Information about the computer file:

Title: The Upper Window
Author: Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
Translator: John Albert Barnstead
Edition: Version 1 of the ETC Kuzmin Collection edition of
Responsibility: John Barnstead, chief editor
Responsibility: Vivien Hannon, editor
Publisher: Electronic Text Centre, Dalhousie University, Nova Scotia, Canada: Kuzmin Collection, May 2002
Source: Translated from
Encoding: Encoded in TEI-conformant SGML by Konstantin Kostyukevich.

My parents' apartment was on the sixth floor. Now, of course, no one could be surprised at that, but in the days of my childhood there were no eight- or nine-storied apartment buildings and the sixth floor seemed like almost the ultimate height. My father and mother grumbled a little that it was hard to climb the stairs, but those climbs even provided me with a bit of a diversion, along with the advantage that, thanks to the inconvenience, my elders rarely left the building, and I would even have been glad if we had lived not on the sixth but on the twentieth floor, if only so that my nanny, a cheerful German woman, Maria Yakovlevna, would have run out of the yard less often. Besides that, it was in my nursery that there was a window, which was considered the pride of our apartment. It opened onto a broad and distant view; our street could not be seen, not even the opposite sidewalk; but directly ahead the large city garden loomed darkly with a round pond in the center; one could see the street beyond the garden, the cupola, spires and crosses of the church, and to the right a piece of the Neva river, so blue in the spring, along which barges slowly cruised and little steamships with toylike smokestacks quickly skittered. The window opened westward and almost invariably when infrequent guests would visit us, they would be led to my window and they would stand for a few minutes in silence and then would say softly to my mother that now they understood where the loftiness of thought and solemn charm of expression in my father's verses came from. I didn't quite understand their words, but was proud that my window was being praised, for, after all, it was my window, since it was in my room.

We didn't have any child acquaintances, and the guests who came to see my father neither sang nor danced nor played cards, only argued and recited poetry, and then Mother would serve them tea. Maria Yakovlevna told me that she had an aunt who lived on Vasilievsky Island, whom she visited almost every holiday. She also told me what a fine time they had there. Many gentleladies and young people who worked in offices, banks, and stores frequented the place, as did cadets and even one officer. There they danced, played, sang, drank brandy and played charades; during Shrovetide they went sledding and it was marvellous how merry it was. Once the German woman won eight grivny and another time sledding down the hill she lost her muff and the officer kissed her. Oh, what a pity we never have anything like that. But Maria Yakovlevna consoled me, saying that my father was too intelligent a person, that everyone valued and respected him, that he had no muff and was not at all interested in having officers kiss him. I would have preferred everything a bit less intelligent and a bit merrier, but what can you do -- you must live the way you must.

And I thought that if my father had become so intelligent from my window, the same thing might well happen to me, and so I began to look at the round pond and the toylike steamships not merely with pride, but with a certain measure of hope as well. Often when I would grow tired of setting up my toy soldiers, listening to German fairy tales, or drawing horns and moustaches on ladies in an old fashion magazine, I would crawl out on the windowsill and look for a long time at the glittering crosses of the distant churches. I did not feel any merrier, but grew quiet and for a long time didn't lower my gaze from that oh-so-familiar scene. And guests kept coming to see my father, kept drinking tea, and sometimes they would be led up to my window, they would be silent or talk in an undertone. Probably Father made them some profound reply, for they would whisper: "Lord, what lofty flight of thought! What solemn charm of words!" Mother would smile, taking pride perhaps in Father, perhaps in my window and quietly call everyone to tea.

Once I saw something in my window that I have never seen before, something which amazed and enraptured me. From a distant street to the strains of delicate, solemn music, a mass of men rode out in order on identical horses, shedding an extraordinary glow all around them.

They had neither arms nor legs, but were all golden gleam, harmony and delicate music. And so like a golden snake they slowly rode out there in the distance, passed by, and hid themselves away.

"Fraulein, Fraulein, what is that?" I shouted from my window.

Swiftly glancing at the vision, the German woman replied: "It's the horse-guardsmen, child; such a cheerful march: tra-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!"

"Are they people?"

"What?"

"I said, are horse-guardsmen people?"

"Tush, what a little stupid you are! Of course," and she took up her sewing once again. I was a trifle disappointed at Fraulein for not sharing my excitement and speaking about horse-guardsmen as though she were speaking about her shop assistants. If she had been Russian, of course, she would at least have crossed herself at such a miracle, but what could you ask of a German woman?

From that time forward my thoughts were totally enthralled by those men, all alike, without arms, without legs, appearing in nothing less than a golden gleam and accompanied by delicate music which was not at all like the stupid "tra-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta" Maria Yakovlevna had sung. I sat for days at a time at my window, waiting for the vision to be repeated, but it was not repeated; only the repugnant little toy steamships scuttled along about the repellent Neva. Since everyone considered my father a most intelligent man, I decided to turn to him and interrogate him thoroughly about my horse-guardsmen.

Of course, I did commit a small betrayal in divulging my secret, but what could I do? Time had passed and they had appeared no more.

