turn blind: you reach out, you take a card, but mechanically, almost against your will, as if someone else was guiding your hand; finally you make up your mind and play—here the sensation is quite different, tremendous. I’m writing not about the auction, but only about myself: who else would have a pounding heart at an auction?
There were some who got excited, there were some who kept silent and bided their time, there were some who bought and regretted it. I felt no pity at all for a gentleman who, by mistake, having misheard, bought a nickel silver pitcher instead of a silver one, for five roubles instead of two; I even began to feel rather merry. The bailiff varied the objects: after the candlesticks came earrings, after the earrings, an embroidered morocco pillow, followed by a box—probably for the sake of diversity or in line with the buyers’ demands. I didn’t even hold out for ten minutes, was tending towards the pillow, then towards the box, but each time I stopped at the decisive moment: the objects seemed quite impossible to me. Finally, an album turned up in the bailiff’s hands.
“A family album, bound in red morocco, worn, with drawings in watercolor and ink, in a carved ivory case with silver clasps—the starting price is two roubles!”
I went up: the object looked refined, but there was a flaw in one place in the ivory carving. I was the only one who went up, everybody was silent; there were no competitors. I could have unfastened the clasps and taken the album out of the case to examine it, but I didn’t exercise my right and only waved a trembling hand, as if to say: “It makes no difference.”
“Two roubles, five kopecks,” I said, again, I believe, with chattering teeth.
It fell to me. I took out the money at once, paid, snatched the album, and went into a corner of the room; there I took it out of the case and feverishly, hurriedly, began to examine it: excepting the case, it was the trashiest thing in the world—a little album the size of small-format letter paper, thin, with worn gilt edges—exactly the kind that girls used to start keeping in the old days, as soon as they left the institute. Temples on hills, cupids, a pond with swans floating on it, were drawn in watercolors and ink; there were verses:
I am setting out for far away,
I am leaving Moscow for many a day,
To all my dear ones I say good-bye,
By stagecoach to the Crimee I fly.
(They’ve been preserved in my memory!) I decided that I had “failed”; if there was anything nobody needed, this was precisely it.
“Never mind,” I decided, “you always lose on the first card; it’s even a good omen.”
I was decidedly cheerful.
“Ah, I’m too late! It’s yours? Did you acquire it?” I suddenly heard beside me the voice of a gentleman in a dark blue coat, well dressed and of an imposing air. He was too late.
“I’m too late. Ah, what a pity! How much?”
“Two roubles, five kopecks.”
“Ah, what a pity! Won’t you let me have it?”
“Let’s step out,” I whispered to him, my heart skipping a beat.
We went out to the stairway.
“I’ll let you have it for ten roubles,” I said, feeling a chill in my spine.
“Ten roubles! Good heavens, how can you!”
“As you wish.”
He stared wide-eyed at me; I was well dressed, in no way resembled a Jew or a retailer.
“Merciful heavens, it’s a trashy old album, who needs it? The case is in fact quite worthless, you won’t sell it to anybody.”
“You want to buy it.”
“But mine is a special case, I found out only yesterday,
I’m
the only one like that! Good heavens, how can you!”
“I should have asked twenty-five roubles; but since there was a risk that you’d let it go, I asked only ten so as to be sure. I won’t go down even a kopeck.”
I turned and walked away.
“Take four roubles,” he overtook me in the courtyard, “or make it five.”
I said nothing and walked on.
“All right, here!” He took out ten roubles, and I
There were some who got excited, there were some who kept silent and bided their time, there were some who bought and regretted it. I felt no pity at all for a gentleman who, by mistake, having misheard, bought a nickel silver pitcher instead of a silver one, for five roubles instead of two; I even began to feel rather merry. The bailiff varied the objects: after the candlesticks came earrings, after the earrings, an embroidered morocco pillow, followed by a box—probably for the sake of diversity or in line with the buyers’ demands. I didn’t even hold out for ten minutes, was tending towards the pillow, then towards the box, but each time I stopped at the decisive moment: the objects seemed quite impossible to me. Finally, an album turned up in the bailiff’s hands.
“A family album, bound in red morocco, worn, with drawings in watercolor and ink, in a carved ivory case with silver clasps—the starting price is two roubles!”
I went up: the object looked refined, but there was a flaw in one place in the ivory carving. I was the only one who went up, everybody was silent; there were no competitors. I could have unfastened the clasps and taken the album out of the case to examine it, but I didn’t exercise my right and only waved a trembling hand, as if to say: “It makes no difference.”
“Two roubles, five kopecks,” I said, again, I believe, with chattering teeth.
It fell to me. I took out the money at once, paid, snatched the album, and went into a corner of the room; there I took it out of the case and feverishly, hurriedly, began to examine it: excepting the case, it was the trashiest thing in the world—a little album the size of small-format letter paper, thin, with worn gilt edges—exactly the kind that girls used to start keeping in the old days, as soon as they left the institute. Temples on hills, cupids, a pond with swans floating on it, were drawn in watercolors and ink; there were verses:
I am setting out for far away,
I am leaving Moscow for many a day,
To all my dear ones I say good-bye,
By stagecoach to the Crimee I fly.
(They’ve been preserved in my memory!) I decided that I had “failed”; if there was anything nobody needed, this was precisely it.
“Never mind,” I decided, “you always lose on the first card; it’s even a good omen.”
I was decidedly cheerful.
“Ah, I’m too late! It’s yours? Did you acquire it?” I suddenly heard beside me the voice of a gentleman in a dark blue coat, well dressed and of an imposing air. He was too late.
“I’m too late. Ah, what a pity! How much?”
“Two roubles, five kopecks.”
“Ah, what a pity! Won’t you let me have it?”
“Let’s step out,” I whispered to him, my heart skipping a beat.
We went out to the stairway.
“I’ll let you have it for ten roubles,” I said, feeling a chill in my spine.
“Ten roubles! Good heavens, how can you!”
“As you wish.”
He stared wide-eyed at me; I was well dressed, in no way resembled a Jew or a retailer.
“Merciful heavens, it’s a trashy old album, who needs it? The case is in fact quite worthless, you won’t sell it to anybody.”
“You want to buy it.”
“But mine is a special case, I found out only yesterday,
I’m
the only one like that! Good heavens, how can you!”
“I should have asked twenty-five roubles; but since there was a risk that you’d let it go, I asked only ten so as to be sure. I won’t go down even a kopeck.”
I turned and walked away.
“Take four roubles,” he overtook me in the courtyard, “or make it five.”
I said nothing and walked on.
“All right, here!” He took out ten roubles, and I
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