Chapter V: Act II: Scene I (3)

An extraordinary circumstance happened to-day. I got up rather late, and when Mavra brought me my boots I asked her what time it was. Hearing that it was long past ten I dressed hurriedly. I confess I did not want to go to the Department at all, knowing beforehand what black looks I should get from the chief of our division. For some time he’s taken to saying to me, “What ever sort of rot have you always got in your head now, man? Sometimes you tear about like a possessed creature; sometimes you muddle the papers so that the very devil couldn’t make them out; you write the titles without capital letters, and leave out all the dates and numbers!” Hang the fellow! He’s envious, of course, because I sit in the director’s study and mend his excellency’s pens. In short, I shouldn’t have gone to the Department at all if I hadn’t hoped to meet the treasurer, and, perhaps, get the confounded Jew to give me, anyway, a little of my salary in advance. I never came across such a creature! For him to ever advance one the money a single month—why, doomsday will come before that happens! You can beg him, entreat him—however hard up you are the old grey devil won’t give it you. And yet at home his own cook boxes his ears. She does—everybody knows that. I can’t understand what advantage it is to serve in the Department. There are no resources whatsoever. Now, in the Provincial Administration, or in the Common Courts, or Court of Exchequer—that’s quite another thing; there sometimes you’ll see a fellow squeezed up in the corner writing away, in a shabby old coat, and such a fright to look at, and yet see what a nice little villa he rents! You can’t offer him a gilded china cup, for instance; he’ll say, “That’s a doctor’s present.” No, you must give him a pair of carriage horses, or a fine sledge, or beaver fur worth three hundred roubles. He’ll look as meek as meek can be, and talk so sweetly—“May I trouble you to lend me your penknife?” and then he’ll fleece you—till he leaves nothing but the shirt on your back. It’s true, though, our service is more genteel—everything’s so clean, the tables are of red wood, and all the directors say “you.” Indeed, but that it’s a genteel service, I’d have left the Department long ago.

“I LOOKED ROUND AND SAW TWO LADIES UNDER AN UMBRELLA, AN OLD LADY AND
A YOUNG ONE.”
]

I put on my old cloak and took my umbrella because it was pouring with rain. There was no one in the streets; I saw nothing but a few women with shawls over their heads and some Russian shopkeepers with umbrellas. There was no one of the upper classes about except an official like myself. I saw him at a crossing, and said to myself, “Aha! No, my friend, you’re not going to the Department; you’re running after the woman in front of you and looking at her ankles.” What a set of brutes our officials are! They’re just as bad as any officer; can’t see a woman’s hat at all without going for it. Just as I was thinking that, I saw a carriage driving up to a shop I was passing. I knew it at once; it was our director’s carriage. “But he wouldn’t be going shopping,” I thought; “it must be his daughter.” I stopped, and leaned against the wall; a footman opened the carriage door, and she sprang out like a bird. How she glanced round with those eyes and brows of hers! Heaven defend me! I am done for! And why ever should she drive out in this pouring rain? And then people say that women are not devoted to chiffons! She did not recognise me, and indeed I purposely muffled myself up, because my cloak was very muddy and old-fashioned too. Now they are worn with deep capes, and mine had little capes one above the other; and the cloth wasn’t good either. Her lap-dog didn’t get in before the shop-door was shut, and was left out in the street. I know that dog; it is called Medji. The next minute I suddenly heard a little voice, “Good-morning, Medji.” Why! what the deuce! Who said that? I looked round and saw two ladies under an umbrella, an old lady and a young one; but they went past; and suddenly I heard again, “Oh, for shame, Medji!” What the devil! There were Medji and the ladies’ lap-dog smelling each other. “I say,” thought I to myself, “I must be drunk!” And yet it is a rare thing with me to be drunk. “No, Fidèle, you are quite mistaken” (I actually saw Medji saying that). “I have been—bow-wow-wow—I have been—bow-wow-wow—very ill.” Well, there now! I really was very much surprised to hear the lap-dog talking in human speech. But afterwards, when I thought it over, it didn’t astonish me. Indeed, there have been many such cases in the world. It is said that there appeared in England a fish that said two words in such a strange language that the learned men have been three years trying to make out what it said, and can’t understand it yet. And I remember reading in the newspapers about two cows that went into a shop and asked for a pound of tea. But I was very much more astonished when Medji said, “I wrote to you, Fidèle; Polkàn can’t have brought the letter.” Well! may I lose my salary if ever I heard in my life that dogs could write! It quite amazed me. Lately, indeed, I have begun to see and hear sometimes things that nobody ever saw or heard before. “I’ll follow that lap-dog,” thought I, “and find out what it is and what it thinks.” So I shut up my umbrella and followed the two ladies. They went along Goròkhovaya Street, turned into Myeshchànskaya, then into a carpenter’s shop, and at last up to the Kokoushkin Bridge, and there they stopped before a big house. “I know that house,” said I to myself; “that’s Tvyerkov’s house.” What a monster! Just to think of the numbers of people that live there—such a lot of strangers, servant maids, and as for my fellow officials, they are packed together like dogs! I have a friend living there who plays the trumpet very well. The ladies went up to the fifth story. “All right,” thought I, “I won’t go in now, but I will mark the place, and take advantage of the first opportunity.”

