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 more! The devil take him. I'll write a letter to him, but I
won't go. By Jove, I won't."
So thought Tchervyakov as he walked home; he did not write a letter
to the general, he pondered and pondered and could not make up that
letter. He had to go next day to explain in person.
"I ventured to disturb your Excellency yesterday," he muttered,
when the general lifted enquiring eyes upon him, "not to make fun
as you were pleased to say. I was apologising for having spattered
you in sneezing. . . . And I did not dream of making fun of you.
Should I dare to make fun of you, if we should take to making fun,
then there would be no respect for persons, there would be. . . ."
"Be off!" yelled the general, turning suddenly purple, and shaking
all over.
"What?" asked Tchervyakov, in a whisper turning numb with horror.
"Be off!" repeated the general, stamping.
Something seemed to give way in Tchervyakov's stomach. Seeing nothing
and hearing nothing he reeled to the door, went out into the street,
and went staggering along. . . . Reaching home mechanically, without
taking off his uniform, he lay down on the sofa and died.