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Lucerne
From the Recollections of Prince Nekhliudof

 

By Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy

      First published in 1857 From the Complete Works Lyof N. Tolstoi, Emancipation Edition E. R. DuMont, Publisher, 1899

      Distributed by the Tolstoy Library http://www.tolstoy.org  

   

      

      July 20, 1857. 

      Yesterday evening I arrived at Lucerne, and put up at the best inn  there, the Schweitzerhof. Lucerne, the chief city of the canton, situated on  the shore of the Vierwaldstatter See, says Murray, is one of the most  romantic places of Switzerland: here cross three important highways, and it  is only an hours distance by steamboat to Mount Righi, from which is  obtained one of the most magnificent views in the world.?

      Whether that be true or no, other guides say the same thing, and  consequently at Lucerne there are throngs of travelers of all nationalities,  especially the English.

      The magnificent five-storied building of the Hotel Schweitzerhof is  situated on the quay, at the very edge of the lake, where in olden times there  used to be the crooked covered wooden bridge [Footnote: Hofbruck, torn  down in 1852.] with chapels on the corners and pictures on the roof. Now,  thanks to the tremendous inroad of Englishmen, with their necessities, their  tastes, and their money, they have torn down the old bridge, and in its place  erected a granite quay, straight as a stick. On the quay they have built  straight, quadrangular five-storied houses; in front of the houses they have  set out two rows of lindens and provided them with supports, and between  the lindens is the usual supply of green benches.

      This is the promenade; and here back and forth stroll the  Englishwomen in their Swiss straw hats, and the Englishmen in simple and  comfortable attire, and rejoice in their work. Possibly these quays and  houses and lindens and Englishmen would be excellent in their way  anywhere else, but here they seem discordant amid this strangely  magnificent, and at the same time indescribably harmonious and smiling  nature.

      As soon as I went up to my room, and opened the window facing the  lake, the beauty of the sheet of water, of the mountains, and of the sky, at the  first moment literally dazzled and overwhelmed me. I experienced an  inward unrest, and the necessity of expressing in some manner the feelings  that suddenly filled my soul to overflowing. I felt a desire to embrace,  powerfully to embrace, some one, to tickle him, or to pinch him; in short to  do to him and to myself something extraordinary.

      It was seven oclock in the evening. The rain had been falling all day,  but now it had cleared.

      The lake, iridescent as melted sulphur, and dotted with boats, which  left behind them vanishing trails, spread out before my windows smooth,  motionless as it were, between the variegated green shores. Farther away it  was contracted between two monstrous headlands, and, darkling, set itself  against and disappeared behind a confused pile of mountains, clouds, and  glaciers. In the foreground stretched a panorama of moist, fresh green  shores, with reeds, meadows, gardens, and villas. Farther away, the dark  green wooded heights, crowned with the ruins of feudal castles; in the  background, the rolling, pale lilac-colored vista of mountains, with fantastic  peaks built up of crags and pallid snow-capped summits. And everything  was bathed in a fresh, transparent azure atmosphere, and kindled by the  warm rays of the setting sun, bursting forth through the riven skies.

      Not on the lake or on the mountains or in the skies was there a single  completed line, a single unmixed color, a single moment of repose;  everywhere motion, irregularity, fantasy, endless conglomeration and variety  of shades and lines; and above all, a calm, a softness, a unity, and the  inevitability of beauty.

      And here amid this indeterminate, kaleidoscopic, unfettered  loveliness, before my very window, stretched stupidly, compelling the gaze,  the white line of the quay, the lindens with their supports, and the green  seats, - miserable, tasteless creations of human ingenuity, not subordinated,  like the distant villas and ruins, to the general harmony of the beautiful  scene, but on the contrary brutally opposed to it. .

      Constantly, though against my will, my eyes were attracted to that  horribly straight line of the quay; and mentally I should have liked to get rid  of it, to demolish it like a black spot which should disfigure the nose beneath  ones eye.

      But the quay with the sauntering Englishmen remained where it was,  and I involuntarily tried to find a point of view where it would be out of my  sight. I succeeded in finding such a view; and till dinner was ready I took  delight, alone by myself in this incomplete and therefore the more enjoyable  feeling of oppression that one experiences in the solitary contemplation of  natural beauty.

      About half-past seven I was called to dinner. Two long tables,  accommodating at least a hundred persons, were spread in the great,  magnificently decorated dining-room on the first floor. The silent gathering  of the guests lasted three minutes, - the rustle of womens gowns, the soft  steps, the softly spoken words addressed to the courtly and elegant waiters.  And all the places were occupied by ladies and gentlemen dressed elegantly,  even richly, and for the most part in perfect taste.

      As is apt to be the case in Switzerland, the majority of the guests were  English, and this gave the ruling characteristics of the common table: that is,  a strict decorum regarded as an obligation, a reserve founded not in pride but  in the absence of any necessity for social relationship, and finally a uniform  sense of satisfaction felt by each in the comfortable and agreeable  gratification of his wants.

      On all sides gleamed the whitest laces, the whitest collars, the whitest  teeth, - natural and artificial, - the whitest complexions and hands. But the  faces, many of which were very handsome, bore the expression merely of  individual prosperity, and absolute absence of interest in all that surrounded  them unless it bore directly on their own individual selves; and the white  hands, glittering with rings or protected by mitts, moved only for the  purpose of straightening collars, cutting meat, or filling wine-glasses; no  soul-felt emotion was betrayed in these actions.

      Occasionally members of some one family would exchange remarks  in subdued voices, about the excellence of such and such a dish or wine, or  about the beauty of the view from Mount Righi.

      Individual tourists, whether men or women, sat beside one another in  silence, and did not even seem to see one another. If it happened  occasionally that, out of this five-score human beings, two spoke to each  other, the topic of their conversation was certain to be the weather, or the  ascent of the Righi.

      Knives and forks scarcely rattled on the plates, so perfect was the  observance of propriety; and no one dared to convey peas and vegetables to  the mouth otherwise than on the fork. The waiters, involuntarily subdued by  the universal silence, asked in a whisper what wine you would be pleased to  order.

