Translated by Marie Snyder and Rush Pearson
October Third
Something extraordinary happened today. I got up rather late, and when Mavra brought me my clean boots I asked her the time. When she told me that it was well past ten, I rushed to get dressed fast. I would have rather skipped the department altogether if I had known the sour look I was going to get from the Chief of my Division. For a long time now he's been saying... "Tell me, my friend, why are you always in such a muddle? You rush around like a madman, and make such a mess of your work, the devil himself couldn't sort it out. You start paragraphs with a small letter and leave out the date and reference number altogether.” Ugly old buzzard. He must envy me for sitting in our Director's office and sharpening all our Director's quills. So, I wouldn't have gone to the department at all if not in hopes of seeing the cashier to get even a small advance out of the stingy old bastard. What a beast. For him to give me an advance on my own salary. God, my God! The Last Judgment will come sooner. Even if there's a dire emergency, oh, you can beg until something bursts inside you, he won't give in, gray-haired bastard. Yet at his home, the cook slaps him around, and the whole world knows it. I can see no advantage in serving in our Department. No perks at all. It's a different story in the City Administration, or in the Justice Department. There you'll see someone nesting in the corner, scribbling away. Oh, he may be wearing an ugly coat, and have such a face that one has the urge to spit on it, but then, just look at that summer house he rents. He won't accept a china cup for his services, it's at least a pair of racehorses for him to shuffle your papers. On the other hand, to serve in our Department does carry prestige. The people of the Justice Department have never dreamt of such cleanliness. We have mahogany tables and our superiors use the polite form of address. Yes, if it weren't for our lofty work, I confess, I'd have left the Department long ago.
I grabbed my umbrella and put on my old overcoat, because of a downpour of rain, and headed off for the department. There wasn't a soul on the streets. Only some peasant women, their skirts thrown over their heads.... some messengers scurrying about.... a few merchants.... as for the high-minded, weren't any. Except for a fellow civil servant, I saw him slogging along at the crossing and as soon as I saw him I said to myself... "You're not on the way to the office, are you? You're racing after that one trotting along, and it's her legs your eyes are on. “What rogues civil servants are! I swear. They're as bad as any Army Officer. Try to pick up anything in a skirt. I was still engrossed in these thoughts when a carriage pulled up and broke my concentration. I recognized it at once. It belonged to the Director of our department, himself. But I thought... "What would His Excellency be doing here?... now?... His daughter! His daughter must be out shopping.” I promptly pulled myself from view. The footman opened the carriage door and, oh, she flitted out like a little birdy. How she glanced about; first right, then left, then right. How her eyes and lil’ eyebrows gleam... Oh, my God, I'm lost. I am completely gone. Strange she should come out in the pouring rain. Just try and deny women have a passion for rags. She didn't notice me. Besides, I was trying to hide myself. Not only was my coat quite stained, but it had gone out of fashion ages ago. You see, nowadays, they're wearing these long collars on their coats, while I had two very short ones, one on top of the other...Her lap dog was too slow to make it into the store while the door was open and had to stay out in the street. Now, I had seen this little dog before, she's called 'Madgie'. Well, I hadn't been there more than a minute when there was this thin little voice..."Hello Madgie." "I'll be damned," I thought. "Who said that?” I turned and I saw two ladies walking under an umbrella; one old, the other quite young and pretty, but they had already passed when I heard just next to me... "Shame on you Madgie," What the?... I looked down only to discover, Madgie and a dog, that had been following the two ladies, sniffing at one another. "Oh, ah...heh,heh, I uh, Well, uh, I must be drunk." I thought, “But it’s not likely. It doesn’t happen to me very often.” "No, Fido, you're wrong." With my own eyes I saw Madgie forming these words... "I ha(av), (excuse me) I ha(av), I have been very ill. (av) (ack)" "Why you, little doggie." I must say I was quite surprised to see Madgie talking. But, then... I wasn't surprised. As a matter of fact, I recall a similar case being reported in England, where a fish broke the surface of the water, uttered a few words in such an outlandish language that scholars have been trying to work out their meaning for three years, and so far they haven't the slightest idea as to what the fish said. What's more, I read somewhere in the papers, I believe it was "The Bee", about these two cows, who went into a store to ask for a pound of tea. But I'll confess, I was much more surprised when Madgie said... "But I did write to you, Fido. Evidently, Rover didn't deliver my letter." Now I'd be willing to forfeit a whole month's pay if I've ever heard of a dog that could write! Only a nobleman can write correctly anyway. Of course, you'll find some scribbling shopkeepers, even serfs, but their writing is mostly mechanical. Well, there's no commas, no stops, no style... So I was surprised. I’ll confess, recently I have been seeing and hearing things that no one else has seen or heard. "Let's follow this little Fido," I said to myself, "and find out who she is and what her thoughts are." I opened my umbrella and followed the two ladies. We crossed Nevsky Avenue, turned up Meshanskaya Street, then Gorokhovaya and stopped in front of a large house near Kukooshkin Bridge. I know this house. It's Zverkov House. What a dump. Everybody seems to live there, all sorts of foreigners: cooks, Poles, civil servants. They live like dogs, one on top of the other. I have a friend there who can play the trumpet quite well. The ladies went up to the fifth floor. "Fine," I thought, "I won't go in now, but I'll make a note of this place, and I'll just wait for the first opportunity."
