Текст книги "Dead Souls"

Автор книги: Николай Гоголь

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Chapter Seven

Happy the wayfarer who, after a long, boring journey with its cold, slush, dirt, sleepy stationmasters, clanking bells, repairs, altercations, coachmen, blacksmiths, and all sorts of scoundrels of the road, sees at last the familiar roof with its lights rushing to meet him, and before him stand familiar rooms, the joyful shout of his people running to meet him, the noise and scampering of children, and soothing soft speech, interrupted by burning kisses with the power to wipe out all that is mournful from the memory. Happy the family man who has such a corner, but woe to the bachelor!

Happy the writer who, passing by characters that are boring, disgusting, shocking in their mournful reality, approaches characters that manifest the lofty dignity of man, who from the great pool of daily whirling images has chosen only the rare exceptions, who has never once betrayed the exalted tuning of his lyre, nor descended from his height to his poor, insignificant brethren, and, without touching the ground, has given the whole of himself to his elevated images so far removed from it. Twice enviable is his beautiful lot: he is among them as in his own family; and meanwhile his fame spreads loud and far. With entrancing smoke he has clouded people's eyes; he has flattered them wondrously, concealing what is mournful in life, showing them a beautiful man. Everything rushes after him, applauding, and flies off following his triumphal chariot. Great world poet they name him, soaring high above all other geniuses in the world, as the eagle soars above other high fliers. At the mere mention of his name, young ardent hearts are filled with trembling, responsive tears shine in all eyes. . . No one equals him in power—he is God! But such is not the lot, and other is the destiny of the writer who has dared to call forth all that is before our eyes every moment and which our indifferent eyes do not see—all the terrible, stupendous mire of trivia in which our life is entangled, the whole depth of cold, fragmented, everyday characters that swarm over our often bitter and boring earthly path, and with the firm strength of his implacable chisel dares to present them roundly and vividly before the eyes of all people! It is not for him to win people's applause, not for him to behold the grateful tears and unanimous rapture of the souls he has stirred; no sixteen-year-old girl will come flying to meet him with her head in a whirl and heroic enthusiasm; it is not for him to forget himself in the sweet enchantment of sounds he himself has evoked; it is not for him, finally, to escape contemporary judgment, hypocritically callous contemporary judgment, which will call insignificant and mean the creations he has fostered, will allot him a contemptible corner in the ranks of writers who insult mankind, will ascribe to him the qualities of the heroes he has portrayed, will deny him heart, and soul, and the divine flame of talent. For contemporary judgment does not recognize that equally wondrous are the glasses that observe the sun and those that look at the movements of inconspicuous insects; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that much depth of soul is needed to light up the picture drawn from contemptible life and elevate it into a pearl of creation; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that lofty ecstatic laughter is worthy to stand beside the lofty lyrical impulse, and that a whole abyss separates it from the antics of the street-fair clown! This contemporary judgment does not recognize; and will turn it all into a reproach and abuse of the unrecognized writer; with no sharing, no response, no sympathy, like a familyless wayfarer, he will be left alone in the middle of the road. Grim is his path, and bitterly will he feel his solitude.

And for a long time still I am destined by a wondrous power to walk hand in hand with my strange heroes, to view the whole of hugely rushing life, to view it through laughter visible to the world and tears invisible and unknown to it! And still far off is the time when, in a different key, a fearsome tempest of inspiration will rise from a head wreathed in sacred awe and radiance, and in confused trepidation will be heard the majestic thunder of a different speech . . .

Onward! onward! away with the wrinkle that furrows the brow and the stern gloom of the face! At once and suddenly let us plunge into life with all its noiseless clatter and little bells and see what Chichikov is doing.