      Such dinners always depress me: I dislike them, and before they are  over I become blue. It always seems to me as if I had done something  wrong; just as when I was a boy I was set upon a chair in consequence of  some naughtiness and bidden ironically, Now rest a little while, my dear  young fellow. And all the time my young blood was pulsing through my  veins, and in the other room I could hear the merry shouts of my brothers.

      I used to try to rebel against this feeling of being choked down, which  I experienced at such dinners, but in vain. All these dead-and-alive faces  have an irresistible influence over me, and I myself become also as one  dead. I have no desires, I have no thoughts; I do not even observe.

      At first I attempted to enter into conversation with my neighbors; but I  got no response beyond the phrases which had probably been repeated in  that place a hundred thousand times, a hundred thousand times by the same  persons.

      And yet these people were by no means all stupid and feelingless; but  evidently many of them, though they seemed so dead, led self-centered lives,  just as I did, and in many cases far more complicated and interesting ones  than my own. Why, then, should they deprive themselves of one of the  greatest enjoyments of life, -- the enjoyment that comes from the intercourse  of man with man?

      How different it used to be in our pension at Paris, where twenty of  us, belonging to as many different nationalities, professions, and  individualities, met together at a common table, and, under the influence of  the Gallic sociability, found the keenest zest!

      There, immediately, from one end of the table to the other, the  conversation, sandwiched with witticisms and puns, though often in a  broken speech, became general. There every one, without being solicitous  for the proprieties, said whatever came into his head. There we had our own  philosopher, our own disputant, our own bel esprit, our own butt, -- all  common property.

      There, immediately after dinner, we would move the table to one side,  and, without paying too much attention to rhythm, take to dancing the polka  on the dusty carpet, and often keep it up till evening. There, though we were  rather flirtatious, and not overwise or dignified, still we were human beings.

      And the Spanish countess with romantic proclivities, and the Italian  abbate, who insisted on declaiming from the Divine Comedy after dinner,  and the American doctor who had the entre into the Tuileries, and the  young dramatic author with his long hair, and the pianist who, according to  her own account, had composed the best polka in existence, and the unhappy  widow who was a beauty, and wore three rings on every finger, -- all of us  enjoyed this society, which, though somewhat superficial, was human and  pleasant. And we each carried away from it hearty recollections of the  others, superficial or serious, as the case might be.

      But at these English table-dhote dinners, as I look at all these laces,  ribbons, jewels, pomaded locks, and silken gowns, I often think how many  living women would be happy, and would make others happy, with these  adornments.

      Strange to think how many friends and lovers  most fortunate friends  and lovers  are, perhaps, sitting side by side without knowing it! And God  knows why they never come to this knowledge, and never give each other  this happiness, which they might so easily give, and which they so long for.

      I began to feel depressed, as usual, after such a dinner; and, without  waiting for dessert, I sallied out in the most gloomy frame of mind for a  constitutional through the city. My melancholy frame of mind was not  relieved, but was rather confirmed, by the narrow, muddy streets without  lanterns, the shuttered shops, the encounters with drunken workmen, and  with women hastening after water, or in bonnets, glancing around them as  they glided down the alleys or along the walls.

      It was perfectly dark in the streets when I returned to the hotel without  casting a glance about me, or having an idea in my head. I hoped that sleep  would put an end to my melancholy. I experienced that horrible spiritual  chill, loneliness, and heaviness, which sometimes, without any reason, beset  those who are just arrived in any new place.

      Looking down at my feet, I walked along the quay to the  Schweitzerhof, when suddenly my ear was struck by the strains of a peculiar  but thoroughly agreeable and sweet music.

      These strains had an immediately enlivening effect on me. It was as if  a bright, cheerful light had poured into my soul. I felt contented, gay. My  slumbering attention was awakened again to all surrounding objects; and the  beauty of the night and the lake, to which, till then, I had been indifferent,  suddenly came over me with quickening force like something new.

      I involuntarily took in at a glance the dark sky with gray clouds  flecking its deep blue, now lighted by the rising moon, the glassy, dark green  lake, with its surface reflecting the lighted windows, and far away the snowy  mountains; and I heard the croaking of the frogs over on the Froschenburg  shore, and the dewy fresh call of the quail.

      Directly in front of me, in the spot whence the sounds of music had  first come, and which still especially attracted my attention, I saw, amid the  semi-darkness on the street, a throng of people standing in a semicircle, and  in front of the crowd, at a little distance, a small man in dark clothes.

      Behind the throng and the man, there stood out harmouniously against  the blue, ragged sky, gray and blue, the black tops of a few Lombardy  poplars in some garden, and, rising majestically on high, the two stern spires  that stand on the towers of the ancient cathedral.

      I drew nearer, and the strains became more distinct. At some distance  I could clearly distinguish the full accords of a guitar, sweetly swelling in  the evening air, and several voices, which, while taking turns with one  another, did not sing any definite theme, but gave suggestions of one in  places wherever the melody was most pronounced.

      The theme was in somewhat the nature of a mazurka, sweet and  graceful. The voices sounded now near at hand, now far distant; now a bass  was heard, now a tenor, now a falsetto such as the Tyrolese warblers are  wont to sing.

      It was not a song, but the graceful, masterly sketch of a song. I could  not comprehend what it was, but it was beautiful.

      Those voluptuous, soft chords of the guitar, that sweet, gentle melody,  that solitary figure of the man in black, amid the fantastic environment of the  dark lake, the gleaming moon, and the twin spires of the cathedral rising in  majestic silence, and the black tops of the poplars, -- all was strange and  perfectly beautiful, or at least seemed so to me.

      All the confused, arbitrary impressions of life suddenly became full of  meaning and beauty. It seemed to me as if a fresh fragrant flower had  sprung up in my soul. In place of the weariness, dullness, and indifference  toward everything in the world, which I had been feeling the moment before,  I experienced a necessity for love, a fullness of hope, and an unbounded  enjoyment of life.

      What does thou desire, what doest thou long for? an inner voice  seemed to say. Here it is. Thou art surrounded on all sides by beauty and  poetry. Breathe it in, in full, deep draughts, as long as thou hast strength.  Enjoy it to the full extent of thy capacity T is all thine, all blessed! .

      I drew nearer. The little man was, as it seemed, a traveling Tyrolese.  He stood before the windows of the hotel, one leg advanced, his head thrown  back; and, as he thrummed on the guitar, he sang his graceful song in all  those different voices.

