I put on my old greatcoat and picked up my umbrella, as the rain was lashing down. Outside there was nobody about; the only people whom I saw were a few women who had covered themselves with their skirt flaps, Russian merchants beneath their umbrellas, and messengers. Of quality folk only one of my fellow officials, shuffling along. I spotted him at the corner. As soon as I spotted him I said to myself: “Oh, no, my dear chap, you’re not on your way to the office, you’re after that blonde who is racing along in front of you, and you’re staring at her ankles.” What sly beasts we officials are! Lord! We’re a match for any officer: if a lady in a hat walks by we never fail to latch on. While this was running through my mind, I noticed a carriage which had drawn up at the shop I was passing. Immediately I recognized it; it was our director’s carriage. “But he has no cause to be going into the shop,” I thought. “It must be his daughter.” I stood close against the wall. A footman opened the door, and she suddenly fluttered from the carriage like a little bird. How she glanced from right to left, how her eyebrows and eyes flashed … Great God Almighty! I was devastated, utterly devastated. And why would she need to venture out in the rain like this? Tell me now that women have no great passion for all these frills. She didn’t recognize me, and for my part I deliberately tried to wrap myself up as much as possible, because my greatcoat was filthy and, moreover, old-fashioned. Nowadays people wear capes with long collars, but mine were short, one on top of the other; and the material was not at all rainproof. Her little dog, who had not been quick enough to get through the shop door, remained outside. I know this little dog. It’s called Madgie. I hadn’t spent a minute there when suddenly I heard a weak little voice: “Hello, Madgie!” Well I never! Who said that? I looked all around me and saw two ladies walking along under an umbrella: one was old, the other young; but they had already walked past and again I heard, close by me: “You should be ashamed of yourself, Madgie.” What the Devil! I saw Madgie sniffing at a lapdog which was walking along behind the ladies. “Oh!”—I said to myself,—that’s enough; am I drunk? But that very rarely is the case with me.” “No, Fidele, you’ve got the wrong idea.” I myself saw Madgie say that. “I’ve been, bow-wow, very ill.” So then, little dog, it’s you! I confess I was very surprised when I heard her speak in human language. But later, when I had had time to think about it, I ceased being surprised. In fact the world knows of many such examples already. They say that in England a fish came to the surface and uttered a couple of words in such a strange language that for the past three years scientists have been trying to identify it, but so far they’ve discovered nothing. I also read in the newspapers about two cows who went into a shop and asked for a pound of tea. But, I confess, I was far more surprised when Madgie said, “I wrote you, Fidele; obviously, Polkan (Rover) didn’t deliver my letter.” May I never draw my salary again if I’m lying! Never in my life have I heard of a dog who could write. Only noblemen can write correctly. Some merchant-clerks can do it, of course, and even some serfs occasionally write a little; but their writing is mostly mechanical; no commas, full stops, or style.
This puzzled me. I confess that I have recently begun to hear and see such things from time to time as nobody else has ever seen or heard. “I’ll follow that little dog,” I said to myself, “to find out what she is about and what sort of things she’s thinking.” I unfurled my umbrella and set off after the two ladies. They crossed into Gorokhovaia (Pease) Street, turned into Meshchanskaia (Bourgeois) Street, then into Stolyarnaia (Carpenter’s) Lane and, finally, made for Kokushkin Bridge, where they stopped in front of a large house. “I know this house,” I said to myself. “This is Zverkov’s (Mr. Beast’s) house.” What a bustling hive! All sorts of people live there: so many cooks, so many Polacks! And so many of my fellow officials, like dogs, all piled one on top of another. One of my friends lives in there, he’s very good at playing the horn. The ladies went up to the fourth floor. “Fine” I thought, “I won’t go in just now, but I’ll make a note of the place and I won’t fail to take advantage of it at my first chance.”
