Fifty-Two Stories

Merdyaev took the book with trembling hands and left the office. He was pale. His crossed eyes shifted anxiously and seemed to be looking for help from the objects around him. We took the book from him and cautiously began to examine it.

The book was The Count of Monte Cristo.²

“You can’t go against his will!” our old accountant, Prokhor Semyonych Budylda, said with a sigh. “Give it a try, force yourself…Read a little, and then, God grant, he’ll forget and you can drop it. Don’t be afraid…And above all, don’t get involved in it…Read but don’t get involved in this clever stuff.”

Merdyaev wrapped the book in paper and sat down to work. But this time he was unable to work. His hands trembled and his eyes crossed in different directions: one towards the ceiling, the other towards the inkstand. The next day he came to work in tears.

“Four times I began,” he said, “but I couldn’t make anything of it…Some sort of foreigners…”

Five days later Semipalatov, passing by the desks, stopped at Merdyaev’s and asked:

“Well, so? Have you read the book?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“What is it about, my dear fellow? Go on, tell me!”

Merdyaev raised his head and moved his lips.

“I forget, Your Excellency…,” he said after a minute.

“Meaning you didn’t read it, or…e-e-eh…you read it inattentively! Me-chaa-nically! That won’t do! Read it over again! In general, gentlemen, I recommend that. Kindly read! Read, all of you! Take books from my windowsill over there and read. Paramonov, go, take a book for yourself! You step over, too, Podkhodtsev, my dear fellow! You, too, Smirnov! All of you, gentlemen! Please!”

They all went and took books for themselves. Only Budylda ventured to voice a protest. He spread his arms, shook his head, and said:

“No, excuse me, Your Excellency…I’d sooner take my retirement…I know what comes of these same critiques and writings. On account of them my older grandson calls his own mother a fool right to her face and gulps milk all through Lent.³ Excuse me, sir!”

“You understand nothing,” said Semipalatov, who usually forgave the old man all his rude words.

But Semipalatov was mistaken: the old man understood everything. A week later we already saw the fruits of this reading. Podkhodtsev, who was reading the second volume of The Wandering Jew,⁴ called Budylda “a Jesuit”; Smirnov started coming to work in an inebriated state. But no one was so affected by the reading as Merdyaev. He lost weight, became pinched, began to drink.

“Prokhor Semyonych!” he begged Budylda. “I’ll pray to God eternally for you! Ask his excellency to excuse me…I can’t read. I read day and night, don’t sleep, don’t eat…My wife’s worn out from reading aloud to me, but, God strike me dead, I understand nothing! Do me this great service!”

Budylda ventured several times to report to Semipalatov, but he only waved his hands and, strolling around the department with Galamidov, reproached everybody for their ignorance. Two months went by like that, and this whole story ended in the most terrible way.

One day Merdyaev, arriving at work, instead of sitting at his desk, knelt in the midst of those present, burst into tears, and said:

“Forgive me, Orthodox Christians, for making counterfeit money!”

Then he went into the office, knelt before Semipalatov, and said:

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, I threw a baby down a well yesterday!”

He beat his head on the floor and sobbed…

“What’s the meaning of this?!” Semipalatov asked in astonishment.

“It means, Your Excellency,” said Budylda with tears in his eyes, stepping forward, “that he’s lost his mind! His wits are addled! This is what your silly Galamidov achieved with these writings! God sees everything, Your Excellency. And if you don’t like my words, then allow me to take my retirement. It’s better to die of hunger than to see such things in my old age!”

Semipalatov turned pale and paced from corner to corner.

“Don’t receive Galamidov!” he said in a hollow voice. “And you, gentlemen, calm yourselves. I see my mistake now. Thank you, old man!”

And since then nothing has gone on in our office. Merdyaev recovered, but not completely. And to this day he trembles and turns away at the sight of a book.

1884

THE COOK GETS MARRIED