble heart. He was ashamed that his vanity made him so irritable.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked the Italian. ‘Wait… I should have renounced any claim to an undeserved title and confessed that I am not a poet. Let us talk about your affairs now. I am ready to be of service to you in any way I can. Are you a musician?’

  ‘No, Eccelenza!’ replied the Italian.
‘I’m a poor improvvisatore.’6

  ‘An improvvisatore!’ cried Charsky, conscious of the cruel manner in which he had treated him. ‘Why did you not tell me before that you are an improvvisatore?’ And Charsky pressed his hand with a feeling of genuine regret.

  The Italian was encouraged by his friendly look. He started speaking naïvely of his plans. His appearance was not deceptive: he was in need of money; he hoped that somehow in Russia he would put his domestic affairs in order. Charsky listened to him attentively.

  ‘I hope,’ he told the poor artist, ‘that you will be successful: society here has never yet heard an improvvisatore. Curiosity will be aroused. True, the Italian language is not in use here and you will not be understood. But that does not matter. The main thing is that you are in fashion.’

  ‘But if none of you understands the Italian language,’ said the improvvisatore pensively, ‘who will come and listen to me?’

  ‘They will come – have no fear: some of them out of curiosity, others to while away an evening, others to show that they understand Italian. I repeat, all you need is to be in fashion; and you certainly will be – you have my word on it.’

  Charsky cordially bade farewell to the improvvisatore, having taken his address, and that same evening went off to canvass on his behalf.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I am the tsar, I am a slave, I am a worm, I am God.

  Derzhavin1

  Next day, in the dark and dirty corridor of an inn, Charsky sought out room number 35. He stopped at the door and knocked. The Italian whom he had met the previous day opened it.

  ‘Victory!’ Charsky told him. ‘It’s all arranged. Princess*** is offering you her salon. At a reception yesterday I managed to enlist half of St Petersburg; have the tickets and announcements printed. I can guarantee you if not a triumph, at least a profit…’