in the habit of locking his work room: then it began to seem to him that both he and the room and the objects in that room were instantly transformed from objects of the real world into the intelligible symbols of purely logical constructions; the space of the room blended with his body, which had lost sensitivity, into a general chaos of existence, called by him the ‘universe’; and Nikolai Apollonovich’s consciousness, separating itself from his body, united itself directly with the electric lamp on his writing desk, which he called ‘the sun of consciousness’.Having locked himself in and reviewing the tenets of his system which was being, step by step, reduced to a unity, he felt his body being poured into the ‘universe’, that is, into the room; while the head of this ‘body’ was displaced into the electric lamp’s pot-bellied lightbulb under the coquettish shade.
And having displaced himself thus, Nikolai Apollonovich became a truly creative being.
This was why he liked to lock himself in: the voice, rustle or step of an intruder turning the ‘universe’ into a room, and ‘consciousness’ into a lamp, shattered Nikolai Apollonovich’s whimsical sequence of thought.
So it was now.
‘What is it?
‘I can’t hear …’
But from the distance of space the lackey’s voice responded:
‘A man has arrived out there.’
At this point Nikolai Apollonovich’s face suddenly took on a pleased expression:
‘Ah, this will be someone from the costumier’s: the costumier has brought me my costume …’
What costumier?
Nikolai Apollonovich, gathering up the skirts of his robe, strodeoff in the direction of the exit; by the staircase balustrade Nikolai Apollonovich leaned over and shouted:
‘Is that you?…
‘The costumier?
‘Are you from the costumier?
‘Has the costumier sent me the costume?’
And again we repeat to ourselves: what costumier?
In Nikolai Apollonovich’s room a cardboard box appeared; Nikolai Apollonovich locked the door; fussily he cut the string; and he raised the lid; further, pulled out of the box: first a small mask with a black lace beard, and after the mask Nikolai Apollonovich pulled out a sumptuous bright red domino cape with folds that rustled.
Soon he stood before the mirror – all of satin, all of red, having raised the miniature mask over his face; the black lace of the beard, turning away, fell on to his shoulders, forming to right and left a whimsical, fantastical wing; and from the black lace of the wings from the semi-twilight of the room in the mirror looked at him tormentingly, strangely – it, the same: the face, – his, his own; you would have said that there in the mirror it was not Nikolai Apollonovich looking at himself, but an unknown, pale, languishing – demon of space.
After this masquerade Nikolai Apollonovich, with an exceedingly pleased look on his face, put back into the cardboard box first the red domino cape, and after it the small black mask.
A Wet Autumn
A wet autumn was flying over Petersburg; and cheerlessly did the September day glimmer.
In a greenish swarm shreds of clouds rushed by out there; they thickened into a yellowish smoke, pressing themselves against the roofs like a threat.The greenish swarm rose unceasingly above the irreparable distance of the Neva’s spaces; the dark watery depths beat at the boundaries with the steel of their scales; intothe greenish swarm stretched a spire … from the Petersburg Side.
Having described a funereal arc in the sky, a dark stripe of soot rose high from the funnels of steamboats; and fell like a tail into the Neva.
And the Neva seethed, and cried desperately there with the whistle of a small steamboat that had begun to hoot, smashed its shields of water and steel against the stone bridge-piers; and licked the granite, with an onslaught of cold Neva winds it tore away peaked caps, umbrellas, capes and service caps.And everywhere in the air hung a pale grey mould; and from there,
And having displaced himself thus, Nikolai Apollonovich became a truly creative being.
This was why he liked to lock himself in: the voice, rustle or step of an intruder turning the ‘universe’ into a room, and ‘consciousness’ into a lamp, shattered Nikolai Apollonovich’s whimsical sequence of thought.
So it was now.
‘What is it?
‘I can’t hear …’
But from the distance of space the lackey’s voice responded:
‘A man has arrived out there.’
At this point Nikolai Apollonovich’s face suddenly took on a pleased expression:
‘Ah, this will be someone from the costumier’s: the costumier has brought me my costume …’
What costumier?
Nikolai Apollonovich, gathering up the skirts of his robe, strodeoff in the direction of the exit; by the staircase balustrade Nikolai Apollonovich leaned over and shouted:
‘Is that you?…
‘The costumier?
‘Are you from the costumier?
‘Has the costumier sent me the costume?’
And again we repeat to ourselves: what costumier?
In Nikolai Apollonovich’s room a cardboard box appeared; Nikolai Apollonovich locked the door; fussily he cut the string; and he raised the lid; further, pulled out of the box: first a small mask with a black lace beard, and after the mask Nikolai Apollonovich pulled out a sumptuous bright red domino cape with folds that rustled.
Soon he stood before the mirror – all of satin, all of red, having raised the miniature mask over his face; the black lace of the beard, turning away, fell on to his shoulders, forming to right and left a whimsical, fantastical wing; and from the black lace of the wings from the semi-twilight of the room in the mirror looked at him tormentingly, strangely – it, the same: the face, – his, his own; you would have said that there in the mirror it was not Nikolai Apollonovich looking at himself, but an unknown, pale, languishing – demon of space.
After this masquerade Nikolai Apollonovich, with an exceedingly pleased look on his face, put back into the cardboard box first the red domino cape, and after it the small black mask.
A Wet Autumn
A wet autumn was flying over Petersburg; and cheerlessly did the September day glimmer.
In a greenish swarm shreds of clouds rushed by out there; they thickened into a yellowish smoke, pressing themselves against the roofs like a threat.The greenish swarm rose unceasingly above the irreparable distance of the Neva’s spaces; the dark watery depths beat at the boundaries with the steel of their scales; intothe greenish swarm stretched a spire … from the Petersburg Side.
Having described a funereal arc in the sky, a dark stripe of soot rose high from the funnels of steamboats; and fell like a tail into the Neva.
And the Neva seethed, and cried desperately there with the whistle of a small steamboat that had begun to hoot, smashed its shields of water and steel against the stone bridge-piers; and licked the granite, with an onslaught of cold Neva winds it tore away peaked caps, umbrellas, capes and service caps.And everywhere in the air hung a pale grey mould; and from there,
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