Chichikov woke up, stretched his arms and legs, and felt he had had a good sleep. After lying on his back for a minute or two, he snapped his fingers and remembered with a beaming face that he now owned nearly four hundred souls. He straightaway jumped out of bed, not even looking at his face, which he sincerely loved and in which, it seemed, he found the chin most attractive of all, for he quite often boasted of it to one or another of his friends, especially if it was while shaving. "Just look," he would usually say, stroking it with his hand, "what a chin I've got: quite round!" But this time he did not glance either at his chin or at his face, but directly, just as he was, put on his morocco boots with multicolor appliqué, an object of brisk trade in Torzhok thanks to the lounge-robe inclinations of the Russian nature, and, Scottish-fashion, in nothing but a short shirt, forgetting his staid and decorous middle age, performed two leaps across the room, smacking himself quite adroitly with his heel. Then at that same moment he got down to business: facing the chest, he rubbed his hands with the same pleasure as the incorruptible circuit court, having come for an inquest, does when approaching the hors d'oeuvres, and instantly took the papers out of it. He wanted to finish everything quickly, without letting it simmer. He decided to draw up the deeds himself, writing them out and copying them, so as to pay nothing to scriveners. He knew the formal order perfectly. Briskly he set forth in big letters: "The year one thousand eight hundred and such-and-such," then in smaller letters following that: "The landowner so-and-so," and everything else necessary. In two hours it was all done. Afterwards, as he looked at these papers, at these muzhiks who, indeed, had been muzhiks once, had worked, ploughed, drunk, driven, deceived their masters, or perhaps had simply been good muzhiks, some strange feeling, incomprehensible to himself, took hold of him. It was as if each list had some peculiar character, and as if through it the muzhiks themselves acquired a character of their own. The muzhiks who had belonged to Korobochka almost all had additions and nicknames. Plyushkin's list was distinguished by brevity of style: often only the initial letters of names and patronymics were put down, and then two dots. Sobakevich's register was striking in its extraordinary fullness and thoroughness; not one of the muzhik's qualities was omitted: "good cabinetmaker" was said of one; "knows what he's about, and never touches the liquor" was added to another. It was also thoroughly noted who the father and mother were and how they had behaved themselves; only for a certain Fedotov it was written: "father unknown, was born of the serf girl Capitolina, but is of good character and not a thief." All these details gave off a peculiar air of freshness: it seemed the muzhiks had been alive only yesterday. Looking at their names for a long time, he was moved in his spirit and, sighing, said: "My heavens, there's so many of you crammed in here! What did you do in your lives, dear hearts, how did you get by?" And his eyes involuntarily paused on one family name: it was our acquaintance, Pyotr Saveliev Disrespect-Trough, who had once belonged to the landowner Korobochka. Again he could not keep from saying: "Eh, what a long one, stretched over a whole line! Were you a craftsman, or simply a peasant, and what sort of death took you? In a pot-house, was it, or did some clumsy train of carts drive over you while you were asleep in the middle of the road? Cork Stepan, carpenter, of exemplary sobriety. Ah! here he is, Stepan Cork, that mighty man, fit to serve in the guards! I expect you walked over all the provinces, an axe tucked into your belt, boots slung over your shoulders, eating a half-kopeck's worth of bread and a kopeck's worth of dried fish, and I expect each time you brought home up to a hundred silver roubles in your pouch, or maybe had a thousand-rouble banknote sewn into your hempen britches or stuck in your boot. Where were you when you got taken? Did you hoist yourself for greater gain up under the church cupola, or maybe drag yourself all the way to the cross, slip from the crossbeam, and fall flop to the ground, and only some Uncle Mikhei standing there, after scratching the back of his head, observed: 'Eh, Vanya, you sure came a cropper!'—and, tying the rope on, went up himself to replace you? Maxim Telyatnikov, cobbler. Hah, a cobbler! 'Drunk as a cobbler!' the saying goes. I know, I know you, my sweet fellow; I'll tell your whole story if you like: you were apprenticed to a German, who fed you all together, beat you on the back with a belt for sloppiness, and wouldn't let you out for any rascality, and you were a wonder, not a cobbler, and the German couldn't praise you enough when he was talking with his wife or a comrade. And when your apprenticeship was up, you said: 'And now I'll open shop, and not do like some German, pulling himself out of a kopeck, but get rich all at once.' And so, having offered your master a handsome quitrent, you started a little shop, got yourself a pile of orders, and set to work. Procured some rotten leather dirt-cheap somewhere, and in fact made double your money on each boot, but in two weeks your boots all popped apart, and you were abused in the meanest way. And so your little shop fell into neglect, and you took to drinking and lying about in the streets, saying all the while: 'No, it's a bad world! There's no life for a Russian man, the Germans keep getting in the way' What sort of muzhik is this? Elizaveta Sparrow. Pah, drat it