Egyptian Nights (Pushkin)
Short summary
St. Petersburg, early 19th century. Charsky lived a double life, hiding his poetic talent from society while pretending to be a shallow dandy.
One morning while writing verses, he was interrupted by an unexpected visitor—a poor Italian improvisatore seeking patronage. Charsky initially reacted with irritation, denying he was a poet, but felt ashamed of his rudeness when he learned the man's profession.
Charsky arranged a public performance for the Italian at Princess N——'s salon. At the event, audience members wrote themes on paper slips. A young lady drew the theme 'Cleopatra and her lovers.' When asked to clarify, Charsky explained it referred to the historical account where Cleopatra offered her love at the price of death. The improvisatore began his performance.
His face became terribly pale; he trembled as if in a fever; his eyes sparkled with a strange fire ... he wiped with his handkerchief his lofty forehead, covered with beads of perspiration
Detailed summary by chapters
Chapter titles are editorial.
Chapter 1. Charsky the reluctant poet meets an Italian improvisatore
In St. Petersburg lived a man named Charsky, not yet thirty years old and unmarried. He had inherited a respectable estate from his uncle, a former vice-governor, and his life was comfortable. However, he suffered from one misfortune: he wrote and published poetry, earning him the labels of 'poet' in journals and 'author' in ante-rooms.
Despite whatever privileges poets might enjoy, they endured considerable unpleasantness. The public considered them their property, created for their benefit and pleasure. Strangers constantly asked if he had written anything new, and when he fell in love, his beloved expected elegies. If he visited someone on business, they forced their children to recite his verses.
The bitterest misfortune of all, the most intolerable for the poet, is the appellation with which he is branded, and which will always cling to him.
Charsky tried desperately to shed this intolerable title. He avoided literary circles, preferring even shallow-minded society men. His conversation never touched on literature. He dressed fashionably with the timidity of a young Moscovite visiting St. Petersburg for the first time. His study resembled a lady's bedroom, with no books cluttering the table and no disorder suggesting the Muse's presence. He pretended to be a passionate horseman, a desperate gambler, or a refined gourmet, though he could never distinguish horse breeds, remember trump cards, or truly prefer French cuisine to baked potatoes.
Yet he remained a poet, and his passion was invincible. When inspiration came, he locked himself in his study and wrote from morning until late at night.
He confessed to his genuine friends that only then did he know what real happiness was. The rest of his time he strolled about, dissembled, and was assailed at every step by the eternal question
One morning, while writing verses in that happy state of inspiration, his study door creaked and an unknown man appeared. Charsky frowned with vexation, cursing his absent servants. The stranger was tall and spare, about thirty years old, with a swarthy face, pale forehead shaded by dark hair, black sparkling eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thick beard. His shabby black dress-coat was whitened at the seams, and under his tattered cravat glittered a false diamond. He looked like someone who might be taken for a robber in the woods or a charlatan in an ante-room.
Chapter 2. Preparing for success and witnessing true inspiration
The stranger introduced himself as a Neapolitan artist forced by circumstances to leave his homeland, trusting in his talent. Charsky assumed he was selling concert tickets, but the Italian explained he hoped Charsky would introduce him to houses where he had access. Charsky glanced haughtily at this person who called himself a confrère. The Italian stammered apologies, saying he had heard of Charsky's wonderful talent and hoped the gentlemen of St. Petersburg would extend protection to such an excellent poet.
Charsky interrupted coldly, declaring that poets held no special position in Russia, that they were gentlemen themselves who needed no protection from Maecenases.
Among us there are no ragged abbés ... Among us, poets do not go on foot from house to house, begging for help ... I haven't anything in common with messieurs les poètes, and do not wish to have.
The poor Italian became confused, looking around at the pictures, marble statues, bronzes, and costly baubles. He understood the gulf between the haughty dandy in his gold-embroidered dressing-gown and himself, a poor wandering artist in shabby clothes. His pitiable appearance touched Charsky, who felt ashamed of his irritated vanity. He asked if the Italian was a musician. The visitor replied that he was an improvisatore. Charsky immediately grasped his hand with sincere regret, realizing the cruelty of his reception.
