“Ah, it’s you, Yakov Petrovich!” our hero said, seizing yesterday’s guest by the arm.
“Later, later, excuse me, you can tell me later,” cried Mr. Goliadkin Jr., rushing ahead.
“Though, if you please, it seems you wanted, Yakov Petrovich, sort of…”
“What, sir? Explain quickly, sir.” Here Mr. Goliadkin’s guest from yesterday stopped as if with effort and reluctantly, and placed his ear directly to Mr. Goliadkin’s nose.
“I’ll tell you, Yakov Petrovich, that I am astonished at this reception…a reception which, obviously, I could in no way have expected.”
“There is a certain form for everything, sir. Report to his excellency’s secretary and then address yourself, as is proper, to the office manager. Do you have a petition?…”
“I hardly know you, Yakov Petrovich! You simply amaze me, Yakov Petrovich! Surely you don’t recognize me, or else you’re joking, owing to your innately merry character.”
“Ah, it’s you!” said Mr. Goliadkin Jr., as if he had just made out Mr. Goliadkin Sr. “So it’s you? Well, what, did you have a good night’s sleep?” Here Mr. Goliadkin Jr., smiling slightly—smiling officially and formally, not at all as he ought to have done (because in any case he owed Mr. Goliadkin Sr. a debt of gratitude), and so, smiling officially and formally, he added that he for his part was extremely glad that Mr. Goliadkin had had a good sleep; then he inclined slightly, minced slightly in place, glanced to the right, to the left, then dropped his eyes to the floor, aimed himself at the side door, and, rapidly whispering that he was on a special mission, darted into the next room. There was not a trace of him left.
“Well, that’s something!…” our hero whispered, dumbstruck for a moment. “That’s really something! There’s a circumstance for you!…” Here Mr. Goliadkin felt that for some reason he was covered with gooseflesh. “However,” he went on to himself, making his way to his section, “however, I’ve long been talking about this circumstance; I’ve long had a presentiment that he was on a special mission—just yesterday I said the man was certainly being employed on some special mission…”
“Did you finish yesterday’s document, Yakov Petrovich?” asked Anton Antonovich Setochkin as Mr. Goliadkin sat down next to him. “Do you have it here?”
“It’s here,” Mr. Goliadkin whispered with a somewhat lost look, gazing at his chief.
“A good thing, sir. I say it because Andrei Filippovich has already asked for it twice. His excellency is likely to request it at any moment…”
“No, sir, it’s finished…”
“Well, very good, sir.”
“I believe, Anton Antonovich, that I have always fulfilled my duties properly, and I am zealous in the matters entrusted to me by my superiors, sir, and apply myself to them diligently.”
“Yes, sir. Well, sir, but what do you mean to say by that?”
“Nothing, Anton Antonovich. I only wanted to explain, Anton Antonovich, that I…that is, I wanted to convey, that sometimes disloyalty and jealousy do not spare any person, seeking their repulsive daily food, sir…”
“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand you. That is, to which person are you alluding now?”
“That is, I only meant to say, Anton Antonovich, that I follow a straight path, and I scorn to take a roundabout path, that I am not an intriguer and, if I may be permitted to say so, I can be justly proud of it…”
“Yes, sir. That is all so, sir, and to the utmost of my understanding I render full justice to your reasoning; but also allow me, Yakov Petrovich, to observe to you that personal references are not entirely permissible in good society; that behind my back, for instance, I’m prepared to put up with it—because who isn’t denounced behind his back!—but to my face, as you will, but I, for instance, my good sir, will not allow insolent things to be said. I, my good sir, have grown gray in government service and will not allow insolent things to be said to me in my old age…”
“No, sir, I, Anton Antonovich, sir, you—you see, Anton Antonovich—it seems, Anton Antonovich, that you did not quite catch my meaning, sir. But, mercy me, Anton Antonovich, for my part I can only take it as as an honor, sir…”
“And we also ask to be excused, sir. We were taught in the old way, sir. And your way, the new way, it’s too late for us to learn. Up to now, it seems, my understanding has sufficed me in serving the fatherland. As you know yourself, my good sir, I have been decorated for twenty-five years of irreproachable service…”
“I am sensible, Anton Antonovich, for my part, I am perfectly sensible of all that, sir. But I’m not talking about that, sir, I’m talking about masks, Anton Antonovich…”
“About masks, sir?”
“That is, again you…I fear that here, too, you will apprehend the meaning from the other side, that is, the meaning of my speech, as you said yourself, Anton Antonovich. I am only developing a theme, that is, I am introducing the idea that people who wear masks are no longer a rarity, sir, and that it is now hard to recognize the man behind the mask, sir…”
“Well, sir, you know, it’s not really so hard, sir. Sometimes it’s even quite easy, sir, sometimes there’s no need to look far, sir.”