all—a female! How did she get in there? That scoundrel Sobakevich has hoodwinked me here, too!" Chichikov was right: it was, in fact, a female. How she got there no one knows, but she was so artfully written that from a distance she could be taken for a muzhik, and her name even had a masculine ending, that is, not Elizaveta, but Elizavet. However, he did not pay her any respect, and straightaway crossed her out. "Grigory Go-never-get! What sort of man were you? Did you set up as a hauler and, having got yourself a troika and a bast-covered wagon, renounce your house, your native den, forever and go dragging yourself with merchants to the fairs? Did you give up the ghost on the road, or did your own companions do you in over some fat and red-cheeked soldier's wife, or did some forest tramp take a liking to your leather-palmed mittens and your troika of squat but brawny horses, or maybe you yourself, lying on your plank bed, kept thinking and thinking, and for no reason at all steered for a pot-house, and then straight into a hole in the ice, and so made your exit. Eh, Russian folk! they don't like dying a natural death! And how about you, my sweet ones!" he went on, shifting his eyes to the paper on which Plyushkin's runaway souls were listed. "Though you're still alive, what's the use of you! you're as good as dead, and where are your quick feet taking you now? Was it so bad for you at Plyushkin's, or are you simply roaming the forests of your own will, fleecing passersby? Are you locked up in prisons, or are you with other masters, tilling the soil? Yeremei Karyakin, Vitaly Dillydally, his son Anton Dillydally—these are good runners, you can even tell by their nicknames. Popov, a house serf, must be a literate one: you didn't take up the knife, I expect, but went around stealing in a noble fashion. But here you are now, caught by the police captain without a passport. You stand cheerfully at the confrontation. 'Whose are you?' the police captain says, using this sure opportunity to put in some strong epithet for you. 'Landowner so-and-so's,' you reply pertly. 'What are you doing here?' the police captain says. 'I'm free on quitrent,' you reply without a hitch. 'Where's your passport?' 'With my landlord, the tradesman Pimenov.' 'Summon Pimenov! Are you Pimenov?' 'I'm Pimenov.' 'Did he give you his passport?' 'No, he never gave me any passport.' 'Why are you lying?' the police captain says, with the addition of some strong epithet. 'Exactly right,' you reply pertly, 'I didn't give it to him, because I came home late, so I gave it to Antip Prokhorov, the bell ringer, for safekeeping.' 'Summon the bell ringer! Did he give you his passport?' 'No, I never got any passport from him.' 'So you're lying again!' says the police captain, clinching his speech with some strong epithet. 'So where is your passport?' 'I had it,' you say briskly, 'but it seems I must somehow have dropped it in the road.' And how is it,' says the police captain, again tacking on some strong epithet for you, 'that you filched a soldier's greatcoat? And a priest's chest with copper money in it?' 'No, sir,' you say, without budging, 'I've never yet found myself in any thievish dealings.' And why, then, was the soldier's greatcoat found with you?' 'I can't say: someone else must have brought it.' Ah, you knave, you!' says the police captain, shaking his head, arms akimbo. 'Put the clogs on him and take him to prison.' 'As you like! It's my pleasure!' you reply. And so, taking a snuffbox from your pocket, you amiably treat the pair of invalids who are putting the clogs on you, asking them how long they've been retired and what war they were in. And so there you are now living in prison, while your case is being processed in court. And the court writes that you are to be transferred from Tsarevokokshaisk to the prison in such-and-such town, and the court there writes that you are to be transferred to some Vesye-gonsk, and so you keep moving from prison to prison, saying, as you look over your new abode: 'No, the Vesyegonsk prison is a bit better, there's at least room enough to play knucklebones, and the company's bigger!' Abakum Fyrov! What about you, brother? Where, in which parts, are you hanging about? Did you get blown as far as the Volga, and join the boatmen there, having come to love the life of freedom? ..." Here Chichikov paused and pondered a little. Over what was he pondering? Was he pondering over Abakum Fyrov's lot, or was he pondering just like that, as any Russian falls to pondering, whatever his age, rank, or fortune, when he begins to reflect on the revels of a broad life? And, indeed, where is Fyrov now? He is carousing noisily and merrily on the grain wharf, after striking a bargain with the merchants. Flowers and ribbons on their hats, the whole gang of boatmen are making merry, taking leave of their lovers and wives, tall, well-built, in necklaces and ribbons; round dances, songs, the whole square is seething, and meanwhile the stevedores, with shouts, curses, and heave-ho's, hoist as much as three hundred pounds on their backs with a hook, noisily pour peas and wheat into the deep holds, pile up bags of oats and groats, and farther off, all over the square, one can see sacks piled up like cannonballs in pyramids, and the whole grain arsenal stands enormous, until it has all been loaded into the deep Sura boats, and the endless flotilla rushes off in file together with the spring ice! There will be work enough for you, boatmen! And in unison, just as you reveled and rioted before, you will start to toil and sweat, hauling the line to one song as endless as Russia.

