Chapter 60: The Cheerful Air

“What’s going on?” Ochumelov pushed through the crowd and asked, “What are you doing here? Why are you holding up your finger? Who’s making all this noise?”

“I was walking just fine, officer, not bothering anyone,” Khryukin said, coughing into his empty fist. “I was talking to Mitri Mitrich about firewood when this beast bit my finger for no reason… Excuse me, I’m a laborer… and I do delicate work.”

“Now I’m injured—I won’t be able to use this hand for at least a week—so I demand compensation… Respected officer, perhaps the law has no clause for this, but must a man who’s been harmed by a beast simply endure it?… If everyone must suffer dog bites, what’s the point of living?”

Though Krayevsky approached with criticism in mind, he couldn’t help smiling at the passage that followed.

From this, it was clear that the young man’s new story differed slightly from his earlier works—it now resembled the kind of humorous sketches common in tabloids, meant only to amuse.

If one insisted, Krayevsky thought Gogol’s works were mostly of this humorous, satirical vein—like his play The Government Inspector, which at first glance was merely a dandy mistaken for a “government inspector,” triggering a series of absurd farces. Even the Tsar himself laughed until he nearly died.

But his target was too extreme—he mocked so many officials. How could he so easily offend those respectable gentlemen?

Writing about a lowly patrol officer, however, Krayevsky felt was relatively safe.

At least it wouldn’t directly offend the noble masters.

Returning to the story: now that trouble had arisen, the officer began to flex his authority.

“Hmm! Indeed,” Ochumelov coughed, raising his eyebrows sternly. “Indeed. Whose dog is this? I can’t ignore such matters. I’ll teach those who let their dogs run wild a lesson! It’s time to discipline those masters who refuse to follow the rules! When they’re punished, that bastard will learn what happens when you let animals loose! I’ll make him pay…”

But the problem was:

“It sounds like General Sighalov’s dog!” someone in the crowd said.

Instantly, the officer changed:

“General Sighalov’s? Oh!… Yeltyrin, help me take off my coat… It’s too hot! Rain must be coming… I don’t understand—how could it bite you?” Ochumelov turned back to Khryukin. “It couldn’t reach your finger—it’s just a puppy, and you’re such a big fellow! You must’ve scratched your finger on a nail, then framed this dog, dreaming of compensation from its owner. We all know… your tricks! You despicable man!”

Just as the officer prepared to harshly punish the bitten man, his colleague suddenly added:

“No, it’s not the general’s dog,” the policeman said firmly. “The general doesn’t own any dog like this. His dogs are mostly setters.”

“No, this isn’t the General’s dog,” the policeman said firmly. “The General doesn’t own a dog like this; his dogs are mostly setters.”

“I’m certain, officer.”

Hearing this, the officer immediately relaxed:

“I knew it. The general’s dogs are all purebred, but this one? God knows what it is! Poor coat, ugly look… a lowly thing.”

But the dog’s owner’s identity remained uncertain, and soon someone else spoke up:

“Still, it might be the general’s dog…” the policeman thought aloud. “It doesn’t have a label on its face. I saw a dog like this in his yard a few days ago.”

“It’s the general’s, for sure!” someone in the crowd declared.

At this, the officer, without hesitation, switched his stance again:

“Hmm! Yeltyrin, help me put my coat back on… Wind’s picking up… Cold… Take this dog to the general’s house. Tell them I found it and sent you to deliver it.”

Just as the matter seemed resolved, the general’s cook arrived—a man who knew the truth. Someone immediately asked him, and his reply was: “Nonsense! We’ve never owned a dog like this!”

“Then there’s no need to waste more time,” Ochumelov said. “It’s a stray. Enough talk… If he says it’s not his, then it’s a stray… Kill it.”

But before the officer had even finished changing his tone, the cook—who never spoke in one breath—added:

“It’s the general’s brother’s dog. He came to us a few days ago. The general dislikes this breed, but his brother loves it…”

“So… Vladimir Ivanovich, the general’s elder brother, has arrived?” Ochumelov beamed. “Oh my goodness! This is terrible—I didn’t even know! He’ll be staying for a while, then?”

“Could it be that his esteemed brother, Vladimir Ivanovich, has arrived?” Ochumelov asked with a beaming smile. “Oh my heavens! I had no idea! Will he be staying here for a while?”

“Oh my goodness!… He mustn’t leave… I didn’t even know he was here! So this is his noble brother’s dog? I’m delighted to hear it… Take it back. It’s a fine dog… a lively, lovely little pup! It bit this fellow’s finger! Hahaha!”

After the dog was taken away, the officer seemed to forget everything that had just happened. He turned once more to the bitten man:

“I’ll settle accounts with you someday!” Ochumelov threatened, then pulled his coat tight and walked straight across the marketplace square.

At the story’s end, though he’d begun with criticism, Krayevsky could no longer suppress his smile—he let out a few low chuckles.

But as he laughed, Krayevsky suddenly recalled what Belinsky and his circle thought of him, and remembered the author’s connection to them. His smile slowly faded.

He had been smiling just moments before, but Krayevsky suddenly remembered what Belinsky and his circle thought of him, and what connection the author of this story had with them; his smile slowly faded.

It’s understandable that the protagonist would treat a general this way!

Too exaggerated—how could anyone be so hypocritical and sycophantic?

As Krayevsky wrote his opinion, elsewhere, in Panayev’s home, Mikhail had just finished reading aloud the story titled “The Chameleon.” Everyone present was in stitches; someone laughed and said:

“I heard Mr. Krayevsky will personally review this story? I’m sure he’ll love it!”

“Good heavens, I just thought of so many people!”

“Russian literature has a new classic character! I have a feeling this figure will never grow old!”

As the gathering brimmed with cheerful air—even the usually gloomy faces smiled—Belinsky, though sensing deeper layers in this seemingly light-hearted tale, refrained from speaking seriously. He simply smiled and summed up:

“Gentlemen! I know we’re all not bad—each of us carries some selfishness, none of us is noble, all of us have flaws. But we are human! We must have our dignity! How can a man become this?”

“Sometimes, for a better life, we must be hypocritical, smooth-tongued—but can a man truly become this?”

“Sometimes, for a better life, we must be insincere and cunning—but how can a person truly become like this?”

(End of Chapter)