October Fourth
Today is Wednesday! And that is why I was in our Director's study at his home. I made sure I got there early so I could sharpen all his quills. Our Director must be a very brilliant man. Why his study is covered with bookcases of books. I looked at some of the titles, such learning, cuts an ordinary person off completely; they're all in French and German. Just look into his face and one can see the brilliance that just shines in his brow. I've never heard him utter an unnecessary word, except, perhaps, when one hands him documents, he may ask... "How is it outside?" "Damp, your Excellency." Yes, our kind is no match for the likes of him. He is a true Bureaucrat. Nevertheless, I've noticed that he has taken a special liking to me. Now, if only the daughter would...(yes, if only the daughter would) never mind... Devilry...Nev-ver-mind... stop it. Oh! I was reading the newspaper, "The Bee.” Aren't the French a stupid race? Whatever are they driving at? My God! I would really like to take them all... and cane them! I also read a very nice description of a ball by a landowner in Kursk, I had no idea that Kursk landowners could write so well. Whereupon I noticed it was 12:30 and our Director had not come out of his bedroom, but then, at 1:30 something happened that no pen can adequately describe... The door opened. Now, I thought it was our Director and so I proceeded to gather up all the documents, but it was Her... Herself... in person. Holy Angels, how she was dressed! The dress on her was white, like on a swan. And when she looked at me: The Sun, really, I swear, the Sun. She spoke... "Papa wasn't in here?" What a voice! A canary, an true canary! I stepped forward to say... "Miss, don't have me put to death, but if I must be put to death, then, please, have me put to death by your own aristocratic little hand." but my tongue did not roll, and all I could manage was..... “No." She looked at me, then at the books, then, she dropped her handkerchief! Ah! I made a dash for it, slipped on the damned parquet floor. I nearly broke my nose, but I held on, managed to recover my balance and I picked it up! Heavens, what a hanky. The linen, the thinnest. The fragrance, it unstuck my nose. It so smelled of a Directorship. "Thank-you." She said. And then she smiled, but so faintly that her sugary little lips hardly even moved. And she left the room. I remained kneeling there, and after about another hour, the footman suddenly came in and announced... "You may go home Aksenty Ivanovich. The Master has left the building." The lackey is one thing I cannot stand. They're always sprawled out in the entrance hall, not even bothering to acknowledge my existence with a little nod. Once, one of those beasts actually offered me snuff. And without even getting up! Don't you know, you stupid toady, that I am a civil servant, and I am of noble rank!?! Still...I picked up my hat, and pulled on my overcoat, unaided, since those gents wouldn't even think of helping you, and I left. At home, for the most part, I lay on my bed. I also copied out some real fine poetry out of a big book.
Not having seen you for one hour
I thought it was for one whole year
My life is now peccable'n'sour
How am I to live? I fear.
Sounds like Pushkin. In the evening I wrapped myself up in my best overcoat and walked on over to our Director's house and waited by the front gate, for quite a while, to see whether she would come out, perhaps get into her carriage. She didn't.
November Sixth
Something has gotten into the Chief of my Division! When I reached the department he calls me in and begins as follows... "Now tell me, please, What's the matter with you?" "What do you mean? Nothing," I said. "Are you sure? Think hard. Aren't you over forty? Time to be a bit wiser. What do you fancy yourself to be? Don't imagine I can't see what you're up to. I know you're trailing after the Director's daughter. Just look at yourself. What are you? A nothing, a nobody. You haven't a kopeck to your name. Just look at your face in the mirror. Fancy you having thoughts about the Director's daughter!!!” Oh, to hell with him. Just because he's got a face like on some druggist's vial, and just because he pomades his forelock up into an oily little cock's comb. And just because he holds his head in the air like... well... like that, he thinks he can get away with anything! Now I can understand why he's got it in for me. He’s jealous. Perhaps seeing some preferential treatment I have received around the department. I don't give a damn about him. Just because he's a Divisional Chief he thinks he's Lord God Almighty. Hangs a gold chain from his watch. Pays thirty rubles for a pair of boots. Damn him! Perhaps he imagines I had a shopkeeper, or a tailor for a father. I am a noble man! and I can be promoted too! I'm only forty-two, an age when one's career is really just beginning. Wait my friend, I'll go higher than you yet, and God willing, very, very much higher! Then I'll achieve a social position beyond your dreams. What have you taken into your head, that you're the only person to have dignity? Just give me a new coat cut in the latest style, I'll knot my tie the way you do, and you won't be worthy to clean my boots. It's my lack of means, that's the only problem.
