Zoe smiled happily and came up to me.
“And you’re in love with someone else too, aren’t you?” she said, rubbing her hands together. “You’re in love with Mademoiselle De Beux!”
“Yes,” I said, “Mademoiselle De Beux. She’s not Russian Orthodox, and she’s not rich, but I love her for her mind and her edifying qualities. My parents can send me to hell, but I will marry her! I love her, I think I love her even more than I love life itself! I cannot live without her! If I can’t marry her, then I no longer wish to live! I’m going right this minute... let’s both go and tell these fools... oh, thank you, my dearest...you have comforted me no end!”
My soul was flooded with happiness, and I thanked Zoe again and again, and she thanked me. And both of us, overjoyed, thankful, kissed each other’s hands, commending each other on our high-mindedness. I kissed her hands; she kissed my forehead, the stubble of my beard. It seems that, forgetting all etiquette, I even hugged her! And let me tell you, this declaration of nonlove was sweeter than any declaration of love could be! Joyful, rosy, trembling all over, we rushed to the house to tell our parents of our decision. As we crossed the garden, we cheered each other on.
“So let them shout at us!” I said. “They can beat us, even throw us out, at least we’ll be happy!”
We entered the house, and there, by the door, our parents were waiting. They took one look at us, saw how happy we were, and immediately called the butler. He brought in the champagne. I started protesting, waving my arms, stamping my feet.... Zoe began crying, shrieking... there was a tremendous uproar, a rumpus, and we didn’t get to drink the champagne.
But they married us anyway.
Today is our silver wedding anniversary. We have lived together for a quarter of a century. Initially it was terrible. I swore at her, beat her, and then out of regret began loving her. This regret brought with it children... and then... well... we just got used to each other. This very moment my darling Zoe is standing right behind me. Laying her hands on my shoulders, she kisses my bald spot.
FROM
THE
DIARY
OF AN
ASSISTANT
BOOKKEEPER
MAY 1 lTH, 1863 Glotkin, our sixty- year-old bookkeeper, has been drinking milk laced with cognac for his cough, and as a result he has fallen into a violent alcoholic delirium. The doctors, with their typical self-confidence, confirm that he will die tomorrow. At last I will be bookkeeper! I have been promised this position for a long time now.
Kleshchev is to be tried for physically attacking an appli-cant who called him a bureaucrat. It seems that there will be a court case.
I had some fluid extracted from my stomach catarrh.
AUGUST 3RD, 1865
Glotkin, our bookkeeper, has a cold in his chest again. He is coughing and has started drinking milk laced with cognac. If he dies I will get his position. My hopes are high, but somewhat shaky—experience has shown that delirium tremens is not always fatal.
Kleshchev snatched a promissory note from an Armenian and tore it up. It seems that there will be a court case.
An old village woman (Guryevna) told me yesterday that what I have is not a catarrh, but a hidden hemorrhoid. It’s quite possible!
JUNE 30TH, 1867
The newspapers write that there’s a cholera epidemic in Arabia. Maybe it will come to Russia, and there will be many job openings. Maybe the old bookkeeper will die and I will get his position. What vigor that man has! If you ask me, living such a long time is reprehensible.
I wonder what I should take for that catarrh of mine. Maybe some wormseed might do the trick.
JANUARY 2ND, 1870
A dog was howling all night long in Glotkin’s yard. Pelageya, my cook, says that this is a definite omen, and we stayed up until two in the morning talking about how once I become bookkeeper I will buy myself a raccoon coat and a dressing gown. And maybe I will even get married! Obviously not to a young girl—I’m a bit too old for that—but to a widow.
Yesterday Kleshchev was thrown out of the club for telling a joke, at the top of his voice, mocking the patriotism of one of the members of Ponyukhov’s trade delegation. From what I hear, Ponyukhov is taking him to court.
I think I’ll go to Doctor Botkin for my catarrh. They say he’s good at healing....
JULY 4TH, 1878
The newspapers report that the plague has hit Vetlyanka. People are dropping like flies. As a precaution, Glotkin is drinking pepper vodka. As if pepper vodka would save an old fool like him! If the plague hits here, I’ll definitely be the new bookkeeper!
JUNE 4TH, 1883
Glotkin is dying. I went to visit him, and crying bitter tears, I begged forgiveness for having waited for his death with such impatience. He forgave me magnanimously, and suggested I drink acorn coffee for my catarrh.
Kleshchev again almost ended up in court: he rented a piano and then pawned it to the Jews. And in spite of all this he has a Stanislav medal and the rank of Collegiate Assessor. It’s amazing, the things that happen in this world!
Essence of Inbir—ten grams. Kalgan potion—seven grams. Ostraya vodka—four grams. Seven-brother-blood— twenty grams. To cure catarrh, mix these with a liter of vodka and drink one wineglass of the mixture on an empty stomach.
JUNE 7TH, 1883
Glotkin was buried yesterday. Alas! The old mans death was of no use to me! I see him in my dreams at night, wrapped in a shroud, beckoning. And woe unto me, the sinner—I did not become the bookkeeper, Chalikov did! It was not I who got the job, but a young man with the help of the general’s wife’s aunt! My hopes are dashed!
JUNE 10TH, 1886
Chalikov’s wife has run away. The poor man is distraught. Maybe grief will drive him to take his own life. If he does, I will be bookkeeper! There has already been talk. In other words, where there’s life there’s hope, and maybe the road to the raccoon coat will be short and sweet. As for getting married, it’s not such a bad idea. Why not get married if the opportunity should arise? But I’ll need some good advice—marriage is a serious step.
Kleshchev took Councillor Lirmanso’s galoshes. It’s a scandal!
Paysi the doorman suggested I use a mercuric chloride solution for my catarrh.
I’m going to try it.
A FOOL; OR,
THE RETIRED
SEA CAPTAIN:
A SCENE
UNWRITTEN
VAUDEVILLE
PLAY
IT IS THE MARRIAGE season. Soufov is a retired sea captain. He is sitting on an oilskin sofa, with one leg resting over the other, his arms crossed. As he speaks he rocks back and forth. Lukinishna the matchmaker is a fat, sagging old woman sitting on a stool next to him. She has a foolish but good-natured face, with an expression of horror mixed with surprise. Seen from the side, she looks like a large snail; from the front, like a black beetle. She speaks servilely, and hiccups after every word.
CAPTAIN: By the way, if you think about it, Ivan Nikolayevitch has set himself up quite nicely. He did well to get married. You can be a professor, a genius even, but if you’re not married, you’re not worth a brass kopeck! You’ve no census or public opinion worth mentioning. If you’re not married, you don’t carry any weight in society. Take me, for instance. I am a man from an educated background, a house owner, I have money, rank—even a medal! But what’s the point? Who am I if you look at me from a point of view?—An old bachelor—a mere synonym, nothing more. (He pauses to think.) Everyone’s married, everyone has children, except me—it’s like in the song.... (He sings a few doleful lines in a deep baritone.) That’s how my life is—surely there must be some woman left on the shelf for me to get married to!