You know, my namesake, you sort of…” he went on, making advances rather familiarly to his guest. Finally, taking leave of him amicably, Mr. Goliadkin went to bed. The guest meanwhile began to snore. Mr. Goliadkin, in his turn, began to stretch out in bed, and meanwhile, chuckling, whispered to himself: “And you’re drunk tonight, Yakov Petrovich, my dear heart, what a scoundrel you are, eh, what a Goliadka—that’s what your name is!! Well, why are you so glad?
You’ll be weeping tomorrow, you’re such a sniveler: what am I to do with you?!” Here a rather strange sensation echoed through Mr. Goliadkin’s whole being, something like doubt or regret. “I really let myself go,” he thought, “there’s a buzzing in my head now, and I’m drunk; and you couldn’t help yourself, you’re such a big fool! poured out three buckets of drivel and still wanted to be clever, you scoundrel.
Of course, forgiving and forgetting an offense is the foremost virtue, but all the same things are bad, that’s what!” Here Mr. Goliadkin got up, took a candle, and went on tiptoe to look at his sleeping guest. For a long time he stood over him deep in thought. “An unpleasant picture! a lampoon, the sheerest lampoon, that’s the end of it!”
Finally, Mr. Goliadkin lay down. In his head there was a buzzing, a crackling, a ringing. He began to sink into oblivion…tried to think about something, to remember something highly interesting, to resolve something highly important, some ticklish matter—but could not. Sleep flew down upon his victorious head, and he dropped off as people usually do who, without being accustomed to it, suddenly avail themselves of five glasses of punch at some friendly soirée.
Chapter VIII
AS USUAL, MR. GOLIADKIN woke up the next day at eight o’clock; on waking up, he at once recalled all that had happened yesterday evening, recalled it and winced. “Eh, I got playful yesterday like some kind of fool!” he thought, getting out of bed and looking at his guest’s bed. But what was his surprise when not only the guest but even the bed on which the guest had slept was not in the room! “What is this?” Mr. Goliadkin all but cried out.
“What can this possibly be? What does this new circumstance mean?” While Mr. Goliadkin, in perplexity, stared open-mouthed at the now empty place, the door creaked, and Petrushka came in with the tea tray. “But where, where?” our hero uttered in a barely audible voice, pointing his finger at the place reserved yesterday for the guest. Petrushka at first made no reply, did not even look at his master, but shifted his eyes to the right corner, so that Mr. Goliadkin was also forced to look into the right corner. However, after some silence, Petrushka replied in a husky and rude voice that “the master wasn’t home.”
“You fool, I’m your master, Petrushka,” Mr. Goliadkin said in a faltering voice and stared all eyes at his servant.
Petrushka did not respond, but gave Mr. Goliadkin such a look that Mr. Goliadkin blushed to the ears—a look of some sort of insulting reproach, similar to outright abuse. Mr. Goliadkin dropped his arms, as they say. Finally, Petrushka announced that the other had left about an hour and a half ago and had not wanted to wait.
Of course, the answer was probable and plausible; it was evident that Petrushka was not lying, that his insulting look and the word other he had used were merely the consequence of the abominable circumstance known to all, but even so he understood, though vaguely, that something was wrong here and that fate was preparing some further treat for him, a not entirely pleasant one.
“Very well, we’ll see,” he thought to himself, “we’ll see, we’ll crack all this in due time…Ah, Lord God!” he moaned in conclusion, in a totally different voice, “why did I invite him, to what end did I do all that? I’m truly putting my own head into their thievish noose, I’m tying the noose myself. Oh, head, head! you can’t help yourself, you spill everything like some little brat, some office clerk, like some rankless trash, a rag, some rotten old shred, gossip that you are, old woman that you are!…Saints alive!
And the rogue wrote a little ditty and declared his love for me! How can I, sort of…How can I show the rogue decently to the door, if he comes back? To be sure, there are many different turns and ways. Thus and so, I’ll say, given my limited resources…Or frighten him somehow, say, that taking this and that into consideration, I’m forced to inform you…say, we’ll have to go halves for room and board, and pay the money in advance. Hm! no, devil take it, no!
That would besmirch me. It’s not entirely delicate! Maybe I could do it this way: try to get Petrushka into it, so that Petrushka irks him somehow, treats him somehow negligently, is rude to him, and get rid of him that way? Sic them on each other…No, devil take it, no! It’s dangerous, and again, if you look at it from that point of view—well, yes, quite wrong! Completely wrong! Well, but what if he doesn’t come? Will that also be bad? I spilled out a lot to him yesterday!…Ah, bad, bad! Ah, things are in such a bad way with us!
Oh, my head, my cursed head! nothing gets sawed into you as it should, no sense gets nailed into you! And what if he comes and refuses? The Lord grant he does come! I’d be extremely glad if he came; I’d give a lot if he came…” So reasoned Mr. Goliadkin, gulping down his tea and constantly looking at the wall clock. “It’s now a quarter to nine; time to go.
But what’s going to happen; what’s going to happen here? I wish I knew precisely what in particular is hidden here—the goal, the direction, the various hitches. It would be good to find out precisely what all these folk are aiming at and what their first step will be…” Mr. Goliadkin could no longer bear it, abandoned his half-smoked pipe, got dressed, and set off to work, wishing to catch the danger, if possible, and verify everything by his personal presence.
And there was a danger: he knew himself that there was a danger. “But we’ll…crack it open,” Mr. Goliadkin was saying, taking off his overcoat and galoshes in the front hall, “now we’re going to penetrate all these matters.” Having decided to act in such fashion, our hero put himself to rights, assuming a decent and official air, and was just about to penetrate into the next room, when suddenly, just in the doorway, he ran into yesterday’s acquaintance, friend, and comrade. Mr. Goliadkin Jr. seemed not to notice Mr. Goliadkin Sr., though they met almost nose-to-nose. Mr. Goliadkin Jr. seemed to be busy, hurrying somewhere, out of breath; he looked so official, so businesslike, that it seemed anyone could have read directly in his face: “Sent on a special mission…”
“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