"Oh-oh! twelve o'clock!" Chichikov said at last, glancing at his watch. "What am I doing dawdling like this? It wouldn't matter if I was getting something done, but first I started pouring out drivel for no reason at all, and then I fell to pondering. Eh, what a fool I am, really!" Having said this, he changed his Scottish costume for a European one, drew the belt buckle tight over his plump belly, sprinkled himself with eau de cologne, took a warm cap in his hand and the papers under his arm, and set out for the government offices to execute his deeds. He was hurrying not because he was afraid of being late—he was not afraid of being late, for the head magistrate was a man of his acquaintance, and could lengthen or shorten his office hours at will, like the ancient Zeus of Homer, who prolonged days or sent quicker nights when he wanted to stop the combat of heroes dear to him or give them the means to finish their fight—but he felt in himself a desire to bring the business to a close as soon as possible; until then everything seemed uneasy and uncomfortable to him; it kept occurring to him that, after all, the souls were not quite real, and that in such cases one must hasten to get the burden off one's shoulders. No sooner had he gone out, reflecting upon all this and at the same time dragging onto his shoulders a bear covered with brown flannel, when just at the corner of the lane he ran into a gentleman also in a bear covered with brown flannel and a warm cap with ear flaps. The gentleman uttered a cry: it was Manilov. They straightaway locked each other in an embrace and stood that way in the street for about five minutes. The kisses were so hard on both sides that both men had an ache in their front teeth for almost the whole day. Manilov's eyes disappeared completely from joy, leaving only the nose and lips on his face. For about a quarter of an hour he held Chichikov's hand in both of his hands and made it terribly warm. In the most refined and pleasant turns of phrase he told how he had flown to embrace Pavel Ivanovich; the speech was concluded with a compliment such as is perhaps fitting only for a girl one is taking to a dance. Chichikov opened his mouth, still not knowing how to thank him, when suddenly Manilov took from under his fur coat a piece of paper rolled into a tube and tied with a pink ribbon, and deftly held it out with two fingers.

