I think the artist painted me not for the sake of literature, but for the sake of the two symmetrical warts on my forehead: a phenomenon, they say. They have no ideas, so now they trade on phenomena. And how well my warts came out in this portrait—to the life! This they call realism.

Regarding craziness, last year they set down a lot of people as madmen. And in what style! “With such a singular talent…” they say, “and look what came of it in the end… however, it should have been foreseen long ago…” Still, this is rather clever; so that from the point of pure art it can even be praised. Well, but they’ve suddenly come back smarter still. Now, to drive someone mad is possible with us, but they’ve never yet made anyone smarter.

The smartest one, in my opinion, is the one who calls himself a fool at least once a month—an unheard-of ability nowadays! Formerly, in any case, a fool knew at least once a year that he was a fool, but now unh-unh! And they’ve confused things so much that you can’t tell a fool from a smart man. They’ve done it on purpose.

I’m reminded of a Spanish joke, how the French built themselves the first madhouse two and a half centuries ago: “They locked up all their fools in a special house, to show what smart people they were themselves.” That’s just it: by locking someone else up in a madhouse, you don’t prove how smart you are. “K. has lost his wits, that means we’re the smart ones now.” No, it doesn’t quite mean that.

Anyhow, the devil… and what am I doing pothering over my own wits: grumble, grumble. Even the maid is sick of me. A friend stopped by yesterday: “Your style is changing,” he says, “it’s getting choppy. You chop and chop—then an inserted phrase, then a phrase inserted in the inserted phrase, then you stick in something in parentheses, and then you go back to chopping, chopping…”

My friend is right. Something strange is happening to me. My character is changing, and my head is aching. I’ve begun seeing and hearing some strange things. Not really voices, but as if there were someone just nearby: “Bobok, bobok, bobok!”

What is this bobok? I need some diversion.

I went out for diversion and wound up in a funeral. A distant relative. A collegiate councillor, however. A widow, five daughters, all young girls. The shoes alone, just think what that will add up to! The deceased used to provide, but now—a wretched little pension. They’ll have their tails between their legs. They always gave me a cool reception. I wouldn’t have gone now, either, if it hadn’t been for this urgent occasion. I went to the cemetery along with the others; they snubbed me and put on airs. My uniform is indeed a bit shabby.⁴ It’s a good twenty-five years, I think, since I’ve been to the cemetery; a nice little place!

First of all, the odor. About fifteen dead people arrived. Palls of various prices; there were even two catafalques: for a general, and for some lady. A lot of mournful faces, a lot of sham mourning, a lot of outright merriment. The clergy can’t complain: it’s a living. But the odor, the odor. I wouldn’t wish it on myself even for the odor of sanctity.

I peeked cautiously into the dead men’s faces, not trusting my impressionability. Some of the expressions are soft, some unpleasant. Generally, the smiles are not nice, and in some even very much so. I don’t like them; they visit my dreams.

During the liturgy I stepped out of church for some air; the day was grayish but dry. Cold, too; but then, it’s October. I strolled among the little graves. Various classes. The third class costs thirty roubles: decent and not so expensive. The first two are inside the church and under the porch; now, that’s a bit stiff. This time some six people were buried third class, the general and the lady among them.

I peeked into the graves—terrible: water, and such water! Absolutely green and… well, never mind! The grave digger was constantly bailing it out with a scoop. While the service was going on, I went for a walk outside the gates. There was an almshouse just there, and a little farther on a restaurant. A so-so restaurant, not bad: you can have a bite and all. A lot of mourners were packed in there. I noticed a lot of merriment and genuine animation. I had a bite and a drink.

After that I took part with my own hands in carrying the coffin from the church to the grave. Why is it that the dead become so heavy in their coffins? They say it’s from some sort of inertia, that the body supposedly is no longer controlled by its own… or some such rubbish; it contradicts mechanics and common sense. I don’t like it when people with only a general education among us set about resolving special questions; and it’s rife among us. Civilians love discussing military subjects, even a field marshal’s, and people with an engineer’s education reason mainly about philosophy and political economy.

I didn’t go to the wake. I’m proud, and if they receive me only out of urgent necessity, why drag myself to their dinners, even funeral ones? Only I don’t understand why I stayed at the cemetery; I sat on a tombstone and lapsed appropriately into thought.

I began with the Moscow exhibition,⁵ and ended with astonishment, generally speaking, as a theme. About “astonishment,” here is what I came up with:

“To be astonished at everything is, of course, stupid, while to be astonished at nothing is much more beautiful and for some reason is recognized as good tone. But it is hardly so in essence. In my opinion, to be astonished at nothing is much stupider than to be astonished at everything. And besides: to be astonished at nothing is almost the same as to respect nothing. And a stupid man even cannot respect.”

“But I wish first of all to respect. I yearn to respect,” an acquaintance of mine said to me once, the other day.

He yearns to respect! And God, I thought, what would happen to you if you dared to publish that now!

It was here that I became oblivious. I don’t like reading the inscriptions on tombstones; it’s eternally the same. Next to me on the slab lay a half-eaten sandwich: stupid and out of place. I threw it on the ground, since it wasn’t bread but merely a sandwich. Anyhow, dropping bread on the ground, it seems, is not sinful; on the floor is sinful. Look it up in Suvorin’s calendar.⁶

It must be supposed that I sat there for a long time, even much too long; that is, I even lay down on the oblong stone shaped like a marble coffin. And how did it happen that I suddenly started hearing various things? I didn’t pay any attention at first and treated it with contempt. But, nevertheless, the conversation continued. I listened—the sounds were muffled, as if the mouths were covered with pillows; but distinct for all that, and very close. I came to, sat up, and started listening attentively.

“Your Excellency, this is simply quite impossible, sir. You named hearts, I’m whisting, and suddenly you’ve got the seven of diamonds. We ought to have arranged beforehand about the diamonds, sir.”

“What, you mean play by memory? Where’s the attraction in that?”

“It’s impossible, Your Excellency, without a guarantee it’s quite impossible. It absolutely has to be with a dummy, and so that there’s only blind dealing.”

“Well, you’ll get no dummy here.”

What presumptuous words, though! Both strange and unexpected. One voice is so weighty and solid, the other as if softly sweetened; I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it myself. It seems I was not at the wake. And yet what was this card game doing here, and who was this general? That it was coming from under the gravestone, there was no doubt. I bent down and read the inscription on the memorial.

“Here lies the body of Major General Pervoedov… knight of such-and-such orders.” Hm. “Died in August of the year… aged fifty-seven… Rest, dear dust, till the gladsome morning!”⁷