Diary of a Madman and Other Stories Read Free Page A

issues from every wretched grocer’s shop in Meschanskaya Street; besides, there came such a hellish stench from under every gateway that I hurried on as fast as I could, holding my nose. To add to the rest, the dirty artisans let off such a lot of soot and smoke from their workshops that it becomes impossible for a gentleman to take his walks in that neighborhood. When I climbed up to the seventh floor and rang the bell, a girl came out to open the door, not at all bad-looking, with little freckles. I recognized her: it was the one whom I had seen in company of the old lady. She got a little red, and I at once saw what it was—it’s a young man you want, my dear. “What do you want?” she asked. “I must have a few words with your dog.” The girl was stupid. I saw at once that she was stupid. At that moment the dog ran in, barking. I tried to get hold of her, but the nasty animal almost bit my nose. However, I caught sight of her basket in the corner. That was just what I wanted! I went up to it, rummaged in the straw, and to my great delight extracted a bundle of small slips of paper. The wretched dog, seeing this, began by biting me in the calf; when she realized that I had taken her letters she whined and fawned on me, but I said: “No, my dear, good-bye,” and hastened away. I expect the girl must have taken me for a madman, as she was terribly frightened. When I got home my first intention was to set to work at once to take stock of the letters, for I can’t see very well by candle-light. But Mavra had taken it into her head to wash the floor. These stupid Finnish women are apt to have fits of cleanliness at the wrong time. So I went out to walk about and think over the occurrence. Now at last I could find out all those acts and thoughts, and all the hidden springs! Now at last I could get to the bottom of it! These letters would reveal everything. Dogs are intelligent people, they understand all about politic relations, and so no doubt I shall find there everything about our Director: the portrait and all the doings of that worthy. There will be something in them, too, about her who . . . But no, no, not a word! Toward evening I returned home. For the most part lay on my bed.
    NOVEMBER 13
    WELL! Let us see! The writing is fairly legible, but still there seems to be something doggish about it. Let us read:
    â€œDear Fidèle, I cannot get accustomed to your middle-class name. Could not they have given you a better one? Fidèle, Rose—what vulgar taste! However, this is only by the way. I am so glad we had this idea of starting a correspondence.”
    The letter is very correctly written. The spelling, and even the punctuation, are quite right. To tell the truth, our Chief of Section would have been hard put to it to write as well as this, for all his talk of having been at a university. Let us go on:
    â€œIt seems to me, that to share one’s thoughts, one’s feelings, and one’s impressions with another is one of the greatest blessings on earth.”
    Hum! an idea borrowed from a work translated from the German. I forget the title.
    â€œI speak from experience, although I have not seen much of the world beyond the gates of our house. Is not my life spent in comfort and in plenty? My young mistress, whom Papa calls Sophie, is passionately fond of me.”
    Oh, oh! But no, no, not a word!
    â€œPapa, too, often fondles me. I am given tea and coffee with cream. Ah, ma chère, I must tell you that I find no pleasure in the big, gnawed bones our Polkan feeds on in the kitchen. Bones are nice only when they are those of game, and then only if the marrow has not been sucked out already. It is delicious to mix sauces, if only they contain no capers or green stuff; but I know nothing more disgusting than the habit of giving dogs little balls of bread. Some one at the table, who has been touching all sorts of nasty things with his hands, starts rolling up bread