Diary of a Madman

10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 110 120 130 140 150 160	October 3 An extraordinary thing happened today. I got up rather late in the morning, and when Mavra brought me my cleaned boots I asked her the time. Hearing that it was long past ten, I dressed quickly. I must confess I wouldn't have gone to the department at all, knowing the sour face the chief of our section was sure to make at me. For some time now he has been saying to me: "How is it, my man, your head always seems in a muddle? Half the time you rush about like crazy and you can make such a mess of a file that the devil himself couldn't untangle it; you write the heading with a small letter, and you don't put in either the date or the file number." The damned heron! I'll bet he envies me because I sit in the director's room and sharpen quills for his Excellency. To cut a long story short, I wouldn't have gone to the department in the first place if I had not hoped to see the cashier and to find out whether maybe I could not get something of my month's salary in advance out of that wretched jew. There's another creature for you! Do you suppose he would ever let one have a month's pay in advance? Good gracious! The Last Judgment will be upon us before he does that! You may ask till you burst, you may be in your final misery, but the gray-headed devil won't let you have it -- and when he is at home his own cook slaps him around; everybody says so. I can't see the advantage to serving in our department; there are absolutely no benefits. In the Provincial Administration, or in the Civil and Treasury offices, it's quite a different matter. There you may see some wretched man squeezed into the corner, scribbling away, with a disgusting old frock coat on and such a face that it nearly makes you sick. But look at the summer house he rents! It's no use offering him a gilt china cup: "This," he'll say, "may be all right for a doctor." He'll only be satisfied with a pair of trotting horses or a carriage or a beaver fur worth three hundred rubles. And he is such a quiet fellow to look at. "Would you," he'll say in such a refined manner, "be so kind as to lend me your penknife to sharpen my quill?" But give him a chance, and he'll fleece the petitioners so that they leave with scarcely the shirts on their backs. It is true that ours is a dignified service; there is a cleanliness in everything such as is never seen in provincial offices. The desks are mahogany, and all our superiors address us formally . . . I must confess that if it were not for the dignity of our service, I should have left the department long ago. I put on my old overcoat and took my umbrella, because it was pouring rain. There was nobody on the streets; I encountered only some peasant women, their skirts held over their heads, a few Russian merchants under umbrellas and here and there a coachman. As for gentlefolk, there was only your petty clerk, schlepping along. I spotted him at the intersection. As soon as I saw him, I said to myself: "Aha! No, my dear fellow, you are not on your way to the department; you are after the girl who is scurrying along up ahead, and you're looking at her legs." What a beast your petty clerk I swear, he is as bad as a military man: if anyone in a bonnet goes by, he is bound to be after her. While I was making this reflection, I saw a carriage driving up to the shop which I was passing. I recognized it at once: it belonged to the Director of our Department himself. But, I thought, he cannot possibly need anything here: "It must be his daughter." I flattened myself against the wall. The footman opened the carriage door and she fluttered out like a little bird. Oh, how she glanced from right to left, how her eyes and eyebrows flashed as she passed . . . Good God! I am done for, completely lost! What on earth did she go out for . . . and in such pouring rain? Don't tell me that women haven't an absolute passion for clothes. She didn't recognize me, and indeed I tried to muffle myself up all I could because I had on a very muddy, old-fashioned overcoat. Nowadays they're all wearing cloaks with long collars, while I had short collars, one above the other. In fact, the cloth was not at all waterproof. Her lapdog, which had been too slow to dash in at the door of the shop, was left outside on the street. I know that dog. Her name is Madgie. I had hardly been standing there a minute when I heard a thin little voice: "Good morning, Madgie." What the Hell! Who's that speaking? I looked around and saw two ladies walking along under an umbrella, one older and the other young, but they had already passed and there again I heard beside me: "Shame on you, Madgie!" Well, I'll be damned! I noticed that Madgie was sniffing 'round a doggy who had been following the ladies. "Aha!" I said to myself, "but come, surely I am drunk! Only, as far as I know, that rarely happens to me." "No, Fidele, you are not being fair," said Madgie. I saw it with my own eyes: she formed the words, "I have been, bow-wow, I havebeen bow-ow-ow, very ill." Oh, you little doggy-- Goodness me! I must confess I was very much surprised to hear her speaking like a human being, but afterward, when I had thought it all through, I was no longer surprised. As a matter of fact, a number of similar instances have been reported. They say that in England a fish popped up out of the sea and uttered two words in such a strange language that scholars have been trying to interpret them for three years: so far they have come up with nothing. I have also read in the papers of two cows who went into a shop and asked for a pound of tea. But I must confess I was even more surprised when Madgie said: "I did write to you, Fidele; Polkan probably didn't deliver my letter." I'd be willing to forfeit a month's pay if I have ever heard of a dog that could write. No one but a gentleman by birth can write correctly. It's true, of course, that some merchants or shopmen and even peasants can sometimes write a little; but their writing is for the most part mechanical: they don't use commas, nor stops, and they have simply no idea of style. This all surprised me. I must confess that of late I have begun seeing and hearing things such as no one has ever seen or heard before. "I'll follow that doggy," I said to myself, "and find out what she is about and what she thinks." I opened my umbrella and set off after the two ladies. They passed into Gorokhovaya Street, turned into Meshchanskaya and from there into Stolyarnaya Street; after that they reached Kokushkin Bridge and stopped in front of a large apartment house. "I know that building," I said to myself. "It belongs to Zverkov." What a huge place! You'll find all sorts of people living there: any number of cooks and Poles, and as for your petty clerk, they are squeezed in one on the top of another, like dogs. I have a friend living there, who plays the trombone quite well. The ladies went up to the fifth floor. "Good," I thought, "I won't go in now, but I will note the place and I will certainly come back at the first opportunity.
