Tales of Chekhov 13 (final ) Love and other stories

'Holy saints!' cried the thin man in amazement. 'Misha! The friend of my childhood! Where have you dropped from?'

The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed at each other with eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded.

'My dear boy!' began the thin man after the kissing. 'This is unexpected! This is a surprise! Come have a good look at me! Just as handsome as I used to be! Just as great a darling and a dandy! Good gracious me! Well, and how are you? Made your fortune? Married? I am married as you see. . . . This is my wife Luise, her maiden name was Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion. . . . And this is my son Nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class. This is the friend of my childhood, Nafanya. We were boys at school together!'

Nafanail thought a little and took off his cap.

'We were boys at school together,' the thin man went on. 'Do you remember how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed Herostratus because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and I was nicknamed Ephialtes because I was fond of telling tales. Ho—ho! . . . we were children! . . . Don't be shy, Nafanya. Go nearer to him. And this is my wife, her maiden name was Vantsenbach, of the Lutheran persuasion. . . .'

Nafanail thought a little and took refuge behind his father's back.

'Well, how are you doing my friend?' the fat man asked, looking enthusiastically at his friend. 'Are you in the service? What grade have you reached?'

'I am, dear boy! I have been a collegiate assessor for the last two years and I have the Stanislav. The salary is poor, but that's no great matter! The wife gives music lessons, and I go in for carving wooden cigarette cases in a private way. Capital cigarette cases! I sell them for a rouble each. If any one takes ten or more I make a reduction of course. We get along somehow. I served as a clerk, you know, and now I have been transferred here as a head clerk in the same department. I am going to serve here. And what about you? I bet you are a civil councillor by now? Eh?'

'No dear boy, go higher than that,' said the fat man. 'I have risen to privy councillor already . . . I have two stars.'

The thin man turned pale and rigid all at once, but soon his face twisted in all directions in the broadest smile; it seemed as though sparks were flashing from his face and eyes. He squirmed, he doubled together, crumpled up. . . . His portmanteaus, bundles and cardboard boxes seemed to shrink and crumple up too. . . . His wife's long chin grew longer still; Nafanail drew himself up to attention and fastened all the buttons of his uniform.

'Your Excellency, I . . . delighted! The friend, one may say, of childhood and to have turned into such a great man! He—he!'

'Come, come!' the fat man frowned. 'What's this tone for? You and I were friends as boys, and there is no need of this official obsequiousness!'

'Merciful heavens, your Excellency! What are you saying. . . ?' sniggered the thin man, wriggling more than ever. 'Your Excellency's gracious attention is like refreshing manna. . . . This, your Excellency, is my son Nafanail, . . . my wife Luise, a Lutheran in a certain sense.'

The fat man was about to make some protest, but the face of the thin man wore an expression of such reverence, sugariness, and mawkish respectfulness that the privy councillor was sickened. He turned away from the thin man, giving him his hand at parting.

The thin man pressed three fingers, bowed his whole body and sniggered like a Chinaman: 'He—he—he!' His wife smiled. Nafanail scraped with his foot and dropped his cap. All three were agreeably overwhelmed.

THE DEATH OF A GOVERNMENT CLERK

ONE fine evening, a no less fine government clerk called Ivan Dmitritch Tchervyakov was sitting in the second row of the stalls, gazing through an opera glass at the Cloches de Corneville. He gazed and felt at the acme of bliss. But suddenly. . . . In stories one so often meets with this 'But suddenly.' The authors are right: life is so full of surprises! But suddenly his face puckered up, his eyes disappeared, his breathing was arrested . . . he took the opera glass from his eyes, bent over and . . . 'Aptchee!!' he sneezed as you perceive. It is not reprehensible for anyone to sneeze anywhere. Peasants sneeze and so do police superintendents, and sometimes even privy councillors. All men sneeze. Tchervyakov was not in the least confused, he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he had disturbed any one by his sneezing. But then he was overcome with confusion. He saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him in the first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck with his glove and muttering something to himself. In the old gentleman, Tchervyakov recognised Brizzhalov, a civilian general serving in the Department of Transport.

'I have spattered him,' thought Tchervyakov, 'he is not the head of my department, but still it is awkward. I must apologise.'

Tchervyakov gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in the general's ear.

'Pardon, your Excellency, I spattered you accidentally. . . .'

'Never mind, never mind.'

'For goodness sake excuse me, I . . . I did not mean to.'

'Oh, please, sit down! let me listen!'

Tchervyakov was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the stage. He gazed at it but was no longer feeling bliss. He began to be troubled by uneasiness. In the interval, he went up to Brizzhalov, walked beside him, and overcoming his shyness, muttered:

'I spattered you, your Excellency, forgive me . . . you see . . .

I didn't do it to . . . .'

'Oh, that's enough . . . I'd forgotten it, and you keep on about it!' said the general, moving his lower lip impatiently.

'He has forgotten, but there is a fiendish light in his eye,' thought Tchervyakov, looking suspiciously at the general. 'And he doesn't want to talk. I ought to explain to him . . . that I really didn't intend . . . that it is the law of nature or else he will think I meant to spit on him. He doesn't think so now, but he will think so later!'

On getting home, Tchervyakov told his wife of his breach of good manners. It struck him that his wife took too frivolous a view of the incident; she was a little frightened, but when she learned that Brizzhalov was in a different department, she was reassured.

'Still, you had better go and apologise,' she said, 'or he will think you don't know how to behave in public.'

'That's just it! I did apologise, but he took it somehow queerly . . . he didn't say a word of sense. There wasn't time to talk properly.'

Next day Tchervyakov put on a new uniform, had his hair cut and went to Brizzhalov's to explain; going into the general's reception room he saw there a number of petitioners and among them the general himself, who was beginning to interview them. After questioning several petitioners the general raised his eyes and looked at Tchervyakov.

'Yesterday at the Arcadia, if you recollect, your Excellency,' the latter began, 'I sneezed and . . . accidentally spattered . . . Exc. . . .'

'What nonsense. . . . It's beyond anything! What can I do for you,' said the general addressing the next petitioner.

'He won't speak,' thought Tchervyakov, turning pale; 'that means that he is angry. . . . No, it can't be left like this. . . . I will explain to him.'

When the general had finished his conversation with the last of the petitioners and was turning towards his inner apartments, Tchervyakov took a step towards him and muttered:

'Your Excellency! If I venture to trouble your Excellency, it is simply from a feeling I may say of regret! . . . It was not intentional if you will graciously believe me.'

The general made a lachrymose face, and waved his hand.

'Why, you are simply making fun of me, sir,' he said as he closed the door behind him.

'Where's the making fun in it?' thought Tchervyakov, 'there is nothing of the sort! He is a general, but he can't understand. If that is how it is I am not going to apologise to that fanfaron any