! I say, Semyon, these are not my boots! My boots
have red tags and no patches on them, and these are in holes and
have no tags."

Semyon picked up the boots, turned them over several times before
his eyes, and frowned.

"Those are Pavel Alexandritch's boots," he grumbled, squinting at
them. He squinted with the left eye.

"What Pavel Alexandritch?"

"The actor; he comes here every Tuesday. . . . He must have put on
yours instead of his own. . . . So I must have put both pairs in
her room, his and yours. Here's a go!"

"Then go and change them!"

"That's all right!" sniggered Semyon, "go and change them. . . .
Where am I to find him now? He went off an hour ago. . . . Go and
look for the wind in the fields!"

"Where does he live then?"

"Who can tell? He comes here every Tuesday, and where he lives I
don't know. He comes and stays the night, and then you may wait
till next Tuesday. . . ."

"There, do you see, you brute, what you have done? Why, what am I
to do now? It is time I was at Madame la Generale Shevelitsyn's,
you anathema! My feet are frozen!"

"You can change the boots before long. Put on these boots, go about
in them till the evening, and in the evening go to the theatre. . . .
Ask there for Blistanov, the actor. . . . If you don't care to
go to the theatre, you will have to wait till next Tuesday; he only
comes here on Tuesdays. . . ."

"But why are there two boots for the left foot?" asked the piano-tuner,
picking up the boots with an air of disgust.

"What God has sent him, that he wears. Through poverty . . . where
is an actor to get boots? I said to him 'What boots, Pavel Alexandritch!
They are a positive disgrace!' and he said: 'Hold your peace,' says
he, 'and turn pale! In those very boots,' says he, 'I have played
counts and princes.' A queer lot! Artists, that's the only word for
them! If I were the governor or anyone in command, I would get all
these actors together and clap them all in prison."

Continually sighing and groaning and knitting his brows, Murkin
drew the two left boots on to his feet, and set off, limping, to
Madame la Generale Shevelitsyn's. He went about the town all day
long tuning pianos, and all day long it seemed to him that everyone
was looking at his feet and seeing his patched boots with heels
worn down at the sides! Apart from his moral agonies he had to
suffer physically also; the boots gave him a corn.

In the evening he was at the theatre. There was a p