“No, sir, you know, Anton Antonovich, I’m talking, sir, I’m talking about myself, that I, for example, put on a mask only when there’s a need for it, that is, uniquely for carnivals or merry gatherings, speaking in a direct sense, but I don’t mask myself before people every day, speaking in another more hidden sense, sir. That is what I meant to say, Anton Antonovich.”
“Well, all right, for the time being let’s leave all that; besides, I have no time, sir,” said Anton Antonovich, getting up from his place and gathering some papers for a report to his excellency. “Your affair, I suppose, will not be slow to clarify itself in due time. You will see for yourself whom you are to fault and whom to blame, but for now I humbly beg you to spare me any further personal explanations and discussions harmful to the service…”
“No, sir, Anton Antonovich,” Mr. Goliadkin, grown slightly pale, began to say in the wake of the retreating Anton Antonovich, “I, Anton Antonovich, sort of, didn’t even think it, sir. What’s going on?” our hero went on to himself, left alone. “What winds are blowing here, and what’s the meaning of this new hitch?” Just as our disconcerted and half-crushed hero was preparing to resolve this new question, there came a noise from the next room, and some businesslike movement manifested itself, the door opened, and Andrei Filippovich, who just previously had absented himself on business to his excellency’s office, appeared in the doorway, breathless, and called Mr. Goliadkin. Knowing what it was about, and not wishing to keep Andrei Filippovich waiting, Mr. Goliadkin jumped up from his seat and, as was proper, immediately began bustling away for all he was worth, preparing and giving a final primping to the requested notebook, and preparing himself to set off, in the wake of the notebook and Andrei Filippovich, for his excellency’s office. Suddenly, and almost from under the arm of Andrei Filippovich, who just then was standing right in the doorway, Mr. Goliadkin Jr. darted into the room, bustling, breathless, worn out from work, with an important and decidedly official look, and went rolling straight up to Mr. Goliadkin Sr., who least of all expected an assault like that…
“The papers, Yakov Petrovich, the papers…His excellency kindly asks whether you have them ready,” Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s friend chirped in a rapid half-whisper. “Andrei Filippovich is waiting for you…”
“I know that without you,” Mr. Goliadkin said, also in a rapid half-whisper.
“No, Yakov Petrovich, I don’t mean that; not that at all, Yakov Petrovich; I sympathize, Yakov Petrovich, and am moved to heartfelt concern.”
“From which I humbly beg you to deliver me. Allow me, allow me, sir…”
“You will, of course, wrap them in a cover, Yakov Petrovich, and slip in a bookmark at page three—allow me, Yakov Petrovich…”
“No, allow me, finally…”
“And there’s a little ink bl
ot here, Yakov Petrovich, have you noticed the ink blot?…”
At this point Andrei Filippovich called Mr. Goliadkin a second time.
“Just a moment, Andrei Filippovich; I’ll just fix it a little, there…My dear sir, do you understand the Russian language?”
“It would be best to remove it with a knife, Yakov Petrovich, you’d better rely on me; you’d better not touch it yourself, Yakov Petrovich, but rely on me—I’ll just use a penknife on it…”
Andrei Filippovich called Mr. Goliadkin for the third time.
“For pity’s sake, where’s the blot? There doesn’t seem to be any blot here.”
“A huge little blot, and here it is! Allow me, I saw it here; allow me…only allow me, Yakov Petrovich, I’ll use a penknife here, I’m concerned, Yakov Petrovich, and with my penknife, in all sincerity…like so, and there’s an end to it…”
Here, and quite unexpectedly, Mr. Goliadkin Jr., suddenly, for no reason at all, overcoming Mr. Goliadkin Sr. in the momentary struggle that had arisen between them, and in any case totally against his will, took possession of the paper requested by his superiors, and, instead of scraping it with a penknife in all sincerity, as he had perfidiously assured Mr. Goliadkin Sr., quickly rolled it up, put it under his arm, in two bounds reached Andrei Filippovich, who had not noticed any of his antics, and flew with him to the director’s office. Mr. Goliadkin Sr. remained as if rooted to the spot, holding the penknife in his hand and as if preparing to scrape something with it…
Our hero had not yet quite understood his new circumstance. He had not yet come to his senses. He felt the blow, but thought it was just by chance. In terrible, indescribable anguish, he finally tore from his place and rushed straight to the director’s office, praying to heaven on the way, however, that it would all somehow work out for the best and be just by chance, nothing serious…In the last room before the director’s office, he ran head-on into his namesake and Andrei Filippovich. The two were already on their way back: Mr. Goliadkin stepped aside. Andrei Filippovich was smiling and talking cheerfully. Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s namesake was also smiling, fawning, mincing at a respectable distance from Andrei Filippovich, and whispering something into his ear with a delighted look, to which Andrei Filippovich nodded in a most benevolent fashion. All at once our hero understood the whole state of affairs. The thing was that his work (as he learned afterwards) had almost exceeded his excellency’s expectations and had actually arrived duly on time. His excellency was extremely pleased. It was even reported that his excellency had said thank you to Mr. Goliadkin Jr., a firm thank you; he had said he would remember it when the occasion arose and would never forget…Naturally, the first thing for Mr. Goliadkin to do was protest, protest with all his might, to the utmost possibility. Almost forgetting himself and pale as death, he rushed to Andrei Filippovich. But Andrei Filippovich, hearing that Mr. Goliadkin’s business was a private matter, refused to listen, observing resolutely that he did not have a free moment even for his own needs.
