 Section 6 of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. This sleeper-box recording is in the public domain. An Unpleasant Predicament, Part 4 The worst of it was, that Seldonimov's circumstances were far worse than could have been imagined, in spite of the unattractiveness of his present surroundings. And while Ivan Ilyich is lying on the floor and Seldonimov is standing over him, tearing his hair in despair, we will break off the thread of our story and say a few explanatory words about Porfiry Petrovich Seldonimov. Not more than a month before his wedding, he was in a state of hopeless destitution. He came from a province where his father had served in some department, and where he had died while awaiting his trial on some charge. When five months before his wedding, Seldonimov, who had been in hopeless misery in Petersburg for a whole year before, got his birth at ten rubles a month, he revived both physically and mentally, but he was soon crushed by circumstances again. There were only two Seldonimovs left in the world, himself and his mother, who had left the province after her husband's death. The mother and son barely existed in the freezing cold and sustained life on the most dubious substances. There were days when Seldonimov himself went with a jug to the Fontanka for water to drink. When he got his place, he succeeded in settling with his mother in a corner. She took in washing while for four months he scraped together every farthing to get himself boots and an overcoat. And what troubles he had to endure at his office, his superiors approached him with the question, how long was it since he had had a bath? There was a rumour about him that under the collar of his uniform there were nests of bugs. But Seldonimov was a man of strong character. On the surface he was mild and meek. He had the merest smattering of education. He was practically never heard to talk of anything. I do not know for certain whether he thought, made plans and theories, had dreams. But on the other hand there was being formed within him an instinctive, furtive, unconscious determination to fight his way out of his wretched circumstances. He had the persistence of an ant, destroy an ant's nest, and they will begin at once re-erecting it, destroy it again, and they will begin again without wearying. He was a constructive house-building animal. One could see from his brow that he would make his way, would build his nest, and perhaps even save for rainy day. His mother was the only creature in the world who loved him, and she loved him beyond everything. She was a woman of resolute character, hard-working and indefatigable, and at the same time good-natured. So perhaps they might have lived in their corner for five or six years till their circumstances changed, if they had not come across the retired titular counsellor Mlekopiteev, who had been a clerk in the Treasury and had served at one time in the provinces, but had laterally settled in Petersburg, and had established himself there with his family. He knew Seldonimov, and had at one time been under some obligation to his father. He had a little money, not a large sum, of course, but there it was. How much it was no one knew, not his wife, nor his elder daughter, nor his relations. He had two daughters, and as he was an awful bully, a drunkard, a domestic tyrant, and in addition to that, an invalid, he took it into his head one day to marry one of his daughters to Seldonimov. I knew his father, he would say. He was a good fellow, and his son will be a good fellow. Mlekopiteev did exactly as he liked. His word was law. He was a very queer bully. For the most part he spent his time sitting in an armchair, having lost the use of his legs from some disease which did not, however, prevent him from drinking vodka. For days together he would be drinking and swearing. He was an ill-natured man. He always wanted to have someone whom he could be continually tormenting, and for that purpose he kept several distant relations, his sister, a sickly and peevish woman, two of his wife's sisters, also ill-natured and very free with their tongues, and his old aunt, who had through some accident a broken rib. He kept another dependent also, a Russianized German for the sake of her talent for entertaining him with stories from the Arabian knights. His sole gratification consisted in jeering at all these unfortunate women and abusing them every minute with all his energies, though the latter, not accepting his wife, who had been born with toothache, dared not utter a word in his presence. He set them at loggerheads at one another, inventing and fostering spiteful backbiting and dissensions among them, and then laughed and rejoiced seeing how they were ready to tear one another to pieces. He was very much delighted when his elder daughter, who had lived in great poverty for ten years with her husband, an officer of some sort, and was at last left a widow, came to live with him with three little sickly children. He could not endure her children, but as her arrival had increased the material upon which he could work his daily experiments, the old man was very much pleased. All these ill-natured women and sickly children, together with their tormentor, were crowded together in a wooden house on Petersburg's side, and did not get enough to eat because the old man was stingy, and gave out to them money of farthing at a time, though he did not grudge himself, Vodka. They did not get enough sleep because the old man suffered from sleeplessness, and insisted on being amused. In short, they all were in misery and cursed their fate. It was at that time that Mleko Pideyev's eye fell upon Seldonimov. He was struck by his long nose and submissive air. His weakly and unprepossessing younger daughter had just reached the age of seventeen. Although she had at one time attended a German school, she had acquired scarcely anything but the alphabet. Then she grew up rickety and anemic in fear of her crippled drunken father's crutch, in a bedlam of domestic backbiting eavesdropping and scolding. She had never had any friends or any brains. She had for a long time been eager to be married. In company she sat mute, but at home with her mother and the women of the household she was spiteful and cantankerous. She was particularly fond of pinching and smacking her sister's children, telling tales of their pilfering bread and sugar, and this led to endless and implacable strife with her elder sister. Her old father himself offered her to Seldonimov. Miserable, as the latter's position was, he yet asked for a little time to consider. His mother and he hesitated for a long time. But with the young lady there was to come as dowry a house, and though it was a nasty little wooden house of one story, yet it was a property of a kind, moreover they would give with her four hundred rubles and how long it would take him to save it up himself. What am I taking the man into my house for? shouted the drunken bully. In the first place, because you are all females and I am sick of female society, I want Seldonimov too to dance to my piping, for I am his benefactor, and in the second place I am doing it because you are all cross and don't want it, so I'll do it to spite you. What I have said, I have said, and you beat her, porphyry, when she is your wife, she has been possessed of seven devils ever since she was born. You beat them out of her, and I'll get the stick ready. Seldonimov made no answer, but he was already decided. Before the wedding his mother and he were taken into the house, washed, clothed, provided with boots and money for the wedding. The old man took them under his protection, possibly just because the whole family was prejudiced against them. He positively liked Seldonimov's mother, so that he actually restrained himself and did not jeer at her. On the other hand, he made Seldonimov dance the Cossack dance a week before the wedding. Well, that's enough. I only wanted to see whether you remembered your position before me, or not. He said at the end of the dance. He allowed just enough money for the wedding with nothing to spare, and invited all his relations and acquaintances. On Seldonimov's side there was no one but the young man who wrote for the firebrand and Akim Petrovich the guest of honour. Seldonimov was perfectly aware that his bride cherished an aversion for him, and that she was set upon marrying the officer instead of him. But he put up with everything. He had made a compact with his mother to do so. The old father had been drunk and abusive, and foul-tongued the whole of the wedding-day, and during the party in the evening, the whole family took refuge in the back rooms and were crowded there to suffocation. The front rooms were devoted to the dance and the supper. At last, when the old man fell asleep, dead drunk at eleven o'clock, the bride's mother, who had been particularly displeased with Seldonimov's mother that day, made up her mind to lay aside her wrath, become gracious and join the company. Ivan Ilyich's