“I’ve been looking for you,” I shouted with delight. “What is this Evening Entertainment? Where is it? When?”
He was already walking on.
“Not for everybody,” he said dully with a sleepy voice. He had had enough. He was for home, and on he went.
“Stop,” I cried, and ran after him. “What have you got there in your box? I want to buy something from you.”
Without stopping, the man felt mechanically in his box, pulled out a little book and held it out to me. I took it quickly and put it in my pocket. While I felt for the buttons of my coat to get out some money, he turned in at a doorway, shut the door behind him and disappeared. His heavy steps rang on a flagged yard, then on wooden stairs; and then I heard no more. And suddenly I too felt very tired. It came over me that it must be very late—and high time to go home. I walked on faster and, following the road to the suburb, I was soon in my own neighbourhood among the well-kept gardens, where in clean little apartment houses behind lawn and ivy are the dwellings of officialdom and people of modest means. Passing the ivy and the grass and the little fir tree I reached the door of the house, found the keyhole and the switch, slipped past the glazed doors, and the polished cupboards and the potted plants and unlocked the door of my room, my little pretence of a home, where the armchair and the stove, the ink-pot and the paintbox, Novalis and Dostoevsky, awaited me just as do the mother, or the wife, the children, maids, dogs and cats in the case of more sensible people.
As I threw off my wet coat I came upon the little book, and took it out. It was one of those little books wretchedly printed on wretched paper that are sold at fairs, “Were you born in January?” or “How to be twenty years younger in a week.”