10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90	October 4 Today is Wednesday, and that's the day I work in our Director's study. I came in a little early on purpose and then sat down and sharpened all his quills. Our Director must be a very clever man. His entire study is lined with shelves full of books. I have read the titles of some of them: such erudition. Erudition like that is quite beyond your petty clerk-- everything is written either in French or in German. And just look at his face! Gracious! What a sense of importance in his eyes! I have never heard him utter an extraneous word. Except, perhaps, when you set papers down in front of him, he'll ask: "What's it like out of doors?'' "Damp, your Excellency." Yes indeed, he is a cut above your petty clerk! He's a statesman. Nonetheless, I notice that he is particularly fond of me. If only his daughter, too, were . . . Damn you, rogue! . . . Never mind, never mind, silence! --- I was reading The Bee. They certainly are a stupid people, the French! What do they want? I'd take the bunch of them, I swear I would, and thrash them all soundly with birch rods! I also came across a charming description of a ball written by a country gentleman from Kursk. The country gentlemen of Kursk write well. After that I noticed it was half-past twelve and Himself not yet emerged from his bedroom. But then, about half-past one an event occurred which no pen could adequately describe. The door opened. I thought it was the director and jumped up from my chair clutching my papers, but it was she, in person! Holy Fathers, the way she looked! Her dress was white as a swan, and so sumptuous! And the look in her eye: like sunshine, I swear it, like sunshine. She nodded and said: "Hasn't Papa been here?'' Aye, aye, aye, what a voice! She's a canary, a regular canary. "Your Excellency,'' I was at the point of saying, "don't have me put to death . . . or if I must die, then let it be by your own Excellent little hand.'' But damn it all, somehow my tongue wouldn't budge, and all I said was: "No, Madam.'' She looked at me, looked at the books, and dropped her handkerchief. I dashed forward, slipped on the damned parquet floor, and almost busted my nose; but I recovered myself and picked up the handkerchief. Holy Fathers, what a handkerchief! The most delicate batiste -- and the scent, amber, perfect amber! It perfumed the air with Excellency. She thanked me and gave me a smile, so faint that her sugary lips scarcely moved, and after that left the room. I had been sitting there an hour when suddenly a footman approached and said: "Go on home, Aksenty Ivanovich, the master has already gone out.'' I cannot stand your typical flunky these days: he is always lolling about in the hall, and never even takes the trouble to nod to you. That's nothing: once one of these beasts had the gall to offer me some snuff without even getting up from his seat. Don't you know, you stupid clot, that I am a government clerk, that I am a gentleman by birth? Anyway, I took my hat and put on my own overcoat, for these gentlemen wouldn't dream of helping you, and left. Once home, for the most part, I lay on my bed. Then I copied out some nice little verses: My sweetie's gone but one brief hour. Seems to me a whole long year. Now my life has gone quite sour. I'll have to end it all, I fear. Must be something by Pushkin. In the evening, I wrapped myself up in my overcoat, walked to the front gate of her Excellency's house, and waited about for a long time on the chance that she would emerge and get into her carriage, so that I might catch a glimpse of her, just one more little time, -- but no, she didn't come out.