arrival had turned everything upside down. Madame Lecopitiev was overcome with embarrassment, and began grumbling that she had not been told that the general had been invited. She was assured that he had come uninvited, but was so stupid as to refuse to believe it. Champagne had to be got. Seldonimov's mother had only one ruble, while Seldonimov himself had not a farthing. He had to grovel before his ill-natured mother-in-law to beg for the money for one bottle, and then for another. They pleaded for the sake of his future position in the service, for his career they tried to persuade her. She did at last give from her own purse, but she forced Seldonimov to swallow such a cup full of gall and bitterness that more than once he ran into the room where the nuptial couch had been prepared, and madly clutching at his hair and trembling all over with impotent rage, he buried his head in the bed destined for the joys of paradise. No, indeed, Ivan Ilyich had no notion of the price paid for the two bottles of Jackson he had drunk that evening. What was the horror, the misery, and even the despair of Seldonimov when Ivan Ilyich's visit ended in this unexpected way? He had a prospect again of no end of misery, and perhaps a night of tears and outcries from his peevish bride, and up-ratings from her unreasonable relations. Even apart from this, his head ached already, and there was dizziness and mist before his eyes. And here, Ivan Ilyich needed looking after, at three o'clock at night he had to hunt for a doctor or a carriage to take him home, and a carriage it must be, for it would be impossible to let an ordinary cabbie take him home in that condition. And where could he get the money even for a carriage? Madame Lekopitiyev, furious that the general had not addressed two words to her, and had not even looked at her at supper, declared that she had not a farthing. Possibly, she really had not a farthing. Where could he get it? What was he to do? Yes, indeed, he had good cause to tear his hair. Meanwhile, Ivan Ilyich was moved to a little leather sofa that stood in the dining room. While they were clearing the tables and putting them away, Seldonimov was rushing all over the place to borrow money. He even tried to get it from the servants, but it appeared that nobody had any. He even ventured to trouble Akim Petrovich, who had stayed after the other guests. But good-natured as he was, the latter was reduced to such bewilderment and even alarm at the mention of money that he uttered the most unexpected and foolish phrases, another time with pleasure, he muttered, but now you really must excuse me. And taking his cap, he ran as fast as he could out of the house. Only the good-natured youth who had talked about the dream-book was any use at all, and even that came to nothing. He too stayed after the others, showing genuine sympathy with Seldonimov's misfortunes. At last, Seldonimov, together with his mother and the young man, decided in consultation not to send for a doctor, but rather to fetch a carriage and take the invalid home, and meantime to try certain domestic remedies till the carriage arrived, such as moistening his temples and his head with cold water, putting ice on his head and so on. Seldonimov's mother undertook this task. The friendly youth flew off in search of a carriage, as there were not even ordinary cabs to be found on the Petersburg side at that hour. He went off to some livery stables at a distance to wake up the coachmen. They began bargaining and declared that five rubles would be little to ask for a carriage at that time of night. They agreed to come, however, for three. When at last, just before five o'clock, the young men arrived at Seldonimov's with the carriage, they had changed their minds. It appeared that Ivan Ilyich, who was still unconscious, had become so seriously unwell, was moaning and tossing so terribly that to move him and take him home in such a condition was impossible and actually unsafe. What will it lead to next? said Seldonimov, utterly disheartened. What was to be done? A new problem arose. If the invalid remained in the house, where should he be moved, and where could they put him? There were only two bedsteads in the house, one large double bed in which Old Melekopityev and his wife slept, and another double bed of imitation walnut which had just been purchased and was destined for the newly married couple. All the other inhabitants of the house slept on the floor side by side on feather beds, for the most part in bad condition and stuffy, anything but presentable in fact, and even of these the supply was insufficient, and there was not one to spare. Where could the invalid be put? A feather bed might perhaps have been found, it might in the last resort have been pulled from under someone, but where and on what could a bed have been made up? It seemed that the bed must be made up in the drawing room, for that room was the furthest from the bosom of the family and had a door into the passage. But on what could the bed be made? Surely not upon chairs. We all know that beds can only be made up on chairs for schoolboys when they come home for the weekend, and it would be terribly lacking in respect to make up a bed in that way for a personage like Ivan Ilyich. What would be said next morning when he found himself lying on chairs? Seldonimov would not hear of that. The only alternative was to put him on the bridal couch. This bridal couch, as we have mentioned already, was in a little room that opened out of the dining room. On the bedstead was a double mattress, actually newly bought first hand, clean sheets, four pillows in pink calico, covered with frilled muslin cases. The quilt was of pink satin, and it was quilted in patterns. Muslin curtains hung down from a golden ring overhead. In fact, it was all just as it should be, and the guests who had all visited the bridal chamber had admired the decoration of it. Though the bride could not endure Seldonimov, she had several times in the course of the evening run in to have a look at it on the sly. What was her indignation? Her wrath, when she learned that they meant to move an invalid, suffering from something not unlike a mild attack of cholera to her bridal couch. The bride's mother took her part. Broke into abuse and vowed she would complain to her husband next day, but Seldonimov asserted himself and insisted. Ivan Ilyich was moved into the bridal chamber, and her bed was made upon chairs for the young people. The bride whimpered, would have liked to pinch him, but dared not disobey. Her papa had a crutch with which she was very familiar, and she knew that her papa would call her to account the next day. To console her they carried the pink satin quilt and the pillows in muslin cases into the drawing-room. At that moment the youth arrived with the carriage and was horribly alarmed that the carriage was not wanted. He was left to pay for it himself, and he never had as much as a ten-copek piece. Seldonimov explained that he was utterly bankrupt. They tried to parlay with the driver, but he began to be noisy and even to batter on the shutters. How it ended I don't know exactly. I believe the youth was carried off to Pesky by way of a hostage to 4th Rodensky Street, where he hoped to rouse a student who was spending the night at a friend's, and to try whether he had any money. It was going on for six o'clock in the morning, when the young people were left alone and shut up in the drawing-room. Seldonimov's mother spent the whole night by the bedside of the sufferer. She installed herself on a rug on the floor and covered herself with an old coat, but could not sleep because she had to get up every minute. Ivan Ilyich had a terrible attack of colic. Madame Seldonimov, a woman of courage and greatness of soul, undressed him with her own hands, took off all his things, looked after him as if he were her own son, and spent the whole night carrying basins, etc., from the bedroom across the passage and bringing them back again empty. And yet the misfortunes of that night were not yet over. Not more than ten minutes after the young people had been shut up alone in the drawing-room, a piercing shriek was suddenly heard, not a cry of joy, but a shriek of the most sinister kind. The screams were followed by a noise, a crash, as though of the falling of chairs and instantly there burst into the still dark room a perfect crowd of exclaiming and frightened women, attired in every kind of dishevelay. These women were the bride's mother, her elder sister, abandoning for the moment the sick children and her three aunts, even the one with a broken ribbed dragged herself in. Even the cook was there and the German lady who told stories whose own feather-bed the best in the house, and her only property had been forcibly dragged from under her for the young couple, trailed in together with the others. All these respectable and sharp-eyed ladies had, a quarter of an hour before, made their way on tiptoe from the kitchen across the passage, and were listening