_October 4th._

To-day is Wednesday, so I have been on duty in the director’s study. I purposely went early, sat down and mended all the pens. Our director must be a very clever man—all his study is fitted up with bookshelves. I read the titles of several books, but they were all so learned, so fearfully learned, that they are no use for a poor fellow like me; they are all either in French or in German. And just to look at his face! See the importance beaming in his eyes! I have never even heard of his saying an unnecessary word. Only, you know, when you hand him a paper he will ask, “What’s the weather like?” “Damp, your excellency.” Yes; we are not up to his level; he’s a statesman. Nevertheless, I have remarked that he is peculiarly fond of me. Now if only his daughter.... Confound it all! Never mind; never mind; hush! I began to read _The Little Bee_. What a stupid nation the French are! On my honour, I’d take them and flog them all round. Well, I was reading a charming account of a ball, written by a country squire from Koursk. The Koursk squires write very well. After that I observed that it was half-past twelve, and that the director hadn’t come out of his bedroom. But about half-past one there happened an occurrence that no pen can describe. The door opened, and, thinking it was the director, I jumped up with my papers; but it was—She; She herself! Holy saints! how she was dressed! All in white, like a swan, and so gorgeously! And how she looked! like the sunlight, I swear. She bowed to me and said, “Has papa been here?” Aï, aï, aï, what a voice! A perfect canary bird! “Your excellency,” I would have said, “have mercy on me. But, if I must die, let me die by your august hand.” But, the devil take it, all that would come on to my tongue was, “No, madam.” She looked at me; she looked at the books; she dropped her handkerchief. I rushed for it, slipped on the confounded polished floor, and nearly broke my nose. Still I managed to get the handkerchief. Heavens and earth! What a handkerchief! So fine; pure cambric; amber-scented; exhaling the aroma of high rank. She thanked me, laughed just a little, so that her sweet lips hardly moved, and went away. I waited another hour, and then a lackey came in and said, “You can go home, Aksèntyi Ivànovich. My master has gone out.” I cannot endure the footman class; they always lounge about in the ante-room, and don’t so much as take the trouble to nod to you. Indeed, that’s not all; once, one of these brutes had the insolence to offer me some tobacco without getting up. Why, can’t you understand, you stupid flunkey, that I am an official, that I am of noble birth! Nevertheless I took my hat, put on my cloak myself (these gentry never think of helping one), and went out. At home I spent most of the day lying on my bed. Then I copied out some charming verses:—

“An hour I had not seen my dearest,
That hour was as a year to me;
Oh life, how hateful thou appearest!
Oh let me die and cease to be!”

‘SHE DROPPED HER HANDKERCHIEF. I RUSHED FOR IT, AND SLIPPED ON THE
CONFOUNDED FLOOR.’
]

They must have been written by Poushkin. In the evening I muffled myself in my cloak, went to her excellency’s doorstep, and waited long on the chance of seeing her for a moment coming out and getting into her carriage; but she did not come.

_November 6th._

I have infuriated the chief of the section. When I came to the Department he called me into his room, and began talking after this fashion, “Now just tell me, my man, what you’re after.” “How? What? I’m not after anything,” said I. “Now, think it over and be reasonable! Why, you’re past forty; you ought to have come to years of discretion. What have you got into your head? Do you imagine I don’t know all you’re up to? Why, you are dangling about after the director’s daughter! Now just look at yourself, and think a minute what you are like. You know you’re a complete nonentity. You know you haven’t got a farthing in the world. Look at your face in the looking-glass—how can you think of such a thing?” The devil take it! Just because he has a face something like an apothecary’s drug-bottle and one little wisp of hair on his head twisted up into a barber’s cock’s-comb, and holds up his head and smears it with a bandoline stick, he thinks he must be over everybody. But I understand, I understand perfectly well why he’s so angry—he’s envious; very likely he has noticed the signs of special favour shown to me. But what do I care for him? How very important—a D.C.L.! He’s got a gold watch-chain and pays thirty roubles for his boots—and the devil take him! Does he imagine that I am one of the common people; that I’m the son of a tailor or a corporal? I am a noble! I, too, may rise in the service; I am only forty-two—just the proper age to begin one’s career. Wait a bit, my friend! Perhaps we shall be a colonel some day, or higher up than that even, by God’s grace; and we’ll have a better reputation than yours is. I should like to know what put it into your head that no one can be a decent fellow except yourself. Give me a fashionably cut dress-coat and a fine necktie like yours, and you won’t be fit to hold a candle to me. I have no fortune, that’s the trouble.

_November 8th._

I went to the theatre. They played the Russian fool, _Filàtka_, and I laughed heartily. Then there was some sort of vaudeville with very funny verses about lawyers, especially about a certain collegiate registrar. They were written in so free a style that I wondered at the censorship passing them; and about shopkeepers it was said, right out, that they cheat the public, and that their sons are dissipated and always trying to get into the nobility. There was a very comic verse about journalists—that they are always finding fault, and so the author begs the public to take his part. Very amusing things are written nowadays. I love the theatre; whenever I have a few pence in my pocket I can’t resist going. Now, a good many of our officials are regular pigs; they care no more about the theatre than if they were peasants. Of course, if you give them a ticket free, they’ll go. One actress sang very well. I thought of Her.... Oh! hang it all!... Never mind.... Hush!