November Eighth
I was at the theater. They were doing the one about the Russian fool Filatka. I laughed a lot. There was also some kind of vaudeville show with funny lines about lawyers, especially about one collegiate registrar very liberally written, so that I wondered how censorship let it pass. And about merchants they said very frankly that they deceive people and that their sons debauch and ape the nobleman. About journalists there was also a funny couplet: that they love to abuse everyone and an author asks for defenses from the public. Today writers are writing very funny plays. I love to go to the theater. If only a 1/2 kopek appeared in my pocket- there'd be no way of restraining me from going. And here among our fellow bureaucrats there are such swine: who decisively don't go, the peasants, to the theater: unless you gave him a ticket for free. One actress sang very well. I remember that one... oh, damn it... it's nothing, it's nothing, silence.
November Ninth
Left for the department at about eight. The Divisional Chief pretended he never saw me come in. So I played the same game, and acted as if nothing had happened between us. I looked over some documents, and left at about four. On the way home I passed by our Director's house, but I didn't see anyone. After dinner, Then I mostly just lay on my bed.
November Eleventh
Today I sat in our Director's study and I sharpened twenty-three quills for him, and four for...uh, oh...her Excellency. Our Director likes very much that all his quills are sharpened. Oh, the size of his brain. He doesn't say very much, but up there, he is debating it all. I'd like to know what's going on inside that head of his. I'd like to have a close look at all this nobility, how they live with all their subtle innuendoes and courtly jokes. I wish I knew how they behave and what they do within their sphere. I've often tried to engage our Director in conversation, but I'm damned if it's ever come off. I begin by saying that it's warm or cold outside and... that is absolutely as far as I've got. One day I'd like to step into their drawing room. Sometimes they leave the door open, and from there I can see another door, leading to yet another room. But, oh, that drawing room! You should see how it's decorated. With all those mirrors and fine porcelain. Oh, I long to set foot in there. I'd also like to see the parts of the house where her rooms are. That's where I really want to go, into her boudoir. To see those little jars and bottles of hers, standing with the sort of flowers you're not suppose to breathe on. To see the dress she has thrown off, just lying there, looking more like air than a dress. Oh! It would be wonderful to peek into her bedroom. Miracles must happen in there. It is a paradise that is not to be found even in the heavens. Just to look at the footstool, the footstool upon which her little foot descends as she rises every morning... out of her bed. Her leg, how she dresses her leg. White like snow, immaculate, the stocking, pulled gently over that little foot, and then... slowly up... um... uh... her Oh, my God. Devilry. My God. Devilry. Stop it.
Today, however, as if a light illuminated me: I remembered that conversation of the 2 dogs which I heard on Nevsky Prospect.
"Good," I thought to myself, "now I will find out everything. I must grasp correspondence which was conducted between the wretched dogs. There I will, probably find out something."
I admit one time I even called Madgie to me and said...
“Listen, Madgie, here we are alone; when you want, I will lock the door so that no one will se- Tell me everything that you know about the young lady, what is she and how is she? I swear to you that I will not disclose to anyone."
But that sly dog drew in her tail, shrunk twice and left quietly through the door as if she heard nothing. For a long time I've suspected that dogs are much more intelligent than humans; I was even certain that they could speak but there was some kind of obstinacy in them. They are extremely political: they notice everything, every step of the humans. No, whatever happens, tomorrow I will set off to Zverkov' building, I will question Fidyel and if I succeed, I will intercept all the letters which Madgie wrote to her.
November Twelfth
At two in the afternoon, I set off for Zverkov House with the firm intention of cross-examining Fido. I cannot tolerate cabbage! The puny little shops along Meshanskaya Street just reek of cabbage. And that stench. That stench. You know that stench? That stench that comes out from under the front doors of all the gates, of all the houses on Gorokhovaya, well, it sent me scurrying, holding my nose! And that soot and that smoke that they let pour out of those petty little work shops, makes it impossible for the high-minded to take a stroll!!! I reached the sixth floor and rang the bell. Out came a young girl, and not too bad looking at that. I recognized her at once. She was the one I had seen walking with the old lady. She blushed a little when I looked at her, and I quickly deduced: Looking for a husband, are we? "What do you want?" she asked. "I must have a talk with your doggie.”
The girl was stupid. I just now recognize that she is stupid. Right then, the dog ran in yapping furiously at me. As I tried to grab a hold of her, so we could have a conversation, the mangy little mutt almost caught my nose between her teeth! But then, I spied her basket in the corner, which was just what I was looking for! I went over to it, felt around under the straw and, to my uncommon pleasure, I discovered a small bundle of papers! Seeing what I was doing, the contemptible cur took a bite out of my calf, and then, when upon further sniffing she found I had taken her letters, well, she began whining and making up to me, but I told her... "Oh no, my dear, see you later!" and off I went! I believe the young girl took me for a madman. Well, the slut did seem very frightened.