10 20 30 40	November 6 My section chief was in a fury today. When I got to the department he called me into his office and began to address me thus: "Now look here, will you just tell me what you are up to?'' "How do you mean?'' I said. "I am not up to anything.'' "Come now, try to understand! Why, you are over forty. It's time you showed a little sense. Who do think you are? Do you think I don't know what you've been up to? Why, you are philandering after the Director's daughter! Come now, look at yourself; just think what you are! Why, you're a zero and nothing more! Why, you haven't a copper to bless yourself with. And just look at your face in the mirror-- how could you think of such a thing!'' To Hell with him. His own face reminds you of those large bottles you see in pharmacists' windows, what with that tuft of hair he sets with curlers. And the way he holds his head up in the air and pomades the tuft into a kind of rosette-- thinks he's the only one who can get away with anything. I understand, I understand why he has got it in for me. He envies me: he has perhaps seen signs of preference or special favor shown to me. But I spit on him! As though a court councillor were such a big deal! He hangs a gold chain on his watch and orders boots at thirty rubles-- but to Hell with him! Am I some kind of commoner, or the son of a tailor or non-commissioned officer? No, I am a gentleman. Why, I may rise in the service too. I am only forty-two, the time in a man's life when his career is really only just beginning. Just wait, my friend! We'll be a colonel too, and perhaps, God willing, something more. We'll have a reputation too, and better perhaps than yours. A peculiar notion you have got into your head that you are the only proper gentleman around. Give me a fashionable coat and let me put on a necktie like yours-- and then you wouldn't hold a candle to me. I haven't the means, that's the only trouble.
10 20	November 8 I went to the theater. They were putting on The Russian Fool, Filatka. I couldn't stop laughing. There was this vaudeville too, with some amusing verses about lawyers, and in particular about a certain collegiate registrar. They were so outspoken that I was surprised the censor let them pass. And about the merchants, they said straight out that they cheat people and also that their sons revel in debauchery and ape the gentry. There was also a very amusing couplet about the critics, saying that they tear everything to pieces. The author begs the public to defend him against their attacks. A lot of very amusing plays are being written nowadays. I love to go to the theater. As soon as I get hold of a few coppers, I can't help myself, I go. But some of your petty clerks are such swine. You won't catch clods like them going to the theater, unless perhaps you hand out free tickets. One of the actresses sang very nicely. It made me think of her . . . the other one . . . Damn you, rogue! . . . Never mind, never mind . . . silence!
10	November 9 At eight o'clock I set off for the department. The section chief acted as though he did not see me come in. I, too, for my part, behaved as though nothing had passed between us. I went through some papers and sorted them out. I left at four. I walked by the director's house, but no one was to be seen. After dinner, for the most part, I lay on my bed.
10 20 30 40 50 60	November 11 Today I spent the day in our Director's study. I sharpened twenty-three quills for him and for her . . . aye, aye! for her Excellency, four quills. He likes to have a lot of quills at hand. My, what a mind that man must have! He never says a word, but you can sense his mind is working all the time. I should like to know what he thinks about most, what's hatching in that head of his? Actually, what I want is to get a closer look at the lifestyle of these fancy folk: their subtle innuendoes and courtly gestures. How they behave, the things they do among themselves-- that's what I should like to find out! Often I have wanted to get a conversation going with his Excellency, but, damn it all, somehow, I'm always stuck for words: I begin by saying it's cold or warm outside, but that's as far as I get. One day I'd like just to step into their drawing room. The door is ajar sometimes and from here I can see through to another door, leading to yet another room. Ah, what sumptuous furnishings! All those mirrors and porcelain figurines! And I long to have a look beyond, into that part of the house where her Excellency . . . that's where I should like to go! Into her boudoir with all those little jars and phials, and such flowers that one is frightened even to breathe on them. To see her clothes lying scattered about, her ethereal clothes. I long to peek into her bedroom; there I imagine marvels . . . there I imagine a paradise, such as is not to be found in the heavens. To look at the little stool where she puts her tiny foot when she steps out of bed and watch her put a dainty snow-white stocking on that tiny foot . . . Aye, aye, aye! never mind, never mind . . . silence! Today, however, something suddenly dawned on me. I remembered that conversation between two dogs, the one I heard on Nevsky Prospekt. "Good,'' I thought to myself, "now I'll learn everything. I must get hold of the correspondence which has passed between these wretched little dogs. Then I'll certainly find out something.'' Once, I almost called Madgie over to me and said: "Listen, Madgie; here we are alone. If you like, I'll shut the door so that no one can see. Tell me everything you know about your mistress: what she's like and all that. I swear to you I won't tell a soul.'' But that sly little doggie put her tail between her legs, doubled herself up, and quickly went out the door as though she hadn't heard a thing. I have long suspected that dogs are far more intelligent than people; I am even convinced that they can speak, only there is a certain stubborn- ness about them. Furthermore, they are extremely shrewd: they notice everything, every step we take. Yes, no matter what, I will go to Zverkov's apartment house tomorrow, question Fidele, and if I can, seize all the letters Madgie has written her.