The dryness of his tone and the sharpness of the refusal struck Mr. Goliadkin. “I’d better get at it somehow from another side…I’d better go to Anton Antonovich.” To Mr. Goliadkin’s misfortune, Anton Antonovich, too, turned out to be unavailable: he was also busy with something somewhere. “It was not without purpose that he asked to be spared any explanations and discussions!” our hero thought. “That’s what he was aiming at—the old stitch! In that case I’ll simply be so bold as to entreat his excellency.”
Still pale and feeling his whole head in a complete muddle, greatly perplexed about what precisely he must venture upon, Mr. Goliadkin sat down on a chair. “It would be much better if all this was just by chance,” he kept thinking to himself. “Actually, such a shady business is even quite improbable. First of all, it’s nonsense; and second, it could never happen. I’ve probably imagined it somehow, or something else took place, and not what actually happened; or I must have gone myself…and somehow took myself for someone else…in short, it’s a completely impossible thing.”
No sooner had Mr. Goliadkin decided that it was a completely impossible thing than Mr. Goliadkin Jr. suddenly flew into the room with papers in both hands and under his arm. Having said some necessary word or two in passing to Andrei Filippovich, exchanged remarks with this one and that, exchanged courtesies with this one and that, exchanged familiarities with this one and that, Mr. Goliadkin Jr., evidently having no spare time to waste uselessly, seemed about to leave the room, but, luckily for Mr. Goliadkin Sr., he stopped right in the doorway and began to talk in passing with two or three young clerks who happened to be there. Mr. Goliadkin Sr. rushed straight for him. As soon as Mr. Goliadkin Jr. spotted Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s maneuver, he at once began looking around with great uneasiness to see if he could quickly slip away somewhere. But our hero was already holding yesterday’s guest by the sleeve. The clerks who surrounded the two titular councillors stepped back and waited with curiosity for what would happen. The old titular councillor was well aware that good opinion was not on his side now, he was well aware that there was an intrigue against him: the more necessary it was for him now to stand up for himself. The moment was decisive.
“Well, sir?” said Mr. Goliadkin Jr., looking rather insolently at Mr. Goliadkin Sr.
Mr. Goliadkin Sr. was barely breathing.
“I do not know, my dear sir,” he began, “in what way I can explain to you the strangeness of your behavior with me.”
“Well, sir. Go on, sir.” Here Mr. Goliadkin Jr. looked around and winked at the surrounding clerks, as if giving them to know that the comedy would begin precisely now.
“The insolence and shamelessness of your conduct with me, my dear sir, in the present case expose you still more…than all my words. Hope for nothing from your game: it is rather poor…”
“Well, Yakov Petrovich, tell me now, did you have a good night’s sleep?” replied Goliadkin Jr., looking Mr. Goliadkin Sr. straight in the eye.