When I got home I intended starting work immediately to have those letters sorted before dark, seeing as I can't read too well by candlelight. But Mavra decided that the floors needed scrubbing. Those stupid Finns always succumb to their obsession for cleanliness at the worst moments. So I decided to go out for a walk so that I could think through everything that had happened. Now I'll be able to find out about all their plots and innuendoes. Now I'll understand everything. These letters will expose me to everything! Dogs are a clever race. They know all about political intrigue, and it's all bound to be written down in these letters, including a description of our Director, and his private life, so there's bound to be something about... Never mind. I came home toward evening and mostly I just lay on my bed.
November Thirteenth
Let's see now. The letter looks quite legible, though there is something rather canine about the handwriting.
Dear Fido, I still find it difficult to get accustomed to the commonness of your name. Couldn't they find a better one for you. Fido, it's so ordinary. But that's beside the point. I'm very glad we decided to write each other.
The spelling is real good. The commas are spread about just right. This is considerably better than the Chief of my Division can do, and the man claims to have gone to some University or other.
I believe sharing feelings and impressions with another is one of the finest fortunes in life...
That strikes a chord. Hmph. She lifted that thought from a book that was translated from German. Little plagiarist.
I write from experience, although I haven't been much further than the gates of our house. But, then, isn't my life full of fortunes? My young Mistress, whom her Papa calls Sophie, loves me like crazy!
Papa often pets me too. I drink tea and coffee with cream. And I must tell you, ma chère, that I'm not in the least bit tempted by the half-gnawed bones which our Rover chews on in the kitchen. I only like the bones of game and, only then, if the marrow hasn't been sucked out by someone else. But in my opinion, there is nothing worse than those little pellets of dough. There is usually some gentleman sitting at the table, who has previously touched all sorts of filthy things, who begins kneading bread. He then calls you on over and thrusts the little bread ball down your throat. It's rather impolite to refuse and you eat it up, though it's really quite disgusting...
What's all this about!?! I have never read such garbage! As if she didn't have better things to write about... Let's look at the next page and see if we can't find something a bit more sensical.
I would now like to inform you about everything that takes place in our house. I've already mentioned something about our main master, whom Sophie calls Papa. He is a very strange man.
Finally! I knew they had a political view on all subjects. Let's see what 'Papa' is like.
... a very strange man. He is usually very silent (yes), but a week ago he would continually say to himself, "Will I get it or won't I?”. He would hold out his hands, a paper in one, nothing in the other and say, "Will I get it or won't I?". Once he turned and asked me, "What do you think Madgie, will I get it or won't I?". I could make little sense out of this, so I sniffed his shoe and left the room. Then, a week ago, Papa came home overjoyed. All that morning men in uniform kept arriving to congratulate him on something or other. At dinner Papa was gayer than I'd ever seen him, letting out anecdotes, and afterwards he picked me up and held me level with his chest saying, "Look Madgie, what's this?". I saw some sort of ribbon. I sniffed at it, but it had no fragrance at all. Finally, discreetly, I gave it a lick: slightly salty.
Oh, the mutt really goes too far... They should beat her everyday!... Licked his decoration!... So, Papa's ambitious, is he?... Must make a note of that.
Well, I must be running along. Blah, blah, blah...will write more tomorrow. Blah blah blah... Hello I'm back. Today my Mistress, Sophie...
Oh? I wonder what she has to say about Sophie?... Oh, nevermind, nevermind. Continue.
Today my Mistress, Sophie, was in such turmoil. She was getting ready for a ball, and I was delighted to have a chance of writing you while she was gone. My Sophie is always thrilled to go to a ball, although getting ready usually puts her in a very foul mood. I really can't understand what pleasure there is in going to these balls. Sophie usually returns at six in the morning, and I can tell by her pale and gaunt features that the poor thing hasn't been given a bite to eat. I must confess, that would be no life for me. If I didn't get my gravy with grouse, or roast chicken wings, I don't know what would become of me. A mixture of sauce with porridge is not bad, but you can't do anything with vegetables, especially carrots.....
The style is exceptionally uneven. Anyone can see it's not written by a man. Well, she starts off all right, but then she keeps lapsing into dogginess. Why don't we just look at a whole new letter....Something long. Oh, Madgie left out the date.