"What's this?"

"My little muzhiks."

"Ah!" He unrolled it straightaway, ran his eyes over it, and marveled at the neatness and beauty of the handwriting. "So nicely written," he said, "no need even to copy it. And a border around it! Who made such an artful border?"

"Oh, you mustn't ask," said Manilov.

"You?"

"My wife."

"Ah, my God! I really am ashamed to have caused so much trouble."

"When it's for Pavel Ivanovich, there's no such thing as trouble."

Chichikov bowed in gratitude. On learning that he was going to court to execute the deed, Manilov expressed a readiness to accompany him. The friends linked arms and set off together. At every little rise, bump, or step, Manilov supported Chichikov and almost lifted him up by the arm, adding with a pleasant smile that he would by no means allow Pavel Ivanovich to hurt his little feet. Chichikov was abashed, not knowing how to thank him, for he was aware that he was a bit on the heavy side. With mutual services they finally reached the square where the offices were located: a big three-story stone house, all white as chalk, probably to represent the purity of soul of the functions located within; the other structures on the square did not answer to the hugeness of the stone building. These were: a sentry box, where a soldier with a gun stood, two or three cabstands, and, finally, long fences with well-known fence inscriptions and drawings scrawled on them in charcoal or chalk; there was nothing else to be found on this solitary, or, as we say, beautiful square. From the windows of the second and third stories the incorruptible heads of the priests of Themis peeked out and ducked back at the same moment: probably a superior had come into the room just then. The friends did not so much walk as run up the stairs, because Chichikov, trying to elude the supporting arm from Manilov's side, kept quickening his pace, while Manilov, on his side, rushed ahead, trying to keep Chichikov from tiring himself, with the result that they were both quite breathless as they entered the dark corridor. Neither in the corridors nor in the rooms were their eyes struck by cleanliness. Back then people did not bother about it, and what was dirty simply stayed dirty, not assuming an attractive appearance. Themis received her guests as she was, in négligée and dressing gown. The chancellery rooms through which our heroes passed ought to be described, but the author feels a great timidity before all official places. Even happening to pass through them when they were splendid and ennobled of aspect, with polished floors and tables, he has tried to run as quickly as possible, humbly lowering his eyes and casting them on the ground, with the result that he is totally ignorant of how everything there prospers and flourishes. Our heroes saw lots of paper, rough drafts and fair copies, bent heads, broad napes, tailcoats, frock coats of a provincial cut, and even simply some light gray jacket, which stood out quite sharply, its head twisted to one side and almost lying on the paper as it traced, deftly and boldly, some protocol on an appropriation of land or the perquisition of an estate taken over by some peaceful landowner, who was quietly living out his life under lawsuit and had acquired children and grandchildren for himself under its protection, and they heard scraps of short phrases, uttered in a hoarse voice: "Hey, Fedosei Fedoseevich, lend me that little case no. 368!" "You always walk off somewhere with the cork to the office ink bottle!" Sometimes a more majestic voice, undoubtedly that of one of the superiors, resounded commandingly: "Here, copy this! or we'll take your boots away and you'll sit here for six days without food." The noise of pens was great and resembled that of several carts loaded with brushwood moving through a forest two feet deep in dry leaves.

Chichikov and Manilov went up to the first desk, where sat two clerks still young in years, and asked:

"May we inquire where deeds are dealt with here?"

"And what is it you want?" said both clerks, turning around.

"And what I want is to make an application."

"And what is it you've bought?"

"I would first like to know where the deeds desk is, here or somewhere else."

"But first tell us what you've bought and for what price, and then we'll tell you where, otherwise there's no knowing."

Chichikov saw at once that the clerks were simply curious, like all young clerks, and wanted to give more weight and significance to themselves and their occupation.

"Listen, my gentle sirs," he said, "I know very well that all deeds, whatever the price, are dealt with in one place, and therefore I ask you to point out the desk to us, and if you don't know what goes on in your own office, we'll ask others."

The clerks made no reply to this, one of them merely jabbed with his finger towards a corner of the room, where some old man sat at a desk, marking up some papers. Chichikov and Manilov moved between the desks straight to him. The old man was working very attentively.

"May I inquire," Chichikov said with a bow, "if it is here that deeds are dealt with?"

The old man raised his eyes and uttered with deliberation:

"Deeds are not dealt with here."

"And where, then?"

"In the deeds section."

"And where is the deeds section?"

"That's at Ivan Antonovich's."

"And where is Ivan Antonovich's?"

The old man jabbed his finger towards another corner of the room. Chichikov and Manilov set out for Ivan Antonovich's. Ivan Antonovich had already cast one eye back and given them a sidelong look, but at once immersed himself more attentively in his writing.

"May I inquire," Chichikov said with a bow, "if this is the deeds section?"

Ivan Antonovich seemed not to hear and buried himself completely in paper, making no reply. One could see at once that he was already a man of reasonable age, not some young babbler and whippersnapper. Ivan Antonovich seemed already well past forty; his hair was black, thick; the whole middle of his face projected forward and went mostly into nose—in short, it was the type of face commonly known as a jug mug.

"May I inquire if this is the deeds section?" said Chichikov.

"It is," Ivan Antonovich said, swung his jug mug, and again applied himself to his writing.

"And my business is this: I've bought peasants from various owners in this district, to be resettled; I have the deed, it remains to execute it."

"And are the sellers present?"

"Some are here, and I have warrants from the others."

"And have you brought the application?"

"I have brought the application. I'd like ... I must hurry. . . so mightn't we, for instance, finish the business today?"

"Today! hm, today's impossible," said Ivan Antonovich. "Inquiries must be made, to see that there are no interdictions."

"By the way, to do with speeding the business up, Ivan Grigorievich, the head magistrate, is a great friend of mine ..."

"Yes, but Ivan Grigorievich is not the only one; others exist," Ivan Antonovich said sternly.

Chichikov understood the little hitch Ivan Antonovich had just thrown in, and said:

"The others won't come out losers, I've been in the service myself, I know the business ..."