_November 9th._

At eight o’clock I went to the Department. The chief of the section pretended not to notice my entrance at all. For my part, I behaved as if nothing had happened between us. I looked over a lot of papers, examined them; and went away at four o’clock. I passed the director’s house, but there was no one to be seen. After dinner, I lay on my bed most of the time.

_November 11th._

To-day I sat in our director’s study and mended twenty-three pens for him, and four pens for Her—aï, aï—for Her Excellency. He likes there to be plenty of pens. What a head he must have! He never speaks; but I suppose he is always thinking over things. I should like to know what he thinks about most, what is going on in that head. I should like to see more closely the life of these grand people; all their little conventionalisms and court tricks: how they live and what they do in their sphere,—that is what I should like to know. I have often thought of getting into conversation with his Excellency; but my confounded tongue won’t do as I want; all I can say is that the weather’s cold or warm—not another thing. I should like to have a look at that drawing-room that one sometimes sees the door of open; and at the room beyond the drawing-room. How richly it is all furnished. What mirrors, what porcelain! I should like to see the part of the house where Her Excellency lives! Oh! I know where I should like to go! Into her boudoir, where stand all the little toilet-trays and boxes, and flowers that one dare not even breathe upon; and where her dress lies flung down, more like air than a dress. I should like to peep into her bedroom.... There must be wonders! There indeed must be Paradise! Only to see the footstool that she steps on when she gets out of bed, when she draws the little stocking on to that snowy foot ... aï! aï! aï! Never mind; never mind.... Hush!

To-day, however, a kind of light broke in upon me; I remembered the conversation between the two lap-dogs that I heard on the Nevsky Prospect. “All right,” thought I to myself, “now I’ll know everything. I must intercept the letters of those horrid little dogs. Then, of course, I shall find out something.” Indeed, I once called Medji to me, and said: “Now look here, Medji, we’re quite alone; and, if you like, I’ll lock the door, so that no one shall see. Tell me everything you know about your mistress—what she is like, and all about her. I swear to you that I will not repeat it to any one.” But the cunning little dog put its tail between its legs, screwed itself all up, and went quietly out of the room as if it hadn’t heard anything. I have suspected for a long time that dogs are far cleverer than people; indeed, I felt sure that they can speak, but for some sort of obstinacy. They are wonderfully politic; they notice everything a man does. No; whatever happens, I will go to-morrow to Tvyerkov’s house, interrogate Fidèle, and, if possible, seize upon all Medji’s letters to her.

_November 12th._

At two o’clock in the afternoon I started to find Fidèle and interrogate her. I can’t endure cabbage; and all the little provision shops in Myeshchànskaya Street simply reek of it; and then there’s such a stench from the yard of every house, that I simply held my nose and ran along as fast as ever I could. And then those confounded artizans send out such a lot of soot and smoke from their workshops, that really there’s no walking in the street. When I got up to the sixth floor and rang the bell, there came out a girl, not bad-looking, with little freckles. I recognised her; it was the same girl who had walked with the old lady. She grew a bit red, and it flashed upon me at once, “You want a lover, my dear.” “What can I do for you?” “I must have an interview with your lap-dog.” The girl was stupid; I saw at once she was stupid. At that moment the dog ran out, barking. I wanted to catch her, but the nasty little thing nearly snapped my nose off. However, I saw her basket in the corner. Ah! that was what I wanted. I went up to it, turned over the straw, and, to my immense delight, pulled out a little packet of tiny papers. Seeing that, the horrid little dog first bit me in the calf of the leg; and then, realising that I had got the papers, began to whine and fawn on me; but I said, “No, my dear! Good-bye!” and rushed away. I think the girl took me for a maniac, for she was terribly frightened. When I got home I wanted to set to work at once and read the letters, because my sight is not very good by candle-light. But of course Mavra had taken it into her head to wash the floor; these idiotic Finns are always cleaning at the wrong time. So I went for a walk to think over the occurrence. Now at last I shall find out all their affairs, all their thoughts, all the wires they are pulled by; these letters will disclose everything to me. Dogs are a clever race, they understand all the political relations; and so, no doubt, everything will be here—this man’s portrait and all his affairs. And no doubt there will be something about Her, who.... Never mind; silence! In the evening, I came home. I spent the time lying on my bed.

_November 13th._

Now let us see! The letter is fairly legible; but, somehow or other, there is something a little bit doggish about the handwriting. Let’s see:—

MY DEAR FIDÈLE,—I still have not been able to accustom myself to your
vulgar name. Why couldn’t they find a better name for you? Fidèle,
Rosa, what bad taste! However, this is off the point. I am very glad
that we have agreed to correspond.

The letter is quite correctly written; there are no mistakes in the stopping, or even in the use of the letter _yat’_. Why, the chief of the section can’t write as well as that, although he talks about having been educated in the University. Let’s see further on:—

It appears to me that to share our thoughts, feelings, and impressions
with another is one of the greatest blessings in the world.