Dear Fido, How strongly I feel the approach of Spring. My heart beats as if expecting something, and there's a constant noise in my ears, so that I often, having lifted my leg, stands for several minutes listening to the door. And I must confide in you, ma chère, I have plenty of suitors. Everyday, at my window, I watch them parade around outside. Oh you should see how ugly some of them are. There is this one boorish mongrel, frightfully stupid, stupidity is written all over his face. He swaggers down the street and imagines that he is a person of breeding, and that everyone is bound to admire him. But he's wrong. I ignore him completely, as if I hadn't even seen him. Then you should have seen the terrifying Great Dane that stopped in front of my window! If he stood on his hind legs, which I’m sure that clod is incapable of doing, then he would be a whole head taller than the father of my Sophie, who is also rather tall and fat himself. He also seems unbearably arrogant. When I growled at him, he did nothing. He just hung out his tongue, drooped his ears, and kept staring in the window. But you mustn't think my heart is indifferent to all hopefuls, oh no. You should have seen the dashing young lover who came jumping over the fence into our courtyard today. His name is Treasure and he has such a fine drawn snout...
Damn. How anyone can fill a letter with such garbage. I'm after people? I want people, not dogs!! I would like a little something that would nourish and delight my soul, to stimulate my senses. I would like a little something of worth... yet I'm always fed garbage! Perhaps another letter will straighten up this mess.
I was busy looking out my window, and Sophie was sitting at the table sewing something, when the footman announced someone. "Ask him in!" cried Sophie. Then, she picked me up and hugged me hard murmuring, "Oh Madgie darling, if only you knew who that is. He's a.. Guard's Officer. His hair is black, and his eyes are as agates." Then she kissed me and flew on up to her room. A minute later a young Officer appeared. He went up to the mirror, smoothed his hair, and looked around the room. I snarled and settled by my window. Soon Sophie reappeared and gaily curtseyed to the clicking of his heels. I pretended to be busy looking out my window, but I had my head cocked so I could catch every word they said. Oh, Fido, you cannot imagine the silliness of their conversation. What garbage! It was all about that stupid ball and how during the dance a certain lady kept doing this certain step instead of the one she was supposed to do. And about how a Monsieur Bobov looked just like a stork in his jabots. And, about how this one 'Lidina', thought she had blue eyes, whereas they were really green. And so on, and so on, and so on. Oh no, I said to myself, this Officer doesn't compare with my Treasure. Good Heavens what a difference! To start with, the Officer has a flat face, and it's quite bald, whereas Treasure's face is narrow and fine with a sweet white patch on his brow. Treasure’s waist is incomparably slenderer and his eyes, gestures, stance are all vastly superior. Really a tremendous difference. I don't know what Sophie can admire in this Officer. What on Earth does she see in him?!?
Yes. Here I tend to agree. Something seems incredibly wrong. It is quite unbelievable that she can be fascinated with this man.
If she likes this Officer, I think she'll soon be admiring the civil service clerk who sits in Papa's study. That one, ma chère, is a real scarecrow. Ugly as a tortoise in a sack.
Huh?... Which one's this?
He has a funny name and his hair is like straw.... Papa sends him on errands instead of the servants and he is always sharpening quills. ...
I think the mangy little mutt is referring to me... Where is my hair like straw?
Sophie can not help but laugh when she looks on him.
Why you bitch. You lying little bitch. Bad dog! You are a bad little lying dog. Bad Dog! Why are you doing this to me?!?... The Chief of my Division!!! As if I didn't know, why, his handwriting is all over this thing. For some reason that man has sworn undying hatred towards me and is trying to harm me, to harm me every minute of the day and night! And so there he is! There he is!!! But why?... Why? I must find out why. I've got it! Another letter!
My Dear Fido, Forgive me for not writing sooner. I have been in raptures. The author who said, 'Love is a second life', was absolutely right. Great changes have been taking place in our house. The Officer comes everyday now. Sophie is madly in love with him. Papa is very happy. I even overheard one of our servants saying that a wedding is close at hand, well, because Papa always wanted to see Sophie married off to either a High Official or Guard's Officer with a brilliant career...
Damn it! I can't read this. Everything is either High Officials or Guard's Officers. All the best in the world all fall to either High Officials or Guard's Officers. You discover for yourself some tiny crumb of happiness, reach out for it, almost have hold of it. It's not much. It's all you need. And it all gets ripped away by a High Official or Guard’s officer..... damn it. I too, would very much like to make myself a High Official, too. And not just to win her hand either. No, I would make myself a High Official just so I could watch everyone jump around for my benefit. Oh, I'd listen for a little while to all the innuendoes and courtly jokes... Then I'd say: You can all, all of you, go straight to hell! Damn it. This has me disturbed. Oh my, I seem to have torn the stupid little dog's letters into shreds.