      I immediately felt an affection for this man, and a gratefulness for the  change which he had brought about in me.

      The singer, as far as I was able to judge, was dressed in an old black  coat. He had short black hair, and he wore a civilians hat which was no  longer new. There was nothing artistic in his attire, but his clever and  youthfully gay motions and pose, together with his diminutive stature,  formed a pleasing and at the same time pathetic spectacle.

      On the steps, in the windows, and on the balconies of the brilliantly  lighted hotel, stood ladies handsomely decorated and attired, gentlemen with  polished collars, porters and lackeys in gold-embroidered liveries; in the  street, in the semicircle of the crowd, and farther along on the sidewalk,  among the lindens, were gathered groups of well-dressed waiters, cooks in  white caps and aprons, and young girls wandering about with arms about  each others waists.

      All, it seemed, were under the influence of the same feeling as I  myself experienced. All stood in silence around the singer, and listened  attentively. Silence reigned, except in the pauses of the song, when there  came from far away across the waters the regular click of a hammer, and  from the Froschenburg shore rang in fascinating, monotone the voices of the  frogs, interrupted by the mellow, monotonous call of the quail.

      The little man in the darkness, in the midst of the street, poured out his  heart like a nighingale, in couplet after couplet, song after song. Though I  had come close to him, his singing continued to give me greater and greater  gratification.

      His voice, which was of great power, was extremely pleasant and  tender; the taste and feeling for rhythm which he displayed in the control of  it were extraordinary, and proved that he had great natural gifts.

      After he sung each couplet, he invariably repeated the theme in  variation, and it was evident that all his graceful variations came to him at  the instant, spontaneously.

      Among the crowd, and above on the Schweitzerhof, and near by on  the boulevard, were heard frequent murmurs of approval, though generally  the most respectful silence reigned.

      The balconies and the windows kept filling more and more with  handsomely dressed men and women leaning on their elbows, and  picturesquely illuminated by the lights in the house.

      Promenaders came to a halt, and in the darkness on the quay stood  men and women in little groups. Near me, at some distance from the  common crowd, stood an aristocratic cook and lackey, smoking their cigars.  The cook was forcibly impressed by the music, and at every high falsetto  note enthusiastically nodded his head to the lackey, and nudged him with his  elbow with an expression of astonishment which seemed to say, How he  sings! hey?

      The lackey, by whose undissimulated smile I could mark the depth of  feeling he experienced, replied to the cooks nudges by shrugging his  shoulders, as if to show that it was hard enough for him to be made  enthusiastic, and that he had heard much better music.

      In one of the pauses of his song, while the minstrel was clearing his  throat, I asked the lackey who he was, and if he often came there.

      Twice in the summer he comes here, replied the lackey. He is  from Aargau; he gets his livelihood by begging.

      Tell me, do many like him come round here? I asked.

      Oh, yes, replied the lackey, not comprehending the full force of  what I asked; but immediately after, recollecting himself, he added, Oh, no.  This one is the only one I ever heard here. No one else.

      At this moment the little man had finished his first song, was briskly  twanging his guitar, and said something in his German patois, which I could  not understand, but which brought forth a hearty round of laughter from the  surrounding throng.

      "What was that he said?" I asked.

      "He said his throat is dried up, he would like some wine," replied the  lackey, who was standing near me.

      "What? is he rather fond of the glass?"

      "Yes, all that sort of people are," replied the lackey, smiling and  pointing at the minstrel.

      The minstrel took off his cap, and swinging his guitar went toward the  hotel. Raising his head, he addressed the ladies and gentlemen standing by  the windows and on the balconies, saying in a half-Italian, half-German  accent, and with the same intonation as jugglers use in speaking to their  audiences: --

      "Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chose,  vous vous trompez: je ne suis qu'un pauvre tiaple."

      He stood in silence a moment, but as no one gave him anything, he  once more took up his guitar, and said: --

      "A prsent, messieurs et mesdames, je vous chanterai l'air du Righi."

      His hotel audience made no response, but stood in expectation of the  coming song. Below on the street a laugh went round, probably in part  because he had expressed himself so strangely, and in part because no one  had given him anything.

      I gave him a few centimes, which he deftly changed from one hand to  the other, and bestowed them in his vest-pocket; and then, replacing his cap,  began once more to sing; it was the graceful, sweet Tyrolese melody which  he had called *l'air du Righi*.

      This song, which formed the last on his programme, was even better  than the preceding, and from all sides in the wondering throng were heard  sounds of approbation.

      He finished. Again he swung his guitar, took off his cap, held it out in  front of him, went two or three steps nearer to the windows, and again  repeated his stock phrase: "Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je  gagne quelque chose," which he evidently considered to be very shrewd and  witty; but in his voice and motions I perceived now a certain irresolution and  childish timidity which were especially touching in a person of such  diminutive stature.

      This elegant public, still picturesquely grouped in the lighted windows  and on the balconies, were shining in their rich attire; a few conversed in  soberly discreet tones, apparently about the singer who was standing there  below them with outstretched hand; others gazed down with attentive  curiosity on the little black figure; on one balcony could be heard a young  girl's merry, ringing laughter.

      In the crowd below the talk and laughter kept growing louder and  louder.

      The singer for the third time repeated his phrase, but in a still weaker  voice, and did not even end the sentence; and again he stretched his hand  with his cap, but instantly drew it back. Again, not one of those brilliantly  dressed scores of people standing to listen to him threw him a penny.

      The crowd laughed heartlessly.

      The little singer, so it seemed to me, shrunk more into himself, took  his guitar into his other hand, lifted his cap, and said: --

      "Messieurs et mesdames, je vous remercie, et je vous souhais une  bonne nuit."

      Then he put on his hat.

      The crowd cackled with laughter and satisfaction. The handsome  ladies and gentlemen, clamly exchanging remarks, withdrew gradually from  the balconies. On the boulevard the promenading began once more. The  street, which had been still during the singing, assumed its wonted liveliness;  a few men, however, stood at some distance, and, without approaching the  singer, looked at him and laughed.

      I heard the little man muttering something between his teeth, as he  turned away; and I saw him, apparently growing more and more diminutive,  start toward the city with brisk steps. The promenaders, who had been  looking at him, followed him at some distance, still making merry at his  expense. .