in the anti-room devoured by unaccountable curiosity. Meanwhile, someone lighted a candle, and a surprising spectacle met the eyes of all. The chairs supporting the broad feather-bed only at the sides had parted under the weight, and the feather-bed had fallen between them on the floor. The bride was sobbing with anger. This time she was mortally offended. Tseldonimov, morally shattered, stood like a criminal caught in a crime. He did not even attempt to defend himself. Shrieks and exclamations sounded on all sides. Tseldonimov's mother ran up at the noise, but the bride's mama on this occasion got the upper hand. She began by showering strange, and for the most part, undeserved reproaches such as, A nice husband you are after this. What are you good for after such a disgrace? And so on, and at last carried her daughter away from her husband, undertaking to bear the full responsibility for doing so with her ferocious husband, who would demand an exclamation. All the others followed her out exclaiming and shaking their heads. No one remained with Tseldonimov except his mother, who tried to comfort him, but he sent her away at once. He was beyond consolation. He made his way to the sofa, and sat down in the most gloomy confusion of mind, just as he was. Barefooted and in nothing but his night attire. His thoughts whirled in a tangled criss-cross in his mind. At times he mechanically looked about the room where, only a little while ago, the dancers had been whirling madly, and in which the cigarette smoke still lingered. Cigarette ends and sweet-meat papers still littered the slopped and dirty floor. The wreck of the nuptial couch and the overturned chairs bore witness to the transitoriness of the fondest and surest earthly hopes and dreams. He sat like this almost an hour. The most oppressive thoughts kept coming into his mind, such as the doubt. What was in store for him in the office now? He recognized with painful clearness that he would have, at all costs, to exchange into another department, that he could not possibly remain where he was after all that had happened that evening. He thought, too, of Mleko Pityev, who would probably make him dance the Cossack dance next day to test his meekness. He reflected, too, that though Mleko Pityev had given fifty rubles for the wedding festivities, every farthing of which had been spent, he had not thought of giving him the four hundred rubles yet. No mention had been made of it, in fact, and, indeed, even the house had not been formally made over to him. He thought, too, of his wife, who had left him at the most critical moment of his life, of the tall officer who had dropped on one knee before her. He had noticed that already. He thought of the seven devils which, according to the testimony of her own father, were in possession of his wife, and of the crutch in readiness to drive them out. Of course, he felt equal to bearing a great deal, but destiny had let loose such surprises upon him that he might well have doubts of his fortitude. So, Saldanimov mused dolefully. Meanwhile, the candle-end was going out, its fading light falling straight upon Saldanimov's profile, threw a colossal shadow of it on the wall, with a drawn-out neck, a hooked nose, and with two tufts of hair sticking out on his forehead and the back of his head. At last, when the air was growing cool with the chill of early morning, he got up frozen and spiritually numb, crawled to the feather bed that was lying between the chairs, and without rearranging anything, without putting out the candle-end, without even laying the pillow under his head, fell into a leaden, death-like sleep, such as the sleep of men condemned to flogging on the morrow must be. On the other hand, what could be compared with the agonizing night spent by Ivan Ilyich Perlinsky on the bridal couch of the unlucky Saldanimov? For some time, headache, vomiting, and other most unpleasant symptoms did not leave him for one second. He was in the torments of hell. The faint glimpses of consciousness that visited his brain lighted up such an abyss of horrors, such gloomy and revolting pictures, that it would have been better for him not to have returned to consciousness. Everything was still in a turmoil in his mind, however. He recognized Saldanimov's mother, for instance, heard her gentle admonitions, such as, Be patient, my dear. Be patient, good sir. It won't be so bad presently. He recognized her, but could give no logical explanation of her presence beside him. Revolting phantoms haunted him, most frequently of all he was haunted by Semyon Ivanovich. But looking more intently he saw that it was not Semyon Ivanovich, but Saldanimov's nose. He had visions, too, of the free and easy artist, and the officer and the old lady with her face tied up. What interested him most of all was the gilt ring which hung over his head, through which the curtains hung. He could distinguish it distinctly in the dim light of the candle-end, which whited up the room, and he kept wondering inwardly, what was the object of that ring? Why was it there? What did it mean? He questioned the old lady several times about it, but apparently did not say what he meant, and she evidently did not understand it. However much he struggled to explain. At last, by morning, the symptoms had ceased and he fell into a sleep—a sound sleep without dreams. He slept about an hour, and when he woke he was almost completely conscious, with an insufferable headache, and a disgusting taste in his mouth and on his tongue, which seemed turned into a piece of cloth. He sat up in the bed, looked about him, and pondered. The pale light of morning peeping through the cracks of the shutters in a narrow streak quivered on the wall. It was about seven o'clock in the morning, but when Ivan Ilyich suddenly grasped the position and recalled all that had happened to him since the evening, when he remembered all his adventures at supper, the failure of his magnanimous action, his speech at table, when he realized all at once with horrifying clearness all that might come of this now, all that people would say and think of him, when he looked round and saw to what a mournful and hideous condition he had reduced the peaceful bridal couch of his clerk. Oh! Then such deadly shame, such agony overwhelmed him that he uttered a shriek, hid his face in his hands, and fell back on the pillow in despair. A minute later he jumped out of bed, saw his clothes carefully folded and brushed on a chair beside him, and seizing them, and as quickly as he could, in desperate haste began putting them on, looking round and seeming terribly frightened at something. On another chair, close by lay his greatcoat and fur cap, and his yellow gloves were in his cap. He meant to steal away secretly. But suddenly the door opened, and the elder madame Seldonimov walked in with an earthenware jug and basin. A towel was hanging over her shoulder. She set down the jug and without further conversation told him that he must wash. Come, my good sir, wash. You can't go without washing. And at that instant Ivaniliyats recognized that if there was one being in the whole world whom he need not fear, and before whom he need not feel ashamed, it was that old lady. He washed, and long afterwards, at painful moments of his life, he recalled among other pangs of remorse all the circumstances of that waking, and that earthenware basin, and the china jug filled with cold water in which there were still floating icicles, and the oval cake of soap at fifteen copex and pink paper with letters embossed on it, evidently bought for the bridal pair, though it fell to Ivaniliyats to use it, and the old lady with the linen towel over her left shoulder. The cold water refreshed him. He dried his face, and without even thanking his sister of mercy, he snatched up his hat, flung over his shoulders the coat handed to him by Seldonimov, and crossing the passage and the kitchen where the cat was already mewing, and the cook sitting up in her bed staring after him with greedy curiosity, ran out into the yard, into the street, and threw himself into the first sledge he came across. It was a frosty morning. A chilly, yellow fog still hid the house and everything. Ivaniliyats turned up his collar. He thought that everyone was looking at him, that they were all recognizing him. All. For eight days he did not leave the house or show himself at the office. He was ill, wretchedly ill, but more morally than physically. He lived through a perfect hell in those days, and they must have been reckoned to his account in the other world. There were moments when he thought of becoming a monk and entering a monastery. There really were. His imagination, indeed, took special excursions during that period. He pictured subdued, subterranean singing, an open coffin, living in a solitary cell, forests and caves. But when he came to himself he recognized almost at once that all this was dreadful nonsense and exaggeration, and was ashamed of this nonsense. Then began attacks of moral agony