H’m.... That idea is cribbed from some work translated from the German; I can’t remember the title.

I say this from experience, although I have seen little of the world
beyond the gates of our house. My life passes peacefully and joyously.
My mistress, whom papa calls Sophie, loves me passionately.

Aï! Aï! Never mind, never mind; silence!

Papa, too, often caresses me. I drink my tea and coffee with cream.
Ah! _ma chère_, I must tell you that I cannot understand what pleasure
there can be in the big gnawed bones that our Polkàn devours in the
kitchen. Bones are only good if they are from game, and if no one has
sucked the marrow out of them. It is a very good idea to mix several
kinds of sauce together, only there must be no capers or herbs; but I
know nothing worse than the custom of rolling bread into little balls
and giving it to dogs. Some gentleman, sitting at the table, who has
been holding all sorts of nasty things in his hands, will begin
rolling a bit of bread with his fingers, and then call you and put it
in your mouth. It’s impolite to refuse, so you eat it, with disgust,
of course, but you eat it.

What the deuce is all this rubbish? As if they couldn’t find anything better to write about. Let’s look at the next page, perhaps it will be more sensible.

I shall have the greatest pleasure in informing you of all that
happens in our house. I have already spoken to you about the principal
gentleman whom Sophie calls papa. He is a very strange man.

Ah, now, at last! Yes, I knew it. They look at all things from a politic point of view. Let us see what there is about papa:—

... Strange man. He hardly ever speaks. But a week ago he kept on
constantly saying to himself, “Shall I get it or not?” Once he asked
me, “What do you think, Medji? Shall I get it or not?” I didn’t
understand anything about it, so I smelled at his boot and went away.
Then, _ma chère_, a week afterwards papa was in the greatest state of
delight. The whole morning long gentlemen in uniform came to him and
congratulated him on something or other. At table he was merrier than
I have ever seen him before.

Ah! so he’s ambitious; I must take note of that.

Good-bye, _ma chère_! I run ... &c. To-morrow I will finish the
letter.

Well, good-morning, I am with you again. To-day my mistress, Sophie.——

Ah! now we shall see—something about Sophie. Oh! confound it!... Never mind! never mind! Let’s go on:

My mistress, Sophie, was in a great muddle. She was getting ready for
a ball, and I was very glad she would be out, so that I could write to
you. My Sophie is perfectly devoted to balls, although she nearly
always gets cross when she’s dressing for them. I cannot conceive, _ma
chère_, what can be the pleasure of going to balls. Sophie comes home
from them at six o’clock in the morning, and nearly always looks so
pale and thin that I can see at once they haven’t given the poor girl
anything to eat there. I confess that I couldn’t live like that. If I
didn’t get my woodcock with sauce, or the wing of a roast chicken,
I—really I don’t know what I should do. I like pudding with sauce,
too, but carrots or turnips or artichokes are no good at all.

What an extraordinarily uneven style! One can see at once it wasn’t written by a human being; it begins all right and properly, and ends in this doggish fashion. Let’s see another letter. This seems rather a long one. H’m, and it isn’t dated.

Oh, my dearest, how I feel the approach of spring! My heart beats as
if yearning for something. There is a constant singing in my ears, so
that I often raise one foot and stand for several moments listening at
the doors. I will confide to you that I have many suitors. Oh! if you
knew how hideous some of them are! Sometimes there’s a great, coarse,
mongrel watch-dog, fearfully stupid—you can see it written on his
face—who struts along the street and imagines that he’s a very
important personage and that everybody is looking at him. Not a bit of
it! I take no more notice than if I didn’t see him at all. Then
there’s such a frightful mastiff that stops before my window. If he
were to stand on his hind paws (which the vulgar creature probably
doesn’t know how to do) he’d be a whole head taller than my Sophie’s
papa, who is rather a tall man, and stout too. This blockhead appears
to be frightfully impertinent. I growled at him, but he took no notice
at all; he didn’t even frown. He lolled out his tongue, hung down his
monstrous ears, and stared in at the window—like a common peasant! But
do you imagine, _ma chère_, that my heart is cold to all entreaties?
Ah! no.... If you could see one young beau who jumps across the fence
from next door! His name is Trèzor.... Oh, my dearest! what a sweet
muzzle he has!

The devil take it all! What rubbish! And fancy filling up one’s letter with nonsense of that kind. Give me a man! I want to see a human being, I demand that spiritual food that would satisfy my thirsting soul, and instead of that, all this stuff.... Let’s see another page, perhaps it’ll be better.

Sophie was sitting at the table sewing something. I was looking out of
the window, because I like watching the passers-by. Suddenly a footman
came in and announced, “Teplòv.” “Ask him in,” cried Sophie, and flew
to embrace me. “Oh, Medji, Medji! if only you knew who it is: a
Kammerjunker,[16] dark, and with such eyes! Quite black, and as bright
as fire.” And she ran away to her room. A minute afterwards there came
in a young Kammerjunker, with black whiskers. He went up to the
mirror, set his hair straight, and looked about the room. I growled
and sat down in my place. Presently Sophie came in, looking very
happy. He clinked his spurs and she bowed. I pretended not to notice
anything, and went on looking out of the window, but I turned my head
a little on one side and tried to overhear their conversation. Oh, _ma
chère_, what rubbish they talked! They talked about how, at a dance,
one lady had made a mistake and done the wrong figure; then about how
a certain Bobòv, with a _jabot_ on, looked very like a stork and
nearly tumbled down; then about how a certain Lìdina imagines that her
eyes are blue, whereas they are green—and so on. I cannot think, _ma
chère_, what she finds in her Teplòv. Why is she so enchanted with
him?...

