December 5. I spent the whole morning today reading the newspapers. There are strange doings in Spain. I couldn't even make them out properly. They write that the throne is vacant and that the officials are in a difficult position about the selection of an heir, which is causing disturbances. This seems terribly strange to me. How can a throne be vacant? They say some dona should ascend the throne. 6 A doсa cannot ascend a throne. Simply cannot. There should be a king on a throne. But, they say, there is no king. It cannot be that there was no king. A state cannot be without a king. There is a king, only he's somewhere unknown. Possibly he's right there, but either some sort of family reasons, or apprehensions about neighboring powers, such as France and other countries, have forced him into hiding, or there are other reasons of some sort.
December 8.
I was just about to go to the office, but various reasons and reflections held me back. I couldn't get these Spanish affairs out of my head. How can a doсa be made a queen? They won't allow it. And, first of all, England won't allow it. And besides, the political affairs of the whole of Europe: the Austrian emperor, our sovereign… I confess, these events so crushed and shook me that I was decidedly unable to busy myself with anything all day long. Mavra observed to me that I was extremely distracted at the table. And, indeed, it seems I absentmindedly threw two plates on the floor, which proceeded to break. After dinner, I strolled around the toboggan slides. Couldn't arrive at anything constructive. Mostly lay in bed and reasoned about the affairs in Spain.
The Year 2000, 43rd of April. This day-is a day of the greatest solemnity! Spain has a king. He has been found. I am that king. Only this very day did I learn of it. I confess, it came to me suddenly in a flash of lightning. I don't understand how I could have thought and imagined that I was a titular councillor. How could such a wild notion enter my head? It's a good thing no one thought of putting me in an insane asylum. Now everything is laid open before me. Now I see everything as on the palm of my hand. And before, I don't understand, before everything around me was in some sort of fog. And all this happens, I think, because people imagine that the human brain is in the head. Not at alclass="underline" it is brought by a wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea. First off, I announced to Mavra who I am. When she heard that the king of Spain was standing before her, she clasped her hands and nearly died of fright. The stupid woman had never seen a king of Spain before. However, I endeavored to calm her down and assured her in gracious words of my benevolence and that I was not at all angry that she sometimes polished my boots poorly. They're benighted folk. It's impossible to tell them about lofty matters. She got frightened, because she's convinced that all kings of Spain are like Philip II. But I explained to her that there was no resemblance between me and Philip II, and that I didn't have a single Capuchin 7… I didn't go to the office… To hell with it! No, friends, you won't lure me there now; I'm not going to copy your vile papers!
The 86th of Martober. Between day and night.
Today our manager came to tell me to go to the office, since I hadn't been to work for over three weeks. I went to the office as a joke. The section chief thought I'd bow to him and start apologizing, but I looked at him with indifference-neither too wrathfully nor too benevolently-and sat down at my place as if not noticing anyone. I looked at all that office riffraff and thought: "What if you knew who was sitting amongst you… Lord God! what a rumpus you'd raise, and the section chief would start bowing as low to me as he now bows to the director." Some papers were placed in front of me so that I could make an abstract of them. But
I didn't even set a finger to them. A few minutes later everything was in turmoil. They said the director was coming. Many clerks ran up front to show themselves before him. But I didn't budge. When he was passing through our section, everybody buttoned up their tailcoats; but I-nothing of the sort! What is a director that I should stand up before him-never! What sort of director is he? He's a doornail, not a director. An ordinary doornail, a simple doornail, nothing more. The kind used in doors. I was most amused when they slipped me a paper to be signed. They thought I'd write "Chief Clerk So-and-So" at the very bottom of the page. Not a chance! In the central place, where the director of the department signs, I dashed off: "Ferdinand VIII." You should have seen what reverent silence ensued; but I merely waved my hand, saying, "No need for any tokens of homage!" and walked out. From there I went straight to the director's apartment. He was not at home. The lackey didn't want to let me in, but after what I said to him, he just dropped his arms. I made my way straight to the boudoir. She was sitting before the mirror, jumped up, and backed away from me. However, I didn't tell her I was the king of Spain. I only said that such happiness awaited her as she could not even imagine, and that despite the machinations of enemies, we would be together. I did not want to say anything more, and walked out. Oh, she's a perfidious being-woman! Only now have I grasped what woman is. Till now no one has found out who she's in love with: I'm the first to discover it. Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, no joking. It's stupid what physicists write, that she's this or that-she loves only the devil. See there, from a box in the first balcony, she's aiming her lorgnette. You think she's looking at that fat one with the star? Not at all, she's looking at the devil standing behind his back. There he is hiding in his tailcoat. There he is beckoning to her with his finger! And she'll marry him. Marry him. And all those high-ranking fathers of theirs, all those who fidget in all directions and worm their way into court and say they're patriots and this and that: income, income is what these patriots want! Mother, father, God-they'll sell them all for money, the ambitious Judases! It's all ambition, and ambition is caused by a little blister under the tongue with a little worm in it the size of a pinhead, and it's all the doing of some barber who lives in Gorokhovaya Street. I don't know what his name is; but it's known for certain that he, together with some midwife, wants to spread Mohammedanism throughout the world, and as a result, they say, in France the majority of people already accepts the faith of Mohammed.
Date none. The day had no date.
Strolled incognito on Nevsky Prospect. His Majesty the emperor drove by. The whole city took their hats off, and I did, too; however, I didn't let on that I was the king of Spain. I considered it unsuitable to reveal myself right there in front of everybody; because, first of all, I have to present myself at court. The only thing holding me up is that I still don't have royal attire. If only I could get some sort of mantle. I was going to order one from a tailor, but they're perfect asses, and, besides, they neglect their work completely; they've thrown themselves into affairs and are mostly busy paving the streets with stones. I decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I had only worn twice. But, to prevent those blackguards from ruining it, I decided to sew it myself, after locking the door so that no one could see. I cut it all up with scissors, because the style has to be completely different.
Don't remember the date. There was no month, either. Devil knows what there was.
The mantle is all ready and sewn up. Mavra cried out when I put it on. However, I still refrain from presenting myself at court. No deputation from Spain so far. Without deputies it's not proper. There'll be no weight to my dignity. I expect them any moment.