The Death Of A Government Clerk
Anton Chekhov
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