“Well, so, my friend, how’s things there, sort of…you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I wish Your Honor good day.”
“Very well, my friend, very well; and I’ll reward you, my dear friend. Well, so you see, how are things, my friend?”
“What are you asking, if you please, sir?” Here Ostafyev slightly covered his accidentally opened mouth with his hand.
“You see, my friend, I sort of…but don’t go thinking anything…Well, so, is Andrei Filippovich here?…”
“He is, sir.”
“And the clerks are here?”
“The clerks also, as they should be, sir.”
“And his excellency also?”
“And his excellency also, sir.” Here once more the scrivener held his hand over his again opened mouth and looked at Mr. Goliadkin somehow curiously and strangely. At least it seemed so to our hero.
“And there’s nothing special, my friend?”
“No, sir, nothing at all, sir.”
“So, my dear friend, there isn’t anything about me, anything just…eh? just so, my friend, you understand?”
“No, sir, I’ve heard nothing so far.” Here the scrivener again held his hand to his mouth and again glanced at Mr. Goliadkin somehow strangely. The thing was that our hero was now trying to penetrate Ostafyev’s physiognomy, to read whether there was not something hidden in it.
And indeed there seemed to be something hidden; the thing was that Ostafyev was becoming somehow ruder and dryer, and no longer entered into Mr. Goliadkin’s interests with the same concern as at the beginning of the conversation. “He’s partly within his rights,” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “What am I to him? He may already have gotten something from the other side, and that’s why he absented himself with such urgency. But now I’ll sort of…” Mr. Goliadkin understood that the time for ten-kopeck pieces had come.
“Here you are, my dear friend…”
“I cordially thank Your Honor.”
“I’ll give you more.”
“As you say, Your Honor.”
“I’ll give you more now, at once, and when the matter’s ended, I’ll give you as much again. Understand?”
The scrivener said nothing, stood at attention, and looked fixedly at Mr. Goliadkin.
“Well, tell me now: have you heard anything about me?…”
“It seems that, so far…sort of…nothing so far, sir.” Ostafyev also replied measuredly, like Mr. Goliadkin, preserving a slightly mysterious look, twitching his eyebrows slightly, looking at the ground, trying to fall into the right tone and, in short, trying with all his might to earn what had been promised, because what had been given he considered his own and definitively acquired.
“And nothing’s known?”
“Not so far, sir.”
“But listen…sort of…maybe it will be known?”
“Later on, of course, maybe it will be known, sir.”
“That’s bad!” thought our hero.
“Listen, here’s more for you, my dear.”
“I heartily thank Your Honor.”
“Was Vakhrameev here yesterday?…”
“He was, sir.”
“And wasn’t there somebody else?…Try to recall, brother!”
The scrivener rummaged in his memory for a moment and recalled nothing suitable.
“No, sir, there was nobody else, sir.”
“Hm!” Silence ensued.
“Listen, brother, here’s more for you; tell me everything, all the innermost secrets.”
“Yes, sir.” Ostafyev was now standing there smooth as silk: that was just what Mr. Goliadkin wanted.
“Tell me, brother, what sort of footing is he on now?”
“All right, sir, quite good, sir,” replied the scrivener, staring all eyes at Mr. Goliadkin.
“Good in what sense?”
“In that sense, sir.” Here Ostafyev twitched his eyebrows significantly. However, he was decidedly at a loss and did not know what more to say. “That’s bad!” thought Mr. Goliadkin.
“Haven’t they got something further going with this Vakhrameev?”
“It’s all as before, sir.”
“Think a little.”
“They have, so it’s said, sir.”
“Well, what is it?”
Ostafyev held his hand over his mouth.
“Is there a letter for me from there?”
“Today the caretaker Mikheev went to Vakhrameev’s lodgings, to that German woman of theirs, sir, so I’ll go and ask if you like.”
“Be so kind, brother, for heaven’s sake!…I’m just…Don’t go thinking anything, brother, I’m just…And ask questions, brother, find out if anything’s being prepared there on my account. How does he act? That’s what I need to know; you find that out, and then I’ll thank you well, my dear friend…”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor, and today Ivan Semyonovich sat in your place, sir.”
“Ivan Semyonovich? Ah! yes! Really?”
“Andrei Filippovich told him to sit there, sir…”
“Really? By what chance? Find that out, brother, for heaven’s sake, find that out; find everything out—and I’ll thank you well, my dear; that’s what I need to know…And don’t go thinking anything, brother…”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’ll come down here at once, sir. But, Your Honor, won’t you be going in today?”