10 20 30 40 50	November 12 At two o'clock in the afternoon I set out determined to see Fido and question her. I can't endure the smell of cabbage; the shops along Meshchanskaya street just reek of it. What with this, and the infernal stench coming out from under the gates of every house, I held my nose and ran for all I was worth. As if that weren't bad enough, those artisan scum let so much soot and smoke pour out of their workshops that it's quite impossible for a respectable gentleman to stroll there these days. When I reached the sixth floor and rang the bell, a girl with little freckles, quite pretty, answered the door. I recognized her: it was the same girl I had seen walking along with the old lady. She blushed slightly, and I immediately got the picture: you are looking for a bridegroom, my dear. "What do you want?'' she asked. "I want to have a few words with your doggie.'' That stupid girl! I realized at once she was stupid. Just then, the dog ran up barking; I tried to catch hold of her, but the odious little beast nearly sank her teeth into my nose. However, I spotted her basket in the corner. Ah, that's just what I'm looking for. I ran over to it, rummaged around in the straw, and to my inordinate satisfaction pulled out a small packet of tiny sheets of paper. Seeing this, the wretched dog first bit my calf, but then, as soon as she had sniffed out my malefaction, began to whine and fawn on me. But I said, "No, my dear, farewell,'' and took to my heels. I believe the girl thought me quite mad, as she was extremely frightened. When I got home I wanted to get right down to work and decipher the letters, for I don't see very well by candlelight. But Mavra had taken it into her head to wash the floor. Those stupid Finns-- they always choose the wrong moment to clean and scrub. And so I decided to go for a walk, think about what had just happened. Now at last, I'll find out everything that's going on, everything that's on their minds, all the ins and outs. Finally, I'll get to the whole truth. These letters will reveal everything to me. Dogs are clever creatures, they know all about intrigue, and so no doubt, the letters will contain everything. That man's portrait and all his affairs. There will be something in them too about her, who . . . never mind, silence! Toward evening I came home. For the most part I lay on my bed.
10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 100 110 120 130 140 150 160 170 180 190 200 210 220 230 240 250 260 270 280 290 300 310	November 13 Well, let's have a look! This letter looks quite legible; at the same time there is something doggy about the handwriting. It reads: Dear Fidele, I never can get used to your pedestrian name. One would think they didn't know enough to find you a better one. Fidele, Rosie-- such vulgar taste! However, all that's neither here nor there. I am very glad we have decided to write to each other. The letter is impeccably written. The punctuation and even the "I"-BEFORE-"E's" are done right. Our section chief, for all his talk of having studied at some university, could never write like this. Let's see what comes next. Itseems to me that to share one's ideas, one's feelings, and one's impressions with another is one of the greatest blessings on earth. H'm! . . . that idea is culled from something I read, translated from the German. I don't remember the name of it. Isay this from experience though I have not been abroad in the world, beyond the gates of our house. Don't you think I lead an agreeable life? My mistress, whom Papa calls Sophie, loves me to distraction. Aye, aye . . . never mind, never mind! Silence! Papa, too, often caresses me. I drink tea and coffee with cream. Ah, ma chere, I ought to tell you that I see nothing agreeable at all in big, half- gnawed bones such as our Polkan chomps on in the kitchen. I only like bones from game birds, and then only when the marrow hasn't been sucked out of them by someone else. What is very tasty is several sauces mixed together, only they must be free of capers and greens; but I know nothing worse than the habit of giving dogs tiny pellets of bread. There is usually some gentleman sitting at the table who starts kneading bread with hands that have been in all sorts of filth. He calls you over to him and sticks the pellet between your teeth. To refuse seems somehow discourteous-- so, you eat it-- with revulsion, but you eat it. . . What the devil's this! What nonsense! As though there were nothing better to write about. Let's look at another page and see if there is something more sensible. I shall be delighted to let you know about everything that transpires here at home. I have already told you a bit about the chief gentleman, whom Sophie calls Papa. He is a very strange man. Ah, here we are at last! I knew it; they all have very shrewd judgment. Let us see what Papa is like. . . . a very strange man. For the most part he says nothing; he very rarely speaks. But about a week ago he was continually talking to himself: "Shall I get it or shall I not?'' He would take up a piece of paper in one hand, make an empty fist with the other, and say: "Shall I get it or shall I not?'' Once he turned to me with the question: "What do you think, Madgie, shall I get it or not?'' I couldn't understand what he was talking about, so I sniffed at his boots and walked away. A week later, ma chere came home beaming. All morning, gentlemen in uniforms came to call and congratulated him about something. At the table he was merrier than I have ever seen him. He kept telling stories, and after dinner,he lifted me up to his neck and said: "Look, Madgie, what's this?'' I saw some kind of ribbon. I sniffed it, but could discover no aroma whatsoever; finally, on the sly, I gave it a lick: it was a little bit salty. H'm! This little dog seems to me to be really too . . . she ought to be thrashed! Aha, so he's ambitious, is he? I must take that into consideration. Farewell, ma chere, I fly, and so on . . . and so on . . . I will finish my letter tomorrow. Well, hello, I am with you again. Today my mistress Sophie . . . Ah! Yes, let us see what Sophie is like. Damn you, rogue! . . . Never mind, never mind . . . we'll go on. . . . my mistress Sophie was in a great fluster. She was getting ready to go to a ball, and I was delighted that in her absence I'd get a chance to write to you. My Sophie is always very glad to go to a ball, but she gets almost angry when she is being dressed. I can't understand, ma chere, what