The humour of Russia

by Unknown

A Trifling Defect in The Mechanism.

BY

GLYEB USPÈNSKY.

“What I think about it is this: If a man is altogether innocent, there isn’t any need at all to punish that man. But when you get a man that’s either a criminal, or else what you may call a villain, or anything of that kind, then you should punish him. That’s all.”

The above reflections were uttered slowly, deliberately, and significantly, by the steward of the little steamer Perch, as he sat in his tiny crockery-filled pantry, cutting up a wheaten loaf into thin slices on the window-sill. The Perch, which travels once daily along the river Vỳdra, from the railway station to the little provincial town of M., is never very rich in passengers. Not many people care to sit for several hours at a stretch in the cabin, awaiting the moment when enough people shall have collected, “one at a time,” to repay the owner of the Perch for the cost of the fifty-verst journey. Impatient passengers, instead of waiting for the steamer, prefer to drive in to M., or to go by the branch railway which runs from the main line to the next posting station. Thus the only passengers who travel on the Perch are those who are in no hurry, who do not care whether they reach the town to-day or to-morrow, and who, indeed, even prefer to travel in a leisurely manner and at their ease; there is always so much room on the Perch that you can stretch yourself out at full length, undress, go to sleep—anything. This state of things is very convenient and profitable for the steward. The public saunters on to the steamer, in a gradual, indefinite way; and it is really not worth while ever to close the refreshment-bar, as it would have to be opened twenty times a day. This refreshment-bar, being constantly before the eyes of passengers who have nothing to do and feel no desire to hurry anywhere, can hardly fail to be in demand. Sometimes a man will sit lazily looking at the various drinks exposed, and will finally say: “Here, just pour me out some of that; I don’t particularly want a drink, but the bottle takes my fancy; what’s in it? Give me a glass.” And once the refreshment-bar is resorted to, the passengers, who have been waiting so long for the little mosquito of a steamer to whistle, involuntarily slip into a chat; somehow or other, all the people travelling on the Perch are sure to strike up acquaintance together and enter into a general conversation.

This was the case on the present occasion. In the second-class cabin about a dozen people of various kinds were sitting or lying on the sofas beside the tables and the bar window. There were two army officers, who, from their appearance and conversation, might have been shopkeepers in disguise, so feeble, effeminate, and altogether unmilitary was their manner; they were talking about their provisions, about “comfort and good living,” about the minutest of injustices and intrigues—intrigues over hay, and soldier’s kvass, and one thing and another. There were shopkeepers, artizans, and four money-lenders, evidently regular “skinflints,” who sat apart, drinking tea together, and abruptly snapping out broken phrases about their “business”: “Two six and six.”—“One rouble five.”—“And the goods?”—“All right.”—“Did you contract?”—“Yes,” &c.... In the intervals between these remarks they were affected by sudden, loud hiccoughing, almost like a volley of guns at a distance.

For some time the conversation among the passengers rather flagged, and was in no way interesting. The officers complained that every year they had to “make up out of their own pockets,” and boasted, each to the other, of their irreproachable character. The “skinflints” alternately snapped and hiccoughed; altogether, it was rather dull. In reference to what topic the steward uttered the sentence quoted at the beginning of this sketch I have no recollection. I did not hear all the previous conversation, and do not know what had made the steward feel it necessary to express his opinion about punishment; but that opinion somehow aroused in me a desire to listen further.

Having cut the bread into thin slices, and carefully swept up the crumbs into his fat hand, the steward began to cut thin slices of cheese, and continued, as gravely as before—

“That’s my opinion. If a man’s innocent and hasn’t deserved any punishment, I should like to know why I should ill-use him?”

“Very true,” remarked a shopkeeper, who was sitting with a bottle of beer.

“On the other hand,” continued the steward, “if we come across a regular scoundrel, then most certainly the law should be obeyed.”

“Of course it should. There’s no need to pity a scoundrel.”

“Then, again, you see, to punish a man is easy enough, there’s nothing very clever in that; you just take him and put him in the lock-up, or give him a thrashing—you don’t need much work for that, or much brains either.... But, first of all, you must find out, and go into the matter, and get to the root of it, and find out whether the man really is guilty or not; that’s the great thing. Supposing you’ve flogged or locked up a man, and afterwards it turns out that he was innocent, what then? It’s a bad business, that. But once you’ve made it out, and know all about it, then bury him alive if you like; that’ll be all fair and lawful.... But to go and ill-use a man before you know what it is about yourself—any fool can do that. That’s what I think. Will you have a sandwich?”

The plate of sandwiches was held out towards the two officers who were sitting next to the bar.

“I don’t mind,” half-reluctantly said one of them, adding, after a moment, “By the by, just pour me out a glass of that stuff in the green bottle; I’ll try what it’s like.... Won’t you have some?”

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” said the other officer, still more reluctantly; “you can give me a glass.”

For want of anything else to do, they began to eat and drink. The steward, for his part, started on some operation on a piece of ham, beginning by blowing on it, and continued—

“One ought to look into these matters, and not go into them at random.... Why, there are cases when, if you judge a matter properly, the man that everybody thought was a villain can prove his innocence. Before you go into it, you think he ought to be hanged; and then you go into it, and think about it, and he’s done no wrong at all. But to go and punish a man without ever knowing what it’s about—I say there’s no justice in that at all! Why do they have law courts, and trials, and judges, and all that sort of thing? Why, because any jackass knows how to knock a man about for nothing; but you have to go into it first, and then say what’s to be done.... Why, there’s a lad that serves on this very steamer. He’s been in trouble—he killed a man. Now, what’s the law for that? Why, a halter, or underground mines!... That’s so, isn’t it? And yet the fellow’s all right and straight. And why is that? Because they went into the matter, and made it all out.... There, I’ll call the man himself, and he shall tell you about it”

He went out on to the landing at the foot of the winding staircase that led up to the deck, and shouted—

“Mikhàïlo![^[51]] come here! Come here a minute!... He’ll tell you himself....”

Mikhàïlo appeared at once. He had evidently been gambling with some friends, for he was holding several greasy cards in his hand. He was a sturdy young fellow, with a peculiarly naïve, almost childlike face. He sprang as lightly as a bird down the iron steps, with his strong, bare legs sticking out from a pair of pink cotton trousers much too short for him, and stood before his master, with his belt unfastened, evidently in a hurry to go back to his game. His whole figure and the expression of his face showed that the game was in full swing and had reached an exciting point.

“What’s up?” he asked, hastily.

“Come over here a minute.”

“Tell me what you want. I can hear you from here.”

“Come along into the cabin, you wooden figure head! You’ll have time to finish your game afterwards. Come and tell the gentlemen how you killed the old man.”

“What the plague!... What did you call me for? I thought.... Is that all you’ve got to talk about? Catch me!...”

He turned back to the staircase, but the steward caught him by his shirt.

“Hold hard! What a jackass it is! Can’t you answer when you’re asked civilly?”

“What’s the good of going over all that nonsense again?”

“Who asked you to go over it?... I want you to tell the gentlemen how it happened. You lived with a wood merchant then, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. He’d only just taken me on that very day; and I’d never lived there at all——”

“All right; he’d just engaged you.... Well, what happened next?”

“Nothing at all happened next.... He engaged me, you see, to guard the timber.... He’d got a timber yard; ’twas worth hundreds and thousands.... He’s a millionaire, he is.”

“Where did it happen? Where does the merchant live?”

“’Twas in Moscow, sir.... I came straight up from the country to him.... How old was I? Don’t suppose I was more than sixteen.... Well, he engaged me; and says he, ‘Look here, boy, if you do your duty, I’ll reward you for it; but if you go conniving with thieves, I’ll let you know. I sha’n’t say many words about it, but I shall just smash you into little bits. But if so be as you do your best, I’ll raise your wages in a month. You keep your eyes open all night; don’t go to sleep; and if you see a thief, just you punch his head!’ You see, sir, these here thieves were always stealing that man’s timber; so, of course, I did as I was told—what else should I do? A lad doesn’t come up to town for his own pleasure. If you get a place, you must try and do your best in it, and please your master, so that he’ll raise your wages, and not swear at you or hit you over the head. So I set my mind to do his bidding. I chose a good cudgel—I pulled out a bit of timber, you know, a stout heavy sapling, with the root on. Well, I cut and trimmed it and made it all nice; and when it got dark, I put on my coat and went out.... It was in autumn, and a very dark night.... So I walked up and down, up and down, and suddenly I heard some one move. I called, and he didn’t answer. ‘He wants to hide,’ thought I; so I went up and gave him a good one with my cudgel. It must have caught him sideways; then I hit again, straight down from the top, and he just gave a squeal like a hare. We-ell, after that, I went to poke him a little with the butt-end; I poked him a bit, but it was a dark night, and I couldn’t see anything; I could only feel something soft, and it didn’t give a sound.... Well, when I couldn’t make him speak, I went to tell the master.... The master hadn’t gone to bed yet.... So I came in, and I said, ‘Please, I think I’ve done a mischief to a thief. He was scrabbling about in the wood, and so I knocked him down.... And I can’t make him speak,’ says I; ‘and he only squeaked a bit, like a hare.’... Well, so then the master called his coachman, and told him to take a lantern and go and see what had happened.... So we went.... Well, and after all, it was only a beggar.... But it wasn’t my fault. I was told to punch his head, and I did as I was bid. Supposing he had stolen the timber, what then? Then I suppose I should have got——”

“There, shut up!... Tell your story, and don’t argufy. What was the next thing?”

“The next thing was that when we looked at the man his head was all smashed in and his arm was broken.... Lord! it makes me feel creepy-like just to remember!... Well, we looked at him, and the coachman, he said: ‘The master’ll have to be told.’ So I went to the master, and I said: ‘Please, sir, I’ve smashed a man,’ and I told him all about it.—‘Surely he isn’t dead!’—‘Yes, that he is.’—And how he did swear at me! Then he told me to go and tell the police. So off I went to find a police-station. I hunted all over the place, and couldn’t find one, hang it all! And when I did find one, everybody was asleep. However, I waited and waited, and at last somebody came out and asked me what I wanted. ‘I’ve smashed a man,’ said I, and so on. Well, I told him all about it—why not? I hadn’t done any wrong. I didn’t want to hit the man.... I told him everything. Well, he wrote it all down.—‘And where’s the cudgel?’ said he.—‘I left the cudgel in the kitchen,’ said I.—‘Go and fetch the cudgel,’ said he; ‘it’ll be wanted.’—So I went and fetched it. Well, I gave them the cudgel. Then they put me into a dark room. In the morning they tied my hands and brought me into another room. Then they began asking questions. Well, whatever they asked me, of course I answered. Two months after, they had a trial. It was the same thing all over again:—‘You killed him?’—‘I did.’—‘How?’—So I told them: ‘First I banged him in the side, and then I banged him on the forehead.’—‘What with?’—‘A cudgel.’—You confess it?’—’Course I do.’—‘You plead guilty?’—‘Which way am I guilty? I was told to punch his head, and I punched it.... A servant’s business is to do as he’s bid.’... Well, they thought about it, and they judged about it, and they wrote, and they talked; and then they came out and said:—‘Here, you’re not guilty; you be off!’—So I went....”

“And the merchant?”

“Yes, they called up the merchant, too; but all he would say was:—‘Of course the timber had to be watched. All my capital’s in timber.... It’s always getting stolen.... The police are never there when you want them.... How was I to know he was going to keep watch that way?’... Well, and how was I to know who was there? I heard somebody scrabbling about, and I banged him.... So that’s how it all ended: I wasn’t guilty; nor the merchant wasn’t guilty neither.... Only he was a regular Jew, he was—he wouldn’t take me back again afterwards. He said:—‘You set about your work too much in earnest. I only promised you six roubles, and you went and killed a man straight off; if I were to pay you your wages, the Lord knows what you’d do with your cudgel!’ So he took a soldier, and gave me the sack.... Reg’lar Jew, he was!... Well, what else do you want?”

“Is that the whole story?”

“That’s all.... Want anything else?”

“No, that’s all; you can go.”