My father could explain to me only that the horse-guardsmen were a sort of regiment; moreover he became angry: why was I pestering him with nonsense and who was filling my head with all sorts of foolishness? Mother came to my defense, saying that boys my age often had military fantasies that this was quite natural and would soon pass. But Father continued to mutter and bemoan my future, predicting that I would turn into an idiotic soldier-boy.

Unable to bear my secret unshared, I turned once again to Maria Yakovlevna who, although she was a German, nevertheless in the present circumstances seemed a more appropriate interlocutor than my father.

But having learned a lesson from the first attempt, I began my secondary enquiries from afar.

Sitting at my window and looking at the distant houses, I asked my nanny: "Are those houses small, Fraulein?"

"Why small?"

"Well, like a bureau drawer?"

"There are all sorts of houses there. It's because it's far away that they seem small to you."

Of course, I knew that the houses were not the size of a bureau drawer, but this was a sly way of getting to ask about the horse guardsmen.

"And do big people walk around there?"

"Why are you so silly today? The usual sort of people walk around there."

"Like you, like Papa?"

"Like me, like Papa."

"And are the horse-guardsmen like you, like Papa?"

"There are all sorts of officers there, but they take the tall ones for soldiers."

"But can Papa shine?"

"What do you mean, shine?"

"Well, like a samovar?"

Fraulein even became interested, felt my head, and suggested I lie down.

"You'd better lie down and go to sleep . . . Maybe Papa will even be like a samovar, in your dreams."

"But even so, there's no tra-ta-ta when Papa walks around."

I don't know what Maria Yakovlevna thought, but she laughed merrily and covered me with the blanket.

How can you talk about horse-guardsmen with a German woman? So this was how God punished me!

Once Fraulein and I went for a walk. It began to rain and we took refuge in the shop of a shoemaker we knew, who, by the way, was supposed to take my shoes which he had made new soles for.

The shoemaker's shop was in a basement, so that only the feet of the passersby who splashed through the puddles were visible.

The shoemaker was a German and Maria Yakovlevna began to jabber with him in German, while a red-haired little boy occupied me. At first he dragged a cat about by the tail while it wailed; then he started to smear the chair with shoe polish. But seeing that this did not particularly divert me, he began to pronounce some sort of unconnected words, which I didn't understand but which for some reason made me blush. He was not up to explaining them to me, but he said that these words were "dirty" and that little boys were supposed to say them. When this pastime palled as well, he began to pick his nose and wipe his finger on my little suit, which I didn't care for one little bit.

Suddenly he exclaimed happily: "There's the caval-guard passing!"

I rushed to the window, in front of which stood two dirty boots with spurs and the corner of a gray greatcoat hung.

"What sort of a horse-guardsman is that? The others didn't even have legs?"

"He's the kind that when he takes out his crop and whips you you'll find out what kind he is."

"Why would he beat me? I haven't done anything to him."

The little boy was about to begin making faces, sticking out his tongue at me, but at this point Fraulein came out and took me home! Of course, I didn't tell anyone about my conversation with the basement urchin, but gazed ever longer and more sadly out my window. Could it really have deceived me and was that red-haired little boy right? Of course not! He was simply a wicked little boy!

But why then, my dear window, why won't you help me? Why won't you show me that vision again so that I would be sure that the wicked little boy had spoken out of envy. Neither Papa nor the German woman could explain anything to me.

Once Mother said to me: "You were always asking me about horse-guardsmen -- now I can make you happy. Today we're going to visit Aunt Olga and there you'll get to see a real horse-guardsman."

I didn't say anything, but couldn't wait for dinner to end, after which we were to call on our relatives. I played with the little girl Masha distractedly, and kept quarrelling with her because she wanted all the bentwood chairs to be boats, while I wanted them to be horses. Finally Mama came into the room in the company of a tall young officer. He had arms and legs, no gleam or music at all, but his boots weren't dirty, there was no crop, and he not only did not begin beating me, but quite the opposite, picked me up high, tossed me and asked:

"Was it you who was interested in horse-guardsmen, sonny? Well, take a look at how we are."

"But what did you have shining? I saw."

"That's a cuirass; we put it on only for parade."

"And the music?"

"That's our buglers."

"And do you have a horse?"

"Of course. Come with your mother to the manege, I'll show you."

And in fact he not only showed me his horse, he even let me ride it. And Mama looked on and smiled, and I noticed for the first time that my mother was young and beautiful. I told my new friend about everything: about the window and about the little boy, how they had both deceived me.

He patted me and said: "It will always be like that if you judge things from the attic or the basement. You have to approach a thing directly or closely, then you can recognize it. But perhaps you're sad that I have arms and legs? And that I'm not always in a glow?"

"No, it's much better this way. Who cares about the glow? -- Besides, you're real and I can touch you. And you're good. But the little boy from the basement is just a wicked little boy!"

But then why did our guests say that my papa became wise from my window?

Or are there different standards for big people and little people? I don't know, but I gratefully kissed my new friend for being able to hug his uniform and because he was so kind and handsome. But most of all -- real.

I think Mama would have willingly kissed him, too -- she's looking at us so tenderly. And I shout to her . . . "Mama, you kiss him too! It doesn't matter that he doesn't have his cuirass and that there's no music!"

1912