on the theme of his Existence Monquet. Then shame flamed up again in his soul, took complete possession of him at once, consumed him like fire, and reopened his wounds. He shuddered as pictures of all sorts rose before his mind. What would people say about him? What would they think when he walked into his office? What a whisper would dog his steps for a whole year, ten years, his whole life. His story would go down to posterity. He sometimes fell into such dejection that he was ready to go straight off to Semyon Ivanovich and ask for his forgiveness and friendship. He did not even justify himself. There was no limit to his blame of himself. He could find no extenuating circumstances and was ashamed of trying to. He had thoughts, too, of resigning his post at once and devoting himself to human happiness as a simple citizen in solitude. In any case, he would have completely to change his whole circle of acquaintances and so thoroughly as to eradicate all memory of himself. Then the thought occurred to him that this, too, was nonsense, and that if he adopted greater severity with his subordinates it might all be set right. Then he began to feel hope and courage again. At last, at the expiration of eight days of hesitation and agonies, he felt that he could not endure to be in uncertainty any longer, and, un bon matin, he made up his mind to go to the office. He had pictured a thousand times over his return to the office, as he said at home in misery, with horror and conviction he told himself that he would certainly hear behind him an ambiguous whisper, would see ambiguous faces, would intercept ominous smiles. What was his surprise when nothing of the sort happened? He was greeted with respect. He was met with bowels. Everyone was grave. Everyone was busy. His heart was filled with joy as he made his way to his own room. He set to work at once with the utmost gravity. He listened to some reports and explanations, settled doubtful points. He felt as though he had never explained naughty points and given his decisions so intelligently, so judiciously as that morning. He saw that they were satisfied with him, that they respected him, that he was treated with respect. The most thin-skinned sensitiveness could not have discovered anything. At last Akeem Petrovich made his appearance with some document. The sight of him sent a stab to Ivan Ilyich's heart, but only for an instant. He went into the business with Akeem Petrovich, talked with dignity, explained things, and showed him what was to be done. The only thing he noticed was that he avoided looking at Akeem Petrovich for any length of time, or rather, Akeem Petrovich seemed afraid of catching his eye. But at last Akeem Petrovich had finished and began to collect his papers. And there is one other matter. He began as dryly as he could. The clerk sold Donimov's petition to be transferred to another department. His Excellency Semyon Ivanovich Shippolenko has promised him a post. He begs your gracious assent, your Excellency. Oh, so he is being transferred, said Ivan Ilyich, and he felt as though a heavy weight had rolled off his heart. He glanced at Akeem Petrovich, and at that instant their eyes met. Certainly I, for my part, I will use, answered Ivan Ilyich, I am ready. Akeem Petrovich evidently wanted to slip away as quickly as he could, but in a rush of generous feeling Ivan Ilyich determined to speak out. Apparently some inspiration had come to him again. Tell him, he began, bending a candid glance, full of profound meaning upon Akeem Petrovich. Tell Seldomimov that I feel no ill will. No, I do not, that on the contrary I am ready to forget all that is past. To forget it all. But all at once Ivan Ilyich broke off, looking with wonder at the strange behavior of Akeem Petrovich, who suddenly seemed transformed from a sensible person into a fearful fool. Instead of listening and hearing Ivan Ilyich to the end, he suddenly flushed crimson in the silliest way, began with positively unseemly haste making strange little bowels, and at the same time edging toward the door. His whole appearance betrayed a desire to sink through the floor, or more accurately, to get back to his table as quickly as possible. Ivan Ilyich, left alone, got up from his chair in confusion. He looked in the looking glass without noticing his face. No, severity, severity and nothing but severity. He whispered almost unconsciously, and suddenly a vivid flush overspread his face. He felt suddenly more ashamed, more weighed down than he had been in the most insufferable moments of his eight days of tribulation. I did break down. He said to himself, and sank helplessly into his chair. End of an unpleasant predicament by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Section 7 of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Another man's wife, or the husband under the bed, an extraordinary adventure, part one. Be so kind, sir. Allow me to ask you. The gentleman so addressed started and looked with some alarm at the gentleman in Raccoon Furs, who had accosted him so abruptly at eight o'clock in the evening in the street. We all know that if a Petersburg gentleman suddenly in the street speaks to another gentleman, with whom he is unacquainted, the second gentleman is invariably alarmed. And so the gentleman addressed started and was somewhat alarmed. Excuse me for troubling you, said the gentleman in Raccoon, but I really don't know. You will pardon me, no doubt. You see, I am a little upset. Only then the young man and the wadded overcoat observed that this gentleman in the Raccoon Furs certainly was upset. His wrinkled face was rather pale. His voice was trembling. He was evidently in some confusion of mind. His words did not flow easily from his tongue, and it could be seen that it cost him a terrible effort to present a very humble request to a personage, possibly his inferior in rank or condition, in spite of the urgent necessity of addressing his request to somebody. And indeed the request was, in any case, unseemly, undignified, strange, coming from a man who had such a dignified fur coat, such a respectable jacket of a superb dark green color, and such distinguished decorations adorning that jacket. It was evident that the gentleman in Raccoon was himself confused by all this, so that at last he could not stand it but made up his mind to suppress his emotion, and politely to put an end to the unpleasant position he had himself brought about. Excuse me, I am not myself, but it is true you don't know me. Forgive me for disturbing you. I have changed my mind. Here, from politeness, he raised his hat and hurried off. But allow me! The little gentleman had, however, vanished into the darkness, leaving the gentleman in the wadded overcoat in a state of stupefaction. What a queer fellow! thought the gentleman in the wadded overcoat. After wondering, as was only natural, and recovering at last from his stupefaction, he bethought him of his own affairs, and began walking to and fro, staring intently at the gates of a house with an endless number of stories. A fog was beginning to come on, and the young man was somewhat relieved at it, for his walking up and down was less noticeable in the fog, though indeed no one could have noticed him but some cab man who had been waiting all day without a fare. Excuse me! The young man started again, again the gentleman in Raccoon was standing before him. Excuse me again! He began, but you are no doubt an honorable man. Take no notice of my social position, but I am getting muddled. Look at it as man to man. You see before you, sir, a man craving a humble favour. If I can, what do you want? You imagine, perhaps, that I am asking for money, said the mysterious gentleman with a wry smile, laughing hysterically and turning pale. Oh, dear, no. No, I see that I am tiresome to you. Excuse me, I cannot bear myself. Consider that you are seeing a man in an agitated condition, almost of insanity, and do not draw any conclusion. But to the point, to the point, responded the young man nodding his head encouragingly and impatiently. Now, think of that. A young man like you reminding me to keep to the point, as though I were some heedless boy, I must certainly be doting how I seem to you in my degraded position. Tell me, frankly, the young man was overcome with confusion and said nothing. Allow me to ask you openly. Have you not seen a lady? That is all that I have to ask you. The gentleman in the raccoon coat said resolutely at last. Lady? Yes, a lady. Yes, I have seen, but I must say lots of them have passed. Just so, answered the mysterious gentleman with a bitter smile, I am muddled. I did not mean to ask that. Excuse me, I meant to say, haven't you seen a lady in Fox fur cape, in a dark velvet hood and a black veil? No, I haven't noticed one like that. No, I think I haven't seen one. Well, in that case, excuse me. The young man wanted to ask a question, but the gentleman in raccoon vanished again. Again he left his patient listener in a state of stupefaction. Well, the devil