* * * * *
The writer Gvozdikov thinks that he is very famous, that every one knows him. He arrives at S., meets an officer who shakes his hand for a long time, looking with rapture into his face. G. is glad, he too shakes hands warmly…. At last the officer: "And how is your orchestra? Aren't you the conductor?"
* * * * *
Morning; M.'s mustaches are in curl papers.
* * * * *
And it seemed to him that he was highly respected and valued everywhere, anywhere, even in railway buffets, and so he always ate with a smile on his face.
* * * * *
The birds sing, and already it begins to seem to him that they do not sing, but whine.
* * * * *
N., father of a family, listens to his son reading aloud J.J. Rousseau to the family, and thinks: "Well, at any rate, J.J. Rousseau had no gold medal on his breast, but I have one."