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Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov was of venerable stock: he had Adam as his ancestor. But that is not the main thing: it is more important that one member of this venerable stock was Shem, progenitor of the Semitic, Hessitic, and red-skinned peoples.^†

Here let us make a transition to ancestors of an age not so remote.

Their place of residence was the Kirghiz-Kaisak Horde,^† whence, in the reign of the Empress Anna Ioannovna, Mirza Ab-Lai, the great-great-grandfather of the senator, valiantly entered the Russian service, having received, upon Christian baptism, the name Andrei and the sobriquet Ukhov.^† For brevity’s sake, Ab-Lai-Ukhov was later changed to Ableukhov, plain and simple.

This was the great-great-grandfather who was the source of the stock.

***

A lackey in gray with gold braid was flicking the dust off the writing table with a feather duster. A cook’s cap peeped through the open door.

“Looks like himself’s already up. . . .”

“He’s rubbing himself down with eau de cologne, he’ll be taking his coffee pretty soon. . . .”

“This morning the fellow who brings the mail was saving there was a letter for the master all the way from Spain, with a Spanish stamp on it.”

“I’m going to tell you something: you shouldn’t stick your nose in other people’s letters. . . .”

The cook’s head suddenly vanished. Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov proceeded into the study.

***

A pencil lying on the table struck the attention of Apollon Apollonovich. Apollon Apollonovich formed the intention: of imparting a sharpness of form to the pencil point. He quickly walked up to the writing table and snatched . . . a paperweight, which he long turned this way and that, deep in thought.

His abstraction stemmed from the fact that at this instant a profound thought dawned on him, and straightaway, at this inopportune time, it unfolded into a fleeting thought train.

Apollon Apollonovich quickly began jotting down this unfolded thought train. Having jotted down the train, he thought: “Now it’s time for the office.” And he passed into the dining room to partake of his coffee.

By way of preliminaries, he undertook an insistent questioning of the old valet.

“Is Nikolai Apollonovich up yet?”

“No indeed, sir, he’s not up yet. . . .”

Apollon Apollonovich rubbed the bridge of his nose in dissatisfaction:

“Er . . . tell me: when, tell me, when does Nikolai Apollonovich, so to speak. . . .”

And, immediately, without awaiting an answer, he looked at the clock and proceeded to his coffee.

It was precisely half past nine.

Every morning the senator inquired about the times of his awakening. And every morning he made a face.

Nikolai Apollonovich was the senator’s son.