home, Aksèntyi Ivànovich. My master has gone out.” I cannot endure the footman class; they always lounge about in the ante-room, and don’t so much as take the trouble to nod to you. Indeed, that’s not all; once, one of these brutes had the insolence to offer me some tobacco without getting up. Why, can’t you understand, you stupid flunkey, that I am an official, that I am of noble birth! Nevertheless I took my hat, put on my cloak myself (these gentry never think of helping one), and went out. At home I spent most of the day lying on my bed. Then I copied out some charming verses:— “An hour I had not seen my dearest, That hour was as a year to me; Oh life, how hateful thou appearest! Oh let me die and cease to be!” [Illustration: ‘SHE DROPPED HER HANDKERCHIEF. I RUSHED FOR IT, AND SLIPPED ON THE CONFOUNDED FLOOR.’ ] They must have been written by Poushkin. In the evening I muffled myself in my cloak, went to her excellency’s doorstep, and waited long on the chance of seeing her for a moment coming out and getting into her carriage; but she did not come. _November 6th._ I have infuriated the chief of the section. When I came to the Department he called me into his room, and began talking after this fashion, “Now just tell me, my man, what you’re after.” “How? What? I’m not after anything,” said I. “Now, think it over and be reasonable! Why, you’re past forty; you ought to have come to years of discretion. What have you got into your head? Do you imagine I don’t know all you’re up to? Why, you are dangling about after the director’s daughter! Now just look at yourself, and think a minute what you are like. You know you’re a complete nonentity. You know you haven’t got a farthing in the world. Look at your face in the looking-glass—how can you think of such a thing?” The devil take it! Just because he has a face something like an apothecary’s drug-bottle and one little wisp of hair on his head twisted up into a barber’s cock’s-comb, and holds up his head and smears it with a bandoline stick, he thinks he must be over everybody. But I understand, I understand perfectly well why he’s so angry—he’s envious; very likely he has noticed the signs of special favour shown to me. But what do I care for him? How very important—a D.C.L.! He’s got a gold watch-chain and pays thirty roubles for his boots—and the devil take him! Does he imagine that I am one of the common people; that I’m the son of a tailor or a corporal? I am a noble! I, too, may rise in the service; I am only forty-two—just the proper age to begin one’s career. Wait a bit, my friend! Perhaps we shall be a colonel some day, or higher up than that even, by God’s grace; and we’ll have a better reputation than yours is. I should like to know what put it into your head that no one can be a decent fellow except yourself. Give me a fashionably cut