This feeling was roused into greater activity by an incident which now occurred.  One morning I went to Bourgonef’s room, which was at some distance from mine on the same floor, intending to propose a visit to the sculpture at the Glyptothek.  To my surprise I found Ivan the serf standing before the closed door.  He looked at me like a mastiff about to spring; and intimated by significant gestures that I was not allowed to enter the room.  Concluding that his master was occupied in some way, and desired not to be disturbed, I merely signified by a nod that my visit was of no consequence, and went out.  On returning about an hour afterwards I saw Ivan putting three pink letters into the letter-box of the hotel.  I attached no significance to this very ordinary fact at the time, but went up to my room and began writing my letters, one of which was to my lawyer, sending him an important receipt.  The dinner-bell sounded before I had half finished this letter; but I wrote on, determined to have done with it at once, in case the afternoon should offer any expedition with Bourgonef.

At dinner he quietly intimated that Ivan had informed him of my visit, and apologized for not having been able to see me.  I, of course, assured him that no apology was necessary, and that we had plenty of time to visit sculpture together without intruding on his private hours.  He informed me that he was that afternoon going to pay a visit to Schwanthaler, the sculptor, and if I desired it, he would ask permission on another occasion to take me with him.  I jumped at the proposal, as may be supposed.

Dinner over, I strolled into the Englische Garten, and had my coffee and cigar there.  On my return I was vexed to find that in the hurry of finishing my letters I had sealed the one to my lawyer, and had not enclosed the receipt which had been the object of writing.  Fortunately it was not too late.  Descending to the bureau of the hotel, I explained my mistake to the head-waiter, who unlocked the letter-box to search for my letter.  It was found at once, for there were only seven or eight in the box.  Among these my eye naturally caught the three pink letters which I had that morning seen Ivan drop into the box; but although they were seen by me they were not noticed at the time, my mind being solely occupied with rectifying the stupid blunder I had made.

Once more in my own room a sudden revelation startled me.  Everyone knows what it is to have details come under the eye which the mind first interprets long after the eye ceases to rest upon them.  The impressions are received passively; but they are registered, and can be calmly read whenever the mind is in activity.  It was so now.  I suddenly, as if now for the first time, saw that the addresses on Bourgonef’s letters were written in a fluent, masterly hand, bold in character, and with a certain sweep which might have come from a painter.  The thrill which this vision gave will be intelligible