pleasure there is in going to a ball. Sophie always comes home from a ball at six o'clock in the morning, and each time I can almost guess from her pale and exhausted face that they had given the poor thing nothing to eat. I must con- fess I could never live like that. If I didn't get my grouse and gravy or roasted chicken wing, I don't know what would become of me. Buckwheat gravy is nice, too. But I have no use for carrots, turnips, or artichokes . . . The style is altogether uneven! You can see at once that it is not a man writing; it begins as it should and ends with dogginess. Let's look at another letter. It's rather long. H'm! And there's no date on it. Ah, my dear, how one feels the approach of spring. My heart beats as if in anticipation of something. There is forever a ringing in my ears so that I often stand for some minutes with my leg in the air listening at the door. I must tell you that I have a number of suitors. I often sit at the window and review them. Oh, if only you could imagine how ugly some of them are. One is simply a clumsy mongrel, fear fully stupid, stupidity painted all over his face. He walks up and down the street with an air of self-importance, imagines that he is a distinguished figure and thinks that everybody is looking at him. Far from it! I didn't even take any notice of him-- as if I hadn't seen him. And there is this terrifying Great Dane who is always stopping in front of my window! If he were to stand on his hind legs, which I suspect the clod could not do, he would be a whole head taller than my Sophie's papa, who is fairly tall and stout, as well. This blockhead must be a terribly insolent fellow. I growled, but that didn't even faze him; he could at least have frowned. Instead, he hung out his tongue, let his huge ears droop and looked up at the window-- the country bumpkin! But don't suppose for a minute, ma chere, that my heart is indifferent to all overtures? Ah no . . . If only you had seen this one cavalier, by name Tresor, who came climbing over the next-door neighbor's fence . . . Ah, ma chere, what a sweet little snout! . . . Phooey, damn it! . . . What rubbish! How can anyone fill a letter with such foolishness! Give me a man! I want to see humanity. I want the kind of sustenance which will feed and delight my soul; and instead, I get this nonsense . . . Let's look on the other side of this page and see if it gets any better! . . . Sophiewas sitting at a table and embroidering something. I was looking out the window because I love to watch people pass by. All at once, a footman came in and said, "Teplov!'' "Show him in,'' cried Sophie, and rushed to embrace me. "Ah, Madgie, Madgie! If only you knew who this is: dark hair, a court chamberlain, and oh what eyes! They're black and flash like fire!'' And Sophie ran off to her room. A minute later a young court chamberlain with black side-whiskers came in. He walked up to the mirror, smoothed his hair, and looked about the room. I growled and went over to sit in my place. Sophie soon entered the room and courtsied cheerfully in response to his bow; and I just went on looking out the window as if I weren't noticing. However, I tilted my head a little to the side and tried to hear what they were saying. Oh, ma chere, the nonsense they talked! They talked about a lady who got her dance steps mixed up; and said that someone called Bobov, with a ruffle on his shirt, looked just like a stork and that he almost tripped and fell, and that a girl called Lidina imagined she had blue eyes when they were obviously green-- and that sort of thing. "Dear me,'' I thought to myself, "if one were to compare that court chamberlain to Tresor, heavens, what a difference!'' In the first place, the court chamberlain has perfectly flat features with whiskers all around, as though he had tied up his broad face in a black handkerchief; while Tresor has a delicate little countenance with a white patch on his forehead. And one couldn't compare the court chamber- lain's figure with my Tresor's. Besides, his eyes, his manners, his gestures, are just not the same. There is such a difference! I don't know what she sees in her court chamberlain. How can she be so delirious about him? . . . Indeed. One might well ask. There is something awry here. It's unthinkable that a court chamberlain could turn her head like that. Let's keep reading. It seems to me that if she is attracted to this court chamberlain she will soon fall for the clerk that sits in papa's study. Ah, ma chere, if you only knew what an ugly fellow he is! He looks like a turtle in a bag . . . What clerk could she be referring to? . . . He has a very queer surname. All he does is sit and sharpen quills. The hair on his head is very much like hay. Papa always sends him out on errands when the servants are busy . . . I do believe the nasty little dog is alluding to me. What does she mean my hair is like hay? Sophie just can't keep from laughing whenever she sees him. That's a lie, you wretched dog! What a foul tongue! As if I didn't know this is all just envy! As if I didn't know who is at the bottom of this! This is all the doing of my section chief. The man has sworn eternal hatred, and here he tries to injure me again and again, at every turn. Let us look at one more letter, though. Perhaps the explanation is there. Ma chere Fidele, forgive me. I haven't written you for so long. I have been in a state of perfect ecstasy. How truly it is written that love is a second lease on life. Moreover, there have been quite some changes here at home. The court chamberlain comes to call every day. Sophie is head over heels in love with him. Papa is very pleased. I have even heard from our Grigory, who sweeps the floor and almost always talks to himself, that there will soon be a wedding because Papa is determined to see Sophie married to a general or a court chamberlain or to a colonel in the army . . . Damn it! I can read no further . . . All the best things in life, everything, falls to the court chamberlains or the generals. No sooner do you come upon some small measure of good fortune and reach out to take it, when along comes some court chamberlain or general and snatches it away from you. Damn it all! I'd like to be a general myself, not just to get the girl and all the rest of it; no, I'd like to see how they squirm and display all their courtly gestures and subtle innuendoes and then to say to them that I spit on you both. Damn it all! How vexing! I tore the stupid dog's letters to bits.
