Selected Stories

The Milksop

IT WAS EVENING. Pantelei Diomidich Kokin, a secretary in the office of The Goose Gazette, a provincial newspaper, was on his way to the home of the manufacturer and Councilor of Commerce, Bludykhin, where there were to be amateur theatricals followed by a supper and dancing.

The secretary, happy, high-spirited, and pleased with himself, was imagining a dazzling future. … He pictured himself entering the ballroom, gallant, perfumed, and curled. He intended to affect an air of melancholy and indifference; to display self-respect in his bearing and the shrug of his shoulders; to speak negligently, reluctantly; and to try to bring to his glance an expression of weary mockery. In a word, he would conduct himself like a representative of the press. On passing him the ladies and gentlemen would exchange glances and whisper: “Member of the press. Not bad!”

As secretary of The Goose Gazette he was required to keep the addresses in order, take subscriptions, and see that the typographers did not steal the editor’s sugar—and that was all. But who, of the general public, was to know the limits of his duties? Since he came from a newspaper, he was, as a matter of course, a man of letters and custodian of editorial secrets. Ah, those editorial secrets, what an effect they had on a woman!

He would probably meet Klavdia Vasilyevna at the party. He intended to pass by her several times, as if he had failed to notice her; then, when she could bear it no longer, she would speak first. He would greet her indifferently, yawn, glance at his watch, and say: “What a bore! If only this nonsense would end soon. It’s already midnight, and I have to get out an edition and look over certain articles.” Klavdia would gaze up at him in awe, as one looks at a monument. Quite possibly she would ask him who, in the last issue, had written those scathing verses on the actress Kishkina Brandakhlytskaya. He would raise his eyes towards the ceiling and mumble mysteriously: “Mmmm … yes.” Let her think he had written them! Then there would be dancing, supper, drinking … and the final state of bliss in which he would escort Klavdia home. Dreams … Dreams …

At the illuminated entrance to Bludykhin’s house, the secretary saw two rows of carriages, the doors of which were being opened and closed by a corpulent doorman carrying a mace. The foyer was magnificent with carpets, mirrors, and flowers. Footmen in blue frockcoats over red waistcoats were taking the guests’ overcoats, and Kokin casually dropped his into their hands. He approached the staircase where two footmen were tearing off the corners of tickets; he ran his hand over his hair, lifted his head with dignity and murmured: “From the press.”

“Impossible! Impossible! Don’t admit him!” came a sharp, metallic voice from above. “Do not admit him!” Kokin looked up. There, at the head of the stairs, looking straight at him, stood a fat man in a swallowtail coat. Being certain, however, that this sharp voice had nothing to do with him the secretary placed his foot on the first step of the staircase. To his horror, the footmen blocked his way.

“Do not admit him!” the fat man repeated.

“But—that is to say—why not?” Kokin was stunned. “I am from the press.”

“That’s exactly why, because you’re from the press.” The fat man bowed to a passing lady and repeated, “Impossible!”

Kokin stood as if struck over the head. He was horribly embarrassed. New gloves, curled hair, and the heavy scent of violet water are hardly compatible with the humiliating role of a man who has been denied admittance, whose way has been blocked by lackeys. All this in the presence of ladies—and servants! Apart from the shame, the bewilderment and surprise, the secretary felt empty and disillusioned, as if someone had taken a pair of scissors and cut out of him all dreams of future happiness. So must a man feel who has received, in place of some anticipated gratitude, a slap in the face.

“I don’t understand—I’m from the press, let me in!” he stammered.

“We have been ordered not to,” said a footman. “Step aside, you’re blocking the way.”

“Strange,” faltered the secretary, forcing a dignified smile, “very strange …”

There was gay laughter and the rustle of fashionable gowns as one lady after another passed him. Each time the door slammed a draft flew across the vestibule, and another party of guests ascended the stairs.

“Why are they forbidden to admit me?” the secretary puzzled, still not himself after the unexpected rebuff. He could not believe his own eyes. “That fat man said it was because I was from the press that I could not be admitted. But why? … Curse them! I hope to God no one I know sees me standing here freezing. They would wonder what had happened. What a disgrace!”