      My mind was in a whirl; I could not comprehend what it all meant;  and still standing in the same place, I gazed abstractedly into the darkness  after the little man, who was fast disappearing, as he went with ever  increasing swiftness with long strides into the city, followed by the  merrymaking promenaders.

      I was overmastered by a feeling of pain, of bitterness, and, above all,  of shame for the little man, for the crowd, for myself, as if it were I who had  asked for money and received none; as if it were I who had been turned to  ridicule.

      Without looking any longer, feeling my heart oppressed, I also hurried  with long strides toward the entrance of the Schweitzerhof. I could not  explain the feeling that overmastered me; only there was something like a  stone, from which I could not free myself, weighing down my soul and  oppressing me.

      At the stately, well-lighted entrance I met the Swiss, who politely  made way for me. An English family was also at the door. A portly,  handsome, tall gentleman, with black side-whiskers, in a black hat, and with  a plaid on one arm, while in his hand he carried a costly cane, came out  slowly, and full of importance. Leaning on his arm was a lady, who wore a  raw silk gown and a bonnet with bright ribbons and the most charming laces.  With them was a pretty, fresh-looking young lady, in a graceful Swiss hat,  with a feather, * la mousquetaire*; from under it escaped long, light yellow  curls, softly encircling her fair face. In front of them skipped a buxom girl  of ten, with round, white knees which showed from under her thin  embroideries. "What a lovely night!" the lady was saying in a sweet, happy  voice, as I passed them.

      "Oh, yes," growled the Englishman, lazily; and it was evident that he  found it so enjoyable to be alive in the world, that it was too much trouble  even to speak.

      And it seemed as if all of them alike found it so comfortable and easy,  so light and free, to be alive in the world, their faces and motions expressed  such perfect indifference to the lives of every one else, and such absolute  confidence, that it was to them that the Swiss made way, and bowed so  profoundly, and that when they returned they would find clean, comfortable  beds and rooms, and that all this was bound to be, and was their indefeasible  right, that I could not help contrasting them with the wandering minstrel,  who, weary, perhaps hungry, full of shame, was retreating before the  laughing crowd. Tnd then, suddenly, I comprehended what it was that  oppressed my heart with such a load of heaviness, and I felt an indescribable  anger against these people.

      Twice I walked up and down past the Englishman, and each time,  without turning out for him, my elbow punched him, which gave me a  feeling of indescribable satisfaction; and then, darting down the steps, I  hastened through the darkness in the direction taken by the little man on his  way to the city.

      Overtaking three men, walking together, I asked them where the  singer was; they laughed, and pointed straight ahead. There he was, walking  alone with brisk steps; no one was with him; all the time, as it seemed to me,  he was indulging in bitter monologue.

      I caught up with him, and proposed to him to go somewhere with me  and drink a bottle of wine. He kept on with his rapid walk, and looked at me  indignantly; but when it dawned on him what I meant, he halted.

      "Well, I will not refuse, if you are so kind," said he; "here is a little  *caf*, we can go in there. It's very ordinary," he added, pointing to a  drinking-salon that was still open.

      His expression "very ordinary" involuntarily suggested to my mind  the idea of not going to a very ordinary *caf*, but to go to the  Schweitzerhof, where those who had been listening to him were.  Notwithstanding the fact that several times he showed a sort of timid  disquietude at the idea of going to the Schweitzerhof, declaring that it was  too fashionable for him there, still I insisted on carrying out my purpose;  andhe, already pretending the he was not in the least abashed, and gayly  swinging his guitar, went back with me across the quay.

      A few loiterers who had happened along as I was talking with the  minstrel, and had stopped to hear what I had to say, now, after arguing  among themselves, followed us to the very entrance of the hotel, evidently  expecting from the Tyrolese some further demonstration.

      I ordered a bottle of wine of a waiter whom I met in the hall. The  waiter smiled and looked at us, and went by without answering. The head  waiter, to whom I addressed myself with the same order, listened to me and,  measuring the minstrel's modest little figure from head to foot, sternly  ordered the waiter to take us to the room at the left.

      The room at the left was a bar-room for simple people. In the corner  of this room a hunchbacked maid was washing dishes. The whole furniture  consisted of bare wooden tables and benches.

      The waiter who came to serve us looked at us with a supercilious  smile, thrust his hands in his pockets, and exchanged some remarks with the  humpbacked dishwasher. He evidently tried to give us to understand that he  felt himself immeasurably higher than the minstrel, both in dignity and  social position, so that he considered it not only an indignity, but actually  ridiculous, that he was called on to serve us.

      "Do you wish *vin ordinaire*?" he asked, with a knowing look,  winking toward my companion and switching his napkin from one hand to  the other.

      "Champagne, and your very best," said I, endeavoring to assume my  haughtiest and most imposing appearance.

      But neither my champagne, nor my endeavor to look haughty and  imposing, had the least effect on the servant; he smiled incredulously,  loitered a moment or two gazing at us, took time enough to glance at his  gold watch, and with leisurely steps, as if going out for a walk, left the room.

      Soon he returned with the wine, bringing two other waiters with him.  These two sat down near the dishwasher, and gazed at us with amused  attention and a bland smile, just as parents gaze at their children when they  are gently playing. Only the humpbacked dishwasher, it seemed to me, did  not look at us scornfully but sympathetically.

      Though it was trying and awkward to lunch with the minstrel, and to  play the entertainer, under thefire of all these waiters' eyes, I tried to do my  duty with as little constraint as possible. In the lighted room I could see him  better. He was a small but symmetrically built and muscular man, though  almost a dwarf in stature; he had bristly black hair, teary big black eyes,  bushy eyebrows, and a thoroughly pleasant, attractively shaped mouth. He  had little side-whiskers, his hair was short, his attire was very simple and  mean. He was not over-clean, was ragged and sunburnt, and in general had  the look of a laboring-man. He was far more like a poor tradesman than an  artist.

      Only in his ever humid and brilliant eyes, and in his firm mouth, was  there any sign of originality or genius. By his face it might be conjectured  that his age was between twenty-five and forty; in reality, he was thirty- seven.