take him, thought the young man and he wadded overcoat, evidently troubled. With annoyance he turned up his beaver collar, then began cautiously walking to and fro again before the gates of the house of many stories. He was raging inwardly. Why doesn't she come out? He thought it will soon be eight o'clock. The town clock struck eight. Oh, devil take you. Excuse me. Excuse me for speaking like that, but you came upon me so suddenly that you quite frightened me. Said the young man, frowning and apologizing. Here I am again. I must strike you as tiresome and queer. Be so good as to explain it once without more ado. I don't know what it is you want. You are in a hurry. Do you see? I will tell you everything openly. Without wasting words, it cannot be helped. Circumstances sometimes bring together people of very different characters. What I see you are impatient young man. So here, though I really don't know how to tell you, I am looking for a lady. I have made up my mind to tell you all about it. You see, I must know where that lady is gone. Who she is, I imagine there is no need for you to know her name young man. Well, well, what next? What next? But what a tone you take with me. Excuse me, but perhaps I have offended you by calling you young man, but I had nothing. In short, if you are willing to do me a very great service. Here it is. A lady. That is, I mean a gentle woman of a very good family of my acquaintance. I have been commissioned. I have no family, you see. Oh, put yourself in my position, young man. Ah, I've done it again. Excuse me, I keep calling you young man. Every minute is precious. Only fancy that lady, but cannot you tell me who lives in this house. But lots of people live here. Yes, that is, you are perfectly right. Answered the gentleman in raccoon giving a slight laugh for the sake of good manners. I feel I am rather muddled. But why do you take that tone? You see, I admit frankly that I am muddled and however haughty you are. You have seen enough of my humiliation to satisfy you. I say a lady of honorable conduct, that is, of light tendencies. Excuse me, I am so confused. It is as though I were speaking of literature. Paul de Coq is supposed to be of light tendencies, and all the trouble comes from him, you see. The young man looked compassionately at the gentleman in raccoon, who seemed in a hopeless muddle and pausing, stared at him with a meaningless smile, and with a trembling hand, for no apparent reason, gripped the lapet of his wadded overcoat. You ask who lives here? said the young man, stepping back a little. Yes, you told me lots of people live here. Here, I know that Sofia Ostefyevna lives here too. The young man brought out in a low and even commiserating tone. There, you see, you see, you know something young man. I assure you I don't. I know nothing. I judged from your troubled air. I have just learned from the Coq that she does come here. But you are on the wrong tack, that is, with Sofia Ostefyevna. She does not know her. No. Oh, I beg your pardon, then. I see this is of no interest to you, young man, said the queer man with bitter irony. Listen, said the young man, hesitating. I really don't understand why you are in such a state, but tell me frankly, I suppose you are being deceived. The young man smiled approvingly. We shall understand one another anyway. He added, and his whole person loftily betrayed, an inclination to make a half bow. You crush me, but I frankly confess that is just it. But it happens to everyone. I am deeply touched by your sympathy, to be sure among young men, though I am not young, but, you know, habit, a bachelor's life. Among bachelors, we all know. Oh, yes, we all know. We all know. But in what way can I be of assistance to you? Why, look here. Admitting a visit to Sofia Ostefyevna, though I don't know for a fact where the lady is gone, I only know that she is in that house. But seeing you walk up and down, and I am walking up and down on the same side myself, I thought, you see, I am waiting for that lady. I know that she is there. I should like to meet her and explain to her how shocking and improper it is. In fact, you understand me. Well, I am not acting for myself. Don't imagine it. It is another man's wife. Her husband is standing over there on the Vostnysensky Bridge. He wants to catch her, but he doesn't dare. He is still loath to believe it, as every husband is. Here the gentleman in Raccoon made an effort to smile. I am a friend of his. You can see for yourself I am a person held in some esteem. I could not be what you take me for. Oh, of course. Well, well. So you see, I am on the lookout for her. The task has been entrusted to me, the unhappy husband. But I know that the young lady is sly. Paul de Coq, forever under her pillow. I am certain she scurries off somewhere on the sly. I must confess the cook told me she comes here. I rushed off like a madman as soon as I heard the news. I want to catch her. I have long had suspicions, and so I wanted to ask you. You are walking here. You. You. I don't know. Come. What is it you want? Yes. I have not the honor of your acquaintance. I do not venture to inquire who and what you may be. Allow me to introduce myself anyway. Glad to meet you. The gentleman quivering with agitation warmly shook the young man's hand. I ought to have done this to begin with, he added. But I have lost all sense of good manners. The gentleman in Raccoon could not stand still as he talked. He kept looking about him uneasily, fidgeted with his feet, and like a drowning man clutched at the young man's hand. You see, he went on. I meant to address you in a friendly way. Excuse the freedom. I meant to ask you to walk along the other side and down the side street where there is a back entrance. I, too, on my side will walk from the front entrance so that we cannot miss her. I am afraid of missing her by myself. I don't want to miss her. When you see her, stop her and shout to me. But I am mad. Only now I see the foolishness and impropriety of my suggestion. No. Why, no. It's all right. Don't make excuses for me. I am so upset. I have never been in such a state before, as though I were being tried for my life. I must own indeed. I will be straightforward and honorable with you, young man. I actually thought you might be the lover. That is to put it simply, you want to know what I am doing here. You are an honorable man, my dear sir. I am far from supposing that you are he. I will not insult you with such a suspicion, but give me your word of honor that you are not the lover. Oh, very well. I'll give you my word of honor that I am a lover, but not of your wife. Otherwise I shouldn't be here in the street, but should be with her now. Wife? Who told you she was my wife, young man? I am a bachelor. I, that is, I am a lover myself. You told me there is a husband on Vosnazansky Bridge. Of course, of course. I am talking to freely, but there are other ties. And you know, young man, a certain likeness of character, that is. Yes, yes, to be sure, to be sure. That is, I am not her husband at all. Oh, no doubt, but I tell you frankly that in reassuring you now, I want to set my own mind at rest, and that is why I am candid with you. You are upsetting me and in my way. I promise that I will call you, but I most humbly beg you to move further away and let me alone. I am waiting for someone too. Certainly, certainly, I will move further off. I respect the passionate impatience of your heart. Oh, how well I understand you at this moment. Oh, all right, all right. Till we meet again, but excuse me, young man, here I am again. I don't know how to say it. Give me your word of honor once more, as a gentleman that you are not her lover. Oh, mercy on us. One more question, the last. Do you know the surname of the husband of your... That is, I mean the lady who is the object of your devotion. Of course I do. It is not your name, and that is all about it. Why, how do you know my name? But I say you had better go. You are losing time. She might go away a thousand times. Why, what do you want? Your lady is in a fox cape and a hood, while mine is wearing a plaid cloak and a pale blue velvet hat. What more do you want? What else? A pale blue velvet hat! She has a plaid cloak and a pale blue velvet hat! Cried, the pertinacious man, instantly turning back again. Oh, hang it all. Why, that may well be, and indeed, my lady does not come here. Where is she, then? Your lady? You want to know that? What is it to you? I must own. I am still... True, mercy on us. Why, you have no sense of decency, none at all. Why, you have no sense of decency, none at all. Why, my lady has friends here on the third story looking into the street. Why, do you want me to tell you their names? My goodness, I have friends, too, who live on the third story, and their windows look onto the street. General. General? A general? If you like, I will tell you a general. Well, then, General Paulovitsyn. You don't say so. No, that is not the same. Oh, damn nation, damn nation! Not the same? No, not