“You forget yourself, my dear sir,” said the titular councillor, totally at a loss and barely feeling the floor under his feet, “I hope you will change your tone…”
“Sweetheart!!” said Mr. Goliadkin Jr., contriving a rather indecent grimace for Mr. Goliadkin Sr. and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, in the guise of a caress, seized his rather plump right cheek with two fingers. Our hero flared up like fire…As soon as Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s friend noticed that his adversary, trembling all over, numb with fury, red as a lobster, and, finally, driven to the ultimate limits, might even venture a formal attack, he immediately, and in the most shameless way, forestalled him in his turn. Having patted him a couple of times more on the cheek, having tickled him a couple of times more, having toyed with him in this way for another few seconds, to the great amusement of the surrounding young men, while he stood motionless and mad with rage, Mr. Goliadkin Jr., with revolting shamelessness, finally flicked Mr. Goliadkin Sr. on his taut little paunch and, with a most venomous and far-insinuating smile, said to him: “You’re a prankster, brother Yakov Petrovich, a prankster! You and I are going to be clever, Yakov Petrovich, very clever!” Then, and before our hero had time to recover in the slightest from this last attack, Mr. Goliadkin Jr. suddenly (first delivering a little smile to the surrounding spectators) assumed a most occupied, most busy, most official air, lowered his eyes to the ground, shriveled, shrank, and, saying quickly, “On a special mission,” kicked up his short leg, and darted into the next room. Our hero could not believe his eyes and was still unable to recover himself…
Finally he did recover. Realizing instantly that he was lost, annihilated in a certain sense, that he had besmirched himself and begrimed his reputation, that he had been laughed at and spat upon in the presence of strangers, that he had been treacherously insulted by the man whom he had regarded still yesterday as the first and most reliable of his friends, that he had finally flunked it for all he was worth—Mr. Goliadkin rushed in pursuit of his enemy. In the present moment he no longer wanted t
o think about the witnesses of his abuse. “They’re all in collusion with each other,” he said to himself, “supporting each other and setting each other against me.” However, having gone ten steps, our hero saw clearly that all pursuit was vain and useless, and therefore turned back. “You won’t get away,” he thought, “you’ll get trumped in due time, the sheep’s tears will be revisited on the wolf.” With fierce coolness and the most energetic resolve, Mr. Goliadkin reached his chair and sat down on it. “You won’t get away!” he said again. Now the matter had gone beyond any passive defense: it smacked of decision, of offense, and anyone who had seen Mr. Goliadkin at the moment when, flushed and barely controlling his agitation, he stabbed his pen into the inkstand and fiercely sent it scrawling over the paper, could have told beforehand that the matter would not just pass by, and would not end in some old-wife-ish way. He laid up a certain decision in the depths of his soul, and in the depths of his heart he vowed to fulfill it. In truth, he did not yet know very well how he would act, that is, better to say, he did not know at all; but never mind, it made no difference! “And one doesn’t get ahead in our age by imposture and shamelessness, my dear sir. Imposture and shamelessness, my dear sir, do not lead to any good, but end in the noose. Grishka Otrepyev{24} alone got ahead by imposture, my good sir, having deceived the blind people, and that not for long.” In spite of this last circumstance, Mr. Goliadkin resolved to wait until the mask fell from certain faces and something or other was laid bare. To that end it was necessary, first, that the office hours end as soon as possible, and until then our hero decided not to undertake anything. Later, when the office hours ended, he would take a certain measure. And then, having taken this measure, he would know how to act, how to lay out the whole future plan of his action, to smash the horn of pride and crush the serpent gnawing the dust in contemptible impotence.{25} Mr. Goliadkin could not allow himself to be dirtied like an old rag for wiping muddy boots. He could not agree to that, especially in the present case. If it had not been for the last disgrace, our hero might have decided to restrain his wrath, he might have decided to keep quiet, to submit and not protest too stubbornly; thus, he might have argued, stood his ground a little, proved that he was within his rights, then yielded a little, then he might have yielded a little more, then agreed completely, then, and especially once the other side had solemnly recognized that he was within his rights, then he might even have made peace, even waxed a little tenderhearted, and—who can tell?—a new friendship might even have been born, a firm, warm friendship, broader still than yesterday’s friendship, so that this friendship might finally have outshone the unpleasantness of the rather unseemly resemblance of the two persons, so that both titular councillors would have been extremely happy and would have lived on, finally, to be a hundred years old, and so on. Let’s finally say it all: Mr. Goliadkin was even beginning to regret a little that he had stood up for himself and for his rights and had at once gotten into trouble for it. “If he were to give in,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, “to say he was joking—I’d forgive him, I’d forgive him even more, if only he’d acknowledge it aloud. But I will not allow anyone to dirty me like an old rag. I haven’t allowed better people to dirty me like an old rag, much less will I permit this depraved man to try it. I’m not an old rag, I, good sir, am not an old rag!” In short, our hero made up his mind. “It’s your own fault, my good sir!” He made up his mind to protest and to protest with all his might to the utmost possibility. Such a man he was! He would in no way agree to permit himself to be insulted, much less would he allow himself to be dirtied like an old rag, and, finally, allow it to this totally depraved man. We won’t argue, however, we won’t argue. Maybe if someone had wanted, if someone, for example, had so absolutely wanted to turn Mr. Goliadkin into an old rag, he could have done so, could have done so without resistance and with impunity (Mr. Goliadkin sometimes felt it himself ), and the result would have been an old rag, and not Goliadkin—just a mean, dirty old rag, but this would not be a simple rag, this would be a rag with ambition, this would be a rag with animation and feelings—unrequited ambition and unrequited feelings, hidden deep within the dirty folds of this rag, but feelings all the same…
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