"Go to Ivan Grigorievich," said Ivan Antonovich in a voice slightly more benign, "let him give orders in the proper places, we'll hold our end up."

Chichikov, taking a banknote from his pocket, placed it in front of Ivan Antonovich, who utterly failed to notice it and covered it at once with a book. Chichikov was about to point it out to him, but Ivan Antonovich, with a motion of his head, gave a sign that there was no need to point it out.

"This one here will take you to the front office," said Ivan Antonovich, nodding his head, and one of the votaries, right there beside them, who had been sacrificing to Themis so zealously that he had gone through both coatsleeves at the elbow and the lining had long been sticking out, for which in due time he had been made a collegiate registrar, offered his services to our friends, as Virgil once offered his services to Dante, and led them to the front office, where there stood nothing but a wide armchair and in it, at a desk, behind a zertsalo [31]31
  A zertsalowas a small three-faced glass pyramid bearing an eagle and certain edicts of the emperor Peter the Great (1682-1725), which stood on the desk in every government office.


[Закрыть]and two thick books, alone as the sun, sat the magistrate. In this place the new Virgil felt such awe that he simply did not dare to set foot in it, but turned away, showing his back, threadbare as a bast mat, with a chicken feather stuck to it somewhere. Entering the chamber of the front office, they saw that the magistrate was not alone, Sobakevich was sitting with him, completely hidden by the zertsalo.The visitors' arrival produced exclamations, the governmental armchair was noisily pushed back. Sobakevich, too, rose from his chair, and he and his long sleeves became visible from all sides. The magistrate took Chichikov into his embrace, and the office resounded with kisses; they inquired after each other's health; it turned out that they both had some slight lower-back pain, which was straightaway ascribed to the sedentary life. The magistrate seemed already to have been informed of the purchase by Sobakevich, because he set about offering congratulations, which embarrassed our hero somewhat at first, especially when he saw that Sobakevich and Manilov, both sellers with whom deals had been struck in private, were now standing face to face. However, he thanked the magistrate and, turning at once to Sobakevich, asked:

"And how is your health?"

"No complaints, thank God," said Sobakevich.

And, indeed, he had nothing to complain of: iron would catch cold and start coughing sooner than this wondrously fashioned landowner.

"Yes, you've always been known for your health," said the magistrate, "and your late father was also a sturdy man."

"Yes, he used to go alone after bear," replied Sobakevich.

"It seems to me, however," said the magistrate, "that you'd also bring down your bear, if you chose to go against one."

"No, I wouldn't," replied Sobakevich, "the old man was sturdier than I am," and, sighing, he went on: "No, people aren't what they used to be; look at my life, what kind of a life is it? just sort of something ..."

"It's a fine life, isn't it?" said the magistrate.

"No good, no good," said Sobakevich, shaking his head. "Consider for yourself, Ivan Grigorievich: I'm in my forties, and never once have I been sick; never even a sore throat, never even a pimple or a boil breaking out . . . No, it doesn't bode well! Some day I'll have to pay for it." Here Sobakevich sank into melancholy.

"Eh, you," Chichikov and the magistrate thought simultaneously, "what a thing to bemoan!"

"I've got a little letter for you," Chichikov said, taking Plyush-kin's letter from his pocket.

"From whom?" the magistrate said and, opening it, exclaimed:

"Ah! from Plyushkin. So he's still vegetating in this world. What a fate! Once he was an intelligent, wealthy man, and now ..."

"A sonofabitch," said Sobakevich, "a crook, starved all his people to death."

"If you please, if you please," said the magistrate, "I'm ready to act as his attorney. When do you want to execute the deed, now or later?"

"Now," said Chichikov. "I will even ask you to do it, if possible, today, because I would like to leave town tomorrow. I've brought the deed and the application."

"That's all very well, only, like it or not, we won't let you go so soon. The deeds will be executed today, but all the same you must stay on with us a bit. Here, I'll give the order at once," he said, and opened the door to the chancellery, all filled with clerks, who could be likened to industrious bees scattered over a honeycomb, if a honeycomb may be likened to chancellery work. "Is Ivan Antonovich here?"

"Here," responded a voice from inside.

"Send him in."

Ivan Antonovich, the jug mug, already known to our readers, appeared in the front office and bowed reverently.