The sound of smacking lips is accompanied by the pleasant tinkle of the “small donation” dropped into the pocket of this modern-day Cerberus. This first individual is followed by a second, a third, a fourth, until one o’clock. The sheet of paper is covered with signatures from top to bottom. At four o’clock Cerberus disappears with the sheet into the inner chambers. He hands it to a little old man who begins reading it through.

“These are all the Easter greetings? Hmm . . . Ha! Hmm . . . Well, I don’t recognize any of the handwriting! I tell you, one man is responsible for all these signatures! A calligrapher—they hired a calligrapher to write their Easter greetings! The audacity! I can see they didn’t want to trouble themselves to come wish me a happy Easter in person! What have I done to deserve this? Why this lack of respect? (Pause.) Well . . . I say, Maksim, will you go and get . . .”

Eleven o’clock. A panting, sweating, flushed young man with a cockade on his military cap is clambering up the endless flights of stairs to the fifth floor. Having reached it, he frantically rings the bell. A young woman opens the door.

“Is Ivan Kapitonich at home?” the young man asks, still out of breath. “Tell him . . . tell him to hurry back to His Excellency’s! He must put his name down again on the list of Easter greetings! Someone stole the piece of paper! We need to put together a new list! Hurry!”

“Who in heaven’s name would steal something like that?”

“That damned woman . . . that . . . that housekeeper of his! She gathers up all the paper she can find and sells it by the bale! The miserly old biddy, damn her! But I have eight more people to go tell—goodbye!”

Another waiting room. A table and a sheet of paper. An usher, ancient and thin as a rake, is sitting on a stool in the corner. At eleven o’clock the door from the inner chambers opens. A bald head peeks in.

“What? No one has come yet to wish me happy Easter, Efim?” a voice asks.

“No, Your Excellency.”

At noon the same head peers in again.

“What? No one has come yet to wish me happy Easter, Efim?”

“Not a soul, Your Excellency!”

“Hmm . . . Ha! Hmm . . .”

The head peers in at one, at two—still nobody. At three o’clock a whole torso, complete with hands and legs, protrudes into the room. The little old man walks over to the table and stares intently at the empty sheet of paper. There is an expression of deep sadness on his face.

“Things aren’t what they used to be, Efim!” he says with a sigh. “Hmm . . . hmm . . . well, the fatal word ‘retired’ is stamped on my forehead.