Fifty-Two Stories

“Devil knows! You say: talent? genius? originality? Not at all, my dear sir…Parallel with me people lived and pursued their careers who, compared to me, were empty, worthless, and even trashy. They worked a thousand times less than I did, didn’t turn inside out, didn’t sparkle with talent or strive for fame, but look at them! Their names turn up in the newspapers and in conversations all the time! If you’re not tired of listening, I’ll clarify with an example. Several years ago I built a bridge in the town of K. I must tell you that this shabby K. was a terribly boring town. If it hadn’t been for women and cards, I probably would have gone out of my mind. Well, sir, it’s all long past: out of boredom there I took up with a little singer. Devil knows why, everybody went into raptures over this little singer, but in my view—how shall I put it to you?—she was an ordinary, commonplace little type, like many others. An empty, capricious, greedy girl, and a fool besides. She ate a lot, drank a lot, slept till five in the afternoon—and nothing more, it seems. She was considered a cocotte—that was her profession—and when they wanted to refer to her more literarily, they called her an actress and singer. I used to be an inveterate theatergoer, and therefore this fraudulent toying with the title of actress outraged me terribly! My little singer didn’t have the least right to be called an actress or even a singer. This was a being totally devoid of talent, devoid of feeling, one might even say pathetic. To my understanding, her singing was disgusting, and the whole charm of her ‘art’ was that she kicked up her leg when necessary and was not embarrassed when someone came into her dressing room. She usually chose translated vaudevilles, with songs, the sort in which she could show off in a tightly fitting male costume. In a word—pfui! Now, sir, I ask for your attention. I remember as if it were today, a solemn ceremony was held for the opening of the newly built bridge to traffic. There was a prayer service, speeches, telegrams, and all the rest. I, you know, was hovering around this child of mine, and kept worrying that my heart would burst from authorial excitement. It’s all long past, there’s no need to play modest, so I’ll tell you that my bridge turned out to be magnificent! Not a bridge, but a picture, simply splendid! Just try not being excited when the whole town comes to the opening. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘now the public will stare all eyes at me. Where can I hide?’ But, my dear sir, I worried over nothing—alas! Apart from the officials, no one paid the slightest attention to me. The crowd of them stood on the bank, gazing at the bridge like sheep, and not caring at all about the one who built it. And, devil take them, from that time on, by the way, I began to hate this most esteemed public of ours. But to go on. Suddenly the public stirred: psst, psst, psst…Faces smiled, shoulders moved. ‘They must have spotted me,’ I thought. Oh, yes, fat chance! I look: my little singer is making her way through the crowd, with a bunch of wags behind her; the eyes of the crowd hasten to follow the whole procession. A thousand-voiced whispering began: ‘It’s So-and-So…Lovely! Enchanting!’ It was then that they noticed me…Two milksops—must have been local amateurs of the scenic art—looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: ‘That’s her lover!’ How do you like that? And some sort of runty figure in a top hat, with a long-unshaven mug, shuffled beside me for a long time, then turned to me with these words:

“ ‘Do you know the lady who’s walking on the other bank? It’s So-and-So…Her voice is beneath criticism, but she masters it to perfection!…”

“ ‘Might you tell me,’ I asked the runty figure, ‘who built this bridge?’

“ ‘I really don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Some engineer.’

“ ‘And who,’ I asked, ‘built the cathedral in your K.?’

“ ‘I can’t tell you that either.’

“Then I asked who in K. is considered the best pedagogue, who the best architect, and to all my questions the runty figure professed ignorance.

“ ‘And tell me, please,’ I asked in conclusion, ‘who does this singer live with?’

“ ‘With some engineer named Krikunov.’