It happened in Petersburg, in the winter, on the first day of the
carnival. I had been invited to dinner by one of my schoolfellows, who
enjoyed in his youth the reputation of being as modest as a maiden, and
turned out in the sequel a person by no means over rigid in his
conduct. He is dead now, like most of my schoolfellows. There were to
be present at the dinner, besides me, Konstantin Alexandrovitch Asanov,
and a literary celebrity of those days. The literary celebrity kept us
waiting for him, and finally sent a note that he was not coming, and in
place of him there turned up a little light-haired gentleman, one of
the everlasting uninvited guests with whom Petersburg abounds.

The dinner lasted a long while; our host did not spare the wine, and by
degrees our heads were affected. Everything that each of us kept hidden
in his heart--and who is there that has not something hidden in his
heart?--came to the surface. Our host's face suddenly lost its modest
and reserved expression; his eyes shone with a brazen-faced impudence,
and a vulgar grin curved his lips; the light-haired gentleman laughed
in a feeble way, with a senseless crow; but Asanov surprised me more
than any one. The man had always been conspicuous for his sense of
propriety, but now he began by suddenly rubbing his hand over his
forehead, giving himself airs, boasting of his connections, and
continually alluding to a certain uncle of his, a very important
personage.... I positively should not have known him; he was
unmistakably jeering at us ... he all but avowed his contempt for our
society. Asanov's insolence began to exasperate me.

'Listen,' I said to him; 'if we are such poor creatures to your
thinking, you'd better go and see your illustrious uncle. But possibly
he's not at home to you.'