It seems to me, too, that there’s something wrong here. It’s quite impossible that Teplòv could bewitch her so. What comes next?

Really, if she can like this Kammerjunker, it seems to me she might as
well like the official who sits in papa’s study. Oh, _ma chère_, if
you knew what a fright he is! Exactly like a tortoise in a bag....

What official can that be?

He has a most peculiar name. He always sits and mends pens. The hair
on his head is very much like hay. Papa always sends him on errands
instead of the servant....

I believe that beastly little dog is alluding to me. Now, _is_ my hair like hay?

Sophie simply cannot keep from laughing when she looks at him.

You lie, you confounded dog! What an abominable style! As if I didn’t know that this is simply a case of envy; as if I didn’t know it’s an intrigue. It’s an intrigue of the chief of the section. The man has sworn implacable hate against me, and now he does everything he can to injure me, to injure me at every step. Well, I’ll look at just one more letter, perhaps the affair will explain itself.

MA CHÈRE FIDÈLE,—Forgive me for having been so long without writing; I
have been in a state of absolute intoxication. It is perfectly true
what some writer has said, that love is second life. And then there
are great changes going on in our house. The Kammerjunker comes every
day now. Sophie is madly in love with him. Papa is very happy. I even
heard from our Grigòrii, who sweeps the floors and almost always talks
to himself, that there will soon be a wedding, because papa is very
anxious to see Sophie married, either to a general, or to a
Kammerjunker, or an army colonel.

Deuce take it all! I can read no more. A Kammerjunker or a general! I should like to become a general myself, not in order to obtain her hand or anything like that—no, I should like to be a general, only to see them put on all their airs and graces and show off all their Court ways; and then tell them that I don’t care a brass farthing for either of them. It really is annoying, confound it all! I tore the silly little dog’s letters into bits.

_December 3rd._

It cannot be; it’s impossible; there sha’n’t be a wedding. What if he is a Kammerjunker! That’s nothing more than a title; it’s not a tangible thing that you can pick up in your hand. Why, his being a Kammerjunker doesn’t give him a third eye in the middle of his forehead. After all, his nose is not made of gold; it’s just like mine or anybody else’s; after all, he has it to smell with, not to eat with; to sneeze with, not to cough with. I have often wished to understand what is the cause of all these differences. Why am I a Government clerk? And for what purpose am I a Government clerk? Perhaps I am really a count or a general, and only appear to be a Government clerk. Perhaps I myself don’t know what I am. There have been so many cases in history: some ordinary man, not a noble at all, but some common artizan or even peasant, will all of a sudden turn out to be a great lord or baron, or what do you call it? Well, if a peasant can turn out like that, what should a noble turn out? Now, suppose I suddenly come in with a general’s uniform on, an epaulette on the right shoulder and an epaulette on the left shoulder, and a blue ribbon across—what will my beauty say, then, ah? What will papa himself say, our director? Oh! he’s a very ambitious man! He’s a Freemason; I’m convinced he’s a Freemason; he makes all sorts of pretences, but I noticed at once that he’s a Freemason; if he shakes hands with you, he only puts out two fingers. And does anybody suppose that I can’t be appointed governor-general this very moment, or a commissary, or something else of the kind? I should like to know why I am a clerk? Why particularly a clerk?

_December 5th._

I spent the whole of this morning reading the newspapers. Most extraordinary things are going on in Spain. I can’t even quite make them out. It is said that the throne is vacant; that the statesmen in office are in a great dilemma, having to choose an heir apparent; and that this has resulted in disturbances. All this seems to me exceedingly strange. How can the throne be vacant? They say that some donna will succeed to the throne; but a donna cannot be sovereign, it is quite impossible. There must be a king on the throne. They say there is no king; but it cannot happen that there is no king; a State cannot exist without a king. Undoubtedly there is a king, only he is living incognito somewhere or other. It is very likely that he is living there, only he is obliged to hide himself for some family reasons, or on account of some dangers threatened by neighbouring states—France and the other countries. Anyway, there must be some reason.

_December 8th._

I had quite made up my mind to go to the Department, but was prevented by various causes and meditations. I could not get the affairs of Spain out of my head. How is it possible that a woman should become sovereign? It will not be permitted. To begin with, England will not allow it. And then the diplomatic affairs of all Europe; the Emperor of Austria.... I acknowledge that these matters have so upset and unnerved me that I have been utterly unable to settle to anything the whole day. Mavra remarked to me that I was extremely absent-minded at table. And indeed I believe that, while absorbed in meditation, I threw two plates on to the floor and smashed them. After dinner I went for a walk by the hill. I couldn’t find out anything worth knowing. Most of the time I lay on my bed and meditated on the affairs of Spain.

