The country gentleman coughed and blew his nose loudly on his checked pocket handkerchief. But this was no use either. He was still unheard. The silence lasted for two minutes. Voldyrev took a rouble note from his pocket and laid it on an open book before the clerk. The clerk wrinkled up his forehead, drew the book towards him with an anxious air and closed it.
'A little inquiry. . . . I want only to find out on what grounds the heirs of Princess Gugulin. . . . May I trouble you?'
The clerk, absorbed in his own thoughts, got up and, scratching his elbow, went to a cupboard for something. Returning a minute later to his table he became absorbed in the book again: another rouble note was lying upon it.
'I will trouble you for one minute only. . . . I have only to make an inquiry.
The clerk did not hear, he had begun copying something.
Voldyrev frowned and looked hopelessly at the whole scribbling brotherhood.
'They write!' he thought, sighing. 'They write, the devil take them entirely!'
He walked away from the table and stopped in the middle of the room, his hands hanging hopelessly at his sides. The porter, passing again with glasses, probably noticed the helpless expression of his face, for he went close up to him and asked him in a low voice:
'Well? Have you inquired?'
'I've inquired, but he wouldn't speak to me.'
'You give him three roubles,' whispered the porter.
'I've given him two already.'
'Give him another.'
Voldyrev went back to the table and laid a green note on the open book.
The clerk drew the book towards him again and began turning over the leaves, and all at once, as though by chance, lifted his eyes to Voldyrev. His nose began to shine, turned red, and wrinkled up in a grin.
'Ah . . . what do you want?' he asked.
'I want to make an inquiry in reference to my case. . . . My name is Voldyrev.'
'With pleasure! The Gugulin case, isn't it? Very good. What is it then exactly?'
Voldyrev explained his business.
The clerk became as lively as though he were whirled round by a hurricane. He gave the necessary information, arranged for a copy to be made, gave the petitioner a chair, and all in one instant. He even spoke about the weather and asked after the harvest. And when Voldyrev went away he accompanied him down the stairs, smiling affably and respectfully, and looking as though he were ready any minute to fall on his face before the gentleman. Voldyrev for some reason felt uncomfortable, and in obedience to some inward impulse he took a rouble out of his pocket and gave it to the clerk. And the latter kept bowing and smiling, and took the rouble like a conjuror, so that it seemed to flash through the air.
'Well, what people!' thought the country gentleman as he went out into the street, and he stopped and mopped his brow with his handkerchief.
A Tragic Actor
by Anton Chekhov
IT was the benefit night of Fenogenov, the tragic actor. They were acting 'Prince Serebryany.' The tragedian himself was playing Vyazemsky; Limonadov, the stage manager, was playing Morozov; Madame Beobahtov, Elena. The performance was a grand success. The tragedian accomplished wonders indeed. When he was carrying off Elena, he held her in one hand above his head as he dashed across the stage. He shouted, hissed, banged with his feet, tore his coat across his chest. When he refused to fight Morozov, he trembled all over as nobody ever trembles in reality, and gasped loudly. The theatre shook with applause. There were endless calls. Fenogenov was presented with a silver cigarette-case and a bouquet tied with long ribbons. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs and urged their men to applaud, many shed tears. . . . But the one who was the most enthusiastic and most excited was Masha, daughter of Sidoretsky the police captain. She was sitting in the first row of the stalls beside her papa; she was ecstatic and could not take her eyes off the stage even between the acts. Her delicate little hands and feet were quivering, her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks turned paler and paler. And no wonder -- she was at the theatre for the first time in her life.
'How well they act! how splendidly!' she said to her papa the police captain, every time the curtain fell. How good Fenogenov is!'
And if her papa had been capable of reading faces he would have read on his daughter's pale little countenance a rapture that was almost anguish. She was overcome by the acting, by the play, by the surroundings. When the regimental band began playing between the acts, she closed her eyes, exhausted.
'Papa!' she said to the police captain during the last interval, 'go behind the scenes and ask them all to dinner to-morrow!'
The police captain went behind the scenes, praised them for all their fine acting, and complimented Madame Beobahtov.
'Your lovely face demands a canvas, and I only wish I could wield the brush!'
And with a scrape, he thereupon invited the company to dinner.
'All except the fair sex,' he whispered. 'I don't want the actresses, for I have a daughter.'
Next day the actors dined at the police captain's. Only three turned up, the manager Limonadov, the tragedian Fenogenov, and the comic man Vodolazov; the others sent excuses. The dinner was a dull affair. Limonadov kept telling the police captain how much he respected him, and how highly he thought of all persons in authority; Vodolazov mimicked drunken merchants and Armenians; and Fenogenov (on his passport his name was Knish), a tall, stout Little Russian with black eyes and frowning brow, declaimed 'At the portals of the great,' and 'To be or not to be.' Limonadov, with tears in his eyes, described his interview with the former Governor, General Kanyutchin. The police captain listened, was bored, and smiled affably. He was well satisfied, although Limonadov smelt strongly of burnt feathers, and Fenogenov was wearing a hired dress coat and boots trodden down at heel. They pleased his daughter and made her lively, and that was enough for him. And Masha never took her eyes off the actors. She had never before seen such clever, exceptional people!
In the evening the police captain and Masha were at the theatre again. A week later the actors dined at the police captain's again, and after that came almost every day either to dinner or supper. Masha became more and more devoted to the theatre, and went there every evening.
She fell in love with the tragedian. One fine morning, when the police captain had gone to meet the bishop, Masha ran away with Limonadov's company and married her hero on the way. After celebrating the wedding, the actors composed a long and touching letter and sent it to the police captain.
It was the work of their combined efforts.
'Bring out the motive, the motive!' Limonadov kept saying as he dictated to the comic man. 'Lay on the respect. . . . These official chaps like it. Add something of a sort . . . to draw a tear.'
The answer to this letter was most discomforting. The police captain disowned his daughter for marrying, as he said, 'a stupid, idle Little Russian with no fixed home or occupation.'
And the day after this answer was received Masha was writing to her father.
'Papa, he beats me! Forgive us!'
He had beaten her, beaten her behind the scenes, in the presence of Limonadov, the washerwoman, and two lighting men. He remembered how, four days before the wedding, he was sitting in the London Tavern with the whole company, and all were talking about Masha. The company were advising him to 'chance it,' and Limonadov, with tears in his eyes urged: 'It would be stupid and irrational to let slip such an opportunity! Why, for a sum like that one would go to Siberia, let alone getting married! When you marry and have a theatre of your own, take me into your company. I shan't be master then, you'll be master.'
Fenogenov remembered it, and muttered with clenched fists:
'If he doesn't send money I'll smash her! I won't let myself be made a fool of, damn my soul!'
At one provincial town the company tried to give Masha the slip, but Masha found out, ran to the station, and got there when the second bell had rung and the actors had all taken their seats.
'I've been shamefully treated by your father,' said the tragedian; 'all is over between us!'
