Anton Pavlovich Chekhov 



   The Death Of A Government Clerk

    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. 

    1883

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   Notes
    Tchervyakov: the name is similar to chervyak (worm). 

    Stalls: orchestra seats. 

    Cloches de Corneville: The Chimes of Normandy (1877), a comic  operetta  by 
Jean Robert Planquette (1848-1903). 

    The interval: the intermission. 

    Fanfaron: braggart. 

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