10 20 30 40	December 3 It cannot be. It's idle talk! There won't be a wedding! What if he is a court chamberlain? Why, that is nothing but a distinction; it's not a visible thing that one could pick up in one's hands. You don't get a third eye in your head because you are a court chamberlain. Why, his nose is not made of gold but is just like mine and everyone else's; he takes snuff with it and doesn't eat with it, he sneezes with it and doesn't cough with it. I have often tried to figure out where all these differences come from. On what grounds am I a titular councilor and what is the point of my being a titular councilor? Perhaps I am a count or a general, and only somehow appear to be a titular councilor. Perhaps I don't know myself who I am. How many instances from history: you get some simple fellow, not by any means of gentle birth, but a simple working fellow or even a peasant-- and suddenly it turns out that he's some sort of grandee, or even the King . . . If that can happen to a bumpkin, just imagine what a gentleman could turn out to be? Imagine, for instance, me, entering the room in a general's uniform: I have an epaulet on my right shoulder and an epaulet on my left shoulder, and across my chest a blue ribbon; well, my beautiful young lady, you'd sing a different tune then, and papa himself, our director, what would he say? That man is such a snob! And he is a Freemason, no mistake about it. Oh, he pretends to be one thing and the other, but I caught on at once that he was a Freemason: when he offers to shake hands, why, he only extends two fingers. But surely, I could be promoted overnight to Governor-general or quartermaster, or some such thing? I should like to know why I am a titular councilor. Why precisely a titular councilor?
10 20	December 5 Today, I spent the whole morning reading the newspaper. Strange things are going on in Spain. In fact, I can't really understand them. It says that the throne is vacant, and that they are in a difficult position about choosing an heir, and that, as a consequence, there are insurrections. It seems to me that this is extremely peculiar. How can the throne be vacant? They say that some Donna is in line to ascend the throne. A Donna cannot ascend the throne, she cannot possibly. There ought to be a king on the throne. "But,'' they say, "there is no king.'' It cannot be that there is no king. A kingdom can't exist without a king. There is a king, only he is somewhere unknown. He may be in the country, but either family reasons or danger from some neighboring state, such as France or some other country, may compel him to remain in hiding, or there may be some other reasons.
10	December 8 I was really just on the point of going to the department, but various reasons and considerations detained me. I cannot get the affairs of Spain out of my head. How can it be that a Donna should be made queen? They won't allow it. England, in the first place, won't allow it. And besides, the politics of all Europe, the Emperor of Austria and our Czar . . . I must confess, these events have so overwhelmed and shaken me that I haven't been able to do a single thing all day. Mavra remarked that I was extremely absent-minded at the table. And I believe I did accidentally throw two plates on the floor, where they smashed into pieces. After dinner, I went for a walk down the hill: nothing edifying. For the most part, I lay on my bed and reflected on the affairs of Spain.
