He began to weep.
The janitor looked at him sympathetically and said: “Don’t break your heart over it, sir. If you really need the damned Armenian so, then you leave the country too, go to the address bureau there and you’ll find him where the address is.”
Saranin did not grasp the absurdity of what the janitor was saying. He took heart.
He ran home at once, whirled like a hurricane into the head janitor’s office, and demanded that the head janitor arrange for a foreign passport without delay. But suddenly he remembered: “But where am I to go?
V.
The damned potion was doing its evil work as slowly and relentlessly as fate. With every passing day Saranin grew smaller and smaller. His clothes hung on him like a sack.
The people who knew him wondered. They said:
“Aren’t you sort of smaller? Have you stopped wearing heels?” “You’ve gotten thinner too.” “You’re working too hard.” “What’s the point of killing yourself?”
Finally whenever they met him they would gasp: “What is the matter with you?”
Saranin’s acquaintances began jeering at him behind his back: “He’s growing down.” “He’s striving toward the minimum.”
His wife finally noticed it a little later. He had been diminishing before her very eyes, gradually—and she had paid no attention. She noticed it from the baggy appearance of his clothing.
At first she roared with laughter at the peculiar decrease in her husband’s dimensions. Then she began to get angry.
“This is very, very strange and indecent,” she said. “Could I really have married such a Lilliputian!”
Soon it became necessary to alter all his clothing. All his old things were falling off him, his trousers came up to his ears, and his top hat fell down to his shoulders.
One day the head janitor of the building came into the kitchen.
“What’s going on around here?” he asked the cook sternly.
“Ain’t none of my affair,” fat red-faced Matryona was just about to burst out angrily, but she caught herself in time and said: “Ain’t nothing special going on. Everything’s just like always.”
“But look, your master’s started manifesting certain actions—now, is this permitted? What we really should do is hand him over to the law,” the head janitor said very sternly.
The chain on his belly bounced angrily.
Matryona suddenly sat down on a trunk and began to cry.
“You don’t have to tell me, Sidor Pavlovich,” she said. “The mistress and I can’t get over it, we can’t figure out what’s the matter with him.”
“For what reason? And on what grounds?” the head janitor exclaimed angrily. “Now is this really permitted?”
“Only one comfort,” said the cook, sniffling, “he don’t eat so much grub.”
The longer—the smaller.
Domestics, tailors, and everyone Saranin happened to come in contact with began to treat him with un-concealed contempt. He would for instance be running to work—a little man, barely able to drag an enormous briefcase with both his hands—and he would hear behind him the gloating laughter of a doorman, a janitor, of cabbies, of kids.
“Our nice little gentleman!” said the head janitor.
Saranin tasted much gall. He lost his wedding ring. His wife made a scene. She wrote to her parents in Moscow.
“The damned Armenian!” Saranin thought.
He often recalled how the Armenian, in counting out the drops, had poured too much in.
“Oh!” Saranin had exclaimed.
“Do not worry, dear heart, that is my mistake; I will charge you nothing for it.”
Saranin even went to a doctor. As he examined him he made playful comments. He found everything in order.
Or Saranin would be paying a visit to someone. At first the doorman would not let him in.
“Now, who would you be?” Saranin would tell him.
“I don’t know,” the doorman would say; “our folks don’t receive this kind.”
VI.
At work, in the office, people at first cast glances at him and laughed. Especially the young men. Still alive were the traditions of the colleagues of Akakii Akakievich Bashmachkin.
Then they began to grumble and speak what was on their minds.
The doorman now began to remove his overcoat with obvious reluctance.
“Look at the kind of officials we have nowadays,” he grumbled; “such small fry. What can you expect to get from a type like this at Christmas?”
And to keep up his prestige Saranin was forced to tip more lavishly and more frequently than before. But this did very little good. The doorman accepted the money, but looked at Saranin suspiciously.
Saranin blurted out to one of his colleagues that it was an Armenian who had done him dirt. The rumor about an Armenian intrigue quickly spread through the office. It even reached other offices …
The head of the office on one occasion came upon the little official in the hall. He looked him over in surprise. He said nothing. He returned to his office.
Then it was deemed necessary to report the matter. The head of the office asked: “Has this been going on long?”
The deputy head began to stammer.
“It’s a pity you didn’t notice it in good time,” the director said acidly, without waiting for an answer. “It’s strange that I didn’t know about it. I regret it very much.”
He had Saranin summoned. While Saranin was on his way to the director’s office, all the clerks looked at him with stem disapproval.
His heart trembling, Saranin went in to the boss’s office. A faint hope still remained with him—the hope that His Excellency intended to entrust him with a very flattering mission, one that would take advantage of his small stature, such as sending him to an international exhibition, or on some secret mission. But with the first sounds of the acid, directorially departmental voice this hope vanished like smoke.
“Sit down here,” said His Excellency, pointing at a chair.
Saranin managed to climb up. The director took one angry look at the official’s legs dangling in the air. He asked: “Mr. Saranin, are you familiar with the laws of civil service by government appointment?”
“Your Excellency,” Saranin began to babble, and folded his little hands on his chest in an imploring gesture.
“How did you have the audacity to go against government procedures so brazenly?”
“Believe me, Your Excellency …”
“Why have you done this?” asked the director.
And Saranin could no longer say anything. He began to cry. Of late he was very easily moved to tears.
The director looked at him. He shook his head. He began to speak very sternly: “Mr. Saranin, I have invited you here to inform you that your inexplicable behavior is becoming completely intolerable.”
“But Your Excellency, it would seem that I … everything efficiently …” Saranin babbled, “as for my stature …”
“Yes, precisely.”
“But this misfortune is beyond my control.”
“I am in no position to judge to what extent this strange and improper occurrence is a misfortune for you, and to what extent it is beyond your control, but I must tell you that for the office which has been entrusted to me your strange diminution is becoming positively scandalous. Many insinuating rumors are already circulating in the town. I cannot judge how well founded they are, but I do know that these rumors link your behavior with propaganda for Armenian separatism. You must agree that the department cannot be a place for hatching an Armenian intrigue directed at the dismemberment of the Russian sovereign power. We cannot keep officials who behave so strangely.”
Saranin jumped off the chair, trembled, squealed:
“A trick of nature, Your Excellency.”
“Strange, but the service …” And again he repeated the same question: “But why have you done it?”
“Your Excellency, I myself don’t know how this has
happened.”
“Such instincts! By taking advantage of your smallness you can easily conceal yourself under any lady’s—excuse the expression—skirt. This cannot be tolerated.”
“I have never done that,” Saranin screamed.
But the director was not listening. He continued:
“I have even heard that you are doing this out of sympathy for the Japanese. But one must recognize a limit in everything.”
“But how could I be doing this, Your Excellency?”
“I do not know. But I ask you to put a stop to it. You could be retained in the service, but only in the provinces, and on the condition that this be stopped at once, and that you resume your usual dimensions. To restore your health you are given a four-month leave of absence. I request that you no longer come to the department. All the necessary papers will be sent to your home. My respects.”
“Your Excellency, I am capable of working. Why the leave of absence?”
“You will take it for reasons of health.”
“But I am well, Your Excellency.”
“Now, now, please.”
Saranin was given a leave of absence for four months.
VII.
Before long, Aglaia’s parents arrived for a visit. This was after dinner. At dinner Aglaia spent a long time ridiculing her husband. She had gone to her room.
He timidly went into his study, which was now so enormous for him, clambered up onto the couch, huddled in one corner, and began to cry. An oppressive feeling of bewilderment gnawed at him.
Why had such a misfortune fallen on him and nobody else? A ghastly, unparalleled misfortune.
What carelessness!
He sobbed and whimpered despairingly.
“Why, oh, why did I do it?”
Suddenly he heard familiar voices in the hallway. He began to tremble with fear. He tiptoed over to the washstand, so people would not notice his red and swollen eyes. But even washing was a chore—a chair had to be put in front of the stand.
The guests were already coming into the parlor. Saranin greeted them. He bowed to all of them and squeaked something unintelligible. Aglaia’s father gaped at him oafishly. He was big, fat, with a bull’s neck and a red face. Aglaia took after him.
Planting himself in front of his son-in-law with his legs wide apart he looked around warily, carefully took Saranin’s hand, bent over slightly, and, lowering his voice, said: “Son-in-law, we’ve come for a little get-together.”
It was evident that he intended to act circumspectly. He was feeling things out.
From behind his back emerged Aglaia’s mother, a scrawny and spiteful type. She began to shrill: “Where is he? Where? Aglaia, show me this Pygmalion.”
She was looking over Saranin’s head. She deliberately did not notice him. The flowers on her head swayed strangely. She was coming straight for Saranin. He gave a squeak and jumped aside.
Aglaia began to cry and said: “Here he is, Mamma.”
“I’m here, Mamma,” Saranin squealed and clicked his heels in a bow.
“You rat, what have you done to yourself? Why have you lopped so much off yourself?”
The maid snorted.
“You, dearie, don’t go snorting at your betters.”
Aglaia blushed.
“Mamma, let’s go into the living room.”
“Wait a minute. Speak up, you little rat. What are you making such a pygmy of yourself for?”
“Now hold on, just a minute. Mother,” the father stopped her.
She jumped on her husband too. “Didn’t I tell you not to marry her off to someone without a beard? Well, it turns out I was right.”
The father kept glancing warily at Saranin and trying to switch the conversation to politics. “The Japanese,” he was saying, “are approximately of a not very great stature, but to all appearances they’re a real brainy nation, and even, incidentally, resourceful.”
VIII.
And so Saranin grew small, very small. By now he could walk under a table very easily. And every day he grew slighter. He had not yet put his leave of absence to full use, except that he no longer went to the office. But they had not yet made plans to go anywhere.
Aglaia sometimes jeered at him, sometimes cried and said: “Where can I take you the way you are? It’s a shame and a disgrace.”
A walk from the study to the dining room became a trip of considerable scope. And furthermore, to climb up on a chair …
On the other hand, fatigue as such was pleasant.
It stimulated the appetite and the hope of growing. Saranin positively attacked his food. He devoured it out of all proportion to his miniature measurements. But he was not growing. On the contrary. He was getting tinier and tinier. Worst of all, the shrinking sometimes went in leaps, at the most inconvenient times. As if he were doing tricks.
Aglaia got the notion of passing him off as a boy and enrolling him in the gymnasium. She went to the nearest one. But the conversation with the director disheartened her.
Papers were required. It turned out that the plan could not be realized.
With an air of extreme bewilderment the director told Aglaia: “We cannot admit a senior civil servant. What would we do with him? The teacher might tell him to stand in the comer, and he would say: ‘I wear the Anna Cross.’ This is very awkward.”
Aglaia put on an imploring face and made an attempt to plead with him: “Couldn’t it be arranged somehow? He won’t dare to be naughty—I’ll see to that.’
The director remained adamant. “No,” he said stub-bornly, “a government official cannot be admitted to a gymnasium. Nowhere, in no directive, has provision been made. And it would be most awkward to go to higher authority with a representation of this kind. One never knows how they would look at it. It might create serious trouble. No, absolutely impossible. If you wish, you may appeal to the superintendent.”
But Aglaia no longer had the courage to go to see authorities.
IX.
One day a young man, his hair slicked down until it gleamed, came to see Aglaia. He clicked his heels in a courtly bow. He introduced himself. “I represent the firm of Strigal and Co. A top-quality store in the busiest center of the capital’s aristocratic traffic. We have a great many customers in the best and highest society.”
Aglaia, just to be on the safe side, made eyes at the representative of the illustrious firm. With a languid movement of her plump hand she directed him to a chair. She sat down with her back to the light. She inclined her head to the side. She prepared herself to listen.
The dazzlingly coiffured young man continued: “We have learned that it was your spouse’s pleasure to prefer a singularly miniature size. Therefore, our firm, facilitating the very latest vogues in the domain of ladies’ and gentlemen’s fashions, has the honor to propose to you, madam, with a view toward advertising, that we should, at no charge at all, tailor some suits for the gentleman according to the very best Paris fashion magazine.”
“For free?” Aglaia asked languidly.
“Not only for free, madam, but even with an honorarium, for your own, so to speak, benefit, but on one small and easily fulfilled condition.”
Meanwhile Saranin, overhearing that the conversation was about him, had made his way into the living room. He pattered around the young man with the dazzling coiffure. He kept clearing his throat and tapping his heels. He was very much annoyed that the representative of the firm Strigal and Co. paid not the slightest attention to him.
Finally he ran right up to the young man. He gave a thunderous squeak: “Haven’t you been told that I’m at home?”
The representative of the illustrious firm arose. He made a courtly bow. He sat down. He turned to Aglaia: “Only one tiny condition.”
Saranin snorted disdainfully. Aglaia began to laugh. She said, her curious eyes gleaming: “All right, tell me what the condition is.”
“Our condition is that the gentleman be good enough to sit in the window of our store as a living advertisement.”
Aglaia chortled with malicious glee.
“Splendid! Anything to get him out of my sight.”
“I won’t agree,” Saranin began to squeak in a piercing voice. “I can never bring myself to that. I am a senior civil servant and the holder of a decoration. To sit in the window of a store for advertising—why, I think that’s positively ridiculous.”
“Be quiet!” Aglaia shouted. “Nobody’s asking you.”
“What do you mean, nobody’s asking me?” Saranin screamed. “How long will I suffer from these minority groups?”
“Oh, the gentleman is mistaken,” the young man objected politely. “Our firm has nothing in common with minority elements. All our employees are Russian Orthodox and Lutherans from Riga. And we do not employ any Jews.”
“I don’t want to sit in the window!” Saranin shouted.
He was stamping his feet. Aglaia grabbed him by the arm. She pulled him into the bedroom.
“Where are you dragging me?” cried Saranin. “I won’t. Let me go!”
“I’ll quiet you down,” Aglaia shouted.
She shut the door tight.
“I’ll give you a beating you’ll remember,” she said, her teeth clenched. She started pummeling him. He thrashed around helplessly in her powerful arms. “You pygmy, you’re in my power. I can do whatever I want to you. I can stick you in my pocket. How dare you resist me! I don’t care anything about your titles. I’ll give you such a beating you won’t be able to tell night from day.”
“I’ll lodge a complaint,” Saranin squealed.
But he soon realized that resistance was useless. He was too small, and it was obvious that Aglaia had decided to bring all her strength to bear on the business at hand.
“Enough, enough,” he howled. “I’ll go into Strigal’s window. I’ll sit there—the disgrace will be yours. I’ll put on all my decorations.”
Aglaia roared with laughter.
“You’ll put on whatever Strigal gives you,” she shouted.
She dragged her husband out into the living room. She threw him to the salesman. She shouted: “Here he is! Take him away at once! And the money in advance! Every month!”
Her words were hysterical shrieks.
The young man took out his wallet. He counted out two hundred roubles.
Worlds Apart Page 46