The lad rushed up the steps like a whirlwind, and the steward started afresh upon his dissertation:—

“That’s how it was,” said he; “when you come to think of it, it seems as if the lad ought to be locked up; killed a man and smashed his head in—that’s clear enough. But when they came to look into the case, and understood all about it, he turns out innocent.... That’s just what I was saying: If so be as a man’s really guilty, you’ve got to punish him; but, however much it looks as if a man was guilty, if you can prove him innocent, you should; and if you go and punish an innocent man, I say there isn’t any justice in it.... That’s what I think....”

“Ye-e-es,” remarked the shopkeeper, to whom the steward mainly addressed himself. Pouring out the remainder of his bottle of beer, he added: “Of course, it would really be fairer-like ... to do so ... that’s true. Give me another bottle.”

The steward uncorked a bottle, took the cork off the corkscrew, put it back in its place, came out of his bar, and brought the bottle to the shopkeeper. At that moment there rose from one of the sofas, pulling down a print shirt over an enormous paunch, another passenger, also a tradesman. He was a man of gigantic height, with a good-natured expression of face. He went up to the steward, and taking him by the shoulder, asked, with a slight smile—

“But the peasant, most respected sir, what about him? Is he guilty, or not?”

“What peasant?”

“Why, the one that came by his death—the old beggarman.... Whereabouts are we to place him in the matter? You see, you can put it how you like, but we can’t get over the fact that there’s a man missing! He lived, and he walked about, and said his prayers, and all the rest of it, and all of a sudden he’s not there.... What about him, then? What sort of position is he in?”

For a moment the steward was rather put out of countenance by this unexpected question, which greatly perplexed him. But his embarrassment was relieved by a general burst of laughter, in which he joined.

“Oh, that’s what you’re talking about! I thought you meant some other peasant.... Ye-e-es, that’s a sort of thing that one may call sudden.”

“That’s just it!” continued the fat man; “that’s always the way in these parts: everybody’s innocent, and before you’ve time to turn round, somebody’s given up the ghost in the middle of the scrimmage!”

“Yes, that’s very true; it does happen sometimes,” meekly assented the steward, going back into the bar; “it certainly happens sometimes.”

“It does, sir. And more than that happens sometimes—I ought to know that!... After all, that old man had made a mess of it, in one way, by going and hanging about the timber yard. You see, it wasn’t altogether at random; people should keep away from timber.... But sometimes it’ll happen this way: A man sits quiet, never mixes up in anything, fears God and honours his rulers, and does everything all right and proper, and all of a sudden, without either why or wherefore, people come and begin hitting him over the head and on the back, and boxing his ears, and knocking him down, and banging his head again, and giving him black eyes, and pitching him face downwards on the floor, and turning him over and kicking him, and poking his head into the gutter, ... and then afterwards, here you come and say, ‘nobody’s guilty’! And it turns out that the man who stuck your head in the gutter is as innocent as a dove. And the man who dragged you about face downwards is not guilty either!... And then, at the end, the man that got all the knocks turns out to be innocent, too.... ‘Go to your homes, good people; you’re all innocent!’ And all the same, when a man goes home, however much he’s proved innocent, his nose is broken and his mug’s all swelled-up, just as if—. Doesn’t seem to me to make much difference, whether he’s innocent or guilty; anyway, three teeth are knocked out of his jaw, and his arm’s broken, and he’s been shamed and disgraced, into the bargain. What’s one to think about that, in your opinion?”

“Ah! yes,” said the steward, quite subdued, and not even attempting to orate; “certainly that’s not good manners.”

“There you are! And yet nobody’s guilty.... One says: ‘I’ve got papers!’ and the next one says; ‘I’ve got papers!’ and the third one’s got papers, too.... But look here, my good sirs, I’d like to know what all this means! You’ve all got your papers, but I’ve got my own skin! I can buy all the paper I like for three kopecks, but I can’t buy a new jaw anyway.... Seems to me there’s a difference.”

The giant tradesman spoke with evident excitement; he gesticulated with his hands, grew red in the face, and finally, quite out of breath, sat down in the middle of his sofa.

“That’s the sort of thing that happens, gentlemen!”

“Yes, it does happen, of course,” assented one of the skinflints; “a man gets half smashed, and nobody’s to blame.”

“Exactly so,” said the tradesman; “maybe something of that kind has happened to you?”

But the skinflint only growled, lifted his saucer to his lips, and made no answer.

“Do you mean,” said one of the officers to the giant, “that anything of that kind has happened to you?”

“Not only ‘that kind,’ but such a thing happened to me, that I think if I’d given way to my feelings I should have come to grief altogether....”

“What was it all about?”

“That’s just exactly what I can’t tell you!... What did the lad smash the old man’s head about? There you are—it’s the same thing here. You see, it’s a sort of thing——”

The giant broke off, and began more composedly:—

“The main reason.... First of all, I must tell you about my illness. You see what sort of a stomach I’ve got!...”

“You surely don’t mean to say that a stomach could play any part in an affair of that kind?” interrupted one of the officers.

“Part! Such a part was played as I wouldn’t wish to a Tartar!”

“Because of your stomach?”

“That’s just the very reason that I can’t explain the whole thing properly to you. I’ll tell you just how it happened, from the beginning.”

“Very interesting to hear!”

“Well, you see, it was this way: This same stomach of mine was the root of all the mischief. It began to swell up when I was a little child. There weren’t any good doctors in those days: and people of our sort went to wise women, and soldiers, to be cured. We lived in the country, and kept the mill—it was a big mill. Well, there was a sort of barber fellow that set to work to cure me. He rubbed and smeared me, and he gave me stuff to drink, and he pulled me by the legs, and in fact he spoiled my inside altogether, so that I’ve never got well of it to this day—I’ve got some doctor’s stuff with me this very minute.... Very well, ... I must tell you that I live, with my wife and children, near Sousàlov—a district town it is—at the mill. I often go into town. Well, about three years ago a new apothecary came to the town, and I got to know him. So I thought: ‘I’ll make friends with him, and perhaps he’ll give me some help about this stomach of mine.’ Well, so I made acquaintance with him. He was a good, kind-hearted young fellow. So I told him all about it, and he thought it over, and gave me a box of pills. ‘You take these,’ says he, ‘and do as I tell you.’ And I wasn’t to eat this, and I wasn’t to drink that, and so on; he was very particular. So I began to take the pills, and I got better; and whenever I’d finished one box, I had another. Only the next thing that happened was that my inside got to want more and more of these pills; if ever I was without them it just half killed me. At first a box would last me a week; but, after a bit, I’d finish it up in one day. I went and talked about it to the apothecary. He thought it over, and, says he, ‘I’m afraid this is a bad business’; but, all the same, he risked it and went on. And at last he began making such pills for me that he’d put three doses into one pill, and when he rolled it up it would be as big as a walnut. However, I took them, and they did me no harm. All of a sudden, gentlemen, my apothecary leaves the town. ‘Where are you going?’ said I. ‘Can’t get on here,’ said he; ‘no profit.’ I was sorry to lose him; he was a good fellow, and then he’d helped me, too; but there was nothing for it—he went away. So I had to get on as best I could, now with one doctor, now with another. So it went on for about a year and a half; and my wife and I thought we’d build a house for ourselves in the main-town.[^[52]]... Because, you see, our children were growing up, and we had to put them to school. We wanted to do the best for them, and we’re not badly off; thanks be to God, we’ve money to pay with. We thought and thought it over, and at last we went to the town, and bought a bit of land, and started building. I used to go into town to see after the building, sometimes for three days at a time, sometimes for five. I often used to go into Moscow to buy materials. The main-town is on the railway, and only eighty versts from Moscow; it isn’t more than three hours in the train, so I found it cheaper to buy what I wanted in Moscow—nails and cramp-irons and all such things—for the house. Well, one day I was going into Moscow for things, and who should I meet in the train but my apothecary.... ‘Ah! it’s you, old fellow! How do you come here? Where have you been? Where are you going?’... We were right glad to meet again. Well, we got talking, of course; he told me about his affairs, and I told him about mine. He’d been in some other town, and hadn’t got on there either; and now he was going to Moscow. Then of course I told him how we were building a house. And after a bit we got talking of my illness. So I said to him: ‘For the Lord’s sake,’ says I, ‘help me like a good fellow; little father, give me some more pills! I’m half killed.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘if you like. When we get to Moscow,’ says he, ‘I’ll go into a chemist’s and get all the things, and make the pills at home, and give them to you.’ So we arranged where we were to meet. ‘Come to the Patrìkyevsky Tavern,’ says he, ‘the day after to-morrow. We’ll have some cabbage salad together, and talk over old times; and I’ll give you the pills.’ So that was all right....”

The narrative was interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the young fellow who had just told about the manslaughter. He came running nimbly down the steps and stopped at the door.

“What do you want?” asked the steward.

“Nothing; I just came.”

“I suppose you were beaten at cards?”

“I’ll beat them some day,” answered the lad, leaning against the lintel of the door, and rubbing one bare foot against the other.

“So that was settled,” continued the narrator, “I went about Moscow and bought the goods, and arranged my business properly, and at the time we’d agreed on I went to Patrìkyev’s. I walked through all the rooms, but my friend wasn’t there; so I sat down and waited, but he never came. I waited two whole hours, till at last I felt quite ashamed; so I ordered something, and ate it alone, and went away without him. Stupid-like, I’d forgotten to ask his address. ‘I shall have to wait another day,’ thought I, for I can’t get on without the pills. So I stopped another night, and next day, at the same time, I went to the tavern again. Still he wasn’t there! Well, there was nothing for it, I had to get back home. I didn’t go straight home, I went into the town, because I had bought some things—bottles, and flasks, and one thing and another.... I thought I’d manage to put up for the night there; the stove was all finished in the kitchen, and the windows were put in; so I went to the house. I’d got a peasant there for a watchman—Rodiòn his name was; there were ten carpenters in the house; they were just going to bed. I came in and told Rodiòn to heat the samovar. I noticed that he looked at me in a queer sort of way. He did what I told him, and all that, but I could see there was something wrong; I couldn’t rightly make it out.... He kept on looking at me.... I told him—‘Put down that box, and see you don’t set it too near the stove; for if it should get too warm—the Lord forbid!’... Because you see, I’d got varnish and spirit in the box.... Well, when I told him that, he just opened his eyes and stared at me. First he stared at me, and then he stared at the box. He stared, and stared, and then he went away. I sat and waited a quarter of an hour, but he didn’t come back; so I went out into the passage, and there stood the samovar, quite cold. ‘I wonder if he’s gone for water,’ I thought. I called, and called, and he didn’t answer. It was a wonderful sort of business altogether. I went and got out some dried fish (I’d brought two pounds of it from Moscow—good dried sturgeon, at eighty kopecks a pound)—I got out some fish, and cut a slice of white bread, and laid it on, and made a sort of sandwich, you know, and crossed myself, and just opened my mouth—the Lord make us truly thankful—when all of a sudden there was such a crackling and howling and blowing of whistles all round the house; and all the carpenters ran to the windows and stared like stuck pigs.... I threw down my sandwich and ran to the door, and knocked up right against a uniform. And there was Rodiòn pointing at me, and saying ‘That’s he!’ Seven or eight of them caught hold of me and began to drag me along; and I, of course, yelled and shouted, ‘Hold hard! What’s the matter?’—‘You’ll be told there!’—‘Anyway, let me dress myself,’ says I; ‘it’s autumn; it’s cold!’—‘We haven’t got any ladies!’... It was no use, they’d got me tight. I didn’t know what it was all about; I couldn’t make head or tail of it. And there they began dragging me along. And there were the carpenters and workmen and watchmen and doorkeepers—the Lord defend us! And why, and what it was all about, I couldn’t get the hang of it at all. ‘For mercy’s sake,’ I shrieked to them; ‘I’m a tradesman; I’m a householder; I’m a man of property; I’ve got a wife and children!’... And all the answer I got was: ‘Yes, by one of the stations in Moscow there were householders living, too, and they’d got their wives.’... When the people heard that, oho! you should have seen how they squared up to me! I saw it was a bad business; I’d got into hot water, and no mistake; and didn’t even know what for.... When they said that, I just felt my flesh creep.... I told them: ‘I’m innocent! May the lightning strike me dead if I.... I’ve prayed for him with tears.... I’d give my life for him!’... I was innocent before God; and yet I just shook all over! I began thinking: ‘Supposing there turns out to be some evidence! There may be something.... God knows! What will become of me then? What shall I do?’ My very inside got cold. Then I began thinking: ‘Heaven defend us! They’ll take my wife too; and it’ll kill her! She’d die if they just looked at her! What will she do when she hears about it?’ In fact, I lost my head altogether, and got so I couldn’t remember or think of anything; I just went on and on, shaking all over, and with no hat.... All of a sudden, what should come into my head: ‘Supposing it’s all a trick? There was a case in Moscow, at the Rogòzhskoye cemetery; they came in full uniform and took a lot of money, and went away; and then it turned out that they’d been only thieves.’ It just came into my head, and it made my very heart jump; and I said to myself: ‘Why, what a silly fellow I am to let them trick me like that! I left a lot of money in the house—over seven hundred roubles.... What’s the use of being such a fool?’ And directly that came into my head, I thought: ‘I’ll see if I can’t get myself out of the mess my own way;’ and I think, gentlemen, you can see for yourselves that I’m not much like a baby in arms.”... (The narrator here drew up his gigantic form to its full height, squared back his colossal shoulders, and, rolling up his sleeve, held out for inspection a mighty fist.)... “I think I’ve got what you may call means of defence. And here, at a time like that, I seemed all at once to gather up strength all over my body. I felt it rush into my neck and my chest and my legs; and into my arm there went such an iron strength of will that I just squared up, and made them see sparks enough to last their life-time; and hit and hammered, and banged and boxed, and punched their heads, and flattened their noses, and squeezed their ribs ... and when I looked round there was an empty space all about me, and there I stood alone in my shirt, like Mìnin and Pozhàrsky[^[53]] in the Red Square; and all the people kicking and wriggling about like fish thrown up on the bank: there was one head-downwards in a puddle; and another had got stuck fast in the wattle-fence, and was kicking away and couldn’t get out. In one word, I had scattered the might of the devil till it melted away like wax! So there I stood alone in the middle of the battle-field, and said: ‘What have you done with me, you villains?’”