_Year 2000, April 48th._

This day is a day of great solemnity! There is a king in Spain. He has been found. I am the king. It was only to-day that I found it out. It suddenly flashed across me like lightning. I cannot conceive how I could imagine that I was a clerk! How could such a crazy notion get into my head? It’s a good thing that nobody thought of putting me into a madhouse. Now all is open before me. I see all as from a mountain summit. But formerly—I can’t understand it—formerly everything was in a sort of fog before me. It seems to me that all this results from people imagining that the human brain is situated in the head; that is not the case: it travels on the wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea. First of all, I announced my identity to Mavra. When she heard that before her stood the King of Spain she clasped her hands and half died of terror. The foolish woman had never seen a Spanish king before. However, I did my best to quiet her; and told her that I am not at all angry with her for sometimes cleaning my boots badly. Of course she is one of the common people, and you cannot talk to them of high matters. The reason she was so terrified was because she is quite convinced that all Spanish kings must be like Philip II. But I explained to her that there is no resemblance between me and Philip II. I did not go to the Department. The devil take the Department! No, my friends, you won’t catch me now; I am not going to copy your nasty papers.

_Marchober 86th,
Between Day and Night._

To-day our usher came to me to insist that I should go to the Department; he said it was more than three weeks since I had been there. I went, just for a joke. The chief of the section thought that I should bow to him and make excuses; but I glanced at him with indifference, neither too sternly nor too graciously, and sat down at my place as if I observed nothing. I looked round at all the rag-tag-and-bob-tail, and thought, “Oh! if you knew who is sitting with you.... Good heavens! what a fuss there would be! And the chief of the section himself would begin bowing and scraping to me just as he does now to the director.” They laid some papers before me, telling me to make an extract; but I did not so much as touch them with a finger. A few minutes afterwards they all began bustling about, saying that the director was coming. Several of the officials hurried out, one after another, to present themselves to him; but I never moved. When he passed through our section they all buttoned up their coats; but I took no notice whatsoever. The director! What’s he? Do they think I’m going to stand up before him? Never! What sort of director is he? He’s a dummy, not a director; an ordinary, common dummy, like a dummy in a barber’s shop, and nothing else at all. The most amusing thing of all was when they handed me a paper to sign. They thought I was going to write at the very bottom of the sheet, “Clerk So-and-so.” I daresay! I signed, in the most conspicuous place, just where the Director of the Department signs, “Ferdinand VIII.” It was worth while to see what a reverential silence there was! However, I just waved my hand to them and said, “You needn’t trouble about tokens of allegiance,” and went away. I went straight to the director’s house. He was not at home, and the footman did not want to let me in, but I said something to him that made him just collapse. I went straight into her dressing-room. She was sitting before the looking-glass, but started up and shrank away from me. I did not tell her, however, that I am the king of Spain; I only told her that there lies before her such happiness as she cannot even imagine; and that, in spite of the snares of our foes, we shall be together. I did not want to say any more than that, and therefore went away. Oh! what a wily being is woman! It is only now I have fully understood what woman really is. Up till now no one has ever known with whom she is in love. I am the first to discover it. Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, it is a fact. Physiologists write all sorts of nonsense; but really she loves no one and nothing but the devil. There, you see, she sits in the dress-circle with her opera-glass; do you think she’s looking at that fat man with the star on his breast? Not a bit of it! She’s looking at the devil behind his back. The devil is hidden in the fat man’s coat. There! he is beckoning to her with his finger! And she’ll marry him—she’ll certainly marry him! All that comes from ambition; and the cause of ambition is a little blister under the tongue with a tiny worm inside it no bigger than a pin’s head; and all that is the doing of a certain hairdresser who lives in the Goròkhovaya. I can’t remember his name; but I know positively that he and a certain midwife are trying to spread Mahometanism throughout the whole world; and it is said that in France the greater part of the population has already accepted the Mahometan faith.

“I SAID, ‘YOU NEEDN’T TROUBLE ABOUT TOKENS OF ALLEGIANCE,’ AND WENT
AWAY.”
]

_No date at all; the day was
without any date._

I walked incognito along the Nevsky Prospect, giving no sign at all that I am the king of Spain. I thought it would be a breach of etiquette to disclose my identity to every one now, because, first of all, I must present myself at Court. The only thing that hinders me is the want of a Spanish national costume. I must get hold of some sort of mantle. I thought of ordering one, but the tailors are such absolute donkeys; and then, besides, they have quite neglected their work and taken to speculating. And now they have gone in for paving the streets. I finally decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I have only put on twice; but, for fear these scoundrels should spoil my work, I decided to sit with the door locked, so that no one should see me make it. I snipped the uniform all to pieces with the scissors, because it must have quite a different cut.

_I don’t remember the day, and
there wasn’t any month. The
deuce knows what there was._

The mantle is made and quite ready. Mavra shrieked out when I put it on. I cannot make up my mind, though, to present myself at Court yet. There is still no deputation from Spain; and to present myself without a deputation would be a breach of etiquette. I think it would prejudice my dignity. I expect the deputies every minute.

