Lieutenant Pirogov was always very courteous in conversations of this sort.
"I'll call my husband right now," the German lady cried and left, and a few minutes later Pirogov saw Schiller come out with sleepy eyes, barely recovered from yesterday's drinking. Looking at the officer, he recalled as in a vague dream what had happened yesterday. He did not remember how it had been, but felt that he had done something stupid, and therefore he received the officer with a very stern air.
"I can't take less than fifteen roubles for spurs," he said, wishing to get rid of Pirogov, because as an honorable German he was very ashamed to look at anyone who had seen him in an improper position. Schiller liked to drink without any witnesses, with two or three friends, and at such times even locked himself away from his workmen.
"Why so much?" Pirogov asked benignly.
"German workmanship," Schiller uttered coolly, stroking his chin. "A Russian would make them for two roubles."
"Very well, to prove that I like you and want to become acquainted with you, I'll pay the fifteen roubles."
Schiller stood pondering for a moment: being an honest German, he felt a bit ashamed. Wishing to talk him out of the order, he announced that it would be two weeks before he could make them. But Pirogov, without any objection, declared his consent.
The German lapsed into thought and stood pondering how to do his work better, so that it would actually be worth fifteen roubles. At that moment, the blonde came into the workshop and began rummaging around on the table, which was all covered with coffeepots. The lieutenant took advantage of Schiller's thoughtful-ness, got close to her, and pressed her arm, which was bare up to the shoulder. Schiller did not like that at all.
"Mein' Frau!" he cried.
" Was wollen Sie dock?" answered the blonde.
"Geh'n Sie to the kitchen!"
The blonde withdrew.
"In two weeks, then?" said Pirogov.
"Yes, in two weeks," Schiller replied ponderingly. "I have a lot of work now."
"Good-bye! I'll be back."
"Good-bye," answered Schiller, locking the door behind him.
Lieutenant Pirogov decided not to abandon his quest, even though the German lady had obviously rebuffed him. He did not understand how he could be resisted, the less so as his courtesy and brilliant rank gave him full right to attention. It must be said, however, that Schiller's wife, for all her comeliness, was very stupid. Though stupidity constitutes a special charm in a pretty wife. I, at least, have known many husbands who are delighted with their wives' stupidity and see in it all the tokens of childlike innocence. Beauty works perfect miracles. All inner shortcomings in a beauty, instead of causing repugnance, become somehow extraordinarily attractive; vice itself breathes comeliness in them; but if it were to disappear, then a woman would have to be twenty times more intelligent than a man in order to inspire, if not love, at least respect. However, Schiller's wife, for all her stupidity, was always faithful to her duty, and therefore Pirogov was hard put to succeed in his bold enterprise; but pleasure is always combined with the overcoming of obstacles, and the blonde was becoming more and more interesting for him day by day. He began inquiring about the spurs quite frequently, so that Schiller finally got tired of it. He bent every effort towards quickly finishing the spurs he had begun; finally the spurs were ready.
"Ah, what excellent workmanship!" Lieutenant Pirogov exclaimed when he saw the spurs. "Lord, how well made! Our general doesn't have such spurs."
A sense of self-satisfaction spread all through Schiller's soul. His eyes acquired a very cheerful look, and he was completely reconciled with Pirogov. "The Russian officer is an intelligent man," he thought to himself.
"So, then, you can also make a sheath, for instance, for a dagger or something else?"
"Oh, very much so," Schiller said with a smile.
"Then make me a sheath for a dagger. I'll bring it. I have a very good Turkish dagger, but I'd like to make a different sheath for it."
Schiller was as if hit by a bomb. His brows suddenly knitted. "There you go!" he thought, denouncing himself inwardly for having called down more work on himself. He considered it dishonest to refuse now; besides, the Russian officer had praised his work. Shaking his head a little, he gave his consent; but the kiss Pirogov brazenly planted right on the lips of the pretty blonde threw him into total perplexity.
I consider it not superfluous to acquaint the reader a little more closely with Schiller. Schiller was a perfect German in the full sense of this whole word. From the age of twenty, that happy time when a Russian lives by hit-or-miss, Schiller had already measured out his entire life, and on no account would he make any exceptions. He had resolved to get up at seven, to have dinner at two, to be precise in all things, and to get drunk every Sunday. He had resolved to put together a capital of fifty thousand in ten years, and this was as sure and irresistible as fate, because a clerk will sooner forget to leave his card with his superior's doorman 12 than a German will decide to go back on his word. On no account would he increase his expenses, and if the price of potatoes went up too much compared to usual, he did not spend a kopeck more but merely decreased the quantity, and though he occasionally went a bit hungry, he would nevertheless get used to it. His accuracy went so far as the decision to kiss his wife not more than twice a day, and to avoid somehow kissing her an extra time, he never put more than one teaspoon of pepper in his soup; on Sundays, however, this rule was not fulfilled so strictly, because Schiller then drank two bottles of beer and one bottle of caraway-seed vodka, which he nevertheless always denounced. He drank not at all like an Englishman, who bolts his door right after dinner and gets potted by himself. On the contrary, being a German, he always drank inspiredly, either with the cobbler Hoffmann or with the cabinetmaker Kuntz, also a German and a big drinker. Such was the character of the noble Schiller, who was finally put into an extremely difficult position. Though he was phlegmatic and a German, Piro- gov's behavior still aroused something like jealousy in him. He racked his brain and could not figure out how to get rid of this Russian officer. Meanwhile, Pirogov, as he was smoking his pipe in a circle of his comrades-because Providence has so arranged it that where there are officers there are also pipes-smoking his pipe in a circle of his comrades, hinted significantly and with a pleasant smile at a little intrigue with a pretty German lady with whom, in his words, he was already on quite close terms and whom in reality he had all but lost hope of attracting to himself.
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.