      Here is what he related to me, with good-natured readiness and  evident sincerity, of his life. He was a native of Aargau. In early childhood  he had lost father and mother; other relatives he had none. He had never  owned any property. He had been apprenticed to a carpenter; but twenty- two years previously one of his arms had been attacked by caries, which had  prevented him from ever working again.

      From childhood he had been fond of singing, and he began to be a  singer. Occasionally strangers had given him money. With this he had  learned his profession, bought his guitar, and now for eighteen years he had  been wandering about through Switzerland and Italy, singing before hotels.  His whole luggage consisted of his guitar, and a little purse in which, at the  present time, there was only a franc and a half. That would have to suffice  for supper and lodgings this night.

      Every year now for eighteen years he had made the round of the best  and most popular resorts of Switzerland, -- Zurich, Lucerne, Interlaken,  Chamounix, etc.; by the way of the St. Bernard he would go down into Italy,  and return over the St. Gotthard, or through Savoy. Just at present it was  rather hard for him to walk, as he had caught a cold, causing him to suffer  from some trouble in his legs, -- he called it *Gliederzucht*, or rheumatism,  -- which grew more severe from year to year; and, moreover, his voice and  eyes had grown weaker. Nevertheless, he was on his way to Interlaken, Aix- les-Bains, and thence over the little St. Bernard to Italy, which he was very  fond of. It was evident that on the whole he was well content with his life.

      When I asked him why he returned home, if he had any relatives  there, or a house and land, his mouth parted in a gay smile, and he replied,  "*Oui, le sucre est bon, il est doux pour les enfants*!" and he winked at the  servants.

      I did not catch his meaning, but the group of servants burst out  laughing.

      "No, I have nothing of the sort, but still I should always want to go  back," he explained to me. "I go home because there is always a something  that draws one to one's native place."

      And once more he repeated with a shrewd, self-satisfied smile, his  phrase, "*Oui, le sucre est bon*," and then laughed good-naturedly.

      The servants were very much amused, and laughed heartily; only the  hunchbacked dish-washer looked earnestly from her big kindly eyes at the  little man, and picked up his cap for him, when, as we talked, he once  knocked it off the bench. I have noticed that wandering minstrels, acrobats,  even jugglers, delight in calling themselves artists, and several times I hinted  to my comrade that he was an artist; but he did not at all accept this  designation, but with perfect simplicity looked on his work as a means of  existence.

      When I asked him if he had not himself written the songs which he  sang, he showed great surprise at such a strange question, and replied that  the words of whatever he sang were all of old Tyrolese origin.

      "But how about that song of the Righi? I think that cannot be very  ancient," I suggested.

      "Oh, that was composed about fifteen years ago. There was a German  in Basle; he was a clever man; it was he who composed it. A splendid song.  You see he composed it especially for travelers."

      And he began to repeat the words of the Righi song, which he liked so  well, translated them into French as he went along.

      "If you wish to go to Righi, You will not need shoes to Wegis (For you go that far by steamboat), But from Wegis take a stout staff, Also on your arm a maiden; Drink a glass of wine on starting,  Only do not drink too freely, For if you desire to drink here, You must earn the right to, first."  

      "Oh! a splendid song!" he exclaimed, as he finished. The servants,  evidently, also found the song much to their mind, because they came up  closer to us.

      "Yes, but who was it composed the music?" I asked.

      "Oh, no one at all; you know you must have something new when you  are going to sing for strangers."

      When the ice was brought, and I had given my comrade a glass of  champagne, he seemed somewhat ill at ease, and, glancing at the servants,  he turned and twisted on the bench.

      We touched our glasses to the health of all artists; he drank half a  glass, then he seemed to be collecting his ideas, and knit his brows in deep  thought.

      "It is long since I have tasted such wine, *je ne vous dis que a.* In  Italy the *vino d'Asti* is excellent, but this is still better. Ah! Italy; it is  splendid to be there!" he added.

      "Yes, there they know how to appreciate music and artists," said I,  trying to bring him round to the evening's mischance before the  Schweitzerhof.

      "No," he replied. "There, as far as music is concerned, I cannot give  anybody satisfaction. The Italians are themselves musicians, -- none like  them in the world; but I know only Tyrolese songs. They are something of a  novelty to them, though."

      "Well, you find rather more generous gentlemen there, don't you?" I  went on to say, anxious to make him share in my resentment against the  guests of the Schweitzerhof. "There it would not be possible to find a big  hotel frequented by rich people, where, out of a hundred listening to an  artist's singing, not one would give him anything."

      My question utterly failed of the effect that I expected. It did not  enter his head to be indignant with them; on the contrary, he saw in my  remark an implied slur on his talent which had failed of its reward, and he  hastened to set himself right before me. "It is not every time that you get  anything," he remarked; "sometimes one isn't in good voice, or you are tired;  now today I have been walking ten hours, and singing almost all the time.  That is hard. And these important aristocrats do not always care to listen to  Tyrolese songs."

      "But still, how can they help giving?" I insisted. He did not  comprehend my remark.

      "That's nothing," he said; "but here the principal thing is, *on est tres  serr pour la police* that's what's the trouble. Here, according to these  republican laws, you are not allowed to sing; but in Italy you can go  wherever you please, no one says a word. Here, if they want to let you, they  let you; but if they don't want to, then they can throw you into jail."

      "What? That's incredible!"

      "Yes, it is true. If you have been wanred once, and are found singing  again, they may put you in jail. I was kept there three months once," he said,  smiling as if that were one of his pleasantest recollections.

      "Oh! that is terrible!" I exclaimed. "What was the reason?"

      "That was in consequence of one of the new laws of the republic," he  went on to explain, growing animated. "They cannot comprehend here that  a poor fellow must earn his living somehow. If I were not a cripple, I would  work. But what harm do I do to any one in the world by my singing? What  does it mean? The rich can live as they wish, but *un pauvre tiaple* like  myself can't live at all. What does it mean by laws of the republic? If that is  the way they run, then we don't want a republic. Isn't that so, my dear sir?  We don't want a republic, but we want  we simply want  we want"   he hesitated a little,  "we want natural laws."

      I filled up his glass.

      "You are not drinking," I said.

      He took the glass in his hand, and bowed to me.

      "I know what you wish," he said, blinking his eyes at me, and  threatening me with his finger. "You wish to make me drunk, so as to see  what you can get out of me; but no, you shan't have that gratification."