October 4
Today is Wednesday and so I’ve been in the chief’s office. I came a little early on purpose and, sitting myself down, began to re-sharpen quills. Our director must be a very intelligent man. His room is all lined with bookshelves. I read the titles of some of them: so much erudition, such erudition that it’s all beyond the likes of me: everything is either in French or German. And if you glance at his face: whew! What importance there is in his eyes! I have never yet heard him say a superfluous word. It’s only when you hand him papers that he may ask, “What’s it like outside?”—“Damp, Your Excellency!” Yes, people like me are no match for him! He’s a statesman. But I notice that he’s particularly fond of me. If only his daughter also … oh, you rogue! … Never mind, never mind, silence! I read The Bee. What a stupid lot the French are! What do they want, eh? I’d like to give them all a damn good thrashing with the birch! I read there a very pleasant description of a ball which was written by some landowner from Kursk. Those landowners from Kursk write well. After this I noticed that it was already half past twelve and that our chief was still not out of his bedroom. But, at about half past one an event occurred which no pen could describe. The door opened. I thought it was our director and I jumped up from my chair with the papers; but it was she, she herself! Holy Saints, how she was dressed! The dress she wore was as white as a swan: whew! How sumptuous! And how she looked: a veritable ray of sunshine. She bowed and said: “Has father not been in?” Oh! Oh! Oh! What a voice! A canary, a veritable canary! “Your Excellency” I was about to say, “don’t condemn me to death, but if you wish to condemn me, then carry out the sentence with your own high-ranking hand.” But, Devil take it, I became tongue-tied and could only say: “No, ma’am.” She looked at me, at the books, and dropped her handkerchief. I rushed forward as fast as I could, slipped on the damned parquet floor and almost broke my nose, but I managed to regain my balance and picked up the handkerchief. Holy Saints, what a handkerchief! the finest cambric—ambergris, perfect ambergris! It simply reeked “general’s daughter”. She thanked me and smiled almost imperceptibly, so that her sweet lips barely moved and then she went away. I remained seated for another hour when suddenly a servant came in and said, “You can go home, Axenty Ivanovich, the master’s already left.” I cannot stand these servants: they’re always lounging about in the hall and they can’t even be bothered to nod give you a nod. And that’s not all: once, one of these curs had the nerve to offer me some snuff without getting up from his seat. Don’t you know I’m an official of noble birth, you stupid lackey? However, I took my hat and put on my greatcoat by myself, as these gentlemen will never assist you, and went out. At home I spent most of the time lying on my bed. Then I copied out some excellent little verses: Sweet Psyche for an hour I did not see,/A year this little hour seemed to me./I came to quite despise this life of mine:/ “Poor me, should I live?” I did opine. This must be Pushkin’s work. In the evening, wrapped in my greatcoat, I walked as far as the entrance to Her Excellency’s house and waited for a long time to see if she would come out and get into her carriage, so that I could get a brief glimpse at her—but no, she never appeared.
November 6
The chief got into a mean temper today. When I arrived at the office he called me in to him and began to talk to me like this: “Well, tell me, please, just what you’re doing?”—What do you mean? I’m not doing anything,” I answered. “Well, just use your loaf! You’re past forty now, y’know—time you had some sense. What’re you thinking of? Do you think I don’t know your little game? You’ve got your eye on the director’s daughter! Well, just look at you; just think; you’re a nobody, that’s all. And you don’t have a penny to your name. Just have a look at your face in the mirror; how could you even think of such a thing?” Damn it all, just because his face is like a chemist’s jar and he has a lock of hair on his head tied up in a Tatar tuft and he keeps it in its rosette shape by plaste
ring it with pomade, he thinks he’s the only one allowed to do anything. I understand, I understand why he’s so mean to me. He’s jealous; maybe he’s noticed signs of preferential treatment being afforded to me. Well, I spit on him! A court councilor’s not so important as all that! He’s hung a gold chain on his watch, he orders boots at thirty rubles the pair—well, he can go to the Devil! Am I some low-class intellectual son of a tailor or non-commissioned officer? I’m a nobleman. And I may even get promoted. I’m still only forty-two years old—the age when one’s service career is really only just beginning. Wait, friend! We’ll make the rank of colonel yet, and perhaps, God willing, even something higher. We’ll acquire a reputation, too, and a better one than yours. What gives you the idea that you’re the only respectable gentleman? Give me a Ruchevsky dress coat, fashionably cut, and let me tie a cravat like yours around my neck—then you won’t hold a candle to me. I don’t have the wherewithal—that’s the trouble.
