November 8. Went to the theater. The Russian fool Filatka 4 was playing. Laughed a lot. There was some other vaudeville with funny verses about lawyers, especially about some collegiate registrar, written quite freely, so that I wondered how it passed the censors, and they said outright that merchants cheat people and their sons are de-bauchers and try to worm their way into the nobility. Also a very funny couplet about journalists: that they like denouncing everything-and the author asked the public for protection. Authors write very funny plays nowadays. I like going to the theater. As soon as I have a penny in my pocket, I just can't keep myself from going. But there are such pigs among our fellow clerks: they decidedly will not go to the theater, the clods, unless you give them a free ticket. One actress sang very well. I remembered the other… ah, confound it!… never mind, never mind… silence.
November 9. At eight o'clock I went to the office. The section chief assumed such an air as if he didn't notice my arrival. I, for my part, acted as if there had been nothing between us. Looked through and collated papers. Left at four o'clock. Passed by the director's apartment but didn't see anybody. Lay in bed most of the time after dinner.
November 11.
Today I sat in our director's study and sharpened twenty-three pens for him, and for her, aie, aie!… four pens for Her Excellency. He likes very much having more pens. Oh, what a head that must be! Quite silent, but in his head, I think, he ponders everything. I wish I knew what he thinks about most; what's cooking in that head? I'd like to have a closer look at these gentlemen's lives, at all these equivocations and courtly tricks-how they are, what they do in their circle-that's what I'd like to find out! I've meant several times to strike up a conversation with His Excellency, only, devil take it, my tongue wouldn't obey me: I'd just say it was cold or warm outside, and be decidedly unable to say anything else. I'd like to peek into the drawing room, where you sometimes see only an open door into yet another room beyond the drawing room. Ah, such rich furnishings! Such mirrors and china! I'd like to peek in there, into that half, Her Excellency's-that's what I'd like! Into the boudoir, with all those little jars and vials standing there, such flowers that you're afraid to breathe on them; with her dress thrown down there, more like air than a dress. I'd like to peek into her bedroom… there, I think, there are wonders; there, I think, there is paradise, such as is not even to be found in heaven. To look at the little stool she puts her little foot on when she gets out of bed, at how a snow-white stocking is being put on that foot… aie! aie! aie! never mind, never mind… silence.
Today, however, it dawned on me clear as daylight: I recalled the conversation of the two little dogs I'd heard on Nevsky Prospect. "Very well," I thought to myself, "I'll find out everything now. I must get hold of the correspondence those rotten little dogs have exchanged. I'll learn a thing or two from it." I confess, I had even called Medji over once and said, "Listen, Medji, we're alone now; I'll lock the door if you like, so no one can see-tell me everything you know about the young miss, what and how she is? I swear to God I won't tell anybody." But the cunning little dog put her tail between her legs, shrank to half her size, and quietly walked out the door as if she hadn't heard anything. I've long suspected dogs of being much smarter than people; I was even certain they could speak, but there was only some kind of stubbornness in them. They're extraordinary politicians: they notice every human step. No, I'll go to Zverkov's building tomorrow at all costs, question Fidele, and, if I'm lucky, get hold of all the letters Medji has written to her.
November 12.
At two o'clock in the afternoon I set out with the firm intention of seeing Fidиle and questioning her. I can't stand cabbage, the smell of which comes pouring out of all the small shops on Meshchanskaya; besides that, there was such a whiff of hell coming from under the gates of each house that I held my nose and ran for dear life. And those vile artisans produce so much soot and smoke in their workshops that it's decidedly impossible for a gentleman to walk there. When I got to the sixth floor and rang the bell, a girl came out, not so bad looking, with little freckles. I recognized her. It was the same one who was walking with the old lady. She blushed slightly, and I understood at once: You, my sweet, are looking for a fiance. "What can I do for you?" she said. "I must have a word with your little dog." The girl was stupid! I knew at once she was stupid! At that moment the dog ran in, barking; I wanted to seize her, but she, vile thing, almost seized me by the nose with her teeth. I saw her basket in the corner, however. Aha, just what I need! I went over to it, rummaged in the straw of the wooden box, and, to my greatest satisfaction, pulled out a small bundle of little papers. Seeing that, the nasty little dog first bit me on the calf and then, when she realized I'd taken the papers, began squealing and fawning, but I said, "No, my sweet, good-bye!" and rushed out. I suppose the girl took me for a madman, because she was extremely frightened. On coming home, I wanted to get to work and sort these letters out at once, because I see poorly by candlelight. But Mavra had decided to wash the floor. These stupid Finnish women are always cleaning at the wrong moment. And so I went out to walk around and think this event over. Now I'll finally learn about all these affairs and intentions, all these springs, and finally get to the bottom of it. These letters will reveal everything to me. Dogs are smart folk, they know all the political relations, and so it's all sure to be there: the picture of the man and all his doings. There'll also be something about her who… never mind, silence! Toward evening I came home. Lay in bed most of the time.
November 13.
Well, now, let's see: the letter looks pretty clear. However, there's still something doggy in the writing. Let's read it:
Dear Fidele,
I still cannot get used to your common-sounding name. As if they couldn't have given you a better one? Fidele, Rosy- such banal tone! However, that's all beside the point. I'm very glad we've decided to write to each other.
The letter is written very correctly. Punctuation and even tricky spellings all in order. Not even our section chief can write like that, though he keeps saying he studied at some university. Let's see what comes next:
It seems to me that sharing thoughts, feelings, and impressions with others is one of the foremost blessings in the world.
Hm! the thought is drawn from some work translated from the German. Can't recall the title.
I say it from experience, though I've never run farther in the world than the gates of our house. Whose life flows by in pleasure if not mine? My young mistress, whom Papa calls Sophie, loves me to distraction.
Aie, aie!… never mind, never mind. Silence.
Papa also pets me very often. I drink tea and coffee with cream. Ah, ma chere, I must tell you that I see no pleasure at all in those big, bare bones our Polkan slobbers over in the kitchen. Only bones from wild game are good, and only before anyone has sucked out the marrow. Mixtures of several gravies are very good, only not with capers or herbs; but I know nothing worse than the habit of giving dogs little balls of bread. Some gentleman sitting at the table, after holding all sorts of trash in his hands, begins to roll bread in those same hands, then calls you over and puts the ball in your teeth. It's somehow impolite to refuse, so you eat it; with disgust, but you eat it…
Devil knows what this is! Such nonsense! As if there were no better subjects to write about. Let's look at the next page. For something more sensible.
I'm quite ready and willing to inform you of all that goes on in our house. I've already told you a little something about the main gentleman, whom Sophie calls Papa. He's a very strange man.
Ah! at last! Yes, I knew it: they have political views on all subjects. Let's see about Papa:
… a very strange man. He's silent most of the time. Speaks very rarely; but a week ago, he talked to himself constantly: "Will I get it or won't I?" He would take a piece of paper in one hand, close the other empty one, and say: "Will I get it or won't I?" Once he addressed the question to me: "What do you think, Medji? Will I get it or won't I?" I could understand none of it, so I sniffed his boot and went away. Then, ma chere, a week later Papa came home very happy. All morning gentlemen in uniforms kept coming to him, congratulating him for something. At the table he was merrier than I'd ever seen him before, told jokes, and after dinner he held me up to his neck and said: "Look, Medji, what's this?" I saw some little ribbon. I sniffed it but found decidedly no aroma; finally I licked it on the sly: it was a bit salty.