Kokin made another attempt to go upstairs, but the footman barred his way. He shrugged, blew his nose, deliberated, and again approached the footmen. Again they stopped him. Upstairs the orchestra began to play. His heart fluttered and he caught his breath in a quickening desire to be in the great ballroom, his head held high, playing on Klavdia Vasilyevna’s patience. At that moment the swelling of the music awakened all the dreams with which he had beguiled himself on his way to the party.

“Listen,” he cried out to the fat man, “why can’t you let me in?”

“What? … No one admitted from the press.”

“But why? At least, explain.”

“Mr. Bludykhin’s orders. It’s not my business. If he forbids it, I can’t admit you. Please, let the lady pass. … Look here, Andrei, no one from the press—the master’s orders.”

Kokin shrugged his shoulders; then feeling the stupidity and pointlessness of the gesture, he moved away from the staircase. What was to be done? The best thing he could think of to do in such a case was to run to the editor’s office and let him know that that fool Bludykhin had issued such an order. The editor, naturally, would be surprised, burst out laughing, and say: “Now, isn’t he an idiot? What a way to take revenge for a review! He can’t understand, the ass, that if we go to his party, he’s not doing us a favor, we’re doing him one. Ah, he is a fool, God forgive him! But wait: in tomorrow’s issue I shall present you with a real carnation!”

Thus might the editor react to such an incident. And then what? It would naturally follow that the secretary, like a respectable man, would be obliged to remain at home, to ignore Bludykhin; both his pride and the dignity of the press would require it. That is all very well in theory, but in fact, when one has bought new gloves, paid a barber to curl one’s hair, and when, there, upstairs, both Klavdia Vasilyevna and supper were awaiting him, it is far from well.

“I have been looking forward to this party for two months,” he thought. “I’ve dreamed of it, prepared for it. For two whole months I ran all over town looking for a new coat. I gave my word to Klavdia. And now——No, it’s impossible, there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. It must be a misunderstanding. There is no need to go to the editor; I have only to say a word to the manager.”

“Listen,” he addressed himself to the fat man, “just let me go upstairs—I won’t go into the ballroom. I only want to speak to the manager or Mr. Bludykhin.”

“Go ahead, but understand that on no account will you be admitted to the ballroom.”

“Oh, Lord!” Kokin thought, as he started up the stairs, “those two ladies heard what he said. How humiliating! What a disgrace! I really ought to leave …”

Upstairs near the entrance to the ballroom stood the master of ceremonies, a short, redheaded man with a bow-knot in his lapel. An elaborately dressed lady sat at a little table handing out programs. The secretary appealed to them in a tearful voice.

“Tell me, please, why is no one from the press admitted? Why?”

“You gentlemen have only yourselves to blame,” the redheaded man replied. “You are given complimentary tickets, you sit in the first row, and what do you write?—Libels!”

“Oh, good heavens, listen——”

At that moment loud applause was heard within, followed by the charming voice of Princess Rozhkin singing “Again I stand before you.” The secretary’s heart was palpitating; the tortures of Tantalus were not greater.

“What libels?” he appealed to the lady. “Granting, Madam, that there have been libelous statements in the paper, how am I guilty? The editor is guilty, the contributors, but I—how can I be guilty? I’m merely a secretary, a sort of bookkeeper, I’m not a writer at all. Really, I’m not! Listen, I’ll even give you my word of honor I’m not a writer!”

“We can do nothing for you,” sighed the lady. “The order was given by Bludykhin himself. However, you may buy a ticket.”

“Damn! Why didn’t I think of that before?” he thought. But he immediately recalled that he had only forty kopecks in his pocket, which he had taken on the chance that Klavdia Vasilyevna might wish to be taken home in a cab. “In any case, I’ll have a word with Bludykhin,” he said aloud.

“Wait for the intermission.”