December Third
Nooooooooooo! Lies! There won't be a wedding. The wedding won't be. So what if he has a commission in the Guard. That's nothing but a position, you can't touch it with your hands. A Guard's officer does not grow a third eye in the middle of his forehead. His nose is not made of gold but the same stuff as mine, or anyone else's. And he sniffs with it, he doesn't eat with it, he sneezes with it, he doesn't cough with it. I've often tried to discover the reason's for these differences. Why am I a clerk? On what grounds, for what reasons, should I be a clerk? Perhaps... I'm not really a clerk at all.. Perhaps I'm really a general, or a count, and only somehow appear to be a clerk. Perhaps, I don't know myself who I am. This sort of thing happens all the time in history. Don't you read? There will be some fairly ordinary man, not what you'd call a gentleman, but simply a tradesman, or even a serf, and suddenly, it turns out that he's really a great statesman, or even the leader of a country. Now if a peasant can turn into someone so important, where are the limitations to the possibilities for a man of breeding? All right, say, for example, I suddenly appear in a General's uniform. Let's say an extraordinary carriage appears, the footman opens the door, and I emerge in a general's uniform. With epaulets on all my shoulders, a blue sash across my chest, impressive decorations, a rattling saber by my side, shiny new knee-high boots. What then, Huh? What tune would my beautiful young lady sing then? And Papa, our Director, what would he say? Oh. he's so ambitious. He's a Mason, no mistake about it. Oh, he pretends to be this, that, or the other, but I've noticed that he only holds out two fingers to shake hands with. But I can't become a General, or a Baron, or anything like that overnight. Still, what I'd like to know is: why am I a clerk? Why precisely a clerk?
December Fifth
I spent the whole morning reading the newspaper. Strange things are happening in Spain. Even I can't understand it. They write that the throne has been vacated and that the ranking Grandees are having difficulty in selecting an heir. It seems there's discontent. Seems very strange to me. How can a throne be vacant? They even write that some 'Donna' may inherit the Kingdom. Well, a girl cannot inherit a Kingdom, a King must inherit a Kingdom, but they say there is no king. But there must be a King, a Kingdom cannot exist without... a King! Oh, there's a King all right, but.... he's hiding. He's hiding somewhere... for family reasons, or, no, he's hiding somewhere for fear of some foreign power such as France!! Or there may be other reasons.
December Eighth
I had every intention of going to work today, but various considerations held me back. I couldn't get that Spanish business out of my head! How can this 'Donna' person make herself a King? They won't allow it! In the first place, England won't stand for it. Then we must keep in mind the whole political set-up of the rest of Europe: there's the Austrian Emperor, there's our Tsar! I must confess that these recent events have me so perturbed that I could do nothing all day. In fact, at dinner Mavra, my domestic, remarked that I was very absent-minded. In fact, I believe I absently-mindedly threw a couple of plates on the floor. After dinner, I decided to go out for a very long walk, to think all of all of this through. I was gone for quite a while. I found myself at the very edge of the city. I just stood and stared at the mountains, but they were of no help whatsoever. Then, mostly, I lay on my bed, and thought about that Spanish question.
Year 2000, April Forty-Third
The day of today is a day of the greatest solemnity. Spain has her rightful king. He found himself. This King is me. I discovered this only today. Frankly, it all dawned on me like a flash of lightning. It's incredible to me now that I could have ever thought or imagined that I was a civil service clerk. How could such a crazy idea ever have entered my head? Thank God no one thought of putting me in the mad house. Now I see everything clearly. Everything is as bright as day... Brighter! I don't really know why, but before, before everything loomed at me from out of a fog. And the whole reason for this, as I see it, is that people are under the misapprehension that the human brain is situated in the head: no, no. The fact is that human brains are blown in by the winds, from somewhere around the Caspian Sea.
Now, first on Our agenda was to inform Mavra as to who We were. When she heard that she was facing the King of Spain, well, she flung up her hands in awe and nearly died from fear. The stupid little woman had obviously never seen a King of Spain before. However, We tried to calm her and, speaking graciously, assured her of Our royal favor, and that We would grant her that pardon for all those times she failed to clean my boots properly! But what can one expect from the common herd? One just can't speak to them on lofty subjects. She was probably as frightened as she was, because she thought that all Kings of Spain are like Philip II. I explained that I am nothing like Phillip II. I don’t have a single Capuchin. I didn't go to the work today. Oh, to hell with it. Oh no my friends, don't even try. Never again, never again will I copy those nasty documents.