November 8
Went to the theater. They put on a performance of the Russian fool Filatka. Had a good laugh. There was also some vaudeville with amusing lines about lawyers, particularly about one college registrar, so freely written that I was amazed that it got past the censor, and they’re right when they talk about how merchants swindle the people and how their debauched sons are worming their way into the nobility. There was also a very amusing couplet about journalists: how they love to abuse everything and how the author begs the public for support. Writers nowadays write very amusing plays. I adore going to the theater. As soon as a penny lands in my pocket I can’t resist going. But some of my fellow officials are real swine: they definitely refuse to go to the theater, the peasants! Except perhaps if you give them a free ticket. A certain actress sang very well. I remembered about her … Oh, you rogue! … Never mind, never mind … Silence.
November 9
Set off to the office at eight o’clock. The departmental chief pretended not to notice my arrival. For my part, I, too, acted as if nothing had passed between us. I looked over and checked some papers. Left at four o’clock; walked past the director’s flat, but didn’t see anyone. After dinner spent most of the time lying on the bed.
November 11
Today I sat in the director’s office and repaired twenty-three quills for him and for her—aie! aie! … for Her Excellency, four pens. He always likes to have plenty of quills. Oh! He must be a real brain-box! He never says anything, but I think he’s always turning things over in his head. I’d like to know what he thinks of most; what goes on in that head of his. I’d like to get a closer look at the lives these gentlemen lead, the subtleties and court affairs—what they’re like, what they do in their own circle—that’s what I’d like to know! Several times I’ve thought of striking up a conversation with His Excellency, but, Devil take it, my tongue won’t obey me: I can only say that it’s cold or warm outside, and that’s absolutely all I can utter. I’d like a peek at whose open door you occasionally get a glimpse of, and through the drawing room into the next room. Oh! What sumptuous furniture! Such mirrors and porcelain! I’d love to get a peek in there, into the wing where Her Excellency lives—that’s the place for me! Into her boudoir: there are so many little jars standing there, and little bottles, such flowers that one is afraid to breathe on them; see how her dress lies thrown onto the floor, and looks more like air than a dress. I’d like to get a glimpse inside her bedroom … what wonders, I feel, must be in there, such paradise, I feel, as doesn’t even exist in heaven. I’d like a glimpse at the footstool on which she places her. foot when she gets out of bed, and watch her putting stockings on her snow white legs … Aie, aie, aie! Never mind, never mind … Silence puts a little snow-white stocking on that little foot … Aie, aie, aie! never mind, never mind … silence!
Today, however, it’s as if the light has suddenly dawned on me: I remember the conversation I heard on Nevsky Prospect between the two little dogs. “Fine,” I thought to myself, “now I’ll find out everything. I must intercept the correspondence these scraggy little dogs have been carrying on. Then I’ll be sure to learn a thing or two.” I confess, I was even on the point of calling Madgie to me once and saying, “Listen, Madgie, now we’re alone, I’ll close the door if you wish so that nobody will see us—tell me. every thing you know about the young lady, tell me what she’s like, and I swear to you I won’t tell anyone.” But the sly little dog put her tail between her legs, doubled herself up and went out through the door as quietly as if she hadn’t heard a thing. A long time ago I used to suspect that dogs were more intelligent than human beings; I was even sure they could speak, if it weren’t for a certain stubbornness inside them. They’re extremely tactful: they notice everything, every step a human being takes. No, whatever happens, tomorrow I’m off to Zverkov’s house, I’ll ask to see Fidele and, if possible, I’ll seize all the letters Madgie has written to her.