“No, my friend; it’s just so, just so, I’ve just come to have a look, my dear friend, and then I’ll thank you well, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.” The scrivener quickly and zealously ran up the stairs, and Mr. Goliadkin was left alone.
“That’s bad,” he thought. “Eh, it’s bad, bad! Eh, our little affair…it’s in such a bad way now! What can it all mean? What precisely can certain of this drunkard’s hints mean, for instance, and whose trick is it?
Ah! now I know whose trick it is! Here’s the trick. They must have found out, and so they sat him there…However, what is it—they sat him there? It was Andrei Filippovich who sat him there, this Ivan Semyonovich; why, however, did he sit him there and with precisely what aim did he sit him? Probably they found out…It’s Vakhrameev’s work, that is, not Vakhrameev, he’s stupid as a pine log, this Vakhrameev; it’s all of them working for him, and they set the rogue on for the same purpose; and she complained, the one-eyed German!
I’ve always suspected that this whole intrigue had something behind it, and that all this old-womanish gossip surely had something to it; I said as much to Krestyan Ivanovich, that, say, they’d sworn to cut a man down, speaking in a moral sense, so they seized on Karolina Ivanovna.
No, masters are at work here, you can see! Here, my good sir, there’s a master’s hand at work, not Vakhrameev. It has already been said that Vakhrameev is stupid, but this…now I know who is working for them all here: it’s the rogue, the impostor! That’s the one thing he clings to, which partly explains his success in high society. And indeed, I wish I knew what footing he’s on now…what is he to them?
Only why did they bring in Ivan Semyonovich? Why the devil did they need Ivan Semyonovich? As if they couldn’t have come up with somebody else? However, no matter who they sat there, it would all be the same; I only know that I’ve long suspected this Ivan Semyonovich, I’ve long noticed that he’s such a nasty old codger, such a vile one—they say he lends money on interest and takes interest like a Jew. It’s all that bear’s doing. The bear got mixed up in this whole circumstance. It started that way.
It started by the Izmailovsky Bridge; that’s how it started…” Here Mr. Goliadkin winced as if he had bitten into a lemon, probably recalling something highly unpleasant. “Well, never mind, though!” he thought.
“And I only go on about my own thing. Why doesn’t Ostafyev come? He must have gotten stuck or been stopped somehow. It’s partly good that I intrigue this way and undermine them from my side. Ostafyev only has to be given ten kopecks, and he sort of…and he’s on my side. Only here’s the thing: is he really on my side?
Maybe they also, on their side…and in complicity with him, on their side, are conducting an intrigue. He has the look of a brigand, the crook, a sheer brigand! In secret, the rogue! ‘No, there’s nothing,’ he says, ‘and, say, I heartily thank Your Honor.’ You brigand!”
Noise was heard…Mr. Goliadkin shrank and jumped behind the stove. Someone came down the stairs and went outside. “Who could be leaving like that now?” our hero thought to himself. A moment later someone’s footsteps were heard again…Here Mr. Goliadkin could not help himself and stuck the smallest tip of his nose out from behind his breast-work—stuck it out and pulled it back at once, as though someone had pricked his nose with a needle.
This time you know who was going by—that is, the rogue, the intriguer and debaucher—walking as usual with his mean, rapid little step, mincing and prancing on his feet as if he was about to kick somebody. “The scoundrel!” our hero said to himself. However, Mr. Goliadkin could not fail to notice that under the scoundrel’s arm was an enormous green portfolio belonging to his excellency. “He’s on a special mission again,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, turning red and shrinking still more from vexation.
No sooner did Mr. Goliadkin Jr. flash past Mr. Goliadkin Sr., without noticing him at all, than for a third time someone’s footsteps were heard, and this time Mr. Goliadkin guessed that the steps were the scrivener’s. Indeed, the slicked-down little figure of a scrivener peeked behind the stove; the little figure, however, was not Ostafyev but another scrivener named Scriverenko. This amazed Mr. Goliadkin. “Why is he mixing others into the secret?” thought our hero. “What barbarians! Nothing’s sacred to them!”
“Well, so, my friend?” he said, addressing Scriverenko. “Who are you coming from, my friend?…”
“It’s this, sir, on your little affair, sir. So far there’s no news from anyone, sir. But if there is, we’ll let you know, sir.”
“And Ostafyev?…”
“He really couldn’t come, Your Honor. His excellency has already made the rounds of the department twice, and I’ve got no time now.”
“Thank you, my dear, thank you…Only tell me…”
“By God, I’ve got no time, sir…We’re asked for every moment, sir…But you please go on standing here, sir, so that if there’s anything concerning your little affair, sir, we’ll let you know, sir…”
“No, my friend, you tell me…”
“Excuse me,
