But I would not weary you, my dear sir, with my letter, if I were not firmly convinced that the nobility of your heart’s feelings and your open, straightforward character would point you to the means for setting all omissions to rights and restoring everything as it was before.
In the fullest hopes, I venture to rest assured that you for your part will not take offense at my letter, and with that will not refuse to explain yourself specifically on this occasion in writing, through the mediation of my man.
In expectation, I have the honor of remaining, my dear sir,
Your most humble servant,
“Well, that’s all fine. The deed is done; it’s even gone as far as writing. But who is to blame? He himself is to blame: he himself has driven a man to the necessity of requesting written documents. And I’m within my rights…”
Having reread the letter for a last time, Mr. Goliadkin folded it, sealed it, and summoned Petrushka. Petrushka appeared, as was his custom, with sleepy eyes and extremely angry at something.
“Here, brother, take this letter…understand?”
Petrushka was silent.
“Take it and bring it to the department; there you’ll find the man on duty, Provincial Secretary Vakhrameev. Vakhrameev is on duty today. Do you understand that?”
“I understand.”
“ ‘I understand’! You can’t say: ‘I understand, sir.’ You’ll ask for the clerk Vakhrameev and tell him, say, thus and so, say, my master sends his respects and humbly asks you to consult our department address book, say, for where Titular Councillor Goliadkin lives.”
Petrushka said nothing and, as it seemed to Mr. Goliadkin, smiled.
“Well, so then, Pyotr, you’ll ask for the address and find out where the newly hired clerk Goliadkin lives?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll ask the address, and take the letter to that address. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“If there…where you take this letter—the gentleman to whom you give the letter, this Goliadkin…Why are you laughing, blockhead?”
“Why should I laugh? What’s it to me? It’s nothing, sir. The likes of us oughtn’t to go laughing…”
“Well, so then…if that gentleman asks, say, how’s your master, how is it with him; what, say, is he sort of…well, if he starts asking questions—you keep mum and answer, say, my master’s all right, but he asks, say, for an answer in your own hand. Understand?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Well, then, say, my master, say, tell him, he’s all right, say, and in good health, and is, say, about to go visiting; but he asks you, say, for an answer in writing. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Well, off you go.”
“So I’ve also got to work on this blockhead! He laughs to himself, and that’s the end. What’s he laughing at? I’ve lived my way into trouble, lived my way into trouble like this! However, maybe it will all turn out for the best… That crook will most likely drag about for a couple of hours, or else disappear somewhere. Can’t send him anywhere. Ah, such trouble!…ah, such trouble’s come over me!…”
Thus, fully aware of his trouble, our hero decided on a passive two-hour role of waiting for Petrushka. For about an hour he paced the room, smoked, then abandoned his pipe and sat down with some book, then lay on the sofa, then picked up his pipe again, then again began to rush about the room. He tried to reason, but was decidedly unable to reason about anything. Finally, the agony of his passive condition reached the ultimate degree, and Mr. Goliadkin decided to take a certain measure. “Petrushka won’t come for another hour,” he thought. “I can give the key to the caretaker, and meanwhile sort of…investigate the affair, investigate it for my own part.” Losing no time and hastening to investigate the affair, Mr. Goliadkin took his hat, left the room, locked the apartment, stopped at the caretaker’s, handed him the keys along with ten kopecks—Mr. Goliadkin had somehow become extraordinarily generous—and set off for where he had to go. Mr. Goliadkin set off on foot, first, for the Izmailovsky Bridge. He spent half an hour walking. On reaching the goal of his journey, he went straight into the courtyard of the familiar house and looked at the windows of State Councillor Berendeev’s apartment. Except for the three windows hung with red curtains, all the rest were dark. “Olsufy Ivanovich must have no guests today,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, “they must all be at home by themselves now.” Having stood in the courtyard for some time, our hero was about to decide on something. But the decision was not destined to take place, evidently. Mr. Goliadkin finished thinking, waved his hand, and went back out to the street. “No, this is not where I needed to come. What am I going to do here?…But now I’d better sort of…and investigate the affair in person.” Having taken such a decision, Mr. Goliadkin set off for his department. The way was not short, moreover it was terribly dirty, and wet snow was pouring down in the thickest flakes. But at the present time, it seems, there were no difficulties for our hero. He did get soaked, true, and also not a little dirty, “but that was just while he was about it, and meanwhile the goal was attained.” And indeed Mr. Goliadkin was already nearing his goal. The dark mass of the enormous official building showed black in the distance before him. “Wait!” he thought, “where am I going and what will I do there? Suppose I learn where he lives; and meanwhile Petrushka is probably already back and has brought me the answer. I’m only wasting my precious time for nothing, I’ve only wasted my time this way. Well, never mind; it can all still be put right. Although, and in fact, shouldn’t I go and see Vakhrameev? Well, but no! I can later…Ehh, there was no need at all to go out! But no, that’s my character! Such an urge, whether it’s needed or not, to be always trying to run ahead somehow…Hm…what time is it? Must be nine already. Petrushka may come and not find me at home. It was sheer stupidity for me to go out…Ah, really, what a chore!”
Having thus sincerely acknowledged that he had committed a sheer folly, our hero ran back home to Shestilavochnaya. He arrived there weary, worn out. He learned from the caretaker that Petrushka had never dreamed of coming. “Well, so! I anticipated that,” our hero thought, “and yet it’s already nine o’clock. What a scoundrel! Eternally drinking somewhere! Lord God! what a day has fallen to my miserable lot!” Reflecting and lamenting like this, Mr. Goliadkin unlocked his apartment, fetched a light, got undressed, smoked a pipe, and, exhausted, weary, broken, hungry, lay down on the sofa to wait for Petrushka. The candle burned dimly, light flickered over the walls…Mr. Goliadkin stared and stared, thought and thought, and finally fell asleep like the dead.
He woke up late. The candle had burned down almost entirely, smoked, and was ready at any moment to go out altogether. Mr. Goliadkin jumped up, roused himself, and remembered everything, decidedly everything. From behind the partition came Petrushka’s dense snoring. Mr. Goliadkin rushed to the window—not a light anywhere. He opened the vent pane—stillness; the city slept like the dead. Meaning it was around two or three o’clock; and so it was: the clock behind the partition strained and struck two. Mr. Goliadkin rushed behind the partition.
Somehow, though after long efforts, he shook Petrushka awake and managed to sit him up in bed. During that time the candle went out completely. About ten minutes passed before Mr. Goliadkin managed to find another candle and light it. During that time Petrushka managed to fall asleep again. “You rogue, you blackguard!” said Mr. Goliadkin, shaking him awake again. “Get up, wake up, will you?” After half an hour of efforts, Mr. Goliadkin managed, however, to rouse his servant completely and drag him from behind the partition. Only then did our hero see that Petrushka was, as they say, dead drunk and barely able to keep on his feet.
“You lout!” cried Mr. Goliadkin. “You brigand! You’ve cut off my head! Lord, where did he unload that letter? Ah, God in heaven, what if it…And why did I write it? As if I had to write it! Fool that I am, galloping away with my vanity! There’s where I got with my vanity! That’s vanity for you, you scoundrel, that’s vanity for you!…Hey, you, what did you do with that letter, you brigand! Who did you give it to?”
“I never gave anybody any letter; and I never had any letter…that’s what!”
Mr. Goliadkin wrung his hands in despair.
“Listen, Pyotr…you listen, you listen to me…”
“I’m listening…”
