“Home now, get going…”
“Home!” shouted Petrushka, climbing onto the tailboard.
“What a crow’s gullet!”{7} thought Mr. Goliadkin. Meanwhile the carriage had already driven far beyond the Izmailovsky Bridge. Suddenly our hero pulled the string with all his might and shouted to his coachman to turn back immediately. The coachman turned the horses, and two minutes later they drove into Olsufy Ivanovich’s courtyard again. “No need, fool, no need! Go back!” cried Mr. Goliadkin, and it was as if the coachman expected this order: without protesting or stopping by the porch, he drove around the whole courtyard and out to the street once more.
Mr. Goliadkin did not go home but, having passed the Semyonovsky Bridge, gave orders to turn down a lane and stop by a tavern of rather modest appearance. Getting out of the carriage, our hero paid the driver and in this way finally rid himself of his equipage, ordered Petrushka to go home and wait for his return, while he himself went into the tavern, took a separate room, and ordered dinner. He felt quite poorly, and his head was in total disarray and chaos. For a long time he paced the room in agitation; finally he sat down on a chair, his forehead propped in his hands, and began trying with all his might to consider and resolve certain things relating to his present situation…
CHAPTER IV
THE DAY, THE BIRTHDAY festivity of Klara Olsufyevna, the only-begotten daughter of State Councillor Berendeev,{8} once Mr. Goliadkin’s benefactor—the day, marked by a splendid, magnificent dinner party, a dinner party such as had not been seen for a long time within the walls of officials’ apartments by the Izmailovsky Bridge and roundabouts—a dinner more like some sort of Balshazzar’s feast than a dinner—which had something Babylonian in it with regard to splendor, luxury, and decorum, with Clicquot champagne, with oysters and fruit from Eliseevs’ and Miliutin’s shops, with various fatted calves and the official table of ranks{9} —this festive day, marked by such a festive dinner, concluded with a splendid ball, a small, intimate, family ball, but splendid all the same with regard to taste, good breeding, and decorum. Of course, I agree completely, such balls do take place, but rarely. Such balls, more like family rejoicings than balls, can be given only in such houses as, for example, the house of State Councillor Berendeev. I say more: I even doubt that all state councillors can give such balls. Oh, if I were a poet!—to be sure, at least such a poet as Homer or Pushkin;{10} you can’t butt into it with less talent—I would unfailingly portray for you with bright colors and sweeping brushstrokes, O readers! all of that highly festive day. Nay, I would begin my poem with the dinner, I would especially emphasize that amazing and at the same time solemn moment when the first toasting cup was raised in honor of the queen of the feast. I would portray for you, first, these guests immersed in reverent silence and expectation, more like Demosthenean eloquence{11} than silence. I would then portray for you Andrei Filippovich, even having a certain right to primacy as the eldest of the guests, adorned with gray hairs and with orders befitting those gray hairs, rising from his place and raising above his head the toasting cup of sparkling wine—wine brought purposely from a far kingdom to be drunk at such moments, a wine more like the nectar of the gods than wine. I would portray for you the guests and the happy parents of the queen of the feast, who also raised their glasses after Andrei Filippovich and turned on him their eyes filled with expectation. I would portray for you how this oft- mentioned Andrei Filippovich, having first let drop a tear into his glass, uttered a felicitation and a wish, pronounced the toast, and drank to the health…But, I confess, I fully confess, I could never portray all the solemnity of that moment when the queen of the feast herself, Klara Olsufyevna, reddening like a rose in spring with the flush of bliss and modesty, from the fullness of her feelings fell into the arms of her tender mother, how the tender mother waxed tearful, and how the father himself thereupon wept, the venerable old man and state councillor Olsufy Ivanovich, who had lost the use of his legs from longtime service, and whom destiny had rewarded for his zeal with a bit of capital, a house, country estates, and a beautiful daughter—wept like a child, and said through his tears that his excellency was a beneficent man. And I could never, yes, precisely never, portray for you the general enthusiasm of hearts that inevitably followed this moment—an enthusiasm clearly manifested even in the behavior of one youthful registrar (at that moment more like a state councillor than a registrar), who also waxed tearful as he listened to Andrei Filippovich. In his turn, Andrei Filippovich was at this solemn moment quite unlike a collegiate councillor{12} and the head of an office in a certain department—no, he seemed to be something else…I do not know precisely what, but not a collegiate councillor. He was loftier! Finally…oh, why do I not possess the secret of a lofty, powerful style, a solemn style, so as to portray all these beautiful and instructive moments of human life, arranged as if on purpose to prove how virtue sometimes triumphs over ill intention, freethinking, vice, and envy! I shall say nothing, but silently—which will be better than any eloquence—point out to you that fortunate youth, who was approaching his twenty-sixth spring, Vladimir Semyonovich, Andrei Filippovich’s nephew, who in his turn got up from his place, in his turn is pronouncing a toast, and towards whom are directed the tearful eyes of the parents of the queen of the feast, the proud eyes of Andrei Filippovich, the modest eyes of the queen of the feast herself, the admiring eyes of the guests, and even the decently envious eyes of some of the brilliant youth’s young colleagues. I will say nothing, though I cannot help observing that everything in this youth—who was more like an old man than a youth, speaking in a sense advantageous to him—everything, from his blossoming cheeks to the rank of assessor he bore, everything in this solemn moment was all but proclaiming: see to what a high degree good behavior can bring a man! I will not describe how, finally, Anton Antonovich Setochkin,{13} a section chief in a certain department, a colleague of Andrei Filippovich’s and once of Olsufy Ivanovich’s, and at the same time an old friend of the house and Klara Olsufyevna’s godfather, a little old man with snow-white hair, offering a toast in his turn, crowed like a rooster and recited merry verses; how, with such a decent forgetting of decency, if it is possible to put it so, he made the whole company laugh to tears, and how Klara Olsufyevna herself, on her parents’ orders, gave him a kiss for being so merry and amiable. I will only say that the guests, who after such a dinner must, naturally, have felt themselves as family and brothers to each other, finally got up from the table; then how the oldsters and solid men, after spending a short time in friendly conversation and even certain, to be sure quite decent and polite, confidences, decorously proceeded to the other room and, not to lose precious time, having divided themselves into parties, with a sense of their own dignity sat down at tables covered with green baize; how the ladies, seating themselves in the drawing room, all suddenly became extraordinarily amiable and began talking about various matters; how, finally, the highly esteemed host himself, who had lost the use of his legs from true and faithful service and had been rewarded for it with all the abovementioned things, began to walk about on crutches among his guests, supported by Vladimir Semyonovich and Klara Olsufyevna, and how, also suddenly becoming extraordinarily obliging, he decided to improvise a modest little ball, despite the expense; how, to that end, an efficient youth (the one who at dinner had been more like a state councillor than a youth) was dispatched for musicians; how the musicians then arrived, a whole eleven of them in number; and how, finally, at exactly half- past eight, the inviting strains of a French quadrille and various other dances rang out…Needless to say, my pen is too weak, sluggish, and dull for a proper portrayal of the ball improvised by the extraordinarily obliging gray-haired host. And how, may I ask, can I, the humble narrator of the adventures of Mr. Goliadkin—highly curious adventures in their way, however—how can I portray this extraordinary and decorous mixture of beauty, brilliance, decency, gaiety, amiable solidity and solid amiability, friskiness, joy, all the games and laughter of all these official ladies, more like fairies than ladies—speaking in a sense advantageous to them—with their lily-and-rose shoulders and faces, their airy waists, and their friskily playful, homeopathic (speaking in high style) little feet? How, finally, shall I portray their brilliant official partners, merry and respectable, youthful and sedate, joyful and decently nebulous, those smoking a pipe during the intervals between dances in a remote little green room and those not smoking in the intervals—partners who, from first to last, were all bearers of a decent rank and name—partners deeply imbued with a sense of elegance and of their own dignity; partners who for the most part spoke French with the ladies, and if they spoke Russian, expressed themselves in the highest tone, in compliments and profound phrases—partners who perhaps only in the smoking room allowed themselves a few amiable departures from language of the highest tone, a few phrases of a friendly and polite brevity, such as, for example: “Thus and so, Petka, you cut some nice capers during the polka” or “Thus and so, Vasya, you really nailed down your little lady the way you wanted!” For all this, as I have already had the honor of explaining to you above, O readers! my pen is inadequate, and therefore I
