They passed into Gorokhovaya Street, turned into Meschanskaya Street, then into Stolyarny Alley; until they stopped in front of a large house by Kokushkin Bridge. “I know that house,” I said to myself, “it is Zverkov’s house.” What a building! How many people don’t live in it: cooks, and strangers, and as to government clerks like myself, they swarm like dogs, one on the top of another and driving him on with a third one. A friend of mine also lives there, who is very good at playing the horn. The ladies went up to the sixth floor. “Good,” I thought, “I won’t go in this time, but I will note the place and I will take advantage of the first opportunity.”

OCTOBER 4

TO-DAY is Wednesday, so I was in the Director’s study. I came early on purpose, sat down and did not stop till I had mended all the pens. The Director must be a very clever man. His whole study is lined with bookcases. I read the titles of some of the books: such learning, such learning! quite beyond a chap like myself,—all either in French or in German. And if you look into his face: my, what dignity shines in his eyes! I have never heard him utter a word too much. Only sometimes when I hand him the letters, he will ask: “What’s the weather like?” “Damp, your Excellency.” Yes, we’re no match for him. He’s a statesman! However, I seem to notice that he has a special liking for me. If his daughter, too . . . Damnation! . . . But no, no, not a word!

Read The Bee. What a silly nation the French are! What are they after? If I had my way I’d have every one of them soundly thrashed! In the same place I read a very pleasant description of a ball, by a Kursk squire. The Kursk squires are good writers. After that I noticed that it was half-past twelve and that the Director had not yet come out of his bedroom. But about half-past one an event occurred that no pen could describe. The door opened. I expected to see the Director, and jumped up from my chair with the letters ready; but it was she! her own self! Holy saints! how she was dressed! The dress she wore was white like a swan,—oh, how sumptuous! And when she looked at me, it was like sunshine, upon my soul, like sunshine! She bowed and said: “Hasn’t Papa been here?” Oh, oh, oh! What a voice! A canary, a regular canary! “Your Excellency,” I was going to say, “don’t have me beheaded, or if you will have me beheaded, then behead me with your own lordly hand.” But my tongue would not obey me, and I could only say, “No, Madam.” She glanced at me, glanced at the books, and dropped her handkerchief. I dashed forward, slipped on the damned waxed floor, and just missed smashing my nose. But I picked myself up and picked up the handkerchief. Saints of heaven, what a handkerchief! The finest cambric,—amber, perfect amber! The very perfume of nobility! She thanked me with a smile, so faint that her sweet lips were scarcely disturbed by it, and went away. I stayed another hour, when there suddenly came in a footman who said: “You may go home, Aksenti Ivanovich, the master has gone out.” I cannot stand these footmen: they loll about in the hall and won’t bother to turn their heads when one passes. That’s not enough: one of the rascals had the cheek once to offer me his snuff-box without getting up from his seat. But do you know, you stupid serf, that I am an official, and of gentle birth? However, I took my hat and put on my cloak myself, because these gentlemen will never help you on with it, and went out.