_Date 1._

I am amazed at the tardiness of the deputies! What can be the cause of their delay? Can it be France? Yes; that is a most objectionable country. I went to the postoffice to inquire whether the Spanish deputies had arrived; but the postmaster was exceedingly stupid, and knew nothing about it. “No,” he said, “there are no Spanish deputies here; but if you like to write a letter, we can forward it at the ordinary postage rate.” The devil take it! What’s the use of a letter? Letters are all nonsense! Apothecaries write letters....

MADRID, _February 30_.

So I am really in Spain; and it all happened so quickly that I can hardly realise it. This morning the Spanish deputies presented themselves to me, and I got into the carriage with them. I was surprised at the great speed with which we travelled. We went so fast that in half an hour we reached the Spanish frontier. For that matter, of course there are railways all over Europe now; and the steamers go tremendously fast. Spain is an extraordinary country! When we went into the first room, I saw a lot of people with shaven heads. I guessed at once that they must be either grandees or soldiers, because they always shave their heads. I was very much struck with the behaviour of the Lord Chancellor, who led me by the hand; he pushed me into a little room, and said, “You sit here; and if you begin calling yourself King Ferdinand, I’ll knock that rubbish out of you.” But I, knowing that this was nothing more than a trial of my constancy, answered firmly. Whereupon the Chancellor struck me on the back twice with a stick so hard that I nearly cried out, but restrained myself, remembering that in chivalry this was a custom on a man’s entering any high office, and that the customs of chivalry are still in force in Spain. Remaining alone, I decided to occupy myself with affairs of State. I discovered that China and Spain are all the same country; it is only from ignorance that people suppose them to be different. I advise every one, as an experiment, to write “Spain” on a piece of paper, and it will come out “China.” I was profoundly grieved, though, at an event which is to happen to-morrow. At seven o’clock to-morrow morning there will occur a strange phenomenon: the earth will sit down on the moon. The famous English chemist, Wellington, has written about that. I confess that my heart throbbed with anxiety when I pictured to myself the extreme delicacy and fragility of the moon. The thing is that the moon is generally made in Hamburg, and is very badly made. I cannot understand why England takes no notice of the fact. It is made by a lame cooper, who is quite evidently a fool, and understands nothing about the moon at all. He puts in tarred rope and cheap oil; and it makes such an awful stink all over the earth that everybody has to hold their nose. And this makes the moon itself so fragile that people can’t live on it at all; and nothing lives on it but noses. That is the reason why we cannot see our own noses, because they are all in the moon. And when I thought what a heavy substance the earth is, and how, by sitting down, it may crush all our noses to powder, I was so overpowered by anxiety that I put on my shoes and socks, and ran into the State Council Chamber, to give orders to the police not to let the earth sit down on the moon. The shaven grandees, whom I found in the Council Hall in great numbers, proved to be a very sensible people; and when I said, “Gentlemen, we must save the moon, for the earth is going to sit down on it!” they all instantly rushed to fulfil my royal wish; and many tried to climb up the walls to get at the moon. But at that moment the Lord Chancellor came in; and when they saw him they all ran away. I, as king, alone remained. But the Chancellor, to my great amazement, struck me with his stick, and sent me into my room. What an extraordinary power national customs have in Spain!

“WHEN I SAID, ‘GENTLEMEN, WE MUST SAVE THE MOON, FOR THE EARTH IS
GOING TO SIT DOWN ON IT!’ THEY ALL RUSHED TO FULFIL MY ROYAL WISH.”
]

_January in the same year; following
after February._

So far, I cannot make out what sort of country Spain is. The popular customs and Court etiquette are altogether extraordinary. I can’t understand them; I can’t understand; I simply _cannot_ understand. To-day they shaved my head, although I shouted at the top of my voice that I would not consent to be a monk. But what it was like, when they began to drop cold water on to my head, I cannot bear even to remember. I never suffered such a hell in my life. I got into such a state of frenzy that they could scarcely hold me. I can’t understand the meaning of this strange custom. It’s an utterly stupid and senseless custom! Nor can I make out the foolishness of the kings who have not abolished it before now. Considering all the probabilities of the case, it occurs to me that I must have fallen into the hands of the Inquisition; and the person whom I took for the Chancellor is, no doubt, the Grand Inquisitor himself. Only it is quite incomprehensible how a king can be subject to the Inquisition. It is true, that might happen through the influence of France, and especially of Polignac. Oh, that brute, Polignac! He has sworn to persecute me to the death; and now he hunts and hunts me down. But I know, my friend, whose puppet you are. It’s the English that pull the wires. The English are great diplomatists; they worm their way in everywhere. For that matter, all the world knows that when England takes snuff France sneezes.

_Date 25._

To-day the Grand Inquisitor came into my room, but, hearing his steps approaching, I hid myself under a chair; and not seeing me, he began to call out. First of all he called, “Poprìshchin!” I held my tongue. Then, “Aksèntyi Ivànovich! Government official! Nobleman!” I remained silent. “Ferdinand VIII., King of Spain!” I was just going to put out my head, but I thought, “No, my friend, you won’t catch me that way. I know what you are after: you’ll be pouring cold water on to my head again.” However, he saw me, and drove me out from under the chair with a stick. It’s most extraordinary how that confounded stick hurts! Ah, well! my last discovery repays me for all. I have found out that every cock has a Spain of its own hidden away under its feathers. The Grand Inquisitor went away very angry, and threatening me with some kind of punishment; but I remained completely indifferent to his impotent rage, knowing that he acts as a mere machine, as the tool of England.