the same. Both were silent, looking at each other in perplexity. Why are you looking at me like that? Exclaimed the young man, shaking off his stupefaction and an air of uncertainty with vexation. The gentleman was in a fluster. I, I must own. Come, allow me, allow me. Let us talk more sensibly now. It concerns us both. Explain to me. Whom do you know there? You mean, who are my friends? Yes, your friends. Well, you see, you see, I see from your eyes that I have guessed right. Hang it all. No, no. Hang it all. Are you blind? Why, I am standing here before you. I am not with her. Oh, well, I don't care whether you say so or not. Twice in his fury, the young man turned on his heel with a contemptuous wave of his hand. Oh, I meant nothing. I assure you, as an honorable man, I will tell you all about it. At first my wife used to come here alone. They are relatives of her. I had no suspicions. Yesterday I met his Excellency. He told me that he had moved three weeks ago from here to another flat in my wa— That is, not mine, but somebody else's. The husband's on the Vosnes-Sensky Bridge. That lady had told me that she was with them the day before yesterday. In this flat, I mean. And the cook told me that his Excellency's flat had been taken by a young man named Bobanitzin. Oh, damn it all. Damn it all. My dear sir, I am in terror. I am in alarm. Oh, hang it. What is it to me that you are in terror and in alarm? Ah, over there. Someone flitted by. Over there. Where? Where? You just shout, Ivan Andrayich, and I will run. All right. All right. Oh, confound it. Ivan Andrayich. Here I am! cried Ivan Andrayich, returning utterly breathless. What is it? What is it? Where? Oh, no. I didn't mean anything. I wanted to know what this lady's name is. Glaf. Glafira? No, not Glafira. Excuse me. I cannot tell you her name. As he said this, the worthy man was as white as a sheet. Oh, of course it is not Glafira. I know it is not Glafira, and mine's not Glafira. But with whom can she be? Where? There. Oh, damn it. Damn it. The young man was in such a fury that he could not stand still. There. You see. How did you know that her name was Glafira? Oh, damn it all, really. To have a bother with you, too. Why, you say that yours is not called Glafira. My dear sir, what a way to speak. Oh, the devil. As though that mattered now. What is she, your wife? No. That is, I am not married. But I would not keep flinging the devil at a respectable man in trouble. A man. I will not say worthy of esteem, but at any rate a man of education. You keep saying, the devil, the devil. To be sure, the devil take it. So there you are. Do you understand? You are blinded by anger, and I say nothing. Oh, dear, who is that? Where? There was a noise and a sound of laughter. Two pretty girls ran down the steps. Both the men rushed up to them. Oh, what matters? What do you want? Where are you shoving? They are not the right ones. Aha! So you've pitched on the wrong ones. Cab! Where do you want to go, Mademoiselle? To Polkrov. Get in a nushka. I'll take you. Oh, I'll sit on the other side. Off. Now, mind you, drive quickly. The cab drove off. Where did they come from? Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Hadn't we better go there? Where? Where? Why, two barmanets since. No, that's out of the question. Why? I would go there, of course, but then she would tell me some other story. She would get out of it. She would say that she had come on purpose to catch me with someone, and I should get in trouble. And you know she may be there, but you, I don't know for what reason. Why, you might go to the generals. But, you know, he has moved. That doesn't matter, you know. She has gone there, so you go too. Don't you understand? Behave as though you didn't know the general had gone away. Go as though you had come to fetch your wife, and so on. And then? Well, and then find the person you wanted, barmanets since. Two damn nation take you. What a senseless. Well, and what is it to you, my finding? You see. You see. What? What, my good man? What? You are on the same old tack again. Oh, lord have mercy on us. You ought to be ashamed, you absurd person. You senseless person. Yes, but why are you so interested? Do you want to find out? Find out what? What? Oh, well damn nation take you. I have no thoughts for you now. I'll go alone. Go away. Get along. Look out. Be off. My dear sir, you are almost forgetting yourself. Cried the gentleman in raccoon in despair. Well, what of it? What if I am forgetting myself? Said the young man, setting his teeth, and stepping up to the gentleman in raccoon in a fury. What of it? Forgetting myself before whom? He thundered, clenching his fists. But allow me, sir. Well, who are you? Before whom am I forgetting myself? What is your name? I don't know about that young man. Why do you want my name? I cannot tell it you. I had better come with you. Let us go. I won't hang back. I am ready for anything. But I assure you I deserve greater politeness and respect. You are never to lose your self-possession, and if you are upset about something, I can guess what about. At any rate, there is no need to forget yourself. You are still a very, very young man. What is it to me that you are old? There's nothing wonderful in that. Go away. Why are you dancing about here? How am I old? Of course, in position, but I am not dancing about. I can see that, but get away with you. No, I'll stay with you. You cannot forbid me. I am mixed up in it, too. I will come with you. Well, then, keep quiet. Keep quiet. Hold your tongue. They both went up the steps and ascended the stairs to the third story. It was rather dark. Stay. Have you got matches? Matches? What matches? Do you smoke cigars? Oh, yes, I have. I have. Here they are. Here they are. Here. Stay. The gentleman in raccoon rummaged in a fluster. It's full. What a senseless damnation. I believe this is the door. This, this, this. This, this, this. Why are you bawling, hush? My dear sir, overcoming my feelings, I, you are a reckless fellow, so there. The light flared up. Yes, so it is. Here is the brass plate. This is bobbinitzens. Do you see bobbinitzen? I see it. I see it. Hush. Why, has it gone out? Yes, it has. Should we knock? Yes, we must. Responded the gentleman in raccoon. Knock, then. No. Why should I? You begin. You knock. Coward. You are a coward yourself. Get away with you. I almost regret having confided my secret to you. You. I. What about me? You take advantage of my distress. You see that I am upset. But do I care? I think it's ridiculous. That's all about it. Why are you here? Why are you here, too? Delight for morality. Observe the gentleman in raccoon with indignation. What are you saying about morality? What are you? Well, it's immoral. What? Why, to your thinking, every deceived husband is a noodle. Why are you the husband? I thought the husband was on Vosnesensky bridge. So what is it to you? Why do you meddle? I do believe that you are the lover. Listen, if you go on like this, I shall be forced to think you are a noodle. That is, do you know who? That is, you mean to say that I am the husband? said the gentleman in raccoon, stepping back as though he were scalded with boiling water. Hush. Hold your tongue. Do you hear? It is she. No. It's fool how dark it is. There was a hush. A sound was audible in Bobnitsyn's flat. Why should we quarrel, sir? whispered the gentleman in raccoon. But you took offense yourself. Damn it all. But you drove me out of all patience. Hold your tongue. You must admit that you are very young man. Hold your tongue. Of course. I share your idea that a husband in such a position is a noodle. Oh, will you hold your tongue? But why such savage persecution of the unfortunate husband? It is she. But at that moment the sound ceased. Is it she? It is. It is. It is. But why are you, you worrying about it? It is not your trouble. My dear sir. My dear sir. Muddered the gentleman in raccoon turning pale and gulping. I, of course, am greatly agitated. You can see for yourself my abject position. But now it's night, of course, but tomorrow. Although indeed we are not likely to meet tomorrow, though I am not afraid of meeting you. And besides, it is not I. It is my friend on the Vosnesensky Bridge. It really is he. It is his wife. It is somebody else's wife. Poor fellow. I assure you I know him very intimately. If you will allow me, I will tell you all about it. I am a great friend of his, as you can see for yourself. Or I shouldn't be in such a state about him now. As you see for yourself, several times I said to him, Why are you getting married, dear boy? You have position. You have means. You are highly respected. Why risk it all at the caprice of cockatry? You must see that. No, I am going to be married, he said, domestic bliss. Here is domestic bliss for you. In old days he deceived other husbands. Now he is drinking the cup. You must excuse me, but this explanation was absolutely necessary. He is an unfortunate man and is drinking the cup now. At this point the gentleman in Raccoon