The Italian spoke naïvely of his plans and his need for money. Charsky listened attentively and assured him that society had never heard an improvisatore, that curiosity would be awakened, and that being fashionable was the chief thing. When the Italian worried that nobody understood Italian, Charsky insisted people would come anyway—some from curiosity, others to pass the evening, others to show they understood Italian. Charsky dismissed him cordially after taking his address, promising to help.
The next day, Charsky found the improvisatore in a dark, dirty tavern corridor. He brought good news: Princess N—— offered her salon, and he had enlisted half of St. Petersburg the previous evening. The Italian expressed his delight with characteristic southern gestures and offered to perform an improvisation for Charsky alone. Charsky gave him a theme: the poet himself should choose the subject of his songs; the crowd has no right to direct his inspirations. The Italian's eyes sparkled, he tried a few chords, and passionate verses fell in cadence from his lips.
When the improvisation ended, Charsky remained silent, filled with delight and astonishment. He pressed the Italian's hand firmly and marveled at his gift.
The idea of another has scarcely reached your ears, and already it has become your own ... And so for you there exists neither difficulty nor discouragement, nor that uneasiness which precedes inspiration?
The improvisatore tried to explain his inexplicable talent, that narrow link between inspiration and an exterior will. Then they turned to business matters—ticket prices and calculations. The Italian exhibited such savage greed and artless love of gain that he disgusted Charsky, who hastened to leave before losing the feeling of ecstasy awakened by the brilliant improvisation.
Chapter 3. The public performance begins
On the appointed evening, the salon was illuminated and filled with brilliantly-dressed ladies and gentlemen. At the door sat a long-nosed old woman in a grey cap selling tickets, with rings on all her fingers. Gendarmes stood near the steps. Charsky arrived early to check on the improvisatore, whom he found in a side room dressed in theatrical black costume—black from head to foot, with a lace collar thrown back, his neck strangely white against his thick black beard. Though this costume displeased Charsky, who disliked seeing a poet dressed as a wandering juggler, the audience did not share his reaction.
At half-past seven, the musicians played the overture from Tancredi, and the improvisatore advanced to deafening applause. In bad French, he requested gentlemen to write themes on separate papers. An uncomfortable silence followed. Charsky felt compelled to write something. He took the pencil and paper, wrote some words, and deposited them in a porcelain vase. His example encouraged others: two journalists, the Neapolitan embassy secretary, a young man from Florence, and finally a plain-looking girl at her mother's command, blushing and tearful, added their themes.
The improvisatore read the themes aloud: the family of Cenci, the last day of Pompeii, Cleopatra and her lovers, spring seen from prison, the triumph of Tasso. He asked whether the company would choose or let chance decide. The audience called for chance. He asked a young beauty to draw a theme. She rose without confusion, plunged her aristocratic hand into the urn, and drew out a paper. She read aloud: 'Cleopatra and her lovers.' The improvisatore asked for clarification about which lovers, since the great queen had many. Several gentlemen laughed.
Several ladies glanced at the plain-looking girl who had written at her mother's command. The poor girl became so confused that tears came to her eyes. Charsky could not endure this and explained in Italian that he had proposed the theme, referring to a passage in Aurelius Victor about Cleopatra naming death as the price of her love, yet finding adorers whom such a condition neither frightened nor repelled. He suggested the subject was difficult and offered to choose another.
But the improvisatore already felt the approach of the god. He signaled the musicians to play. His face became terribly pale, he trembled as if in fever, his eyes sparkled with strange fire. He raised his hand to his dark hair, wiped his forehead covered with perspiration, stepped forward and folded his arms. The musicians ceased. The improvisation began, describing the palace glittering with festive celebration, the Queen giving animation to the scene, then suddenly shadowed by a gloomy cloud.
The palace glitters; the songs of the choir
Echo the sounds of the flute and lyre;
With voice and glance the stately Queen
Gives animation to the festive scene
The story remained incomplete in the original, ending with this poetic fragment describing Cleopatra at her feast, her mood suddenly darkening as the music ceased and a deathly lull fell upon the celebration.