it was twelve o’clock at night. Mitya Kuldarov, with excited face and ruffled hair, flew into his parents’ flat, and hurriedly ran through all the rooms. His parents had already gone to bed. His sister was in bed, finishing the last page of a novel. His schoolboy brothers were asleep. “Where have you come from?” cried his parents in amazement. “What is the matter with you? “Oh, don’t ask! I never expected it; no, I never expected it! It’s . . . it’s positively incredible!” Mitya laughed and sank into an armchair, so overcome by happiness that he could not stand on his legs. “It’s incredible! You can’t imagine! Look!” His sister jumped out of bed and, throwing a quilt round her, went in to her brother. The schoolboys woke up. “What’s the matter? You don’t look like yourself!” “It’s because I am so delighted, Mamma! Do you know, now all Russia knows of me! All Russia! Till now only you knew that there was a registration clerk called Dmitry Kuldarov, and now all Russia knows it! Mamma! Oh, Lord!” Mitya jumped up, ran up and down all the rooms, and then sat down again. “Why, what has happened? Tell us sensibly!” “You live like wild beasts, you don’t read the newspapers and take no notice of what’s published, and there’s so much that is interesting in the papers. If anything happens it’s all known at once, nothing is hidden! How happy I am! Oh, Lord! You know it’s only celebrated people whose names are published in the papers, and now they have gone and published mine!” “What do you mean? Where?” The papa turned pale. The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The schoolboys jumped out of bed and, just as they were, in short nightshirts, went up to their brother. “Yes! My name has been published! Now all Russia knows of me! Keep the paper, mamma, in memory of it! We will read it sometimes! Look!” Mitya pulled out of his pocket a copy of the paper, gave it to his father, and pointed with his finger to a passage marked with blue pencil. “Read it!” The father put on his spectacles. “Do read it!” The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The papa cleared his throat and began to read: “At eleven o’clock on the evening of the 29th of December, a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov . . .” “You see, you see! Go on!” “. . . a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov, coming from the beershop in Kozihin’s buildings in Little Bronnaia in an intoxicated condition. . .” “That’s me and Semyon Petrovitch. . . . It’s all described exactly! Go on! Listen!” “. . . intoxicated condition, slipped and fell under a horse belonging to a sledge-driver, a peasant of the village of Durikino in the Yuhnovsky district, called Ivan Drotov. The frightened horse, stepping over Kuldarov and drawing the sledge over him, together with a Moscow merchant of the second guild called Stepan Lukov, who was in it, dashed along the street and was caught by some house-porters. Kuldarov, at first in an unconscious condition, was taken to the police station and there examined by the doctor. The blow he had received on the back of his head. . .” “It was from the shaft, papa. Go on! Read the rest!” “. . . he had received on the back of his head turned out not to be serious. The incident was duly reported. Medical aid was given to the injured man. . . .” “They told me to foment the back of my head with cold water. You have read it now? Ah! So you see. Now it’s all over Russia! Give it here!” Mitya seized the paper, folded it up and put it into his pocket. “I’ll run round to the Makarovs and show it to them. . . . I must show it to the Ivanitskys too, Natasya Ivanovna, and Anisim Vassilyitch. . . . I’ll run! Good-bye!” Mitya put on his cap with its cockade and, joyful and triumphant, ran into the street.

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