At this point in his story the giant was magnificent to behold, but the lad who stood listening to him was still more magnificent. When the miller told how he had “hammered and banged,” accompanying the narration with appropriate gestures, the arms and legs and whole body of the lad were continually in motion. He was utterly unable, while looking at the miller, to refrain from imitating his gestures. He kept squaring his elbows, and thrusting his fist into empty space, and more than once came into collision with the thin red-wood door of the cabin.

“What are you smashing the door for, you heathen idol?” exclaimed the steward, severely. But though the lad glanced round at the words, he evidently did not understand them; and the miller, for his part, had worked himself up into such a state of fury that he paid no heed to either the lad or the steward or the audience, who could not refrain from smiling.

“‘What have you done with me, you shameless scoundrels?’” he continued, frantically. “‘What right have you? Do you think the law allows such things? Why, it’s robbery and violence! Come near me if you dare! I’ll kill you outright! I’ll tear you in pieces!...’ There I stood, blazing away at them, and never noticed that they were getting back their senses and coming at me again. Suddenly I looked back, and if there wasn’t the whole squadron coming up behind me.... Up they came; and if you’d seen the way they rushed at me from behind, and the way they set off shouting—it’s just a wonder I’m alive!... ‘Ah! so we’re attacked in the discharge of our duty! Ah! ah! ah! So that’s what you go in for!... You’ve got a box!... If that’s it, my lads, give the great hulking fellow what for!’”

Here the lad nearly choked with laughter, but restrained himself.

“‘Hammer him black and blue!...’ And what came next?... They blew their whistles, and sprang their rattles, and banged their truncheons, and fire seemed to come out of my head and out of my ears, and my neck was just like red-hot iron.... I heard some one say, ‘There’s an important telegram about him; he’s got a box.’... And I shouted to them, ‘There’s varnish in it—varnish!...’ ‘Oho! Varnish! Pay him out, my lads, pay him out well!’”

At this point the lad could restrain himself no longer; he burst out laughing, turned to run out into the passage, and striking his head violently against the lintel of the door, literally tumbled down at the foot of the stairs in a fit of laughter. The narrator looked severely at him, but continued—

“And my friends, they did pay me out! They paid me out in such a way that I lost my head altogether, and couldn’t tell where I was or what was happening. I didn’t even know whether I was alive or dead! I was just altogether——”

Here the narrator shrank down, let his arms hang helplessly, and began to speak in a kind of lifeless, almost abdominal voice.

“I could hardly move.... O Lord!... Holy Saints!... Holy Virgin!... I couldn’t even speak or breathe.... And I don’t remember whether I walked or whether they carried me.... I only know that I found myself in a dark place, and quite ill; all my bones ached, all my joints throbbed—I just lay and waited for death.”

The narrator sank slowly down upon the sofa.

“Good Lord! it’s dreadful even to remember, let alone—— Here, my good man, give me some lemonade and a glass of brandy.”

He addressed the last sentence to the steward in a tone of exhaustion; but, suddenly changing his manner, turned to the lad, and said, somewhat irritably—

“I’d like to know what you find to laugh at! What’s there to cackle about? Is there anything funny in an honest tradesman being half murdered?... Oh! of course it’s funny to you! You’re nothing but a baby, and anything can amuse you.... He’s a harmless child——”

Here the narrator turned to the audience.

“But he can take a great club, for all that, and smash a man at one blow! And then he’ll go back to his village as an innocent child, and hop about on one foot, and play skittles.... A fine sort of child you are! Pity no one’s got time to thrash you nowadays!”

“Come now!” muttered the lad, in an injured tone, from the passage.

“What do you mean by ‘come now’? Do you think I didn’t see the way you cackled?”

“What are you hanging about here for?” interposed the steward, glancing at the lad, as he carried to the miller a tray with lemonade. “You’ve no business here. Be off!”

“Where am I to go?”

“Be off, I tell you! You’ve smashed all the doors here! Get along with you!”

The lad reluctantly lounged up the stairs, but instead of going away, sat down on the top step.

“I should like to hear,” said one of the officers, “what had become of your apothecary.”

The narrator drank some lemonade, wiped his beard and moustache, and continued—

“The apothecary? He was in a bad way. The poor fellow was tearing along the post-road with express horses. They rushed him along like mad, and he didn’t know himself what for! ‘What it was all about,’ said he, ‘I can’t make out. I can’t understand anything about it.’ Those are the very words he said to me afterwards.... ‘When I got to Moscow,’ said he, ‘I went and took lodgings, and settled my business, and bought some things, and made the pills’; but something or other kept him, so that he couldn’t come to the tavern to meet me. He missed seeing me, and he hadn’t got my address; so he packed up the box of pills, and wrote my name on the packet, thinking he’d send them off next day. Just as he had finished doing that—it was in the evening time—one of his friends came in and said—

“‘Let’s go and hear the harp-playing girls outside the town.’

“‘All right.’

“So they took a drozhki, and off they went. Well, of course they took some of these sewing-girls with them for company, as any bachelors would.... So they drank, and larked about, and enjoyed themselves; and my apothecary came home as drunk as a lord. As soon as he got in, he just threw himself down on his bed and snored. All of a sudden some one began banging and hammering at the door as hard as they could; and as tight as he was, it woke him up. Well, he woke up and opened the door; and in came that very same Mediterranean squadron.[^[54]]

“‘Come with us, please.’

“‘Where to?’

“‘You’ll see.’

“‘But why, for mercy’s sake? What about?’

“‘You’ll know when you get there.’

“My apothecary began blustering at them in his tipsy way; but they only told him, ‘It’ll be the worse for you; you’d better come quietly.’ So there was nothing for it; he had to dress and go. He thought he’d best hide those pills before he started; but they asked him—

“‘What’s that parcel?’

“‘That?’ says he; oh, that’s nothing!’

“They saw he wanted to hide something from them, and caught hold of the parcel; but he was afraid to let them have it. Supposing any one should analyze the pills!... There was poison in them, and his name was written on the box. ‘And I was afraid,’ he told me afterwards, ‘to leave them in the lodgings either. Supposing anybody should take a fancy to them and swallow them, there’d be the devil to pay then!’ So he tried to hide the box up his sleeve; but they didn’t give him the chance. The end of it was that one of his visitors hit him on the shoulder, and the box tumbled out of his sleeve; and they picked it up, and marched him away. They took him to their central office; and in less than half-an-hour’s time some one came up to him, asked his name, bundled him into a troika,[^[55]] and—off!”

“What a disgraceful business! How could such a thing happen?” exclaimed one of the officers. “It must have been some absurd mistake.”

“Of course it was a mistake! Things like that always are mistakes. But who it was that made the mistake, that we don’t know to this day.”

“But no doubt it was afterwards proved to have been all nonsense.”

“Certainly; the truth came out, never fear. Everything was made clear enough afterwards, though even now we don’t understand anything about it.... My poor apothecary couldn’t make out what it was all about. He only just felt for his liver, to see if they hadn’t squashed it to pieces; and as for me, when I came to my senses, I couldn’t make head or tail of the whole thing....”

“And how was it all explained?”

“Listen then; I’ll tell you all as it happened.... What they did with me, and where they put me, after that fight, I really can’t rightly tell you. I can only say one thing: I suffered enough from mortal fear, that’s true, but they didn’t do me any harm; I’m bound to say they treated me kindly and politely, and altogether like real gentlemen.... I thought it would be worse; but instead of that they soon began to look into it, and clear matters up.”

“That’s just what I say,” interposed the steward; “they should have looked into it first, and not go hitting people right and left.”

“You’re right there,” assented the narrator; “and it all turned out as you say.... When they called me up before the Member[^[56]]—and there I was with my broken head all tied up in wet rags—he asked me—

“‘What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’

“‘Why, your Excellency,’ says I, ‘they knocked me about so!’

“‘What!’ he cried; ‘how dare they? On what ground?’

“So I told him they said they’d got a paper.

“‘Oh, the scoundrels!’ and you should have heard him give it to them! He pitched into them hot and strong; and at last he turned round to me and said—

“‘Just tell me what this is;’ and he showed me the box of pills.

“At first I wouldn’t let on that I knew anything about it, because I wasn’t sure what might be up. I thought to myself, ‘How should I know? Maybe the apothecary’s got into some mess or other. These are dangerous times; I may get into trouble if I say I know him.’ So I said, ‘I don’t know anything about it.’ Then he asked me, ‘Don’t you know a person named Làptev?’ (Làptev was the apothecary’s name, you know.) And I said again, ‘No, I don’t!’ Then he pulled out the canvas that the box of pills was done up in, and showed it to me, and there was written on the canvas—

“‘Ivàn Ivànovich Popòv. Packet from Làptev; price 1 rouble.’

“‘You are Popòv, aren’t you?’ says he.

“‘Yes.’

“‘And the packet is to you?’

“‘It must be.’

“‘Then you must know Làptev?’

“I saw I’d put my foot in it, and so I told him—

“‘Very sorry, your Excellency—yes, I know him.’

“‘Why didn’t you say so at once?’

“‘I was afraid to, your Excellency.’

“‘What were your afraid of?’

“‘I don’t know.’

“‘That’s odd!’

“‘I’m afraid of everything, your Excellency! They nearly killed me, and for the life of me I can’t make out why!’

“Well, when I said that he began to laugh, and said—

“‘Don’t you be afraid; just tell me the truth.’

“‘I’ll tell everything I know,’ said I. And he asked me—

“‘What did you want with poisoned pills?’

“‘Poisoned! Which way poisoned?’

“‘Why, there’s poison enough in those pills to kill a man! A man! They would kill a horse! What did you want with them?’

“‘I take them,’ said I; ‘my stomach’s out of order.’

“‘But they’re poison!’

“‘Not a bit of it! The Lord forbid! I’ve got into the way of it, little by little, and they do me nothing but good.’

“‘H’m! And who made them?’

“‘The apothecary, my friend.’

“‘Tell me all about it.’

“So I told him all I knew. I said—

“‘He promised to bring me the pills at Patrìkyev’s tavern, and he never came; and I don’t know where he went.’

“‘And where’s your apothecary now?’

“‘That,’ said I, ‘is more than I can tell your Excellency.’

“Well, he thought and thought, and he poked and poked over his papers; and then he rang the bell. And presently they brought in a young man; and his Excellency asked me—

“‘Is this the gentleman who made your pills?’

