He had no sooner sat down to tea with the lady when the evil spirit in the blue spectacles appeared and said: 

“Come, Fyodor Pantelyeitch, I have performed my part of the bargain.  Now sign your paper and come along with me!”

And he dragged Fyodor to hell, straight to the furnace, and devils flew up from all directions and shouted: 

“Fool!  Blockhead!  Ass!”

There was a fearful smell of paraffin in hell, enough to suffocate one.  And suddenly it all vanished.  Fyodor opened his eyes and saw his table, the boots, and the tin lamp.  The lamp-glass was black, and from the faint light on the wick came clouds of stinking smoke as from a chimney.  Near the table stood the customer in the blue spectacles, shouting angrily: 

“Fool!  Blockhead!  Ass!  I’ll give you a lesson, you scoundrel!  You took the order a fortnight ago and the boots aren’t ready yet!  Do you suppose I want to come trapesing round here half a dozen times a day for my boots?  You wretch! you brute!”

Fyodor shook his head and set to work on the boots.  The customer went on swearing and threatening him for a long time.  At last when he subsided, Fyodor asked sullenly: 

“And what is your occupation, sir?”

“I make Bengal lights and fireworks.  I am a pyrotechnician.”

They began ringing for matins.  Fyodor gave the customer the boots, took the money for them, and went to church.

Carriages and sledges with bearskin rugs were dashing to and fro in the street; merchants, ladies, officers were walking along the pavement together with the humbler folk....  But Fyodor did not envy them nor repine at his lot.  It seemed to him now that rich and poor were equally badly off.  Some were able to drive in a carriage, and others to sing songs at the top of their voice and to play the concertina, but one and the same thing, the same grave, was awaiting all alike, and there was nothing in life for which one would give the devil even a tiny scrap of one’s soul.