“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 blot 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
