VI + 

Exactly at half-past ten I arrived at the theatre. There was no one there as yet. Here and there in the gardens sleepy waiters from the summer restaurant were wandering about in their white aprons. In a summerhouse of green trellis-work interwoven with wild vines they were preparing someone’s breakfast or morning coffee. + 

I learned later on that the manager, M. Valerianov, and the elderly ex-actress Mme. Boulatova-Tchernogorskaya, a lady of about sixty-five who financed the theatre, and the manager himself, breakfasted there every morning in the fresh air. + 

The table was laid for two with a white glistening cloth and two little piles of sliced white and brown bread rose on a plate.⁠ ⁠… + 

Here comes the ticklish part of my story. For the first and last time in my life, I became a thief. Glancing round quickly, I dived into the arbour and seized several slices of bread in my open hand; it was so soft, so exquisite. But as soon as I was outside again I ran up against the waiter. I don’t know where he came from; probably I hadn’t noticed him behind the arbour. He was carrying a cruet-stand with mustard, pepper, and vinegar. He looked hard at me, then at the bread in my hand, and said quietly: + 

“What does this mean?” + 

A sort of burning, scornful pride welled up in me. Looking right into the pupils of his eyes, I answered as quietly: + 

“It means⁠ ⁠… that since four o’clock the day before yesterday I have had positively nothing to eat.” + 

He spun suddenly round, without uttering a word, and ran off somewhere. I hid the bread in my pocket and waited. I had a feeling at once of dread and joy. That’s excellent, I was thinking. Now the proprietor will rush up, the waiters will gather round, they will whistle for the police⁠ ⁠… there will be a row, insults, a fight. Oh how magnificently I shall smash these very plates and cruets over their heads. I’ll bite them till I draw blood. + 

But then, what do I see? My waiter is running back to me by himself. He was a little out of breath. He came up to me sideways, without looking at me. I, too, averted my eyes. And then suddenly, from under his apron, he pushed into my hand a piece of yesterday’s cold meat, carefully salted, and whispered entreatingly: + 

“Please, do eat, I beg of you.” + 

I took the meat roughly from him, went with it behind the scenes, chose a corner⁠—a rather dark one⁠—and then, sitting among the old stage properties, I tore the meat greedily with my teeth and shed happy tears. + 

Later on I saw that man often, almost every day. His name was Serguei. When there were no customers, he used to look at me from a distance kindly with faithful, hospitable eyes. But I had no wish to spoil, either for myself or for him, that first sympathetic impression, though I confess I was sometimes as hungry as a wolf in the winter. + 

He was a small, rather fat, rather bald man, with black cockroach-like moustaches and kind eyes, shaped like narrow radiant semicircles. He was always in a hurry and gave the impression of hopping along. When I received my money at last and my theatrical slavery remained only a dream, and all these rotten people were lapping up my champagne and flattering me, how I did miss you, you dear, funny, pathetic Serguei! Of course I should never have dared to offer him money⁠—can one possibly estimate in money such kindness and human affection? I merely wanted to give him some little present before going away⁠ ⁠… a little trifle⁠ ⁠… or else something for his wife or his kids⁠—he had a whole swarm of them, and in the morning sometimes they used to run up to him, agitated and clamorous like young sparrows. + 

But a week before my marvellous transformation Serguei was dismissed, and I know the reason. Captain von Bradke had been served a beefsteak not to his taste. He bawled out: + 

“What’s this you’re giving me, you rascal? Don’t you know that I like it red?” + 

Serguei ventured to remark that it was not his fault, but the cook’s, and that he would go and change it at once. He even added timidly: + 

“Excuse me, Mister.” + 

This apology maddened the officer. He struck Serguei with his beefsteak on the cheek, and turning purple, he yelled out: + 

“Wha‑at! I am a mister to you, am I? I am not a mister to you, I am staff captain of cavalry to my emperor! Where’s the proprietor? Call the proprietor. Ivan Lukianytch, I want this idiot cleaned out of here today. I don’t want a trace of him here. If there is, I’ll never set foot in your pothouse again.” + 

The staff captain of cavalry, von Bradke, was a man of big sprees and for this reason Serguei was dismissed that very day. The proprietor spent the whole evening in calming the officer. I myself, when I came out between the acts for a breath of fresh air in the gardens, heard for a long time the enraged, bellowing voice issuing from the arbour. + 

“What a scoundrel the fellow is! Mister! If it hadn’t been for the ladies I would have shown him the meaning of mister!” + 