Martober Eighty-Sixth. Between Day And Night
One of the administrative clerks called on me today. I hadn't been to the department in three weeks, so I went for the joke. The Divisional Chief expected me to come bowing and apologizing to him, but I just looked at him indifferently, with not too much hostility, nor too much benevolence either. I went over to my place and sat down as though no one else existed. As I looked around at all the clerical scum I thought to myself...If only you had an inkling of who's sitting here among you. God, what a fuss you'd make. Even the Divisional Chief would be bowing and scraping, just like he does when our Director is about. They placed in front of me some documents which I was suppose to copy out or something. But We didn't so much as lift a finger. Then a few minutes later, everyone was rushing about. They said our Director was coming, and they all began buttoning up their coats and sprucing up their areas. But We did nothing of the kind. As our Director walked through our division all the little clerks jumped up vying for his favors. But We did exactly nothing! What kind of Director does he think he is anyway? He's not a Director, he’s a cork. Yes, and an ordinary cork at that. The kind that you stop into a bottle. That's all he is. But the funniest thing was when they gave me a document to sign. Now, they all thought I'd sign it in the corner, head clerk number such and such. Well, let them think again. We signed it in the main space, the one reserved for our Director's signature: 'Ferdinand VIII'. You should have seen the religious silence that ensued, but We merely waved Our hand and said... "You may dispense with this manifestation of allegiance." and We left. From there We went straight to our Director's house. Their lackey tried to stop Us, but We spoke to him in such a manner that his arms fell limp. We then strode straight to her boudoir. She was brushing her hair in her mirror. On Our entrance, she jumped up and stood very still. We didn't, however, tell her that We were the King of Spain. We simply told her: that such a happiness awaited her that she, herself, could not possibly perceive it, and in spite of all the hostile plots against us, we would be together. Then We thought We said enough, and I left. What a creature...Woman. Only then did it dawn on me what Woman is really like. Did you know that no one has discovered whom Woman is in love with. I was the first to discover it, I discovered it just now: Woman is in love with the Devil!. And I'm not joking either. Oh, physicists write stupidities that she is this, that, or the other. The truth of the matter is: Woman is in love with the Devil and no one else! Look! See? Raising her lorgnette in the theater?. You think she's staring at the fat man with all the medals on his chest. No such thing. She is staring straight at the Devil, the Devil perched right behind the fat man's back. Where'd he go? Oh, there he is hiding in the medals! Look, he's beckoning to her with his little finger. And she's going to marry him! And they're all alike. All alike! Her fathers, the officials, all alike! They all grovel at court. They all lick boots. All of them proclaiming their "great Patriotism", when all they really want is money. Money, money, rents, and dues, that's what all of these "great Patriots" are about. Honor? No. Love of country? No. Money? Yes! These 'Patriots' would do anything for money. They would sell their own mother, their own father, They would sell their own God! for a profit!!! Ambitious Christ merchants, all of them. And all this ambition is caused by the little pimple under the tongue which contains a tiny worm the size of a pinhead, and it's all the work of a barber living on Gorokhovaya. I can't recall his name right now, but one thing I am sure of is that, in collusion with a certain midwife, he is trying to spread Mohammedanism all over the world, and that is why, I am told, that most of the people of France already practice the faith.
No Date. A Day Without A Date. The Day Didn’t Have A Date.
I was strolling along Nevsky Avenue, incognito, when His Imperial Majesty, The Tsar, drove past. The whole city doffed its hat, and I followed suit. I gave out no sign I was the King of Spain. I considered it improper to reveal my identity right there in the middle of a crowd. Because according to etiquette, I ought first to be presented in Court. Now what has prevented me from doing that so far, is the fact that I haven't any Spanish Royal attire. If only I could get a hold of a royal mantle of some sort. I thought of having one made, but tailors are such lazy asses. They are entirely careless about their work. They are up to their ears in shady deals, busy mending roads instead of fixing clothes. I decided to have the mantle made out of my best coat, which I had only worn twice, and so those good-for-nothings should not ruin it, I decided to sew it, myself... after locking my door so as not to be watched. I had to completely cut that coat to ribbons with my scissors. Well, because a mantle has a completely different style.
Can’t Remember The Date, Nor Was There A Month. Devil Knows What’s Going On.
The mantle's ready! The domestic really let out a shriek when I put it on. Even so, I still don't feel ready to be presented at Court. You see, the Spanish delegation hasn't, as yet, arrived from Spain. Well, the absence of a delegation would be incompatible with my dignity. I await them by the hour.
First Date
I'm puzzled by the unaccountable delay of the Spanish Delegation. What could be detaining them? What causes could be holding them up? France!!!? The are the worst. I ran straight to the post office and inquired whether any Spanish delegates had arrived. But the Post Master was extremely stupid and knew nothing. "No," he says, "no Spanish delegates have arrived, but if you'd like to mail a letter, that can be arranged." What the hell is he talking about! What letter?! What's a letter!?! Letters are trash! Druggists write letters!