“I looked at him, but it was quite a strange man.

“‘No, sir,’ said I; ‘I never saw the gentleman in my life.’ And the young man said the same thing. They showed him the pills, and he looked at them, and said—

“‘I don’t understand anything about it.’

“So then his Excellency poked and poked over the papers, and then he rang the bell, and whispered with somebody, and then with somebody else, and then he sent away the young man; and at last he said to me—

“‘Yes, there’s been a mistake; I hope you will not take it amiss.’

“‘God bless me!’ said I; ‘I’m glad enough to be alive!’

“‘You see,’ said he, ‘it was this way: we’ve got another Làptev, the young man you just saw; and he’s concerned in a very bad business. We thought that he had made those pills. And when the doctors declared that they were poison, we thought of course there might be.... Then, you see, the box was addressed in your name, and so we sent word to have you arrested, ... and those blockheads of gendarmes went and played the very deuce.’

“‘Yes, indeed, your Excellency,’ said I; ‘I shan’t forget it in this life.’

“‘Well, really, you see, it can’t be helped; they’re stupid, ignorant men, and you know yourself what dangerous times we live in nowadays.’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘God knows the times are bad enough!’

“Well, so after that I felt a bit encouraged; and I asked him—

“‘Please, your honour, where is my apothecary?’

“‘That’s just the very thing I’ve got to find out,’ said he. ‘There seems to have been another mistake made over him.’ And he began telling me about it. ‘There must have been a muddle at the head office.... This young man’s name is Làptev too, and he was to be forwarded on; and it seems that, instead of him, they forwarded on your apothecary.... However, all that will be put straight.’

“‘And what’s to happen to me now,’ said I, ‘if you please?’

“‘You may go.’

“‘Go quite away?’

“‘Wherever you like. It was nothing but an absurd mistake.’”

“Why, yes, of course,” remarked the officer in a dignified manner, but in a certain tone of relief; “that was to be expected.”

“Yes,” continued the narrator; “‘a mistake,’ says he. ‘Ah, well,’ thought I to myself, ‘may the Lord be praised for that.’ I just gathered up my coat-tails, and off I went—it was after dark—to the railway station. And when I got to that cursed town of ours, I drove through it hiding my face, and went straight to my own farmhouse. I didn’t even go into the new house; and to this day I don’t care to live in it, as I hope to be saved! If anybody cared to buy it of me, I’d sell it at their own price. Well, I got to the farm, and shut myself up under lock and key, and wouldn’t let the workmen or clerks or any one come near me; I wouldn’t even have my wife and children about me. I couldn’t come to myself after it all; I wasn’t fit for anything; it seemed as if I couldn’t move a limb. I just ate and slept, ate and slept; that was all I cared to do.”

“That’s the way you took your recreation, I suppose,” asked one of the skinflints.

“You’re in too much of a hurry—recreation! Just hear what happened next.”

“You don’t mean to say anything more happened?” asked the officer.

“Oh, dear me! yes. You see, it was always one mistake after another; and we never could get to the root of the thing. You’ll see how it all came out at last.”

“And where was the apothecary?”

“You’ll hear; only I must tell you from the beginning. The apothecary’ll turn up if you wait a bit. Well, you see, I stopped at the farm a month, eating and sleeping, and unstiffening my joints in the bath; and I left the house in town to my nephew to look after; and, my word, he did give those scoundrels a lesson! He’s the lad to make the sparks fly! But all that doesn’t belong to the story. Well, as I said, I stopped there a month, resting and coming to my senses, when one day, who should come riding up but a mounted gendarme! My heart just leaped into my mouth! Lord have mercy upon us sinners! What could it be? He handed me a paper—a summons to appear in court ‘What for?’—‘It says there.’—So I read the paper; it was a summons to appear and answer for insulting the police in the discharge of their duty. Very good; I read it, and signed my name. But it just made my heart burn—that was really too much of a good thing! What sort of duty do they call that? I’m hit over the head, and I’m responsible! I can’t see much duty in promiscuous fisticuffing. ‘No, no, my friends,’ thought I to myself, ‘I’ve had enough of this; you’ve played your little game, and that’ll do. If his Excellency himself took my part, and let me go free as an innocent man, you needn’t think you can get the better of me, not a bit of it!’ I had a troika harnessed at once, went straight to the town, and telegraphed to Moscow for an advocate: ‘Fisticuffing versus Fisticuffing. Prosecution. Will pay 1,000 roubles.’ And a fine kettle of fish they got ready! So when the trial was to be, I went to Moscow with my wife. We got to the court quite early, before nine in the morning; and the trial wasn’t to begin till twelve; so we sat down in the porch to wait. All of a sudden up comes my apothecary. He came along dragging one foot after the other, all thin and shabby, for all the world like a beggar.—‘Where have you come from?’ I asked him.—‘That’s more than I know myself; my health’s gone to pieces; I’ve got rheumatism in both my legs; I’m half dead.’—And it was quite true; he had a cough, and couldn’t get his breath. He sat down on the step with us, and I said to him: ‘Well, well, friend! your pills have cost me something; I shall remember them, never fear!’—‘D’you think they didn’t cost me anything?’ says he.—And so he told me how it had all happened: how he missed me at the tavern, and all that I told you before. ‘To this day,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got back the use of my arm, since they hit me on the shoulder when they took away the pills,’

“HE CAME ALONG DRAGGING ONE FOOT AFTER ANOTHER.”

“‘But why didn’t you give up the pills?’

“‘I was afraid to; they were illegal pills. I made them for you, as a friend, because I know your temperament.’

So then I asked him how did the whole thing happen; and he told me—

“‘That’s just what I can’t make out for the life of me. They tore off with me to the other end of the world; and then there came a telegram: ‘Send him back; its the wrong man.’ So they brought me back; and I began asking at the head office what it was all about. They poked and muddled and fussed over their papers, and at last they got to the root of the whole matter. And what do you think it was? What do you suppose was the cause of it all?’

“‘How should I know? I’ve hardly got to the bottom of my own case yet.’

‘Well,’ says he, ‘it was all because of that scoundrel Lipàtkin.’

“Lipàtkin, I must tell you, is a shopkeeper in our town; he’s just a regular bloodsucker, and nothing else. So I asked him what Lipàtkin could have to do with it; and he said—

“‘When I had the business at Sousàlov, I hired rooms from him, and it was in the contract that I should repair the roof. Well, if you remember, I didn’t get on; and so I left the town and didn’t repair the roof, because, you see, as I had paid beforehand, and went away four months before the time was up, I didn’t see that I was bound to do it. I gave up my business, and off I went. But old Lipàtka[^[57]] thought he’d screw some money out of me; so he hunted up some pettifogging notary and scribbled off a complaint to the Medical Department at St. Petersburg, asking to have apothecary so-and-so forced to pay, and all the rest of it. Well, in the Medical Department they didn’t take the trouble to go into it; they just wrote off to the administration in my province. And when it got to the head office of the province, they mixed up one paper with another; and they wrote to the district office: ‘Summon the apothecary to explain.’ So when the paper got to the district, I wasn’t there, so they set to work and made up a third paper: ‘Find and forward apothecary.’ And off they sent it to Moscow. So in Moscow they hunted me up. As soon as ever I got to Moscow and handed in my passport to the police, of course they nabbed me. Well, then, of course there were those unlucky pills; they wanted to take them away, and I wouldn’t give them up, and tried to hide them. And so they began to suspect all sorts of things. And at last they got so muddled at the head office that they mixed everything up together, and somehow the devil got into the thing. And now that I’ve gone back to my lodgings, all my luggage is stolen, and I don’t know what on earth I am to do.’

“So I asked him what he was there for; and he said—

“‘Why, to answer that old bloodsucker’s summons.’

“‘About the roof?’

“‘Yes; still that confounded roof. He wants thirty-four and a half roubles; but I shan’t give him a penny. And I shall call him up for the four months’ over-payment. I’ve begun a counter-suit against him. Two can play at that game, my fine fellow! I’ve dug a little pit too! When they’ve heard both our cases, you’d better come to my lodgings to rest.’

“Well, the law-suits began. First of all they heard the case of the apothecary and Lipàtkin, and found for the apothecary, and Lipàtkin didn’t get a penny. So when that was done, they took up my case. Dear heart! what a business it was! I can tell you my great gun of a counsel hit the right nail on the head; he didn’t leave them a leg to stand on. At last the public prosecutor got up and said—‘No,’ says he, ‘it’s no use; I give it up.’ But mine never stopped; he just went on hammering and blazing, and letting off fireworks at them; and the end of it was they all got up and said: ‘He’s innocent!’ And there you are.”

“There’s a statute about that,” interrupted one of the skinflints: ‘In cases of reciprocal fisticuffing and mutual personal insults, all parties are innocent.’

“That’s just it. ‘You’re innocent,’ said they, ‘because the fisticuffing was reciprocal. You can go home.’ So we went out into the street, all the lot of us: the Mediterranean squadron, and the carpenters, and the doorkeepers, and I; and there we stood in the street, fifty or sixty of us, like so many green geese. You see, it was a bit strange; we’d been banging and slashing at each other like the biggest blackguards you could find; and here we come out as innocent as new-born babes. So there we stood on the pavement, as dumb as any stocks and stones. All of a sudden up comes that knave Rodiòn, with his cap off.”

“‘I’ve come to ask your honour’s pardon.’

“‘I should just think you had, after what you’ve done, you blockhead!’

“‘Well, I don’t know, sir.... We were told to let the police know, because there was one of those papers. People like us only have to do as we are told.... Just pass it over this once, sir, and take me on again.... The Lord will reward you for it.... It’s very hard on a poor man; it all comes upon us.’ Of course as soon as Rodiòn had done, a carpenter began—‘Forget and forgive, sir....’ You know yourself the times are so bad nowadays.... What could we do, when they said to us: “Mind you watch him carefully; he’s mixed up in a bad business!” ‘Don’t take it ill, sir.’... ‘So it was you, was it, you blockhead,’ I asked, ‘that got me into trouble?’ ‘If you please, sir, it was all of us. But, if you please, sir, it seems to me that we’re pretty well quits; for you’ve got a good-sized fist of your own, and you let us know it.’—Well, as soon as the carpenter had done, the gendarmes began: ‘It was all a misunderstanding; we’re very sorry.’ So I told them: ‘It’s all very well to be sorry; but what did you give me so many bruises for?’ ‘Well,’ said one, ‘you laid my cheek open.’ And then another put in: ‘We only obeyed orders; we had a telegram.... And you knocked me down, you know.... It was nothing but a misunderstanding.... We always.... As you’re a householder we’re very sorry....’ Then it was just the same with the apothecary; Lipàtkin came up and said: ‘Let’s make it up; don’t go to law against me.’ And the clerk of the police-station began excusing himself: ‘You know what troubled times we have nowadays! If a fellow has to sit the whole day long, from morning till night, writing Instantly, and Apprehend, and Produce, it’s not much wonder if he makes a mistake.... Such dangerous times!’... And they all came swarming round me together: ‘Such terrible times nowadays.... If it wasn’t for the times.... We’re very.... With the utmost respect.... Nothing but a mistake.’ And bless you! I understood that the blockheads only wanted to be treated all round! You see, they’d all been so very painstaking; and nobody was guilty; and yet there was no drink going! They thought I ought to have a glass with them. ‘No, no! my fine fellows,’ says I, ‘if you weren’t such a set of dunderheads and blundering asses the times wouldn’t be so dangerous. And the times would be very different too, if all you knaves had got a bit of conscience between the lot of you.’ And I just walked away with the apothecary; and not a drop of drink did any of them get.”

“Is that all?” asked the steward.

“Why, heart alive! isn’t it enough?”

THE SELF-SACRIFICING RABBIT.

By “SHCHEDRÌN” (SALTYKÒV).

One day, a rabbit incurred the displeasure of a wolf. You see, he was running along not far from the wolf’s lair, and the wolf saw him, and called out: “Little bunny! Stop a minute, dear!” But the rabbit, instead of stopping, ran on faster than ever. So the wolf, with just three bounds, caught him, and said—

“Because you did not stop when I first spoke, this is the sentence I pronounce: I condemn you to death by dismemberment. But, as I have dined to-day, and my wife has dined, and we have stored up food enough to last us five days, you sit down under this bush and wait your turn. Then perhaps—ha! ha! ha!—I will pardon you!”