Kokin waited. From behind the door came a burst of applause, the sound of women singing, laughter; life was seething in there. But the poor secretary stood outside a la Henry at Canossa, in the attitude of a repentant sinner. Waiting for the intermission he stared at the door of the ballroom like a horse who senses the nearness of oats but cannot see them. He waited a long time. At last there was a clamor of voices, the sound of chairs being moved, then the doors were thrown open and the audience poured out.

“‘And happiness was so near, so possible!’” he thought, watching the doors open. “No, it is most unlikely that they will not admit me.”

Soon Bludykhin himself appeared, rosy and beaming. Kokin went up to him, but for some moments could not bring himself to speak. Finally he said, “Excuse me, sir, if I disturb you. You left orders, Anisim Ivanych, that no one from the press was to be admitted. …”

“Yes. What about it?”

“I came here—but—I don’t understand—you yourself will agree— How can I be guilty? The editors, the contributors, they are guilty, keep them out, but I—word of honor, I’m not a writer!”

“Ah-hah … but you are from the press?” Bludykhin inquired, throwing back his head and taking a stance with his legs spread in the form of the letter A. “Naturally, you have a grievance. Now listen to me. Let the public be my witness: ladies and gentlemen, you will be the judges. Here is a gentleman, a correspondent, who has a gr-r-rievance against me because I, so to say, I—ah—in some way pr-r-otested. My views on the press are, I hope, well known. I have always been for the press! But, ladies and gentlemen,” here he made a supplicating face, “ladies and gentlemen, there are limits! Abuse the actors, the play, the set, if you will, but why write absurdities? Why? In the last issue of your paper there was a magnificent article—mag-ni-fi-cent! But, in describing the tableau vivant ‘Judith and Holofernes,’ in which my daughter happened to take part, he—he said—God knows why—‘The sword,’ he said, ‘which Judith held in her hands, was so long,’ he said, ‘that she could only have managed to kill him from a great distance, or by climbing up onto the roof.’ Now, what has the roof to do with this? My daughter, when she read it, burst into tears! That, ladies and gentlemen, is not a review. No-o-o sir! Not at all! That is getting personal, to find fault with someone’s sword! And simply to spite me!”

“I—I agree with you!” babbled Kokin, feeling that hundreds of eyes were focused on him. “I myself am against abusive criticism, but, actually, what has it to do with me? On my word of honor, I’m not a writer. I’m a secretary! And I’ll tell you something else—but, just between ourselves, naturally—that article was written by the editor himself.” (Why am I such a pig as to tell him this? he thought.) “But he’s a good man, an honest man. If he wrote something like that, it was done accidentally, thoughtlessly——”

The secretary’s sheeplike tone mollified Bludykhin. The Councilor of Commerce buttonholed Kokin and began once more to unfold his views on the press. A thousand feelings stirred simultaneously in the secretary’s breast; it was very flattering to have someone as important as Bludykhin confide in him; he felt certain of immediate admission into the ballroom; the misunderstanding was at an end, his dreams were about to come true. At the same time he felt terribly ashamed and debased; thanks to his spinelessness he had betrayed himself and the editor of The Goose Gazette in public and before friends—like the worst kind of Judas. Instead he ought to have cursed them, spit on them, laughed at them; and he had, in fact, humiliated himself, begged, and nearly wept!

Bludykhin talked on and on; having assumed a role he was bent on playing it to the hilt. He took the secretary by the arm, they were about to enter Eden when a cry was heard: “Anisim Ivanovich! The general has arrived!” Bludykhin gave a start of surprise, left Kokin, and flew headlong down the stairs. The secretary stood still for a moment, adjusted his necktie and stepped forward; the moment had come when it was no longer necessary for him to wait and hope. The second act began and he approached the door. The master of ceremonies refused to admit him.

“Bludykhin said nothing to us. Impossible.”

Ten minutes later the secretary was scraping along the icy streets in his big galoshes. He went home, but he would have been happier to have fallen through a hole in the ice. He felt ashamed and disgusted. Even the new gloves, the violet perfume, and his curled head sickened him. He could have hit himself over that head!

—1885