      "Why should I make you drunk?" I inquired. "All I wished was to  give you a pleasure."

      He seemed really sorry that he had offended me by interpreting my  insistence so harshly. He grew confused, stood up, and touched my elbow.

      "No, no," said he, looking at me with a beseeching expression in his  moist eyes. "I was only joking."

      And immediately after he made use of some horribly uncultivated  slang expression, intended to signify that I was, nevertheless, a fine young  man.

      "*Je ne vous dis que a,*" he said in conclusion.

      In this fashion the minstrel and I continued to drink and converse; and  the waiters continued to stare at us unceremoniously, and, as it seemed, to  ridicule us.

      In spite of the interest which our conversation aroused in me, I could  not avoid taking notice of their behavior; and I confess I began to grow more  and more angry.

      One of the waiters arose, came up to the little man, and, looking at the  top of his head, began to smile. I was already full of wrath against the  inmates of the hotel, and had not yet had a chance to pour it out on any one;  and now I confess I was in the highest degree irritated by this audience of  waiters.

      The Swiss, not removing his hat, came into the room, and sat down  near me, leaning his elbows on the table. This last circumstance, which was  so insulting to my dignity or my vainglory, completely enraged me, and  gave an outlet for all the wrath which the whole evening long had been  boiling within me. Why had he so humbly bowed when he had met me  before, and now, because I was sitting with the traveling minstrel, did he  come and take his place near me so rudely? I was entirely overmastered by  that boiling, angry indignation which I enjoy in myself, which I sometimes  endeavor to stimulate when it comes over me, because it has an exhilarating  effect on me, and gives me, if only for a short time, a certain extraordinary  flexibility, energy, and strength in all my physical and moral faculties.

      I leaped to my feet.

      "Whom are you laughing at?" I screamed at the waiter; and I felt my  face turn pale, and my lips involuntarily set together.

      "I am not laughing, I only  " replied the waiter, moving away from  me.

      "Yes, you are; you are laughing at this gentleman. And what right  have you to come, and to take a seat here, when there are guests? Don't you  dare to sit down!" The Swiss, muttering something, got up and turned to the  door.

      "What right have you to make sport of this gentleman, and to sit down  by him, when he is a guest, and you are a waiter? Why didn't you laugh at  me this evening at dinner, and come and sit down beside me? Because he is  meanly dressed, and sings in the streets? Is that the reason? and because I  have better clothes? He is poor, but he is a thousand times better than you  are; that I am sure of, because he has never insulted any one, but you have  insulted him."

      "I didn't mean anything," replied my enemy, the waiter. "Did I disturb  him by sitting doen?"

      The waiter did not understand me, and my German was wasted on  him. The rude Swiss was about to take the waiter's part; but I fell upon him  so impetuously that the Swiss pretended not to understand me, and waved  his hand.

      The hunchbacked dish-washer, either because she perceived my  wrathful state, and feared a scandal, or possibly because she shared my  views, took my part, and, trying to force her way between me and the porter,  told him to hold his tongue, saying that I was right, but at the same time  urging me to calm myself.

      "*Der Herr hat Recht; Sie haben Recht,*" she said over and over  again. The minstrel's face presented a most pitiable, terrified expression;  and evidently he did not understand why I was angry, and what I wanted;  and he urged me to let him go away as soon as possible.

      But the eloquence of wrath burned within me more and more. I  understood it all, -- the throng that had made merry at his expense, andhis  auditors who had not given him anything; and not for all the world would I  have held my peace.

      I believe that, if the waiters and the Swiss had not been so submissive,  I should have taken delight in having a brush with them, or striking the  defenseless English girl on the head with a stick. If at that moment I had  been at Sevastopol, I should have taken delight in devoting myself to  slaughtering and killing in the English trench.           

      "And why did you take this gentleman and me into this room, and not  into the other? What?" I thundered at the swiss, seizing him by the arm so  that he could not escape from me. "What right had you to judge by his  appearance that this gentleman must be served in this room, and not in that?  Have not all guests who pay equal rights in hotels? Not only in a republic,  but in all the world! Your scurvy republic!  Equality, indeed! You  would not dare to take an Englishman into this room, not even those  Englishmen who have heard this gentleman free of cost; that is, who have  stolen from him, each one of them, the few centimes which ought to have  been given to him. How did you dare to take us to this room?"

      "That room is closed," said the porter.

      "No," I cried, "that isn't true; it isn't closed."

      "Then you know best."

      "I know  I know that you are lying."

      The Swiss turned his back on me.

      "Eh! What is to be said?" he muttered.

      "What is to be said?" I cried. "Now conduct us instantly into that  room!"

      In spite of the dish-washer's warning, and the entreaties of the  minstrel, who would have preferred to go home, I insisted on seeing the head  waiter, and went with my guest into the big dining-room. The head waiter,  hearing my angry voice, and seeing my menacing face, avoided a quarrel,  and, with contemptuous servility, said that I might go wherever I pleased. I  could not prove to the Swiss that he had lied, because he had hastened out of  sight before I went into the hall.

      The dining-room was, in fact, open and lighted; and at one of the  tables sat an Englishman and a lady, eating their supper. Although we were  shown to a special table, I took the dirty minstrel to the very one where the  Englishman was, and bade the waiter bring to us there the unfinished bottle.

      The two guests at first looked with surprised, then with angry, eyes at  the little man, who, more dead than alive, was sitting near me. They talked  together in a low tone; then the lady pushed back her plate, her silk dress  rustled, and both of them left the room. Through the glass doors I saw the  Englishman saying something in an angry voice to the waiter, and pointing  with his hand in our direction. The waiter put his head through the door, and  looked at us. I waited with pleasurable anticipation for some one to come  and order us out, for then I could have found a full outlet for all my  indignation. But fortunately, thought at the time I felt injured, we were left  in peace. The minstrel, who before had fought shy of the wine, now eagerly  drank all that was left in the bottle, so that he might make his escape as  quickly as possible.

