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Kistunov, mamma: he is an influential man, he can do anything for you. . . . Help me, your Excellency!" "We can do nothing for you, Madame Shtchukin. You must understand: your husband served in the Army Medical Department, and our establishment is a purely private commercial undertaking, a bank. Surely you must understand that!"
Kistunov passed his trembling hand over his forehead, heaved a sigh, and began explaining again. "Madam, I have told you already this is a bank, a private commercial establishment. . . . What do you want of us? And do understand that you are hindering us." Madame Shtchukin listened to him and sighed. "To be sure, to be sure," she assented.
I am a weak, defenceless woman . . . I have to put up with ill-usage from everyone and never hear a kind word. . ." The petitioner was blinking, and dived into her mantle for her handkerchief. Kistunov took her petition from her and began reading it. "Excuse me, what's this?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders. "I can make nothing of it. Evidently you have come to the wrong place, madam.
Madame Shtchukin wrapped the money up in her handkerchief, put it away, and pursing up her face into a sweet, mincing, even coquettish smile, asked: "Your Excellency, and would it be possible for my husband to get a post again?" "I am going . . . I am ill . . ." said Kistunov in a weary voice. "I have dreadful palpitations."
IN spite of a violent attack of gout in the night and the nervous exhaustion left by it, Kistunov went in the morning to his office and began punctually seeing the clients of the bank and persons who had come with petitions. He looked languid and exhausted, and spoke in a faint voice hardly above a whisper, as though he were dying.
"We can't make her see anything, Pyotr Alexandritch! We are simply done. We talk of one thing and she talks of something else." "I . . . I can't stand the sound of her voice. . . . I am ill . . . . I can't bear it." "Send for the porter, Pyotr Alexandritch, let him put her out." "No, no," cried Kistunov in alarm.
"Re-mark-ably nasty woman," Kistunov thought indignantly, nervously shrugging his shoulders. "No more brains than a sheep. I believe that's a twinge of the gout again. . . . My migraine is coming back. . . ." In the next room Alexey Nikolaitch, at the end of his resources, at last tapped his finger on the table and then on his own forehead.
Kistunov was conscious of the palpitation of his heart. With a face of anguish, pressing his hand on his heart, he began explaining to Madame Shtchukin again, but his voice failed him. "No, excuse me, I cannot talk to you," he said with a wave of his hand. "My head's going round. You are hindering us and wasting your time. Ough!
Kistunov again turned to Madame Shtchukin and began explaining to her the difference between the Army Medical Department and a private bank. She listened attentively, nodded in token of assent, and said: "Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . I understand, sir. In that case, your Excellency, tell them to pay me fifteen roubles at least! I agree to take part on account!
Kistunov shrugged his shoulders again and turned to a gentleman in a military uniform, with a swollen face. "Your Excellency," piped Madame Shtchukin in a pitiful voice, "I have the doctor's certificate that my husband was ill! Here it is, if you will kindly look at it." "Very good, I believe you," Kistunov said irritably, "but I repeat it has nothing to do with us.
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