gave such a gulp that he seemed to be sobbing in earnest. Ah damn nation, take them all. There are plenty of fools. But who are you? The young man ground his teeth in anger. Oh well, you must admit, after this that I have been gentlemanly and open with you, and you take such a tone. No, excuse me, what is your name? Why do you want to know my name? Oh, I cannot tell you my name. Do you know Shabreen? The young man said quickly, Shabreen. Yes, Shabreen. Saying this, the gentleman in the wadded overcoat mimicked the gentleman in Raccoon. Do you understand? No, what Shabreen? Answered the gentleman in Raccoon in a fluster. He's not Shabreen. He's a very respectable man. I can't excuse your discourtesy due to the tortures of jealousy. He is a scoundrel, a mercenary soul, a rogue that takes bribes. He steals government money. He'll be had up for it before long. Excuse me, said the gentleman in Raccoon turning pale. You don't know him. I see that you don't know him at all. No, I don't know him personally, but I know him from others who are in close touch with him. From what others, sir? I am agitated as you see. A fool, a jealous idiot. He doesn't look after his wife. That's what he is, if you'd like to know. Excuse me, young man. You are grievously mistaken. Oh? Oh! A sound was heard in Bobanitzen's flat. A door was opened. Voices were heard. Oh, that's not she. I recognize her voice. I understand it all now. This is not she, said the gentleman in Raccoon turning as white as a sheet. Hush. The young man leaned against the wall. My dear sir, I am off. It is not she. I am glad to say. All right. Be off then. Why are you staying then? What's that to you? The door opened, and the gentleman in Raccoon could not refrain from dashing headlong down the stairs. A man and a woman walked by the young man, and his heart stood still. He heard a familiar feminine voice, and then a husky male voice. Utterly unfamiliar. Never mind. I will order the sledge. Said the husky voice. Oh, yes, yes. Very well. Do. It will be here directly. The lady was left alone. Klafira, where are your vows? Cried the young man in the wadded overcoat, clutching the lady's arm. Oh, who is it? It's you, Tvorgov. My goodness. What are you doing here? Who is it you have been with here? Why, my husband, go away. Go away. He'll be coming out directly from in there. From the Polovitzens. Go away. For goodness' sake, go away. It's three weeks since the Polovitzens moved. I know all about it. Hi. The lady dashed downstairs. The young man overtook her. Who told you? Asked the lady. Your husband, Madame Ivan Andreech. He is here before you, Madame. Ivan Andreech was indeed standing at the front door. Hi. It's you. Cried the gentleman in Raccoon. Ha, c'est vous. Cried Klafira Petrovna, rushing up to him with un feigned delight. Oh, dear, you can't think what has been happening to me. I went to see the Polovitzens. Only fancy. You know they are living now by Ismailovsky Bridge. I told you. Do you remember? I took a sledge from there. The horses took fright and bolted. They broke the sledge, and I was thrown out about a hundred yards from here. The coachman was taken up. I was in despair. Fortunately, Monsieur Tvoregov. What? Monsieur Tvoregov was more like a fossil than like Monsieur Tvoregov. Monsieur Tvoregov saw me here and undertook to escort me. But now you are here, and I can only express my warm gratitude to you, Ivan Ilyich. The lady gave her hand to the stupefied Ivan Ilyich, and almost pinched instead of pressing it. Monsieur Tvoregov, an acquaintance of mine. It was at the Skolopov's ball we had the pleasure of meeting. I believe I told you. Don't you remember, Coco? Oh, of course, of course. Ha, I remember. Said the gentleman in Raccoon, addressed as Coco. Delighted, delighted. And he warmly pressed the hand of Monsieur Tvoregov. Who is it? What does it mean? I am waiting. Said a husky voice. Before the group stood a gentleman of extraordinary height. He took out a lignette, and looked intently at the gentleman in the Raccoon coat. Ah, Monsieur Bobinitsyn. Twittered the lady. Where have you come from? What a meeting. Only fancy I have just had an upset enough sledge. But here is my husband. Jean, Monsieur Bobinitsyn at the Karpov's ball. Ah, delighted. Very much delighted. But I'll take a carriage at once, my dear. Yes, do, Jean. Do. I still feel frightened. I'm all of a tremble. I feel quite giddy at the masquerade tonight. She whispered to Tvoregov. Goodbye. Goodbye, Monsieur Bobinitsyn. We shall meet tomorrow at the Karpov's ball, most likely. No, excuse me. I shall not be there tomorrow. I don't know about tomorrow. If it is like this now. Monsieur Bobinitsyn muttered something between his teeth, made a scrape with his boot, got into the sledge, and drove away. A carriage drove up. The lady got into it. The gentleman in the Raccoon coat stopped. Seemed incapable of making a movement and gazed blankly at the gentleman in the wadded coat. The gentleman in the wadded coat smiled rather foolishly. I don't know. Excuse me. Delighted to make your acquaintance, answered the young man, bowing with curiosity, and a little intimidated. Delighted, delighted. I think you have lost your galosh. I—oh, yes, thank you, thank you. I kept meaning to get rubber ones. The foot gets so hot in rubbers, said the young man, apparently with immense interest. Jean, are you coming? It does make it hot. Coming directly, darling, we are having an interesting conversation. Precisely so, as you say. It does make the foot hot. But excuse me. I—oh, certainly. Delighted, very much delighted to make your acquaintance. The gentleman in Raccoon got into the carriage. The carriage set off. The young man remained standing, looking after it in astonishment. Two. The following evening there was a performance of some sort at the Italian opera. Ivan Andreiich burst into the theatre like a bomb. Such fiora, such a passion for music, had never been observed in him before. It was known for a positive fact, anyway, that Ivan Andreiich used to be exceeding fond of a nap for an hour or two at the Italian opera. He even declared on several occasions how sweet and pleasant it was. Why, the prima donna, he used to say to his friends, muse a lullaby to you like a little white kitten. But it was a long time ago, last season, that he used to say this. Now, alas, even at home Ivan Andreiich did not sleep at nights. Nevertheless he burst into the crowded opera house like a bomb. Even the conductor started suspiciously at the sight of him and glanced out of the corner of his eye at his side pocket in the full expectation of seeing the hilt of a dagger hidden there in readiness. It must be observed that there were at that time two parties, each supporting the superior claims of its favorite prima donna. They were called the cysts and the nists. Both parties were so devoted to music that the conductors actually began to be apprehensive of some startling manifestation of the passion for the good and the beautiful embodied in the two prima donnas. This was how it was that, looking at this youthful dash into the parterre of a gray-haired senior, though indeed he was not actually gray-haired, but a man about fifty, rather bald, and altogether of respectable appearance, the conductor could not help recalling the lofty judgment of Hamlet Prince of Denmark upon the evil example set by age to youth, and as we have mentioned above, looking out of the corner of his eye at the gentleman's side pocket in the expectation of seeing a dagger. But there was a pocket-book and nothing else there. Daring into the theatre, Ivan Andreiich instantly scant all the boxes of the second tier and, oh, horror! His heart stood still. She was there. She was sitting in the box, General Polovitsyn, with his wife and sister-in-law, was there too. The general's adjutant, an extremely alert young man, was there too. There was a civilian too. Ivan Andreiich strained his attention and his eyesight, but, oh, horror! The civilian treacherously concealed himself behind the adjutant, and remained in the darkness of obscurity. She was here, and yet she had said she would not be here. It was this duplicity for some time displayed in every step Glafira Petrovna took, which crushed Ivan Andreiich. This civilian youth reduced him at last to utter despair. He sank down and his stall utterly overwhelmed. Why? One may ask. It was a very simple matter. It must be observed that Ivan Andreiich's stall was close to the banoir, and to make matters worse, the treacherous box in the second tier was exactly above his stall, so that to his intense annoyance he was utterly unable to see what was going on over his head, at which he raged and got as hot as a semivar. The whole of the first act passed unnoticed by him. That is, he did not hear a single note of it. It is maintained that what is good in music is that musical impressions can be made to fit any mood. The man who rejoices finds joy in its strains, while he who grieves finds sorrow in it. A regular tempest was howling