Forty Stories

actors, he no longer felt he was the most blessed among mortals. He was suffering torments of anxiety. During the entr’acte he sought out Brizzhalov, hovered around him for a while, and at last, gaining courage, he murmured: “Excellency, I sneezed over you. Forgive me. I didn’t … I really haven’t …”

“Oh, this is too much!” the general exploded, his lower lip twitching with impatience. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“He’s forgotten all about it, but there’s a mean look in his eyes,” Chervyakov thought, glancing suspiciously in the general’s direction. “He refuses to talk to me. I’ll have to explain I had absolutely no intention of … Why, it’s a law of nature!… He may even think I spat on him deliberately. Maybe not now, but later that’s what he’ll think.”

As soon as he got home, Chervyakov told his wife about this unfortunate happening. It occurred to him that his wife took the news with altogether too much levity. There was a moment when she seemed alarmed, but when she understood that Brizzhalov belonged “to another bureau,” she regained her composure.

“Still, I think you should go and apologize,” she said. “Otherwise he may think you don’t know how to behave in public.”

“That’s just it! I’ve already apologized, but he behaved so strangely.… His words didn’t make sense. He gave me no time to explain.…”

The next day Chervyakov put on his new frock coat, had a haircut, and went to offer his excuses to Brizzhalov. He found the general’s reception room full of petitioners, the general himself standing there and listening to the petitions. He listened to quite a few of them before he raised his eyes and recognized Chervyakov.

“Yesterday, Your Excellency … if you remember … at the Arcadia Theater … I sneezed, sir … and quite accidently splashed a little …”

“Balderdash!” snapped the general. “God knows what’s going to happen next! What can I do for you?” he went on, addressing the next petitioner.

“He won’t talk to me,” Chervyakov thought, turning pale. “He’s furious with me. I can’t possibly leave it like that. I’ll have to explain to him …”

When the general had finished talking with the last of the petitioners and was turning to enter his private apartments, Chervyakov hurried after him, muttering: “Your Excellency, may I presume to trouble you for a moment … feelings dictated, you might say, by a deep regret … not intentionally … extremely sorry …”

The general looked as though he were about to break out in tears, and waved him away.

“You’re making fun of me, my dear sir!” the general said, before shutting the door in his face.

“So I am making fun of him, am I?” Chervyakov thought. “It’s not a laughing matter! He’s a general, and knows nothing. Well, I won’t bother to apologize any more to that brazen old fool! Devil take him! I’ll write him a letter, and never set eyes on him again. God in heaven, I’ll never trouble him again.”

So Chervyakov thought as he made his way home. But he did not write a letter to the general. He thought and thought, but he could never put the words in the right order. On the following day he again visited the general to offer his excuses.

“Yesterday I ventured to trouble Your Excellency,” he murmured, as soon as the general turned a questioning glance in his direction. “I assure Your Excellency I never intended to make fun of you. I’ve come to apologize for sneezing, for splashing a little … Making fun of Your Excellency was the last thing on my mind. I wouldn’t dare to—I really wouldn’t. If we made fun of people, I ask you, what would happen to respect for the individual?”

“Get out of here!” the general roared, livid and shaking with rage.

“What were you saying, sir?” Chervyakov whispered.

“Get out!” the general repeated, and he stamped his foot.

In the living body of Chervyakov something snapped. He neither heard nor saw anything as he backed towards the door, went out into the street, and shuffled slowly away. Mechanically he put one foot before the other, reached his home, and without taking off his frock coat he lay down on the divan and died.

July 1883

¹ Chervyak means “worm.”

At the Post Office

A FEW days ago we attended the funeral of the beautiful young wife of our postmaster, Sladkopertsov. According to traditions handed down from our forefathers, the burial was followed by the “commemoration,” which took place at the post office.

While the pancakes were being offered round, the old widower was weeping bitterly.

“Those pancakes are just as pink as my poor darling,” he said. “So beautiful she was. Indeed she was …”

“Well, that’s true enough,” we all chanted in unison. “She really was beautiful—no doubt about it.”

“True, true. Everyone was amazed when they saw her. Oh, but, gentlemen, I did not love her for her beauty or her gentle disposition alone. It’s natural for women to have these qualities, and many times one finds them in this world below. I loved her for another quality entirely. The truth is I loved my poor darling—may God grant her to enter the Kingdom of Heaven—because in spite of her playfulness and joie de vivre she was always faithful to her husband. She was faithful to me though she was only twenty, and I shall soon be past sixty. She was faithful to her old man!”

The deacon, who was sharing our meal, expressed his disbelief by means of an eloquent, bellowlike cough.

“Why, don’t you believe me?” The widower turned in his direction.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” the deacon said in some confusion. “But you know … young wives nowadays … what is it called?… rendezvous … sauce provencale …”

“Then you don’t believe me! Well, I’ll prove it! I kept her faithful to me by means of certain strategical efforts on my part—you might call them fortifications. Because of what I did, and because I am a very cunning man, it was