November 12
Set off at two o’clock in the afternoon to be sure of seeing Fidele and questioning her. I can’t stand the smell of cabbage which pours from all the little shops on Meshchanskaia Street; and moreover the hellish stench wafts out from under the doors of every house, so holding my nose, I ran past as fast as I could. And the grubby little artisans release so much smoke and soot from their workshops that it’s absolutely impossible for a gentleman to stroll along here. When I had made my way to the fifth floor and rung the bell, a young girl came out, not bad-looking and with tiny freckles on her face. I recognized her. This was the very same girl who had been walking along with the old woman. She blushed slightly and I immediately realized: you, my dear, are after a husband. “What do you want?” she said. “I want a word with your dog.” What a stupid girl she was! I could tell at once she was stupid! Just then the little dog came running up, barking; I tried to catch hold of it but the disgusting creature almost got its teeth into my nose. But I caught sight of its basket in the corner. That was just what I was after! I went over, rummaged about a bit in the little straw-filled wooden box and, to my great delight, pulled out a small bundle of paper. When the filthy little doggie saw this, she first of all bit me on the calf, then, when she sensed that I had taken her bits of paper, she began to whine and make up to me, but I said, “No, my dear, goodbye!”—and took to my heels. I think the young girl took me for a madman, because she was extremely frightened. As soon as I got home I wanted to get down to work sorting out these letters because my eyes are not too good in candlelight, but Mavra had taken it into her head to wash the floor. These stupid Finnish women always become house-proud at the wrong times. So I went for a stroll to give some thought to what had happened. Now, at last I’ll find out about their affairs, their thoughts and what makes them tick and I’ll get to the bottom of the matter. These letters will reveal all to me. Dogs are intelligent beings, they know all the political considerations and so everything is bound to be there: a portrait of a man and all his affairs. And there’ll be something there about her … never mind, silence! Towards evening I returned home. Most of the time I lay on my bed.
November 13
Well, we shall see! The writing is fairly distinct; at the same time there is something doggy about the handwriting. Let us read:
Dear Fidele,
I still can’t get used to your bourgeois name. Surely they could have given you a better one? Fidele, Rose—how common they sound! But that’s all by the way. I’m very glad that we thought of writing to each other.
The letter was written very correctly: the punctuation and even the “i” before “e” spelling were all correct. Even our department chief couldn’t write like this, though he talks of having been to some university. Let’s see what else there is:
It seems to me that sharing one’s thoughts, feelings, and impressions with another is one of the greatest blessings on earth.
Hm! That idea was taken from a work translated from German. I don’t remember the title.
I say this from experience, though I’ve been no further than the door
of our house. Is my life not passing in a pleasurable way? My mistress, whom Papa calls Sophie, loves me to distraction.
Aie, aie! never mind, never mind! Silence!
Papa is also very affectionate. I drink tea and coffee with cream. Oh, ma chère, I must tell you that I get no pleasure at all from the big chewed bones which our Polkan devours in the kitchen. The bones of game are the only tasty ones, and then only when nobody has sucked all the marrow out of them. It’s very nice to mix several sauces together, but only if there are no capers or greens mixed in; but I know of nothing worse than the usual habit of giving dogs rolled-up balls of bread. A gentleman sits at a table and begins to crush up the bread with his hands, which have been in contact with all sorts of garbage, calls you over and thrusts the little ball into your teeth. It’s improper to refuse, so you eat it, it’s nauseating, but you eat it …
What the Devil’s all this! What rubbish! As though there was nothing better to write about. Let’s have a look at another page. There may be something a bit more sensible.
Worlds Apart Page 26