      He, however, expressed his gratitude with deep feeling, as it seemed  to me, for his entertainment. His teary eyes grew still more humid and  brilliant, and he made use of a most strange and complicated phrase of  gratitude. But still very pleasant to me was the sentence in which he said  that if everygocy treated artists as I had been doing, it would be very good,  and ended by wishing me all manner of happiness. We went out into the  hall together. There stood the servants, and my enemy the Swiss apparently  airing his grievances against me before them. All of them, I thought, looked  at me as if I were a man who had lost his wits. I treated the little man  exactly like an equal, before all that audience of servants; and then, with all  the respect that I was able to express in my behavior, I took off my hat, and  pressed his hand with its dry and hardened fingers.

      The servants pretended not to pay the slightest attention to me. Only  one of them indulged in a sarcastic laugh. As soon as the minstrel had  bowed himself out, and disappeared in the darkness, I went up-stairs to my  room, intending to sleep off all these impressions and the foolish, childish  anger which had come upon me so unexpectedly. But, finding that I was too  much excited to sleep, I once more went down into the street with the  intention of walking until I should have recovered my equanimity, and, I  must confess, with the secret hope that I might accidentally come across the  porter or the waiter or the Englishman, and show them all their rudeness,  and, most of all, their unfairness. But beyond the Swiss, who when he saw  me turned his back, I met no one; and I began to promenade in absolute  solitude back and forth along the quay.

      "This is an example of the strange fate of poetry," said I to myself,  having grown a little calmer. "All love it, all are in search of it; it is the only  thing in life that men love and seek, and yet no one recognizes its power, no  one prizes this best treasure of the world, and those who give it to men are  not rewarded. Ask any one you please, ask all these guests of the  schweitzerhof, what is the most precious treasure in the world, and all, or  ninety-nine out of a hundred, putting on a sardonic expression, will say that  the best thing in the world is money.

      "'Maybe, though, this does not please you, or coincide with your  elevated ideas,' it will be urged; 'but what is to be done if human life is so  constituted that money alone is capable of giving a man happiness? I cannot  force my mind not to see the world as it is,' it will be added, 'that is, to see  the truth.'

      "Pitiable is your intellect, pitiable the happiness which you desire!  And you yourselves, unhappy creatures, not knowing what you desire,   why have you all left your fatherland, your relatives, your money-making  trades and occupations, and come to this little Swiss city of Lucerne? Why  did you all this evening gather on the balconies, and in respectful silence  listen to the little beggar's song? And if he had been willing to sing longer,  you would have been silent and listened longer. What! could money, even  millions of it, have driven you all from your country, and brought you all  together in this little nook of Lucerne? Could money have gathered you all  on the balconies to stand for half an hour silent and motionless? No! One  thing compels you to do it, and will forever have a stronger influence than  all the other impulses of life: the longing for poetry which you know, which  you do not realize, but feel, always will feel as long as you have any human  sensibilities. The word 'poetry' is a mockery to you; you make use of it as a  sort of ridiculous reproach; you regard the love for poetry as something  meant for children and silly girls, and you make sport of them for it. For  yourselves you must have something more definite.

      "But children look upon life in a healthy way; they recognize and love  what man ought to love, and what gives happiness. But life has so deceived  and perverted you, that you ridicule the only thing that you really love, and  you seek for what you hate and for what gives you unhappiness.

      "You are so perverted that you did not perceive what obligations you  were under to the poor Tyrolese who rendered you a pure delight; but at the  same time you feel needlessly obliged to humiliate yourselves before some  lord, which gives you neither pleasure nor profit, but rather causes you to  sacrifice your comfort and convenience. What absurdity! what  incomprehensible lack of reason!

      "But it was not this that made the most powerful impression on me  this evening. This blindness to all that gives happiness, this  unconsciousness of poetic enjoyment, I can almost comprehend, or at least I  have become wonted to it, since I have almost everywhere met with it in the  course of my life; the harsh, unconscious churlishness of the crowd was no  novelty to me; whatever those who argue in favor of popular sentiment may  say, the throng is a conglomeration of very possibly good people, but of  people who touch each other only on their coarse animal sides, and express  only the seakness and harshness of human nature. But how was it that you,  children of a free, humane people, you christians, you simply as human  beings, repaid with coldness and ridicule the poor beggar who gave you a  pure enjoyment? But no, in your country there are asylums for beggars.  There are no beggars, there must be none; and there must be no feelings of  sympathy, since that would be a confession that beggary existed.

      "But he labored, he gave you enjoyment, he besought you to give him  something of your superfluity in payment for his labor of which you took  advantage. But you looked on him with a cool smile as on one of the  curiosities in your lofty brilliant palaces; and though there were a hundred of  you, favored with happiness and wealth, not one man or one woman among  you gave him a *sou*. Abashed he went away from you, and the  thoughtless throng, laughing, followed and ridiculed not you, but him,  because you were cold, harsh, and dishonorable; because you robbed him in  receiving the entertainment which he have you; for this you jeered *him*.

      "'*On the 19th of July, 1857, in Lucerne, before the Schweitzerhof  Hotel, in which were lodging very opulent people, a wandering beggar  minstrel sang for half an hour his songs, and played his guitar. About a  hundred people listened to him. The minstrel thrice asked all to give him  something. No one person gave him a thing, and many made sport of him.*'

      "This is not an invention, but an actual fact, as those who desire can  find out for themselves by consulting the papers for the list of those who  were at the schweitzerhof on the 19th of July.

      "This is an event which the historians of our time ought to describe in  letters of inextinguishable flame. This even is more significant and more  serious, and fraught with far deeper meaning, than the facts that are printed  in newspapers and histories. That the English have killed several thousand  Chinese because the Chinese would not sell them anything for money while  their land is overflowing with ringing coins; that the French have killed  several thousand Kabyles because the wheat grows well in Africa, and  because constant war is essential for the drill of an army; that the Turkish  ambassador in Naples must not be a Jew; and that the Emperor Napoleon  walks about in Plombires, and gives his people the express assurance that  he rules only in direct accordance with the will of the people, -- all these are  words which darken or reveal something long known. But the episode that  took place in Lucerne on the 19th of July seems to me something entirely  novel and strange, and it is connected not with the everlastingly ugly side of  human nature, but with a well-known epoch in the development of society.  This fact is not for the history of human activities, but for the history of  progress and civilization.