10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80	Martober 86 between day and night Our office messenger stopped by today to get me to go to the department, and it has already been three weeks since I last went to work. So, for the fun of it, I set off for the department. The section chief thought that I would bow to him and start making excuses, but I looked at him cooly, not too angry and not too benevolent, and sat down at my desk as though I hadn't taken notice of anyone. I looked at all the chancery scum and thought: "What if you knew who is sitting among you'' . . . Lord God above! What a commotion you would raise! And the section chief himself would start bowing to me from the waist the way he bows to the director. They set some papers before me so that I could make a summary of them. But I didn't lift a finger. A few minutes later, everyone began rushing around. They said the director was on his way. Several clerks bustled forward, hoping he'd notice them, but I didn't budge. When he passed by our section, they all buttoned up their uniforms, but I didn't make a move. What kind of a director does he think he is? Should I rise in his presence-- never! Director?-- now I ask you! He is a cork, not a director. An ordinary cork, a plain cork and nothing else-- such as you cork a bottle with. What amused me most of all was when they thrust a document under my nose for me to sign. They thought that I would write at the very bottom of the page: Head Clerk Such-and-Such-- let them think again! I chose the most important place, where the deparment director signs his name, and wrote with a flourish: "Ferdinand VIII.'' The reverent silence which descended on everyone had to be seen to be believed; but I just waved my hand and said: "I don't insist on any signs of homage!'' and walked out. From there I went straight to the director's apartment. He was not at home. The lackey did not want to let me in, but what I said made his arms drop limp at his sides. I went straight to her dressing room. She was sitting in front of the mirror; she jumped up and backed away from me. I did not tell her that I was the King of Spain, however; I said only that a happiness awaited her such as she could not imagine, and that in spite of the wiles of our enemies, we would be together. I thought I'd said enough, and left. Oh, women are such perfidious creatures! Only now have I come to understand what a woman is. Heretofore, no one has been able to find out whom she is in love with. I am the first to discover it. Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, all joking aside. Physicists write a lot of nonsense about her being this, that and the other thing-- she only loves the devil. Look over there! From a box in the first tier she directs herlorgnettew. You think she is looking at that fat man wearing the star. No such thing! She is looking at the devil who is standing behind him. Now he has concealed himself in the star. There he is, beckoning to her with his finger! And she will marry him. Marry him, I say. And the whole lot of them, their high-ranking fathers, the whole lot who swarm around and oil their way into the royal court, and say that they are patriots and this and that: profit, profit is all these patriots want! They would sell their father, their mo- ther, their God for money, careerists, judases! It's all ambition, and the ambition stems from a little blister under the tongue and in it a little worm no bigger than a pin head, and it's all the doing of a barber who lives on Gorokhovaya Street, I don't remember his name; but I know for a fact that, in collusion with a midwife, he is trying to spread Islam all over the world, and that is why, I am told, that the majority of people in France profess the faith of Mohammed.
10 20 30	No date. The day had no date. I was strolling incognito along Nevsky Prospekt. His Imperial Majesty rode by. The whole city doffed their caps, and I as well. However, I didn't let on that I was the King of Spain. I thought it improper to reveal myself right there in front of everybody, because my royal colleague would surely ask why the Spanish King had not been presented at court. And, indeed, one must first be presented at court. The only thing that has prevented my doing so is that I do not yet have royal attire. If only I could get hold of a royal mantle of some sort. I almost ordered one from a tailor, but they are perfect asses; What's more, they tend to neglect their work, preferring to take part in shady transactions, and most of them end up mending the roads. I decided to have a mantle made from my new dress uniform, which I had only worn twice. But as these scoundrels would only ruin, I decided to sew it myself, behind locked doors so that no one might see me at it. I cut it all up with scissors because it had to be completely redone so that all the fabric had the look of ermine tails. I don't remember the date. There was no month either. The devil knows what to make of it. The mantle is completely ready and sewn now. Mavra shrieked when I put it on. However, I'm still not quite ready to present myself at court. As yet, the delegation hasn't arrived from Spain. It wouldn't be proper to go without my deputies; there would be nothing to lend weight to my position. I am expecting them any time now.
10	Day One I am extremely surprised at the delay of my deputies. What reasons can be detaining them? Surely not France? She is the most malign of powers. I went to inquire at the post office whether the Spanish delegates had arrived; but the postmaster is excessively stupid, he doesn't know anything: "No,'' he said, "there are no Spanish deputies here, but if you care to write a letter, we will deliver it at the appropriate rate.'' Damn it all, what's the use of a letter? A letter is nonsense. Pharmacists write letters . . .
