Ah, ma chère! the rubbish they talked! First it was about a lady who executed the wrong figure at a dance; then about someone of the name of Bobov, who looked exactly like a stork when he wore his ruffles, and who just missed tumbling down; and of a person called Lidina, who imagined that her eyes were blue, when they were really green, and so on. “If only,” I thought to myself, “one were to compare your Gentleman of the Chamber to my Trésor!” Heavens! what a difference! To begin with, the Gentleman of the Chamber’s face is broad and perfectly flat, with whiskers all round, exactly as if he had tied it up in a black scarf; while Trésor has a nice little pointed snout, and a white spot in the middle of his forehead. Trésor’s waist is simply not to be compared to Teplov’s. And his eyes, his manners, all his ways are quite, quite different. Oh, what a difference! I cannot understand, ma chère, what it is she has found in her Teplov, and why she is so enthusiastic about him.”

I quite agree that there seems to be something wrong about it. It is impossible that Teplov should have captivated her to that extent. Let us see what next:

“If she is fascinated in this way by her Gentleman of the Chamber I do not see why she should not be fascinated next by the clerk who sits in Papa’s study. Oh, ma chère! if only you knew what an ugly creature that is. Exactly like a tortoise in a bag.”

What clerk can that be?

“He has a very queer name. He always sits mending pens. The hair on his head looks very much like hay. Papa sometimes sends him on errands instead of a servant.”

It looks as if the nasty dog were alluding to me. Whoever said that my hair was like hay?

“Sophie cannot help laughing whenever she sees him.”

You lie, you damned cur! What a dirty tongue! As if I did not know that this was all the work of envy! As if I did not know whose tricks these were! They are the tricks of the Chief of Section. The man has vowed me implacable hatred, and he loses no opportunity to injure me and to thwart my every step. Let us, however, try one more letter. Perhaps everything will be explained in it:

“Ma chère, Fidèle, you must excuse me for not writing for so long. I was floating in a dream of delight. How truly has it been said by an author that love is a second life! Besides, there are great changes in the house. The Gentleman of the Chamber comes every day. Papa is in very good spirits. And the man Gregory, who sweeps the floor and talks to himself all the while, I heard him say that there will soon be a wedding, because Papa is determined on seeing Sophie married to a general, or to a gentleman of the chamber, or to a colonel in the army.”

Damn it all! I cannot read any further. It’s always like that—a gentleman of the chamber, or a general. Everything that is best in the world goes to gentlemen of the chamber or to generals. You find some poor treasure, you believe you have just to reach out your hand to secure it,—a gentleman of the chamber or a general snatches it from under your very nose. Damn it! I should like to become a general myself, not merely for the sake of obtaining her hand, etc. No, I should love to be a general to see how they would begin wriggling and performing their courtiers’ tricks and equivocations, and then tell them that I spit at the two of them. Damn it! how exasperating all this is! I tore the silly dog’s letters to bits.

DECEMBER 3

IMPOSSIBLE! Nonsense! The wedding shall not come off! What if he is a Gentleman of the Chamber? That is nothing but an honor: it’s not a tangible thing that you could take in your hand. Being a Gentleman of the Chamber does not give one an extra eye in the forehead. His nose is not made of gold, it is just like mine, or anyone else’s. He uses it for smelling, and not for eating; for sneezing, and not for coughing.