So the rabbit sat on his haunches under the bush, and never moved. He thought of only one thing—how many days, how many hours would pass before he must die. He looked towards the lair, and saw the glittering eyes of the wolf watching him. And sometimes it was still worse; the wolf and his wife would come out into the field, and stroll up and down close by him. They would look at him, and the wolf would say something to his wife in wolf language, then they would burst out laughing, “Ha! ha! ha!...” And all the little wolf-cubs would come with them, and run up to him in play, rub their heads against him, gnash their teeth.... And the poor rabbit’s heart fluttered and bounded.

Never had he loved life so well as now. He was a highly respectable rabbit, and had chosen for a bride the daughter of a widowed lady-rabbit. At the moment when the wolf caught him by the neck, he was just running to his betrothed.

And now she, his betrothed, would wait, and think, “My squint-eyed one has forsaken me!” Or perhaps—perhaps she has waited—waited ... and loved another, ... and ... Or it may be ... she, too, ... playing, poor child, among the bushes, caught by a wolf!...

Tears almost choked the poor fellow at this thought. “And this is the end of all my warrens in the air! I, that was about to marry, had bought the samovar already, looked forward to the time when I should drink tea with sugar in it with my young wife,—and now, instead, what has befallen me!... How many hours now till death?”...

One night he fell asleep where he sat. He dreamed that the wolf had appointed him his special commissioner, and while he was absent, performing his duties, the wolf paid visits to his lady-rabbit.... Suddenly he felt some one touching his side; he awoke, and saw the brother of his betrothed.

“Your bride is dying,” said he. “She heard of your misfortune, and sank at once under the blow. Her one thought now is, ‘Must I die thus, and not say farewell to my beloved?’”

At these words the condemned one felt as though his heart would burst. Oh, why! How had he deserved his bitter fate? He had lived honestly, he had never stirred up revolutions, had never gone about with firearms, he had attended to his business—and must he die for that? Death! Oh, think what that word means! And not he alone must die, but she too, his little grey maiden-rabbit, whose only crime was that she had loved him, her squint-eyed one, with all her heart! Oh, if he could, how he would fly to her, his little grey love, how he would clasp his fore-paws behind her ears, and caress her, and stroke her little head!

“Let us escape,” said the messenger.

At these words the condemned one was for a moment as if transformed. He shrank up altogether, and laid his ears along his back. He was just ready to spring, and leave not a trace behind. But at that moment he glanced at the wolf’s lair. The rabbit heart throbbed with anguish.

“I can’t,” he said; “the wolf has not given me permission.”

All this time the wolf was looking on and listening, and whispering softly in wolf language with the she-wolf. No doubt they were praising the rabbit’s noble-mindedness.

“Let us escape,” said the messenger once more.

“I can’t,” repeated the condemned.

“What treason are you muttering there?” suddenly snarled the wolf.

The rabbits stood as petrified. Now the messenger was lost too. To incite a prisoner to flight—is that permitted? Ah! the little grey maiden-rabbit will lose both lover and brother; the wolf and the she-wolf will tear them both in pieces.

When the rabbits came to their senses, the wolf and the she-wolf were gnashing their teeth before them, and in the darkness their eyes shone like lamps.

“Your Excellency, it was nothing: we were just talking; ... a neighbour came to visit me,” stammered the condemned, half dead with terror.

“Nothing! I dare say! I know you! Butter won’t melt in your mouths! Speak the truth. What is it all about?”

“It’s this way, your Excellency,” interposed the bride’s brother. “My sister, his betrothed, is dying, and asks, may he not come to say farewell to her?”

“H’m! It’s right that a bride should love her betrothed,” said the she-wolf. “That means that they will have a lot of little ones, and there will be more food for wolves. The wolf and I love each other, and we have a lot of cubs. Ever so many are grown up, and now we have four little ones. Wolf! wolf! shall we let him go to take leave of his betrothed?”

“But we were to have eaten him the day after to-morrow——”

“I will come back, your Excellency. I’ll go like a flash; I—indeed.... Oh, as God is holy, I’ll come back!” hurriedly exclaimed the condemned. And, in order to convince the wolf that he could move like a flash, he sprang up with such agility that even the wolf looked at him admiringly, and thought—

“Ah! if only my soldiers were like that.”

And the she-wolf became quite sad, and said—

“See that, now! A rabbit, and how he loves his she-rabbit.”

There was nothing for it; the wolf consented to let the rabbit go on parole with the stipulation that he should return exactly at the appointed time. And he kept the bride’s brother as hostage.

“If you are not back the day after to-morrow by six in the morning,” he said, “I’ll eat him instead of you; then if you come I’ll eat you too; perhaps, though, I’ll—ha! ha!—pardon you!”

The squint-eyed one darted off like the arrow from the bow. The very earth quivered as he ran. If a mountain barred his way, he simply dashed at it; if a river, he never stopped to look for a ford, but swam straight across; if a marsh, he sprang from tuft to tuft of grass. Not easy work! To get right across country, and go to the bath, and be married (“I will certainly be married!” he kept repeating to himself), and get back in time for the wolfs breakfast....

Even the birds wondered at his swiftness, and remarked—

“Yes, the Moscow Gazette says that rabbits have no souls, only a kind of vapour, and there it goes.”

At last he arrived. Tongue cannot speak, neither can pen write the rapture of that meeting. The little grey maiden-rabbit forgot her sickness at the sight of her beloved. She stood up on her hind paws, put a drum upon her head, and with her fore-paws beat out the “Cavalier March”; she had been practising it as a surprise for her betrothed. And the widowed lady-rabbit completely lost her head with joy; she thought no place good enough for her future son-in-law to sit in, no food good enough to give him. Then the aunts and cousins and neighbours came running from all sides, overjoyed to see the bridegroom, and perhaps, too, to taste the good cheer.

The bridegroom alone was not like himself. While still embracing his betrothed, he suddenly exclaimed—

“I must go to the bath, and then be married at once.”

“Why should you be in such a hurry?” asked the mother rabbit, smiling.

“I must go back. The wolf only gave me leave of absence for one day.”

Then he told them all, and his bitter tears flowed as he spoke. It was hard to go, and yet he must not stay. He had given his word, and to a rabbit his word is law. And all the aunts and cousins declared with one voice: “Thou speakest truth, oh squint-eyed one. Once given, the spoken word is holy. Never in all our tribe was it known that a rabbit was false to his word!”

A tale is soon told, but a rabbit’s life flies faster still. In the morning they greeted the squint-eyed one, and before evening came he parted from his young wife.

“Assuredly the wolf will eat me,” he said. “Therefore be thou faithful to me. And if children shall be born to thee, educate them strictly; best of all, apprentice them in a circus; there they will be taught not only to beat the drum, but also to shoot peas from a pop-gun.”

Then suddenly, as though lost in thought, he added, remembering the wolf—

“It may be, though, that the wolf will—ha! ha!—pardon me!”

And that was the last of him they saw.

---

Meantime, while the squint-eyed one was making merry and getting married, great misfortunes were happening in the tract of country which divided him from the wolfs lair. In one place heavy rains had fallen, so that the river, which the rabbit swam across so easily the day before, overflowed and inundated ten versts of ground. In another place King Aaron declared war against King Nikìta, and a battle was pitched right in the rabbit’s path. In a third place the cholera appeared, so that quarantine was established for a hundred versts round. And, besides all that, wolves, foxes, owls—they seemed to lie in wait at every step.

The squint-eyed one was prudent; he had so calculated his time as to leave himself three hours extra; but when one hindrance after another beset him his heart sank. He ran without stopping all the evening, half the night; the stones cut his feet, the fur on his sides hung in ragged tufts, torn by the thorny branches, a mist covered his eyes, blood and foam fell from his mouth,—and still he had so far to go! And his friend, the hostage, haunted him constantly, as though alive before him. Now he stands like a sentinel in front of the wolfs lair, thinking: “In so many hours my dear brother-in-law will return to deliver me.”... When the rabbit thought of that, he darted on yet faster. Mountains, valleys, forests, marshes—it was all the same to him. Often he felt as though his heart would break; then he would crush it down, by sheer force of will, that fruitless emotion might not distract him from his great aim. He had no time now for sorrow or tears: he must think of nothing but how to tear his friend from the wolf’s jaws.

And now the day began to break. The owls and bats slipped into their hiding-places; the air became chilly. Suddenly all grew silent, like death. And still the squint-eyed one fled on and on, with the one thought ever in his heart: “Shall I come too late to save my friend?”

The east grew red; first on the far horizon the clouds were faintly tipped with fire; then it spread and spread, and suddenly—a flame. The dew flashed on the grass, the birds awoke, the ants and worms and beetles began to move, a light smoke rose from somewhere; through the rye and oats a whisper seemed to pass—clearer, clearer.... But the squint-eyed one saw nothing, heard nothing, only murmured to himself again and again: “I have destroyed my friend,—destroyed my friend!”

At last, a hill! Beyond that was a marsh, and in the marsh the wolf’s lair.... Too late, oh squint-eyed one, too late!...

With one last effort he put forth all his remaining strength, and bounded to the top of the hill. But he could go no further; he was sinking from exhaustion. And must he fail now?...

The wolf’s lair lay before him as on a map. Somewhere far off six o’clock struck from a church steeple, and every stroke of the bell beat like a hammer on the heart of the agonized creature. At the last stroke the wolf rose from his lair, stretched himself, and wagged his tail for pleasure. Then he went up to the hostage, seized him in his fore-paws, and stuck the claws into his body, in order to tear him in two halves, one for himself, the other for his wife. And the wolf-cubs surrounded their father and mother, gnashing their teeth and looking on....

“I am here!—Here!” shrieked the squint-eyed one, like a hundred thousand rabbits at once; and he flung himself down from the hill into the marsh.

And the wolf praised him.

“I see,” he said, “that a rabbit’s word can be trusted. And now, my little dears, this is my command: Sit, both of you, under this bush, and wait till I am ready, and afterwards I will ... ha! ha! ... pardon you!”

CHOIR PRACTICE.

BY

V. A. Slyeptzòv.

At about six in the evening the singers assembled at the choir-master’s house. After rubbing their boots on the mat in the hall, they went into the ante-room, which contained an old rickety sofa, a wardrobe, and a fat chest of drawers. For want of room the out-of-door garments were flung in a heap on the sofa or chest of drawers. Here, too, there was a sort of mat on the floor, upon which the singers were expected to rub their feet. At the door leading into the inner room stood the choir-master himself—a man of about forty, of middle height, with an expressive face and short-cropped whiskers. He stood in his dressing-gown with a pipe in his hand, watching to see that the singers rubbed their boots properly. In the inner room, on the table, burned one tallow candle, dimly lighting up a large stove in the corner, a sofa, a piano covered with music, a red wooden cheffonier, several chairs, and a violin hanging on the wall. On the opposite wall hung a portrait of the Metropolitan Filarèt, a clock, and a starched shirt-front. The room was crowded and musty, smelling of stale tobacco, and when any one coughed, the lack of resonance became noticeable. On entering the room the singers bowed, blew their noses (we will not inquire how), and sat down silently. They came in not all together, but in little groups; and every time that the rubbing of boots and blowing of noses was heard in the ante-room, the choir-master would ask—

“Now, are you all here?”

Then a voice would answer from the dark ante-room—

“Not yet, sir.”

“Trebles and altos, don’t come in; stop outside till your boots are dry,” said the choir-master, meeting at the door a fresh crowd of boys.

The trebles and altos stopped outside, and instantly began playing tricks. The tenors and basses either sat smoking or walked up and down the room talking together softly.

“Now then!” said the choir-master; “are you all here?”

“All here, Ivàn Stepànych,”

“Koulìkov, give out Berioùzov’s Credo.”

The singers began coughing, straightening their neckties, jerking their trousers, and otherwise preparing for their work. One of the tenors, who served as assistant to the choir-master, handed round the music.

The boys, called in from the ante-room before they had had time to finish their tricks, continued pinching each other and treading on each other’s toes after their parts had been handed to them. The choir-master scolded them incessantly, but it was evident that they had not much fear of him.

