Short Fiction, Fyodor Sologub [most popular novels of all time .txt] 📗

“But, Your Excellency, I am quite well.”

“No more, if you please.”

They gave Saranin leave for four months.

Before long, Aglaya’s parents arrived. It was after lunch. During lunch, Aglaya had waxed very merry at her husband’s expense. Then she went off to her room.

He went timidly into his study⁠—it seemed huge to him now⁠—scrambled up on to the ottoman, curled himself up in a corner and began crying. Burdensome perplexities tormented him.

Why should just he be overwhelmed by such a misfortune? It was dreadful, unheard of.

What utter folly.

He sobbed and whispered despairingly:

“Why, oh, why did I do it?”

Suddenly he heard familiar voices in the front room. He shook with horror. On tiptoe he crept to the washing-stand⁠—they should not see his tear-stained eyes. Even to wash himself was difficult⁠—he had to stand on a chair.

The guests had already entered the drawing-room. Saranin received them. He bowed, and in a piping voice made some unintelligible remark. Aglaya’s father looked at him blankly with wide-open eyes. He was big, stout, bull-necked and red-faced. Aglaya was at his heels.

He stood still before his son-in-law, and with legs wide apart, he eyed him attentively; he took Saranin’s hand cautiously, bent forward and said, lowering his voice:

“We have come to see you.”

It was obvious that his intention was to behave himself tactfully. He fidgeted with his feet on the floor.

From behind his back, Aglaya’s mother, a lean and malicious person, pushed forward. She exclaimed shrilly:

“Where is he, where? Show him to me, Aglaya, show me this Pygmalion.”

She looked over Saranin’s head. She purposely did not notice him. The flowers on her hat waggled strangely. She went straight up to Saranin. He squeaked and hopped on one side.

Aglaya began to cry and said:

“There he is, mama.”

“I’m here, mama,” squeaked Saranin, and shuffled his feet.

“You villain, what have you done to yourself? Why have you shrivelled up so?”

The servant-girl giggled.

“Don’t you giggle at your master, my good girl.”

Aglaya reddened.

“Mama, let’s go into the drawing-room.”

“No; tell me, you villain, for what purpose you’ve got so small?”

“Now then, mother, wait a bit,” the father interrupted her.

She turned on her husband as well.

“Didn’t I tell you not to let her marry a man without a beard. See, it’s turned out just as I said.”

The father looked cautiously at Saranin and did his utmost to change the conversation to politics.

“The Japanese,” he said, “are of no great size to speak of, but to all appearance they are a brainy race, and even, you might almost say, enterprising.”

And Saranin grew tinier and tinier. He could now walk freely under the table. And each day he became smaller still. He had not yet taken complete advantage of his leave, but he did not go to the office. They had not yet made preparations to travel anywhere.

Aglaya sometimes made fun of him, sometimes she cried and said:

“Where shall I take you in that state? The shame and disgrace of it!”

To pass from the study to the dining-room had become a journey of quite respectable proportions. And to climb up on a chair in the bargain⁠ ⁠…

Still, weariness was in itself agreeable. It resulted in a good appetite and the hope of growing. Saranin now pinned all his faith upon food. The amount he consumed was out of all proportion to his diminutive dimensions. But he did not grow. On the contrary⁠—he decreased and decreased in size. The worst of it was that this decrease in size sometimes proceeded in jerks and at the most inopportune times. As if he were performing tricks.

Aglaya thought of passing him off as a boy, and entering him at a school. She made her way to the nearest one. But the conversation she had with the Headmaster discouraged her.

They demanded documents. It turned out that the plan was impracticable.

With an expression of extreme perplexity the Headmaster said to Aglaya:

“We cannot take a court councillor as pupil. What could we do with him? Suppose the teacher told him to stand in the corner, and he said: I am a Knight of St. Anne. It would be very awkward.”

Aglaya assumed a pleading expression and began to implore.

The Headmaster remained inexorable.

“No,” he said stubbornly, “we cannot take an official into the school. There is nowhere a single clause in which such a case is provided for. And it would be extremely awkward to approach the authorities with such a proposition. They wouldn’t hear of it. It might lead to considerable unpleasantness. No, it can’t be done at all. Apply to the controller, if you so desire.”

But Aglaya could not make up her mind to go to the authorities.

One day Aglaya received a visit from a young man, whose hair was combed back with very shiny smoothness. He made an extremely gallant curtsey. He introduced himself thus:

“I represent the firm of Strigal and Co. A first-class store at the very smartest centre of aristocratic shopping in the West End. We have a huge quantity of clients in the best and highest society.”

With a view to all emergencies, Aglaya made eyes at the representative of the illustrious firm. With a languid gesture of her plump arm she invited him to take a chair. She sat with her back to the light. Leaning her head on one side, she made ready to listen.

The young man with the shinily combed hair continued:

“We have been informed that your husband has vouchsafed to display originality in his choice of a diminutive size for himself. For this reason, the firm, anticipating the very latest movements in ladies’ and gentlemen’s fashions, has the honour, madam, of proposing, as an advertisement, to provide the gentleman free of charge with suits cut according to the very finest Parisian model.”

“For nothing?” asked Aglaya, listlessly.

“Not only for nothing, madam, but even with payment to your own advantage, only under one trifling condition which can easily be fulfilled.”

In the meantime, Saranin, hearing that he was the subject of the discussion, betook himself into the drawing-room.