      "Why is it that this inhuman fact, impossible in any German, French,  or Italian country, is quite possible here where civilization, freedom, and  equality are carried to the highest degree of development, where there are  gathered together the most civilized travelers from the most civilized  nations? Why is it that these people who, in their palaces, their meetings,  and their societies, labor warmly for the condition of the celibate Chinese in  India, about the spread of Christianity and culture in Africa, about the  formation of societies for attaining all perfection, -- why is it that they  should not find in their souls the simple, primitive feeling of human  sympathy? Has such a feeling entirely disappeared, and has its place been  taken by vainglory, ambition, and cupidity, governing these men in their  palaces, meetings, and societie4s? Has the spreading of that reasonable,  egotistical association of people, which we call civilization, destroyed and  rendered nugatory the desire for instinctive and loving association? And is  this that boasted equality for which so much innocent blood has been shed,  and so many crimes have been perpetrated? Is it possible that nations, like  children, can be made happy by the mere sound of the word 'equality'?

      "Equality before the law? Does the whole life of a people revolve  within the sphere of law? Only the thousandth part of it is subject to the  law; the rest lies outside of it, in the sphere of the customs and intuitions of  society.

      "But in society the lackey is better dressed than the minstrel, and  insults him with impunity. I am better dressed than the lackey, and insult  him with impunity. The Swiss considers me higher, but the minstrel lower,  than himself; when I made the minstrel my companion, he felt that he was  on an equality with us both, and behaved rudely. I was impudent to the  Swiss, and the Swiss acknowledged that he was inferior to me. The waiter  was impudent to the minstrel, and the minstrel accepted the fact that he was  inferior to the waiter.

      "And is that government free, even though men seriously call it free,  where a single citizen can be thrown into prison, because, without harming  any one, without interfering with any one, he does the only thing he can to  prevent himself from dying of starvation?

      "A wretched, pitiable creature is man with his craving for positive  solutions, thrown into this everlastingly tossing, limitless ocean of *good*  and *evil*, of facts, of combinations and contradictions. For centuries men  have been struggling and laboring to put the *good* on one side, the *evil*  on the other. Centuries will pass, and no matter how much the unprejudiced  mind may strive to decide where the balance lies between the *good* and  the *evil*, the scales will refuse to tip the beam, and there will always be  equal quantities of the *good* and the *evil* on each scale.

      "If only man would learn to form judgments, and not indulge in rash  and arbitrary thoughts, and not to make reply to questions that are  propounded merely to remain forever unanswered! If only he would learn  that; every thought is both a lie and a truth! - a lie from the one-sidedness  and inability of man to recognize all truth; and true because it expresses one  side of mortal endeavor. There are divisions in this everlastingly  tumultuous, endless, endlessly confused chaos of the *good* and the *evil*.  They have drawn imaginary lines over this ocean, and they contend that the  ocean is really thus divided.

      "But are there not millions of other possible subdivisions from  absolutely different standpoints, in other planes? Certainly these novel  subdivisions will be made in centuries to come, just as millions of different  ones have been made in centuries past.

      "Civilization is *good*, barbarism is *evil*; freedom, *good*,  slavery, *evil*. Now this imaginary knowledge annihilates the instinctive,  beatific, primitive craving for the *good* which is in human nature. And  who will explain to me what is freedom, what is despotism, what is  civilization, what is barbarism?

      "Where are the boundaries that separate them? And whose soul  possesses so absolute a standard of good and evil as to measure these  fleeting, complicated facts? Whose intellect is so great as to comprehend  and weigh all the facts in the irretrievable past? And who can find any  circumstance in which *good* and *evil* do not exist together? And  because I know that I see more of one than of the other, is it not because my  standpoint is wrong? And who has the ability to separate himself so  absolutely from life, even for a moment, as to look upon it independently  from above?

      "One, only one infallible Guide we have, -- the universal Spirit which  penetrates all collectively and as units, which has endowed each of us with  the craving for the right; the Spirit which commands the tree to grow toward  the sun, which commands the flower in autumn-tide to scatter its seed, and  which commands each one of us unconsciously to draw closer together.  And this one unerring, inspiring voice rings out louder than the noisy, hasty  development of civilization.

      "Who is the greater man, and who the greater barbarian, -- that lord,  who, seeing the minstrel's well-worn clothes, angrily left the table, who gave  him not the millionth part of his possessions in payment of his labor, and  now lazily sitting in his brilliant, comfortable room, calmly expresses his  opinion about the events that are happening in China, and justifies the  massacres that have been done there; or the little minstrel, who, risking  imprisonment, with a franc in his pocket, and doint no harm to any one, has  been going about for a score of years, up hill and down dale, rejoicing men's  hearts with his songs, though they have jeered at him, and almost cast him  out of the pale of humanity; and who, in weariness and cold and shame, has  gone off to sleep, no one knows where, on his filthy straw?"

      At this moment, from the city, through the dead silence of the night,  far, far away, I caught the sound of the little man's guitar and his voice.

      "No," something involuntarily said to me, "you have no right to  commiserate the little man, or to blame the lord for his well-being. Who can  weigh the inner happiness which is found in the soul of each of these men?  There he stands somewhere in the muddy road, and gazes at the brilliant  moonlit sky, and gayly sings amid the smiling, fragrant night; in his soul  there is no reproach, no anger, no regret. And who knows what is  transpiring now in the hearts of all these men within those opulent, brilliant  rooms? Who knows if they all have as much unencumbered, sweet delight  in life, and as much satisfaction with the world, as dwells in the soul of that  little man?

      "Endless are the mercy and wisdom of Him who has permitted and  formed all these contradictions. Only to thee, miserable little worm of the  dust, audaciously, lawlessly attempting to fathom His laws, His designs, --  only to thee do they seem like contradictions.

      "Full of love He looks down from His bright, immeasurable height,  and rejoices in the endless harmony in which you all move in endless  contradictions. In thy pride thou hast thought thyself able to separate thyself  from the laws of the universe. No, thou also, with thy petty, ridiculous anger  against the waiters, -- thou also hast disturbed the harmonious craving for  the eternal and the infinite." .

       

   

Cossacks ] War and Peace ] Anna Karenina ] Albert ] Three Deaths ] A Visit to Count Tolstoi ] Childhood ] Boyhood ] Youth ] Family Happiness ] Two Hussars ] [ Lucerne From the Recollections of Prince Nekhliudof ]


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