“Now then! Make haste and begin! Get to your places!” said the choir-master. “Koulìkov, have you tried through The Gates of Mercy with the trebles?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the pale, curly-haired tenor. “Only I wanted to speak to you about Pètka; I simply can’t do anything with him! He sings so flat that there’s no bearing it. Indeed, he does nothing but put the others out.”

“Pètka, how much more trouble am I to have with you? Take care, my boy; I shall have to take you in hand soon!”

Pètka, a jolly-looking, sharp-eyed treble, put on a serious face, and steadily perused his music.

“Place yourselves! Place yourselves!” shouted the choir-master, sitting down to the piano. “Who’s that smelling of whiskey? Mirotvòretz, is that you?—For shame!”

“It’s what I use to rub my feet, Ivàn Stepànych; I’ve caught cold, and I was advised to rub them with spirits.”

“Caught cold, indeed! At the funeral yesterday, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m, so I see.... Your face looks drunk enough.”

“No, sir ... indeed....”

“There, there! Never mind! Gentlemen, you’re placed all wrong! Basses, don’t you know you have to stand by the stove?”

The basses sullenly went across to the stove.

“And you, Pàvel Ivànych? One might as well talk to a baby as to you, for all the notice you take!”

Pàvel Ivànych, a gloomy, unshaven, deep-bass singer, stared meditatively at the ceiling.

“Pàvel Ivànych!”

“What?”

“What did I say to you?—And all you answer is, ‘What?’ Confound it all, man, where’s your place?”

Pàvel Ivànych gazed meditatively at his music, and never moved.

“Ivàn Stepànych, Pètka’s hitting me,” whimpered an alto.

“Pètka!”

“Ivàn Stepànych, I didn’t——”

“Hold your tongue before I come and make you. Now, then!”

The choir-master struck several chords.

“Now listen! You all begin piano: ‘I believe in one God the Father Almighty,’ ... recitative, you know; and mind every word is clear. The basses must get their vowels out well.... Pàvel Ivànych! Where are you looking?”

“I?”

“No, I, of course! What do you suppose I’m talking to you for? Oh! good heavens, what a life! Well now, you begin piano; and, trebles, mind you don’t drag! Do you hear? ‘By whom all things were made!’ All the parts break up here! Sforzando: ‘By whom all things!’ ... D’you understand? Pètka, look at me! ‘And the third day He rose again, according to the Scriptures.’... Forte. ‘And sitteth on the right hand.’ ... Fortissimo.... Do you understand what it means? Do you? ‘From thence He shall come again with glory to judge both the quick and the dead.’... Think what it means—the earth, the heavens, everything, going to dust ... and the last trumpet,—lightning,—thunder,—everything annihilated!... ‘Whose kingdom shall have no end.’... At ‘end’ you have another diminuendo, and let the voices die away. You have to express all that great—how do you call it?—wisdom, and power, and eternity, ... don’t you see? Basses lead. Bring out all the tone you can; it wants to be like three hundred voices here! Tenors, change tone; take the octave! Trebles and altos: tra-la-la-la-la.... Stop!”

The choir-master had got so absorbed in describing how the Creed ought to be sung, that he had started up from the piano, and, imagining that it was really being sung as he said, began gesticulating and excitedly nudging the tenors, who edged away as far as they could. The basses, meanwhile, were taking snuff indifferently, while the trebles and altos, hiding their faces behind their music, were pinching each other and giggling. At last the singing began in good earnest; they all coughed, shuffled their feet, mumbled a little, and suddenly burst out in a roar: “I believe in one God the Father Almighty.”... The choir-master stood in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, nodding his head and beating time with his hand.

“Stop! Stop! Not that way!”

The singing broke off.

“What do you want to roar like bulls for? Basses! Pàvel Ivànych, what did I say to you? Anybody would think you were gone daft! Koustòdiev, where are you looking? And you a clerical![^[58]] How can you behave so?”

Koustòdiev, a burly, red-eyed bass, with stubbly hair sticking up in disorder, frowned at his music and made no answer.

“It’s no matter what one says to you people; you take not a bit of notice. I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourselves; you’re not children, I should hope—you might have a little sense! Why, you’ve got children of your own; it’s pardonable in them,” added the choir-master, pointing to the trebles and looking reproachfully at the basses.

Koustòdiev muttered something inaudible.

“What? Now then, begin again! Remember what I said: recitative: and, basses, don’t roar!—Don’t roar!” shrieked the choir-master when the singers began once more: “I believe.”...

“Pàvel Ivànych, what are you bellowing for? Do you want to frighten us all?—Mìtka, don’t snuffle!”

“Very God of Very God, begotten, not made.”...

“Legato! Hold the note.... Break off! Basses, crescendo.... Ivàn Pàvlovich, as loud as you can. ‘By whom all things were made.’... What do you stop for? Oh, dear, oh, dear; what am I to do with you? Look this way, I tell you; look this way! I didn’t tell you to look at me; there’s nothing written on me!” cried the choir-master desperately, tapping the music.

The singers looked at him in a languid, careless way, and he began to lose his temper. Suddenly one of the trebles pulled another’s ear, which instantly resulted in a quarrel.

“Ivàn Stepànych,” said one of the most troublesome, “I can’t sing with Mìtka; he keeps on snuffling all the time.”

“Mìtka!”

“Yes, sir!”

“What are you doing?”

“I haven’t done nothing,” replied the injured alto.

“Nothing! I’ll give you what for, my lad! Come and stand over here; I won’t put up with much nonsense, I can tell you! Oh, good Lord! what a dog’s life! What do you come here for, if you please? To dance and sing comic songs, eh? Oh, heavens, how much more of it?... Pètka, find my pipe!”

Here the choir-master began tramping up and down the room, ruffling up his hair in front. The trebles all scrambled to pick up the pipe, and, of course, got fighting again; the rest of the choir broke into little groups and talked.

“Confounded idiot!” muttered the stubbly-haired bass, rolling up a bit of music-paper into a cigarette. “He’s a regular brute, that’s what he is!”

In a corner sat two basses and a thin, consumptive tenor.

“I’ve sung through four services this blessed day,” one of the basses was saying, “and I’m downright tired of it; my throat’s quite sore. First I sang at the early service, then in another church at high mass, then at vespers at the Holy Virgin’s church, and then at a funeral. I got Kouznetzòv to come to the Holy Virgin’s, and we had a rare lark with the deacon;—I told him we would! I tell you, that deacon won’t forget us in a hurry—the way we put him out! When he started on one note, we got on to another. You know, he always tries to take ‘Give ear’ as high as he can, so as not to have to take the octave—his voice is fit for nothing;—so when we started ‘Glory be to Thee’ a whole tone lower, he was just done for. ‘For ever and ev——’ and there he stuck—couldn’t get a word out for the life of him. And that scamp Kouznetzòv, there he stood saying his prayers as if it wasn’t his doing a bit; bowing and crossing himself, as pious as you please. I nearly died of laughing. Oh, and what a rage the priest is in—my word! After service the deacon came up to the chancel, and says he: ‘Wait a bit, my fine fellow; I’ll serve you a trick.’... But that’s all nonsense. What can he do to him?”

“But what did the priest say?” asked the consumptive tenor.

“What’s it to him? He said, ‘I’m not going to take that deacon’s part.’ So you see, we can do as we like.”

“Get to your places; make haste,” interrupted the choir-master’s voice. “Koulìkov! ‘We sing to Thee.’ Trebles hold your tongues!”

The singers once more ranged themselves in order; the choir-master took his place at the piano.

“Do—mi—la. Pianissimo. One!”

“We sing to Thee, we bless——”

“Stop! How many times am I to tell you? What are you doing? What sort of thing do you call that? Now I ask you, what are you doing? Skvortzòv, what are you doing?”

Skvortzòv meditated.

“What am I a-doin’? I’m a-singin’.”

“What are you singing?”

“Sing to Thee——”

“And I tell you that you’re hacking wood, not singing!”

Skvortzòv smiled.

“What’s there to laugh at? There’s nothing funny about it. Who’s the first to ask for his salary? You. Eh—h—h—you clumsy sledge-hammers! How many times have I told you? Tenors, don’t bawl, take your vowels properly. ‘Weeee siiiiing tooooo Theeeeeee!’ You always make it sound like, ‘Wwwwe sssssssingg tttto Ththththee!’ What sort of music do you call that? Begin again. ‘We give thanks to Thee.’ Tenors, just touch the note and break off. Altos ought to ripple along like a brook. Trebles, die away.”

At last they got into swing. The basses left off sledge-hammering, the trebles died away, the altos rippled, the tenors “touched” their note and broke off, and the choir-master accompanied. Suddenly, in the midst of the singing, there resounded a smart box on the ear, given to one of the altos for singing flat and not rippling properly, but that in no way disturbed the music. The alto only blinked a little and went on singing.

“AT LAST THEY GOT INTO SWING.”

“And we worship Thee,” roared the basses with the most ferocious faces they could put on.

“Oh-h-h Lo-o-rd,” quavered the tenors, throwing back their heads and wagging their voices as a dog wags its tail.

“And wee-e-e wo-o-or-ship Th-ee-ee-ee,” bellowed, like an ophicleide, the stubbly-haired bass, savagely rolling the whites of his eyes and looking ready to tear some one in pieces.

At this moment there was a knock at the door. The singing broke off again.

“Who’s that?” shouted the choir-master, angry at being interrupted.

The deacon came in; a short, thick-set man of about forty-five, in a long-tailed coat, and with whiskers completely surrounding his face, after the fashion of anthropoid apes. He made a slow salute, and uttered the conventional salutation: “My respects.”

“Ah, Vasìli Ivànych. Sit down, please. Won’t you have a pipe?” The choir-master had suddenly become very amiable.

“Thank you, don’t trouble, I have cigars. I am disturbing you, am I not?”

“No. We were just going through the old things, so as not to forget them. Sit down Vasìli Ivànych. Will you have some tea? I’ll order it at once, in a minute.”

The choir-master half-opened a door leading into a bedroom, thrust in his head and said softly to his wife, who was lying on the bed—

“Vasìli Ivànych has come. Think yourself. You know we can’t——”

“Yes, you’ll be inviting twenty people here next, and giving them tea,” answered his wife.

“I didn’t invite him; he came.”

“There, there; get along with you.”

“Well, but, really, you might——”

“Shut up!”

“All right, I won’t, I won’t really.”

And the choir-master returned into the sitting-room, and sat down beside the deacon.

“Well, Vasìli Ivànych, and how are you getting on?”

“Pretty middling, thank you,” answered the deacon, coughing.

“Won’t you really have a pipe?”

“No, thanks.”

“Ah, I forgot, you don’t smoke pipes; and I have no cigars. Dear, dear, what a pity! And is your wife pretty well, and the children?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“That’s all right.”

“And how’s the reverend father?”

“The father? Oh, as usual, you know.”

“Not well?”

“He doesn’t like this place; there’s such a lot of work, and at his age it’s hard.”

“Yes, yes, he’s getting on. Yes, it’s a pity.”

Silence.

“Won’t you have some whiskey?” suddenly asked the choir-master.

“Whiskey? Oh, no, thank you, no.”

“As you like. I’ll send for it, if you wish.”

“Why should you—trouble?”

“Oh, it’s no trouble. I’ll send, then.”

The deacon coughed again, much as if a crumb had got into his throat, and carefully examined the ceiling.

“Fèkla!” called the choir-master rather timidly.

There was no answer.

Several minutes of embarrassing silence followed. The tenors and basses cautiously seated themselves round the walls, while in the bedroom the furniture creaked angrily; the boys whispered in the ante-room. The choir-master sat looking at the door, but, seeing that the servant did not come, muttered to himself: “What’s come to her?” and went into the bedroom. There another whispered conversation began.

“Can’t you understand?” exclaimed the choir-master, trying to impress upon his wife the necessity of sending for whiskey.

“There’s nothing to understand. I know you’re always glad of a chance to get drunk with anybody. What’s the use of trying to fool me?”

“Sh-sh! How am I trying to fool you? Can’t you see that my reputation may suffer?”

“From the drink? Yes, I should think so. Be off with you—be off!”