10 20 30 40 50 60 70	Madrid, Februarius thirtieth And so I am in Spain, and it was all so quick, I hardly knew what was happening. This morning the Spanish deputies arrived and we all got into a carriage. The extraordinary speed struck me as strange. We travelled so quickly that within half an hour we had reached the Spanish frontier. Actually, they have these iron roads all over Europe now, and steamships travel at tremendous speed. Spain is a strange land: when we entered the first room, I saw a large number of people with shaved heads. However, I guessed that they must be either Dominicans or Capuchins because they shave their heads. I thought the behavior of the High Chancellor, who led me by the hand, extremely strange. He thrust me into 30 a little room and said: "Sit there, and if you keep calling yourself King Ferdinand, I'll King Ferdinand you.'' But, knowing that this was nothing but a test, I responded in the negative, whereupon the Chancellor struck me twice on the back with a stick, and it hurt so that I almost cried out, but I restrained myself, remembering that this is a chivalric custom upon initiation into an exalted order, for cus- toms of chivalry persist in Spain to this day. Once I was alone, I decided to busy myself with affairs of state. I discovered that China and Spain are simply one and the same land, and it is only through ignorance that people consider them to be different states. I re- commend that everyone write Spain on a piece of paper and it will come out China. But I was particularly dismayed by an event which will take place tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven o'clock a strange phenomenon will occur: the earth will sit on the moon. The celebrated English chemist Wellington has already written about it. I must confess that I was seized by heartfelt distress when I reflected on the extreme tenderness and fragility of the moon. You see, the moon is usually made in Hamburg, and very badly made at that. I am surprised that England hasn't taken notice of this. It is made by a lame cooper, and evidently the fool has no idea about the moon. He used tarred rope and one part of linseed oil; and that is why there is such a fearful stench all over the world that one has to hold one's nose. And that's how it is that the moon is such a tender globe that people cannot live on it, and now, only noses live there. And it is for that very reason that we can't see our noses, for they are all in the moon. And when I reflected that the earth is a heavy body and when it sits down, may grind our noses to flour, I was overcome by such distress that, putting on my shoes and stockings, I hastened to the hall of the Council of State in order to issue a decree to the police not to allow the earth to sit on the moon. The Capuchins, whom I found in great numbers in the hall of the Council of xState, are very intelligent people, and when I said: "Gentlemen, let us save the moon, for the earth is trying to sit upon it!'' that very minute, they all rushed to carry out my sovereign wish, and several climbed up the walls in order to get at the moon; but at that moment, the High Chancellor walked in. As soon as they saw him, they all ran in different directions. I, as King, remained alone. But, to my amazement, the Chancellor struck me with his stick and drove me back into my room! Such is the power of popular customs in Spain!
10 20 30	January of the same year which came after February So far I have not been able to understand what sort of a country Spain is. The national traditions and the customs of the court are quite extraordinary. I can't understand it, I can't understand it, I absolutely can't understand it. Today they shaved my head, although I shouted at the top of my voice that I didn't want to become a monk. But I can't even remember what happened afterward when they poured cold water on my head. I have never endured such Hell. I was almost going frantic, so that they had difficulty in holding me. I cannot under- stand the meaning of this strange custom. It's a stupid, senseless practice! The lack of good sense in the kings who have not abolished it to this day is beyond my comprehension. Judging from all the circumstances I wonder whether I have not fallen into the hands of the Inquisition, and whether the man I took to be the Grand Chancellor isn't the Grand Inquisitor. But I cannot understand how a king can be subject to the Inquisition. It can only be through the influence of France, especially of Polignac. Oh, that beast of a Polignac! He has sworn to harm me to the death. And he pursues me and pursues me; but I know, my friend, that you are the tool of England. The English are great politicians. They poke their noses into everything. All the world knows that when England takes a pinch of snuff, France sneezes.
10 20	The twenty-fifth Today the Grand Inquisitor came into my room again, but hearing his steps in the distance I hid under a chair. Seeing I wasn't there, he began calling me. At first he shouted "Poprischin!'' I didn't say a word. Then: "Aksenty Ivanov! Titular councilor! Nobleman!'' I still remained silent. "Ferdinand VIII, King of Spain!'' I was on the point of sticking out my head, but then I thought: "No, my friend, you won't fool me, I know you: you will be pouring cold water on my head again.'' However, he caught sight of me and drove me out from under the chair with a stick. That damned stick does hurt. However, I was rewarded for all this by the discovery I made today. I found out that every cock has a Spain, that it is under his wings. The Grand Inquisitor went away, however, very angry, threatening me with some punishment. But I disdain his impotent malice, knowing that he is simply an instrument, a tool of England.
10 20 30	34 3aqsnqsr Yrae 349 No, I haven't the strength to endure more. My God! the things they are doing to me! They pour cold water on my head! They won't listen to me, they won't see me, they won't hear me. What have I done to them? Why do they torture me? What do they want of a poor creature like me? What can I give them? I have nothing. It's too much for me, I can't endure these agonies, my head is burning and everything is going around. Save me, take me away! Give me a troika and horses swift as a whirlwind! Take your seat, my driver, ring out, my bells, fly upward, my steeds, and bear me away from this world! Far away, far away, so that nothing can be seen, nothing. Yonder the sky whirls before me, a star sparkles in the distance; the forest floats by with dark trees and the moon; blue-gray mist lies stretched under my feet; a chord resounds in the mist on one side the sea, on the other Italy; yonder the huts of Russia can be seen. Is that my home in the distance? Is it my mother sitting before the window? Mother, save your poor son! Drop a tear on his sick head! See how they torment him! Press your poor orphan to your bosom! There is nowhere in the world for him! He is persecuted! Mother, have pity on your sick child! . . . And do you know that the Dey of Algiers has a boil just under his nose?