“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.

A PINK STOCKING

A DULL, rainy day.  The sky is completely covered with heavy clouds, and there is no prospect of the rain ceasing.  Outside sleet, puddles, and drenched jackdaws.  Indoors it is half dark, and so cold that one wants the stove heated.

Pavel Petrovitch Somov is pacing up and down his study, grumbling at the weather.  The tears of rain on the windows and the darkness of the room make him depressed.  He is insufferably bored and has nothing to do. . . .  The newspapers have not been brought yet; shooting is out of the question, and it is not nearly dinner-time . . . .