“Now, really, Màshenka, do be reasonable.”

Presently the choir-master returned, and after him came the maid-servant, carrying a tray with a decanter and a plate of cucumbers.

“Ah-h! Put it down here, my girl. Vasìli Ivànych, the first glass is yours.”

“Won’t you drink too?”

“You first; you are a guest.”

“Properly, the master of the house ought to begin,” said the deacon, modestly.

“No, no, you first, please. I’ll drink afterwards.”

“Well, if you will have it so....”

The deacon drained his glass, drew a long breath, snuffed at a bit of bread, and began upon a cucumber.

“Yes, this music is a wonderful thing,” began the choir-master, pouring himself out some whiskey. “It’s a thing there’s no comprehending. Won’t you have another glass?”

“H’m. Well, I’m afraid it’ll be too much.”

“Oh, Vasìli Ivànych, no!”

“Well, then, you begin.”

And the former ceremony was gone through again.

“Your health!”

“Yours!”

The deacon drank another glassful and gazed meditatively at the cucumbers. The poor singers looked very miserable. The stubbly-haired bass stared gloomily at the decanter; the tenors tried to distract their minds from temptation by talking together, but the conversation halted.

“Koulìkov!” said one.

“Well?”

“What time is mass to-morrow?”

“How should I know? What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.”

Another tenor was remarking to a friend—

“Look here, when you write out music, you ought to put the sharps bigger. I always get wrong.”

“All right.”

“I shall go home and get to bed,” murmured one of the basses, yawning.

The boys in the ante-room had started some game there in the dark.

After the third glass the choir-master became sentimental and embraced the deacon.

---

The whiskey was nearly all drunk—only two glassfuls were left. The choir-master, holding on to the table with one hand and leaning against the deacon, tried to snuff the candle, but could not. The deacon had got upon his dignity, and would listen to nothing.

“Vasìli Ivànych! Vasìli Ivànych!” cried the choir-master, frowning.

“No, I won’t, then!” answered the irate deacon.

“Won’t you, my friend? Oho! Very well, you remember that. I’ll remind you of it; I’ll remind you!” said the choir-master, threatening him with something unknown. Then, seeing that his menaces had no effect, he suddenly became affectionate. The deacon, pacified, drank another glass.

“There now! There’s a good fellow! Kiss me, old man, and let’s be friends. You and I are both ... psalm singers.... We ought to be friends ... eh?” said the choir-master, tapping the deacon on the chest. “I’m not a common sort of man either, I can tell you; you needn’t mind my looking a bit queer.... Just see what a wife I’ve got, eh? She’s a civic councillor’s daughter. D’you understand that?”

“’Course I do ... ’tisn’t a syntax ... nothing much to understand.”

“Ah! I tell you that woman’s an angel. I’m not worthy of her. I feel myself I’m not. I’ve held an officer’s rank for fifteen years, and I’ve got a medal belonging to me, but all the same I’m not worth her little finger.”

An angry murmur came from the bedroom.

“There! D’you hear? She’s angry. She doesn’t like to be praised before people. She’s modest. I tell you I never saw any one so modest.... You’ll hardly believe it.... Why, sometimes, when we’re alone——”

The sounds from the bedroom grew more threatening.

“Ivàn Stepànych, Missis is angry,” said the servant, suddenly entering.

“Sh—sh! All right, all right, I won’t,” whispered the frightened husband. “I’m very sorry. I won’t....”

The deacon got up to go home.

“Vasìli Ivànych! Where are you going? Listen, my dear fellow.” He took the deacon mysteriously into a corner.

“What should I listen to? That’s all nonsense!”

“No, no. I’ll send for some more. One of the boys’ll run for it quick. She won’t know. Secretly; d’you see? There’s no difficulty. Own money.... Just see there,” and the choir-master pulled a rouble note out of his waistcoat pocket.

“Only do as I tell you! It’s all according to law.... D’you see?”

The deacon nodded his head and laid down his hat. At this the choir-master clapped him on the shoulder and winked significantly.

“Pètia!” he whispered, going into the ante-room, and shaking a slumbering treble. “Pètia, make haste! Like a flash of lightning, you know—to the publichouse. Off with you!”

Five minutes later the choir-master was pouring out a sixth glass for the deacon. It was only then that he suddenly remembered the tenors and basses, who, not able to endure this sight any longer, had in sheer desperation made up their minds to go home.

“Come along, come along! What are you afraid of?” said the choir-master, with a faint attempt to keep up his dignity in the eyes of his subordinates. The singers started, and one after another came up to the table. Koustòdiev took a glass, looked at it, held it up to the light, and suddenly, as if struck with a new idea, turned it upside down into his mouth, without eating anything.

“Pàvel Ivànovich, and you?”

Pàvel Ivànovich modestly declined.

“Why?”

“Thanks, I won’t take any.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Why not?”

“N—no, I ... really——”

“Rubbish!”

“No; you must excuse me. I have taken a pledge.”

“When?”

“More than a month ago.”

“As you like.”

Pàvel Ivànovich reddened and sat down; the other singers began to make fun of him. The choir-master, meanwhile, had worked himself up to such a condition of temerity that he no longer took any notice of the ominous symptoms of an approaching domestic storm which were plainly audible from the bedroom. By the time the second pint of spirit was finished the singers had arrived at the stage of walking unceremoniously up and down the room, and had begun to talk so loud that their conversation sounded remarkably like quarrelling. The room grew close and stifling, the candle began to flare, the deacon’s cigar-smoke got into the people’s eyes. The choir-master, holding the deacon by his coat-button, assured him for the tenth time (à propos of nothing) that his wife was an angel, and that but for her he should have come to utter ruin. The conversation then jumped with extraordinary rapidity back to music, and the deacon affirmed that C sharp major and G minor are the same, and that the whole thing depends upon how you breathe, and finally proved to demonstration that “all these composers” ought long ago to have been kicked down stairs. Notwithstanding all this, the choir-master once more went into the ante-room, waked Pètia, and sent him for a third pint.

“No, no; wait a bit! Just hear what I tell you!” yelled the choir-master, holding the deacon by the coat.

“All that’s idle talk.”

“No, no; I’ll prove it,” shrieked the choir-master. “See now! Where is my music got to? Ah, there now, I forgot to send for the supper ... Fèkla!”

The angry face of the maid-servant appeared at the door.

“Fèkla!” said the choir-master in a stern voice, trying hard not to stagger; “go and fetch some cucumbers.”

“Missis told me not.”

“Then you won’t go?”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then you’re a pig. I’ll go myself.”

“Go then! Missis’ll give you what for.”

However, after thinking it over, the choir-master decided not to go, and only shouted at her:

“Be off with you! Yah! Scandalmonger!”

“THE DEACON WENT HOME.”

The servant went away. Presently a third pint was brought in and the basses and tenors once more crowded round the decanter. Suddenly the choir-master quite unexpectedly sat down at the piano, struck a few chords, and shouted: “Get to your places!” The sleepy boys came in from the ante-room, and the whole choir stood in a crowd together.

“See, the light is dying,

See, the time is flying....”[^[59]]

yelled the choir-master, hammering unmercifully on the keys.

“The lasses went to the fields to play,

Among the grasses and flowers gay.”[^[59]]

bellowed the choir.

“Oh, my bonny blue kirtle!”[^[59]]

howled the tipsy deacon, swinging his legs under the table.

“In the name of law and order!” shrieked the choir-master. “Basses, out with your tone! Crescendo! Crescendo!”

---

At about eleven o’clock at night the deacon was hunting for his galoshes in the ante-room. For a long time he could not find them; at last he stuck his foot into somebody’s cap, which happened to be lying on the floor, and went home.

The Eagle
as
Mecænas.

A FABLE.

BY

“Shchedrìn”

(Saltykòv).

A great deal is written by various poets about Eagles; and always in praise of them. The Eagle has invariably a form of indescribable beauty, piercing vision, and a majestic flight. In fact, he does not fly like other birds, but “sails” or “soars” through the air; moreover, he can gaze upon the sun and battle with the thunders. Some writers speak of the magnanimity of his soul. For instance, if you want to write an ode in praise of a policeman, it is quite essential to compare him to an Eagle. Thus: “Like the majestic Eagle, Police-sergeant No. So-and-so looked on the suspected person, seized him, heard his explanation, and magnanimously pardoned him.”

I, personally, long cherished a belief in these panegyrics. I used to think: After all, it really is a grand idea! “Seized him and ... pardoned!” Pardoned! That was what really fascinated me. Whom did he pardon? A mouse! A miserable mouse! And then I would rush off to some one of my poetical friends to tell him of this new act of magnanimity on the part of the Eagle. And my poetical friend would strike an attitude, breathe hard for a moment, and then ... would become affected with the sea-sickness of versification.

One day, though, the idea occurred to me: What did the Eagle “pardon” in the mouse? All that the mouse had done was to run across the road on its own private business; and the Eagle saw it, swooped, squeezed it half to death, and ... pardoned it! Why in the world did the Eagle pardon the mouse and not the mouse the Eagle?

Well, I began to look about me and take notice of things; and the more I saw, the more muddled I got. There certainly was something askew about the whole business. In the first place, it is evident that the Eagle does not catch mice for the purpose of pardoning them. In the next place, even if the Eagle did pardon the mouse, I cannot help thinking that it would have been still better if he had taken no interest in its affairs at all. And, finally, in the third place, granted he is an Eagle—an Arch-eagle for that matter—all the same he’s a bird. Indeed, he is so essentially a bird that, even for a policeman, a comparison with him can be considered complimentary only in virtue of a misunderstanding.

My present opinion concerning Eagles is as follows:—Eagles are Eagles—and that is the long and short of the matter. They are simply carnivora, birds of prey; but, it is true, they have this justification: that Nature herself made them anti-vegetarians. As they are, moreover, powerful, long-sighted, agile, and merciless, it is perfectly natural that, whenever they appear, the entire feathered kingdom does its best to hide itself away. This is simply the effect of terror, and not at all of admiration, as the poets maintain. Eagles habitually live in solitary and inaccessible places; never exchange bread-and-salt with any one;[^[60]] but live by robbery; and, when not engaged in burgling, go to sleep.

There turned up, however, a certain Eagle who grew sick of living in solitude. So one day he said to his mate: “It’s a fearful bore to live in this fashion, tête-à-tête; if one does nothing but gaze at the sun the whole day long, it muddles one’s head.”

He set to work to meditate. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that it would be very nice to live as the landed proprietors used to live in the old days. He could get a whole suite of servants and be as happy as the day is long. The rooks would provide him with scandal; the parrot would turn upside down and do tricks; the magpie would cook his porridge; the robins would sing songs in praise of him; the owls and night-jars would serve as watchmen and sentinels; and the hawks and falcons would bring him food. For himself he would keep no speciality but bloodthirstiness.

He thought and thought; and at last he made up his mind. One day he called a hawk, a kite, and a falcon, and said to them—

“Collect for me a staff of servants, such as the old landlords used to have; they will amuse me, and I will keep them in order. That will be pleasant for me and good for them.”

“THEY DROVE IN A WHOLE FLIGHT OF ROOKS.”

So the birds of prey flew off in all directions to fulfil the Eagle’s commands. No one can say they dawdled over their business. First of all they drove in a whole flight of rooks, registered their names, and gave them out passports. The rook, you see, is a fertile bird, and puts up with everything. Its best quality is that it admirably represents the peasant class; and everybody knows that if once you have got the peasants settled, all the rest is a matter of detail and quite easily managed. And they certainly managed beautifully. The corn-crakes and mud-suckers were trained for an orchestra; the parrots were dressed up for acrobats; the white-feathered magpie, being a notorious thief, was intrusted with the keys of the treasury; and the owls and night-jars were put on duty as sentinels. In a word, the whole thing was arranged in a manner that would have done credit to any nobleman’s establishment. Even the cuckoo was not forgotten; employment was found for her as fortune-teller to the female Eagle; and a foundling hospital was instituted for orphan cuckoos.

But before the whole arrangement was fairly in working order the managing directors realised that something was wanting. For a long time they could not think what it could be; but at last they remembered that in all high-class establishments Science and Art are supposed to be represented, and they had made no provision for either the one or the other. Three birds especially felt themselves aggrieved by this omission—the robin, the woodpecker, and the nightingale.

