gave orders that the common people were to move farther off—that is to say, nearer to the vestibule—in order that her excellency’s robes might not be damaged.

Even Tchitchikoff himself could not but observe this unusual attention to some extent. Once, on returning home, he found a letter on his table. Whence it had come, and who had brought it, it was impossible to discover. The inn servant simply declared that it had been brought there, and that he had been told not to mention by whom. This letter began in very decided terms, as follows: “Yes, I must write to you!” Then something was said about the existence of a secret sympathy between souls. This truth was enforced by some points of exclamation which took up nearly half a line. Then followed some remarks which were so very striking, that we consider it indispensable to quote them: “What is our life? A vale in which sorrows have taken up their abode.” “What is the world? A throng of people without feeling.” The writer then informed him that she was bedewing with her tears some lines traced by her tender mother, who had been dead for twenty-five years. Next she invited Tchitchikoff to go with her to the wilderness; to abandon for ever the city, where people could not benefit by the air in their stifling quarters. The end of the letter expressed absolute despair, and it concluded with these words:—

“Two turtle-doves will show thee
     My ashes cold and dried;
With yearning coos will tell thee,
     That ’twas, alas! in tears I died.”

The last line would not scan, but that mattered nothing: the letter was composed in the taste of the period. There was no signature: neither was there name or surname, nor even the month or date. The writer merely added in the postscript that Tchitchikoff’s own heart must divine who had penned it, and that the original would be present at the governor’s ball, which was to take place on the morrow.

This interested him greatly. There was something so attractive about this Anonyma, something which appealed so strongly to his curiosity, that he read her epistle for a second, and even for a third time, and finally said, “Well, I am curious to know who wrote such a thing!” In a word, the matter had evidently become serious: he pondered and thought it over for more than an hour; at last, flinging open his arms, and dropping his head, he said, “That letter is very, very fancifully written!” Then, of course, the letter was folded up, and laid away in his dressing-case, in company with some theatre-bills and a wedding invitation, which he had preserved for seven years in the same position and the same place. A little later, indeed, an invitation to a ball at the governor’s was brought to him—a matter of very common occurrence in provincial towns. Wherever there is a governor, balls are given; otherwise the proper allegiance and respect of the nobility could not be maintained.

Our hero’s appearance at the ball produced a remarkable effect. Every one who was present turned to greet him—one with his hand full of cards; another at the most interesting point in a conversation, just as he was saying, “But the lower district judge replied to that”—But whatever the district judge did reply, it was flung on one side, and the speaker hastened forward with a welcome for our hero: “Pavel Ivanovitch! Ah, my Heavens! Dear Pavel Ivanovitch! Most respected Pavel Ivanovitch! My soul, Pavel Ivanovitch! Here you are, Pavel Ivanovitch! Here he is, our Pavel Ivanovitch! Permit me to press your hand, Pavel Ivanovitch! Give him here: I will kiss him as fervently as possible, my precious Pavel Ivanovitch!” Tchitchikoff found himself in the embrace of several persons at once. He had not succeeded in wholly freeing himself from the embrace of the president of the court, when he found himself in that of the chief of police; then the chief of police handed him over to the inspector of the medical institution; the inspector of the medical institution to the brandy farmer; the brandy farmer to the architect. The governor, who was at that moment standing beside a lady, and holding in one hand a bonbon motto and a Bolognese spaniel, flung both motto and spaniel on the floor as soon as he caught sight of him, whereupon the dog set up a howl. In a word, our hero shed abroad great joy and mirth. Upon every countenance there beamed either satisfaction or at least the reflection of the universal satisfaction. Thus it is with the faces of officials during their superior’s visits of inspection, after their first fear has passed off, when they perceive that the state of things satisfies him, and when he has at last been graciously pleased to jest; that is, to say a few words with an amiable smirk. The officials who find themselves close to him laugh in double measure at this; even those who have but barely heard the words which he has uttered, laugh; and, last of all, a man who stands afar off, near the door, at the very entrance, perhaps—some police-officer, who has never laughed all his life since his birth, and who, hitherto, has only shown his fist to the people—even


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