in Ivan Andreiich's ears. To add to his vexation, such terrible voices were shouting behind him, before him, and on both sides of him, that Ivan Andreiich's heart was torn. At last the act was over, that the instant when the curtain was falling our hero had an adventure such as no pen can describe. It sometimes happens that a playbill flies down from the upper boxes. When the play is dull and the audience is yawning, this is quite an event for them. They watch with particular interest the flight of the extremely soft paper from the upper gallery, and take pleasure in watching its zig-zagging journey down to the very stalls, where it infallibly settles on some head which is quite unprepared to receive it. It is certainly very interesting to watch the embarrassment of the head, for the head is invariably embarrassed. I am indeed always in terror over the ladies' opera glasses which usually lie on the edge of the boxes. I am constantly fancying that they will fly down on some unsuspecting head, but I perceive that this tragic observation is out of place here, and so I shall send it to the columns of those newspapers which are filled with advice, warnings against swindling tricks, against unconsciousness, hence forgetting rid of beetles if you have them in the house, recommendations of the celebrated Mr. Prince Cheepie, sworn foe of all beetles in the world, not only Russian but even foreign, such as Prussian cockroaches and so on. But Ivan Andreevich had an adventure which has never hitherto described. There flew down on his, as already stated, somewhat bald head, not a playbill. I confess I am actually ashamed to say what did fly down upon his head, because I am really loath to remark that on the respectable and bare, that is partly hairless, head of the jealous and irritated Ivan Andreevich, there settled such an immoral object as a scented love letter. Poor Ivan Andreevich, utterly unprepared for this unforeseen and hideous occurrence, started as though he had caught upon his head a mouse or some other wild beast. That the note was a love letter of that there could be no mistake. It was written on scented paper just as love letters are written in novels and folded up so as to be treacherously small so that it might be slipped into a lady's glove. It had probably fallen by accident at the moment it had been handed to her. The playbill might have been asked for, for instance, and the note deftly folded in the playbill was being put into her hands. But an instant, perhaps an accidental nudge from the adjutant, extremely adwart in his apologies for his awkwardness, and the note had slipped from a little hand that trembled with confusion, and the civilian youth, stretching out his impatient hand, received instead of the note, the empty playbill and did not know what to do with it. A strange and unpleasant incident for him, no doubt, but you must admit that for Ivan Andreevich it was still more unpleasant. But it was not enough that there was a ringing in his ears and a dizziness in his head at this sudden incident. Ivan Andreevich sat petrified in his chair as the saying is, more dead than alive. He was persuaded that his adventure had been observed on all sides, although at that moment the whole theatre began to be filled with uproar and calls of encore. He sat overwhelmed with confusion, flushing crimson and not daring to raise his eyes, as though some unpleasant surprise, something out of keeping with the brilliant assembly, had happened to him. At last he ventured to lift his eyes. Charmingly sung, he observed to a dandy sitting on his left side. The dandy, who was in the last stage of enthusiasm, clapping his hands and still more actively stamping with his feet, gave Ivan Andreevich a cursory and absent-minded glance, and immediately putting up his hands like a trumpet to his mouth, so as to be more audible, shouted the prima donna's name. Ivan Andreevich, who had never heard such a roar, was delighted. He has noticed nothing, he thought, and turned round, but the stout gentleman who was sitting behind him had turned round too, and with his back to him was scrutinizing the boxes through his opera glass. He is all right too, thought Ivan Andreevich. In front, of course, nothing had been seen. Timidly and with a joyous hope in his heart, he stole a glance at the banoir, near which was his stall and started with the most unpleasant sensation. A lovely lady was sitting there who, holding her handkerchief to her mouth and leaning back in her chair, was laughing as though in hysterics. Ugg, these women! murmured Ivan Andreevich, and treading on people's feet he made for the exit. Now, I ask my readers to decide, I beg them to judge between me and Ivan Andreevich. Was he right at that moment? The grand theatre, as we all know, contains four tiers of boxes and a fifth row above the gallery. Why must he assume that the note had fallen from one particular box, from that very box and no other? Why not, for instance, from the gallery where there are often ladies too. But passion is an exception to every rule, and jealousy is the most exceptional of all passions. Ivan Andreevich rushed into the foyer, stood by the lamp, broke the seal and read. Today immediately before the performance, in G Street, at the corner of Ex Lane, K buildings on the third floor, the first on the right from the stairs, the front entrance. Be there, son foul, for God's sake! Ivan Andreevich did not know the handwriting, but he had no doubt it was an assenation. To track it out, to catch it and nip the mischief in the bud, was Ivan Andreevich's first idea. The thought occurred to him to unmask the infamy at once on the spot. But how could it be done? Ivan Andreevich even ran up to the second row of boxes, but judiciously came back again. He was utterly unable to decide where to run. Having nothing clear he could do, he ran round to the other side and looked through the open door of somebody else's box at the opposite side of the theatre. Yes, it was so. It was. Young ladies and young men were sitting in all the seats vertically one above another in all the five tiers. The note might have fallen from all tiers at once, for Ivan Andreevich suspected all of them of being in a plot against him. But nothing made him any better, no probabilities of any sort. The whole of the second act he was running up and down all the corridors and could find no peace of mind anywhere. He would have dashed into the box office in hope of finding from the attendant there the names of the persons who had taken boxes on all the four tiers, but the box office was shut. At last there came an outburst of furious shouting and applause. The performance was over. Calls for the singers began, and two voices from the top gallery were particularly deafening the leaders of the opposing factions. But they were not what mattered to Ivan Andreevich. Already thoughts of what he was to do next flitted through his mind. He put on his overcoat and rushed off to G. Street to surprise them there, to catch them unawares, to unmask them, and in general to behave somewhat more energetically than he had done the day before. He soon found the house and was just going in at the front door when the figure of a dandy in an overcoat darted forward right in front of him, passed him, and went up the stairs to the third story. It seemed to Ivan Andreevich that this was the same dandy, though he had not been able at the time to distinguish his features in the theatre. His heart stood still. The dandy was two flights of stairs ahead of him. At last he heard a door open on the third floor and opened without the ringing of a bell, as though the visitor was expected. The young man disappeared into the flat. Ivan Andreevich mounted to the third floor before there was time to shut the door. He meant to stand at the door, to reflect prudently on his next step, to be rather cautious, and then to determine upon some decisive course of action. But at that very minute a carriage rumbled up to the entrance. The doors were flung open noisily, and heavy footsteps began ascending to the third story to the sound of coughing and clearing of the throat. Ivan Andreevich could not stand his ground, and walked into the flat with all the majesty of an injured husband. A servant maid rushed to meet him, much agitated. Then a man-servant appeared. But to stop Ivan Andreevich was impossible. He flew in like a bomb, and crossing two dark rooms, suddenly found himself in a bedroom facing a lovely young lady, who was trembling all over with alarm, and gazing at him in utter horror, as though she could not understand what was happening around her. At that instant there was a sound in the adjoining room of heavy footsteps, coming straight towards the bedroom. They were the same footsteps that had been mounting the stairs. Goodness! It is my husband! cried the lady, clasping her hands and turning whiter than her dressing gown. End of Another Man's Wife, Part One by Fyodor Dostoevsky, reading by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia.