ne 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 getti