_Da 34 te. Month yrae
February 349._

No; I can endure no more. Good God! what things they do to me! They pour cold water on to my head! They neither see, nor hear, nor understand me. What have I done to them? Why do they torment me so? Alas! what would they have of me? What can I give them, I that have nothing? It is too much; I cannot bear all this misery. My head burns, and everything whirls before me. Save me! take me! Give me steeds swifter than the hurricane. Come, come, my yamshchìk![17] Ring, my sledge-bells! Bound, my noble steeds, and bear me from this world! On, on, that I may see no more, no more! See! the heavens whirl before me; a star gleams in the distance; the forest rushes past, with the moon and the dark trees; the blue mist is unrolled beneath my feet; and through the mist I hear the vibration of a string. On one side of me is the sea, on the other side is Italy.... Ah, and there are Russian cottages! Is that my house in the blue distance? Is that my mother that sits beside the window? Oh, mother, save thy wretched son! Weep one tear over his fallen head! See how he is wronged and tormented! Clasp thy sad orphan to thy breast! He is driven and hunted down! There is no place for him on earth! Mother, have pity on thy weary child!... But _do_ you know that the Dey of Algiers has a wart just under his nose?

_PORRIDGE._

BY NIKOLAI USPÈNSKY.

A cart drove in at the gate of a provincial town with a village deacon[18] sitting in it, and in front, driving, his legs dangling over the shafts, a peasant in a _kaftan_.[19]

“Well now, sir, who’s above the bishop?” the driver was asking.

“Above the bishop is the archbishop,”[20] answered the deacon. “It is all arranged on the model of the celestial hierarchy, that I was telling you about in the posting station.”

“And is there any sort of man above the governor?”

“Of course there is.... Look here, Yeremèi; when we get to the inn, I’ll go into the Consistorium, and you order dinner for yourself here; there is bread in the bag, so you needn’t get any here.”

“As your honour likes; of course I’ll eat our own bread, as if I didn’t know! ’Tis all the same to me. How much oats shall I take? I doubt ’tis terrible dear in these parts?”

“Take half a measure, not more; everything’s dear hereabouts. That’s why it’s so dear to live in the town.”...

“Lord bless you, yes, sir, ’tis all so dear, so dear, that it is!”

When they reached the posting inn the deacon put on his ecclesiastical dress, and went to the Consistorium; the peasant, meanwhile, went straight into the kitchen, where the dinner was cooking.

On the fire was a huge cauldron filled with pieces of beef, boiling, and emitting clouds of steam; a workman in a cotton shirt was ranging on a shelf steaming wheaten loaves, and a woman was turning a whole leg of veal on the spit, and sucking her fingers between whiles.

The peasant held his breath as he looked.

Meanwhile there came into the kitchen several travelling merchants and well-to-do sledge-drivers in fur coats; they were smoking their pipes and talking about the forthcoming dinner.

At last the dinner was ready; Yeremèi sat down to table with the travellers.

During the dinner (which lasted for three hours) Yeremèi experienced a misty sensation in the head, and occasionally a pain in the stomach; but he continued eating just the same, though he still remembered the deacon.

On rising from table he sighed profoundly, said grace with peculiar fervour, and lay down on a bench, but he could not sleep. He kept thinking of how the deacon would appear before him, and say, “Well, have you had your dinner? How much is it?”...

Yeremèi began to regret that he had not left table directly after the _shchi_ (cabbage soup).

Two hours later the deacon arrived. He called the peasant into the other room and began—

“Well, Yeremèi, it’s time to go home. God be thanked, I have settled my business up all right, and had a bite of something at a friend’s house. You’ve had dinner, I suppose?”

The peasant stood in the middle of the room, looking at the floor.

“Have you had dinner or not?” said the deacon, standing with the abacus[21] in his hand.

“Oh, ay, I had my dinner, ... only ’tis something ... if I hadn’t eaten it....”

“What do you mean?”

The peasant held his tongue.

“I don’t understand; what did you have? Can’t you tell me? I’ve got to pay the bill, you know. Well, what was there? I suppose you had something to drink?”

“Oh, ay, something to drink, I had.”

“What was it—cider?” And the deacon lifted his hand to mark it off.

“Ay, sir, there was cider, of course there was....”

“Plain cider? No, something in it, I dare say?”

“Ay, sir, ... there was cider....”

“Well, what else did they give you? Speak up, man! Why, we shall stand here all day!... What else was there?”

“Ah ... well, sir, there was a kind of quaking jelly stuff, ... sort of sloppy mess it was, ... I don’t rightly know....”

“Doesn’t matter to me whether it was sloppy or not; I shall have to pay for it just the same. Well, and after the jelly what? Shchi, no doubt. Did you eat shchi?”

“Oh, ay, I ate it up, sartain sure....”

“Well, then?”

“Only, you see, sir, ’tis almost as if I hadn’t eaten it, like ...”