Madrid, February Thirtieth
Having past the test, and being left on my own, I decided to occupy myself with affairs of state. First, I discovered that Spain and China are the same thing, and it's only ignorance that makes people take them for two separate countries. I recommend to anyone who doubts this, try to write 'Spain' on a piece of paper. It will always turn out 'China'. I also gave much thought to the grievous event that is due to occur tomorrow at eight o'clock. As foreseen by the famous English chemist, Wellington, the Earth will mount the Moon. I must confess I became deeply worried when I thought about the Moon's extraordinary sensitivity and fragility. You see, the Moon is usually made in Hamburg, and very poorly I might add. I'm surprised England hasn't done something about it. It's this crippled barrel maker who actually makes the Moon, and it's obvious the idiot has no conception of what the Moon should be made of. He uses tarred rope and linseed oil, and that is why the stench is so awful all over the Earth, and why we are forced to go around plugging our noses. And, that also explains why the Moon itself is such a delicate sphere, that men cannot live there, only noses. And that is how it is that we can't see our own noses: they're all living on the Moon! And then when I thought, what a heavy thing the Earth is, why, when it mounts the Moon, it would crush our noses into powder, this so upset me that I quickly put on my stockings and shoes and rushed into the State Council room in order to command my Guards to not allow the Earth from mounting the Moon! Now, the Capuchin monks I found milling about in State Council room were wise people, indeed, so when I said... "Gentlemen, we must protect the Moon, the Earth desires to mount Her!", they all rushed at once to execute my royal command, in fact, several began climbing the walls to reach the Moon. But just at this moment, in came the Grand Chancellor. Upon seeing him, my monks scattered. We, as King, remained alone. To my complete and utter surprise, the Grand Chancellor began striking me with his stick, violently driving me back into my room. Such is the power of chivalrous customs in Spain.
January Of The Same Year That Falls After February
I still can't make out what sort of place Spain is. Their customs and court etiquette are very strange. I can't understand it, I can't understand it. I really cannot understand it at all. Today they shaved my head, even though I shouted with all my might; I didn't want to become a monk! And I still can't remember what happened to me after they poured all this cold water on my head. I have never been through such hell. I just don't see the point of these peculiar customs. It's so stupid, so senseless. And the utter stupidity of all of the Kings before me who never got around to abolishing these archaic practices, is stupid.
After everything that has happened to me, I think I'm safe in hazarding a guess that I have fallen into the hands of the Inquisition. And the person I took to be the Grand Chancellor, is actually the Grand Inquisitor himself. But how can a King be subject to the Inquisition? It could be... France that is putting them up to it. And when I say France, of course, I mean Polignac. That Polignac is an absolute beast, and has sworn to drive me to my death. And so here he is, pursuing me, hunting me down. But I know only too well, my friend, that you, in turn, are led by the English. Oh, the English are extraordinary politicians, they worm their way into everything. Why the whole world knows, that when England takes snuff... France sneezes.
The Grand Inquisitor came to see me again. As soon as I heard his steps down the hall I went and hid under my table. When he didn't see me, he began calling out. First he shouts... "Poprishchin!” I didn't say a word. Then... "Aksenty Ivanovich? Civil servant? Nobleman?" I still didn't say anything "Ferdinand VIII, King of Spain?” I was just about to stick my head out, but then I thought ,"Oh no, my friend, you won't fool me! We know you. You’re out to pour cold water over my head!" But he found me nonetheless, and drove me out from under the table with his stick! Stop It!!!!! That damned stick really hurts! But my latest discovery made all this worthwhile. I found, no, I understood... that every rooster has his own Spain. And he has it situated just beneath his quills. This discovery, however, put the Grand Inquisitor in a very foul mood and he left threatening me with some punishment or other. But I ignored his impotent ejaculations, knowing that he is really just a machine. Just a machine. Just a tool of England.
da 34 te Mnth. Yr. yraurbef 349
No, I have no strength left to bear this. I don't, I can't... My God! What are they doing to me!? They pour cold water on my head. They put live leeches on my nose. They don't hear me, they don't see me. They don't perceive me. What did I ever do to them? Why do they torture me? What do they want from me? What can I give them??? I don't have anything, I don't have anything. I can't take this much longer. My head is burning, and everything is whirling before my eyes. Save me... somebody, save me.... Save me? Take me away from here. Somebody give me a carriage. I want a carriage. Gimme a carriage with two, four, no, six horses. Six horses fast as the wind!!!!! Drive on, my Coachman!! Ring out, little harness bells!!! Fly, horseys, fly!!!! Onward! Upward! Further! Farther! Take me away from this world! Take me away to where I can see nothing! Nothing. There. The sky billows before me. A tiny star winks at me from afar. Dark trees rush past and a moon falls into my wake. A silvery mist swims beneath my legs. I hear music. On one side, the sea, the other, Italy. Yonder the Russian huts are coming into view. Is that my house? It looks so dimly blue in the distance? Is that my mother sitting at the window? Mama, save your poor son. Shed a tear on his sick little head. Look how they are torturing him. Take him back in. Hold him. Hold him tight. There's no place for him in this world!!!! They're hounding him! They're hounding him. Matooshka, take pity on your poor little orphan.
By the way, do you know the King of France? He has a boil. Oh yes. It’s right under his nose.