“HONORED Sir, Father and Benefactor!” a petty clerk called Nevyrazimov
was writing a rough copy of an Easter congratulatory letter. “I trust
that you may spend this Holy Day even as many more to come, in good
health and prosperity. And to your family also I...”
The lamp, in which the kerosene was getting low, was smoking and
smelling. A stray cockroach was running about the table in alarm near
Nevyrazimov’s writing hand. Two rooms away from the office Paramon the
porter was for the third time cleaning his best boots, and with such
energy that the sound of the blacking-brush and of his expectorations
was audible in all the rooms.
“What else can I write to him, the rascal?” Nevyrazimov wondered,
raising his eyes to the smutty ceiling.
On the ceiling he saw a dark circle--the shadow of the lamp-shade. Below
it was the dusty cornice, and lower still the wall, which had once been
painted a bluish muddy color. And the office seemed to him such a place
of desolation that he felt sorry, not only for himself, but even for the
cockroach.
“When I am off duty I shall go away, but he’ll be on duty here all his
cockroach-life,” he thought, stretching. “I am bored! Shall I clean my
boots?”
And stretching once more, Nevyrazimov slouched lazily to the porter’s
room. Paramon had finished cleaning his boots. Crossing himself with
one hand and holding the brush in the other, he was standing at the open
window-pane, listening.
“They’re ringing,” he whispered to Nevyrazimov, looking at him with eyes
intent and wide open. “Already!”
Nevyrazimov put his ear to the open pane and listened. The Easter chimes
floated into the room with a whiff of fresh spring air. The booming of
the bells mingled with the rumble of carriages, and above the chaos
of sounds rose the brisk tenor tones of the nearest church and a loud
shrill laugh.
“What a lot of people!” sighed Nevyrazimov, looking down into
the street, where shadows of men flitted one after another by the
illumination lamps. “They’re all hurrying to the midnight service....
Our fellows have had a drink by now, you may be sure, and are strolling
about the town. What a lot of laughter, what a lot of talk! I’m the
only unlucky one, to have to sit here on such a day: And I have to do it
every year!”
“Well, nobody forces you to take the job. It’s not your turn to be on
duty today, but Zastupov hired you to take his place. When other folks
are enjoying themselves you hire yourself out. It’s greediness!”
“Devil a bit of it! Not much to be greedy over--two roubles is all he
gives me; a necktie as an extra.... It’s poverty, not greediness.
And it would be jolly, now, you know, to be going with a party to the
service, and then to break the fast.... To drink and to have a bit
of supper and tumble off to sleep.... One sits down to the table,
there’s an Easter cake and the samovar hissing, and some charming little
thing beside you.... You drink a glass and chuck her under the chin,
and it’s first-rate.... You feel you’re somebody.... Ech h-h!...
I’ve made a mess of things! Look at that hussy driving by in her
carriage, while I have to sit here and brood.”
“We each have our lot in life, Ivan Danilitch. Please God, you’ll be
promoted and drive about in your carriage one day.”
“I? No, brother, not likely. I shan’t get beyond a ‘titular,’ not if I
try till I burst. I’m not an educated man.”
“Our General has no education either, but...”
“Well, but the General stole a hundred thousand before he got his
position. And he’s got very different manners and deportment from me,
brother. With my manners and deportment one can’t get far! And such a
scoundrelly surname, Nevyrazimov! It’s a hopeless position, in fact. One
may go on as one is, or one may hang oneself...”
He moved away from the window and walked wearily about the rooms. The
din of the bells grew louder and louder.... There was no need to
stand by the window to hear it. And the better he could hear the bells
and the louder the roar of the carriages, the darker seemed the muddy
walls and the smutty cornice and the more the lamp smoked.
“Shall I hook it and leave the office?” thought Nevyrazimov.
But such a flight promised nothing worth having.... After coming out
of the office and wandering about the town, Nevyrazimov would have gone
home to his lodging, and in his lodging it was even grayer and more
depressing than in the office.... Even supposing he were to spend
that day pleasantly and with comfort, what had he beyond? Nothing but
the same gray walls, the same stop-gap duty and complimentary
letters....
Nevyrazimov stood still in the middle of the office and sank into
thought. The yearning for a new, better life gnawed at his heart with an
intolerable ache. He had a passionate longing to find himself suddenly
in the street, to mingle with the living crowd, to take part in the
solemn festivity for the sake of which all those bells were clashing
and those carriages were rumbling. He longed for what he had known in
childhood--the family circle, the festive faces of his own people, the
white cloth, light, warmth...! He thought of the carriage in which
the lady had just driven by, the overcoat in which the head clerk was
so smart, the gold chain that adorned the secretary’s chest....
He thought of a warm bed, of the Stanislav order, of new boots, of
a uniform without holes in the elbows.... He thought of all those
things because he had none of them.
“Shall I steal?” he thought. “Even if stealing is an easy matter,
hiding is what’s difficult. Men run away to America, they say, with what
they’ve stolen, but the devil knows where that blessed America is. One
must have education even to steal, it seems.”
The bells died down. He heard only a distant noise of carriages and
Paramon’s cough, while his depression and anger grew more and more
intense and unbearable. The clock in the office struck half-past twelve.
“Shall I write a secret report? Proshkin did, and he rose rapidly.”
Nevyrazimov sat down at his table and pondered. The lamp in which the
kerosene had quite run dry was smoking violently and threatening to go
out. The stray cockroach was still running about the table and had found
no resting-place.
“One can always send in a secret report, but how is one to make it up?
I should want to make all sorts of innuendoes and insinuations, like
Proshkin, and I can’t do it. If I made up anything I should be the first
to get into trouble for it. I’m an ass, damn my soul!”
And Nevyrazimov, racking his brain for a means of escape from his
hopeless position, stared at the rough copy he had written. The letter
was written to a man whom he feared and hated with his whole soul, and
from whom he had for the last ten years been trying to wring a post
worth eighteen roubles a month, instead of the one he had at sixteen
roubles.
“Ah, I’ll teach you to run here, you devil!” He viciously slapped the
palm of his hand on the cockroach, who had the misfortune to catch his
eye. “Nasty thing!”
The cockroach fell on its back and wriggled its legs in despair.
Nevyrazimov took it by one leg and threw it into the lamp. The lamp
flared up and spluttered.
And Nevyrazimov felt better.