LITMIR.BIZ

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      But if Petersburg is not the capital, then there is no Petersburg. It only appears to exist.

      However that may be, Petersburg not only appears to us, but actually does appear—on maps: in the form of two small circles, one set inside the other, with a black dot in the center; and from precisely this mathematical point, which has no dimension, it proclaims forcefully that it exists: from here, from this very point surges and swarms the printed book;^† from this invisible point speeds the official circular.

       CHAPTER THE FIRST

       in which an account is given of a certain worthy person, his mental games, and the ephemerality of being

       It was a dreadful time, in truth,

       Of it still fresh the recollection . . .

       Of it, my friends, I now for you

       Begin my comfortless narration.

      Lugubrious will be my tale . . .^†

      Pushkin

      APOLLON APOLLONOVICH ABLEUKHOV

      Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov was of venerable stock: he had Adam as his ancestor. But that is not the main thing: it is more important that one member of this venerable stock was Shem, progenitor of the Semitic, Hessitic, and red-skinned peoples.^†

      Here let us make a transition to ancestors of an age not so remote.

      Their place of residence was the Kirghiz-Kaisak Horde,^† whence, in the reign of the Empress Anna Ioannovna, Mirza Ab-Lai, the great-great-grandfather of the senator, valiantly entered the Russian service, having received, upon Christian baptism, the name Andrei and the sobriquet Ukhov.^† For brevity’s sake, Ab-Lai-Ukhov was later changed to Ableukhov, plain and simple.

      This was the great-great-grandfather who was the source of the stock.

      ***

      A lackey in gray with gold braid was flicking the dust off the writing table with a feather duster. A cook’s cap peeped through the open door.

      “Looks like himself’s already up. . . .”

      “He’s rubbing himself down with eau de cologne, he’ll be taking his coffee pretty soon. . . .”

      “This morning the fellow who brings the mail was saving there was a letter for the master all the way from Spain, with a Spanish stamp on it.”

      “I’m going to tell you something: you shouldn’t stick your nose in other people’s letters. . . .”

      The cook’s head suddenly vanished. Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov proceeded into the study.

      ***

      A pencil lying on the table struck the attention of Apollon Apollonovich. Apollon Apollonovich formed the intention: of imparting a sharpness of form to the pencil point. He quickly walked up to the writing table and snatched . . . a paperweight, which he long turned this way and that, deep in thought.

      His abstraction stemmed from the fact that at this instant a profound thought dawned on him, and straightaway, at this inopportune time, it unfolded into a fleeting thought train.

      Apollon Apollonovich quickly began jotting down this unfolded thought train. Having jotted down the train, he thought: “Now it’s time for the office.” And he passed into the dining room to partake of his coffee.

      By way of preliminaries, he undertook an insistent questioning of the old valet.

      “Is Nikolai Apollonovich up yet?”

      “No indeed, sir, he’s not up yet. . . .”

      Apollon Apollonovich rubbed the bridge of his nose in dissatisfaction:

      “Er . . . tell me: when, tell me, when does Nikolai Apollonovich, so to speak. . . .”

      And, immediately, without awaiting an answer, he looked at the clock and proceeded to his coffee.

      It was precisely half past nine.

      Every morning the senator inquired about the times of his awakening. And every morning he made a face.

      Nikolai Apollonovich was the senator’s son.

      IN A WORD, HE WAS HEAD OF A GOVERNMENT INSTITUTION . . .

      What, then, was the social position of the person who has arisen here from non-being?

      I think the question is rather out of place: Ableukhov was known by all Russia for the eminent expansiveness of the speeches that he delivered. These speeches noiselessly effused certain poisons, as a result of which the proposals of an opposing camp were rejected in the appropriate place. With Ableukhov’s installation in a responsible position, the Ninth Department became inactive.^† With this particular Department Apollon Apollonovich did dogged battle, both through official papers and, where necessary, through speeches, in an effort to promote the import of American haybalers into Russia. (The Ninth Department did not favor their import.)

      Apollon Apollonovich was head of a Government Institution. Oh, uhhh, what was its name?

      Were one to compare the wizened and utterly unprepossessing little figure of my elder statesman with the immeasurable immensity of the mechanisms managed by him, one might perhaps lapse into naive astonishment for quite some time. But then, after all, absolutely everyone was astonished at the explosion of the mental forces which poured forth from this particular cranium in defiance of all Russia.

      My senator^† had just turned sixty-eight. And his pallid face recalled a gray paperweight (in a moment of triumph), and papier-mâché (in an hour of leisure). The stony senatorial eyes, surrounded by blackish green hollows, looked more blue and more immense in moments of fatigue.

      On our part let us add: Apollon Apollonovich was not in the least agitated when he contemplated his ears, green all over and enlarged to immense size, against the bloody background of a Russia in flames. Thus had he recently been portrayed on the title page of a gutter rag,^† one of those trashy humor rags put out by the kikes, whose bloody covers in those days were spawned with staggering swiftness on prospects swarming with people. . . .

      NORTHEAST

      In the oak dining room the wall cuckoo clock had already cuckooed. Apollon Apollonovich had sat down before his porcelain cup and was breaking off warm crusts of bread. Over coffee—even then, even then—he would have his little joke:

      “Who is the most respected of them all, Semyonych?”^†

      “I suppose, Apollon Apollonovich, that the most respected of them all is an Actual Privy Councilor.”^†

      Apollon Apollonovich smiled with his lips only:

      “You suppose incorrectly: a chimney sweep . . .

      The valet already knew the way the riddle ended, but he kept quiet about it.

      “But why, if I may venture to ask?”

      “People make way for an Actual Privy Councilor, Semyonych. . . .”

      “I suppose that’s so. . . .”

      “A chimney sweep. . . . Even an Actual Privy Councilor will make way for him: a chimney sweep can get you all dirty.”

      “So that’s what it is, sir.”

      “Yes, precisely. Except that there is an even more respected occupation. . . .”

      And

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