The well-formed world you see but vaguely;
A fruitless ardor wears you out;
Some paltry matter constantly
Lures you and beckons you about.
A genius should strive toward the heavens,
To the true poet it belongs
To choose himself the purest leaven
As matter for inspired songs.”
—Why is it that wind whirls and scatters
Leaves and dust across the heath,
While a ship in unmoving waters
Languishes, longing for its breath?
Why from the peaks, past lofty towers,
Does the great eagle, for all his powers,
Fly down to a withered stump? Ask him.
Why does young Desdemona trim
Her love for a blackamoor’s delight,
As the moon loves the dark of night?
Because law has no hold upon
Eagle, or wind, or a maiden’s heart.
Such is the poet: like Aquilon
He takes what he fancies for his part,
Then eagle-like he flies away,
And asking no one, he aspires,
Like Desdemona in her day,
To the idol of his heart’s desires.
The Italian fell silent…Charsky said nothing, amazed and moved.
“Well, so?” asked the improvisator.
Charsky seized his hand and pressed it hard.
“So?” asked the improvisator. “How was it?”
“Astonishing,” the poet replied. “Can it be? Another man’s thought barely grazed your hearing and it’s already your own, as if you had nurtured it, cherished it, developed it all the while. So neither toil, nor coldness, nor that restlessness that precedes inspiration exist for you?…Astonishing, astonishing!…”
The improvisator replied:
“Every talent is inexplicable. How is it that a sculptor sees the hidden Jupiter in a block of Carrara marble and brings him to light by smashing his casing with a chisel and hammer? Why does a thought emerge from a poet’s head already armed with four rhymes, measured out in regular harmonious feet? So no one except the improvisator himself can understand this quickness of impressions, this close connection between his own inspiration and another’s external will—it would be futile for me to try to explain it myself. However…we must think about my first night. What do you say? What price should we put on a ticket, so that it’s not too hard on the public and I still don’t come out the loser? They say Signora Catalani4 took twenty-five roubles? A decent price…”
It was unpleasant for Charsky to fall suddenly from the heights of poetry under a clerk’s counter; but he understood worldly necessity very well and entered into the Italian’s mercantile calculations. The Italian on this occasion displayed such savage greed, such simple-hearted love of gain, that Charsky found him repulsive and hastened to leave so as not to lose all the feeling of admiration that the brilliant improvisator had aroused in him. The preoccupied Italian did not notice this change and accompanied him through the corridor and down the stairs with deep bows and assurances of eternal gratitude.
CHAPTER THREE
Price of ticket
POSTER
Princess * * *’s reception room was placed at the improvisator’s disposal. A stage was set up; chairs were arranged in twelve rows. On the appointed day, at seven o’clock in the evening, the lamps were lit; a long-nosed old woman in a gray hat with broken feathers and with rings on all her fingers sat at a little table by the door, selling and taking tickets. Gendarmes stood by the entrance. The public began to gather. Charsky was one of the first to arrive. He was very concerned about the success of the performance and wanted to see the improvisator, to find out whether he was pleased with everything. He found the Italian in a little side room, glancing impatiently at his watch. The Italian was dressed theatrically; he was in black from head to foot; the lace collar of his shirt was open; the strange whiteness of his bare neck contrasted sharply with his thick black beard; locks of hair hung down over his forehead and eyebrows. Charsky disliked all this very much, finding it unpleasant to see a poet dressed like an itinerant mountebank. After a brief conversation, he went back to the reception room, which was filling up more and more.
Soon all the rows of chairs were occupied by glittering ladies; the men stood in a tight frame by the stage, along the walls, and behind the last chairs. Musicians with their music stands occupied both sides of the stage. In the middle a porcelain vase stood on a table. The public was numerous. Everyone impatiently awaited the start; finally, at half past seven, the musicians began to stir, readied their bows, and struck up the overture to