The robin was a smart little soul and had practised whistling since his fledgling days. He had received his earliest education in an ecclesiastical school; then he had served as regimental clerk; and as soon as he had learned the rules of correct punctuation he had begun to edit, without preliminary censorship, a newspaper: The Forest Gazette. But, somehow or other, he could never get it right: whenever he touched upon a subject, it turned out to be taboo; whenever he refrained from mentioning a subject, that subject particularly ought to have been mentioned; and for all these mistakes he used to get hard knocks on his poor little head. So at last he decided: “I will enter the service of the Eagle; all I shall have to do will be to sing his praises every morning; and no one will punish me for that.”

The thrush was a modest and studious person, who led a strictly solitary life; he had no acquaintances (many even believed him to be a drunkard, like all very learned persons), but would sit for whole days alone upon a fir-branch, cramming up information. He managed to plod through a perfect desert of historical investigations: “The Ancestral Records of a Bogie,” “Was the old Woman who rode on a Broomstick married?” “What Sex should be ascribed to Witches in the Register-Papers?” and so forth. But, however hard the poor bird crammed, he could not find a publisher for his pamphlets. At last it occurred to him too: “I’ll engage myself as Court-Historiographer to the Eagle; perhaps he will print my investigations in rook’s dung!”

As for the nightingale, he couldn’t complain of the cruelty of fate; he sang so exquisitely that not only the mighty fir-trees, but even the Moscow shopkeepers were quite touched when they heard him. All the world adored him; all the world held its breath to listen when he poured out torrents of divine song from among the branches of some silent grove. But the nightingale was ambitious beyond measure, and desperately given to falling in love. He was not content with making the forest ring with his wild melodies, or filling sad hearts with the harmony of sound ... he kept on thinking how the Eagle would hang round his neck a shining chain of ants’ eggs, and decorate his breast with live beetles, and how the female Eagle would appoint secret meetings with him by moonlight.... In short, all three birds gave the falcon no peace till he undertook to speak on their behalf.

The Eagle listened attentively to the falcon’s assurances of the necessity of encouraging science and art; but did not quite understand. He sat sharpening his claws, and his eyes flashed back the sunlight like polished gems. He had never seen a newspaper in his life; he had never taken the slightest interest in either witches or the old woman who rode on a broomstick; and about the nightingale he had only heard that it was a little bit of a bird not worth soiling one’s beak over.

“I daresay you don’t even know that Buonaparte is dead,” said the falcon.

“Who was Buonaparte?”

“There you are! And you certainly ought to know about that. Supposing visitors come and begin a polite conversation; they’ll say: ‘In Buonparte’s days so-and-so happened’; and you’ll just have to sit and blink your eyes. That won’t do.”

They called in the owl as adviser, and she agreed with the falcon that science and art must be introduced into the establishment; for they amuse Eagles, and it does ordinary mortals no harm to enjoy them from a distance either. Knowledge is light, and ignorance is darkness. Any fool knows how to eat and sleep; but just try and work out a problem; take the one about the flock of geese, for instance, that’s a very different matter. In the old days the clever landowners understood that; they knew that forewarned was forearmed; they were sharp enough to see which side their bread was buttered. Just take the case of the finch: all the learning he has is how to draw water in a little bucket, and yet see what a high price he fetches just for that one trick! “I,” concluded the owl, “can see in the dark, and I am called wise for that; now, you can stare at the sun for hours together without ever blinking; and all people say about you is: ‘That Eagle’s a bit of a blockhead.’”

“Well, I have no objection to science,” said the Eagle, rather snappishly.

No sooner said than done. On the next day the “Golden Age” began in the Eagle’s establishment. The starlings set to work to learn by heart the hymn: “Let our youth be fed with science”; the corn-crakes and mud-suckers began practising the trumpet; the parrots invented new tricks. A new tax was laid upon the rooks, to be called “Public Instruction Tax.” A Corps des Cadets was founded for fledgling falcons and vultures; and an Academy of Science for owls. They even went the length of buying a farthing alphabet apiece for the baby rooks. Last but not least, the oldest patriarch among the starlings was appointed poet-laureate, with the honorary title of “Vasìli Kirìlych Trediakòvsky,”[^[61]] and commanded to prepare for a public competition with the nightingale, to be held on the next morning.

At last the great day dawned. The newly-elected flunkeys were admitted into the presence of the Eagle, and the tournament of arts began.

The most successful competitor was the robin. Instead of reciting his compliments, he read aloud an article, so clear and simple that even the Eagle fancied he understood. The robin said that people ought to live in happiness and prosperity; and the Eagle remarked, “Exactly so.” He said that if he could make his paper sell properly he would be quite indifferent to all other questions; and the Eagle repeated, “Exactly so.” He said that the life of a servant is preferable to that of a master; for the master has many responsibilities, whereas the servant lives under his master’s protection, free from care; and the Eagle again repeated, “Exactly so!” He said that, in the days when he kept a conscience, he could not get a pair of trousers to wear, but, now that he had got rid of his conscience, he was in the habit of putting on two pair at once; and the Eagle once more repeated, “Exactly so!”

At last the Eagle began to get bored, and snappishly commanded: “The next one.”

The woodpecker began by tracing the pedigree of the Eagle back to the Sun, and the Eagle confirmed his statements with the remark: “That’s just what I used to hear from poor papa.” According to the woodpecker, the Sun had three children: two sons, the Lion and the Eagle; and one daughter, the Shark. The Shark misconducted herself; and her father, as a punishment, sent her to rule the depths of ocean; the Lion turned aside from his father’s way, and the father made him ruler of the deserts; but the Eagle was a son after his father’s heart, and the father kept him nearest to himself and gave to him the realms of air for a kingdom. But before the poor woodpecker had got through even the prosy introduction to his history, the Eagle called out impatiently: “The next one! The next one!”

Then the nightingale began his song, and made a mess of it from the very first note. He sang of the joy of the flunkey hearing that God has sent him a master; he sang of the magnanimity of Eagles, and of their liberality in tipping flunkeys.... But, however desperately he tried to pitch his voice in the true flunkey tone, the art that dwelt within his breast somehow or other would not be controlled. He himself was a flunkey from beak to tail (he had even got hold, somehow, of a second-hand white cravat, and had ruffled up the feathers on his little head into a hairdresser’s curl), but his art refused to be confined within flunkeyish bounds, and kept on bursting forth in spite of all his efforts. It wasn’t any use for him to sing; he could not give satisfaction anyhow.

“What’s that booby droning about?” cried the Eagle; “call Trediakòvsky!”

Vasìli Kirìlych was quite in his element. He chose just the same toadyish subjects, but gave so clear an exposition of them that the Eagle kept on all the time repeating—

“Exactly so! Exactly so!”

When the competition was over, the Eagle hung upon Trediakòvsky’s neck a chain of ants’ eggs, and flashed his eyes at the nightingale, exclaiming—

“Take away that scoundrel!”

Thus ended the nightingale’s, ambitious dreams. He was quickly hustled into a hen-coop and sold out of the way to the tavern “Parting Friends,” where, to this day, he fills with sweet poison the hearts of tipsy “meteors.”

Nevertheless, the work of public instruction was not abandoned. The fledgling vultures and falcons attended the gymnasium regularly; the Academy of Science began to publish a dictionary, and got half through the letter A; the woodpecker finished the tenth volume of “The History of Bogies.” The robin, however, kept very quiet. From the first day he had felt an instinctive conviction that all this educational rage would come to a speedy and grievous end; and apparently his presentiments were well founded.

The troubles began with a grave mistake on the part of the owl and falcon, who had accepted the management of the work of education: they took it into their heads to teach the Eagle himself to read and write. They taught him upon the easy and agreeable phonetic system; but, notwithstanding all their efforts, after a whole year’s training, instead of “Eagle,” he signed his name “Agull”; the result of which was that he could not get a single respectable financier to accept his bonds. The owl and falcon also made another great mistake: like all pedagogues, they never gave their pupil any peace. Every minute of the day the owl would follow at the poor Eagle’s heels, screaming out, “B-b-b-b; Z-z-z; D-d-d; K-k-k;” while the falcon as incessantly dinned into his ears that it is impossible to divide the prey one has caught without knowing the first four rules of arithmetic.

“Suppose you have stolen ten goslings, of which you have given two to the police-inspector’s clerk, and eaten one yourself, how many have you left?” asked the falcon, in a reproachful voice.

The Eagle was not able to work this problem, so he remained silent; but anger against the falcon burned in his heart more and more fiercely with every day.

All this resulted in a condition of general tension, which was at once taken advantage of by intriguing adventurers. The ringleader of the conspiracy was the kite; he enticed over the cuckoo, who took to whispering in the ear of the female Eagle—

“They are simply killing our dear master with their learning.”

Whereupon the female Eagle began ironically calling her mate “Wiseacre! Wiseacre!” The conspirators next turned their energies to the business of arousing “evil passions” in the vulture.

One morning, just at dawn, and while the Eagle was still sleepily rubbing his eyes, the owl, as usual, slipped behind him and began her eternal buzzing in his ear—

“V-v-v.... Z-z-z.... R-r-r——”

“Oh! go away, you awful bore!” murmured the Eagle, wearily.

“Be so good, your worship, as to repeat B-b-b.... K-k-k.... M-m-m——”

“I tell you, for the second time, go away!”

“P-p-p.... H-h-h.... Sh-sh-sh——”

“For the third time, go away!”

“S-s-s.... F-f-f.... J-j-j——”

With the quickness of lightning the Eagle turned upon the owl and tore her in pieces. An hour later the falcon, knowing nothing of what had happened, returned from the morning hunt.

“Here is a problem for you,” said he. “We have brought back 60 lbs. of game. Now, suppose we divide the game into two equal parts, one half for you and the other half for the remainder of the establishment, how much of the 60 lbs. will fall to your share?”

“All of it,” replied the Eagle.

“No, no; answer properly,” persisted the falcon. “If it had been “all,” I shouldn’t have asked you!”

It was not the first time that he had set his pupil such problems; but on this occasion the tone in which the question was asked struck the Eagle as quite intolerable. All his blood boiled at the thought that, when he said “all,” his slave should dare to answer “not all.” Now, it is a well-known peculiarity of Eagles that, when their blood begins to boil, they become incapable of distinguishing pedagogical disquisitions from revolution. The Eagle acted accordingly.

Nevertheless, after finishing up the falcon, the Eagle announced—

“The Scientific ’Cademy is to stop as it is.”

The choir of starlings once more repeated their hymn, “Let our youth be fed with science.” But it was already plain to every one that the “Golden Age” was drawing to its close. In the near future darkness and ignorance were at hand, with their inevitable train—civil war and general confusion.

The disturbances began with the competition of two candidates for the post of the defunct falcon—the vulture and the kite. As the attention of the two rivals was absorbed exclusively in their personal interest, the affairs of the establishment were to some extent shoved aside and gradually fell into a neglected condition. In a month there remained not a trace of the “Golden Age.” The starlings had grown lazy; the corn-crakes played all out of tune; the white-feathered magpie took to stealing right and left; and the rooks got so hopelessly behindhand with the taxes that there was nothing for it but an “execution.”[^[62]] Matters went so far that the servants began to bring the Eagle and his mate bad meat for dinner.

In order to exculpate themselves from responsibility in all this mismanagement, the vulture and the kite, for the moment, played into each other’s claws, and threw all the blame upon education.

“Science,” said they, “is undoubtedly a useful thing, but only under the right conditions. Our ancestors,” said they, “managed to live without any science; and we can do the same.”

And, to prove that all the troubles came from science, they set to work to hunt up conspiracies, and particularly conspiracies in which some book, if only a prayer-book, was concerned. There began a perfect rain of searches, police-investigations, and trials.

“Drop it!” suddenly rang through the aerial heights.

It was the Eagle who said that. The process of education broke off short. Throughout the whole establishment there reigned such dead silence that one could even hear the whispers of slander creeping along the earth.

The first victim of the new tendency of affairs was the woodpecker. Indeed, indeed the poor bird was not guilty; but he knew how to read and write, and that was quite sufficient ground for an accusation.

“Do you know the rules of punctuation?”

“Not only the rules of ordinary punctuation, but even those for extra signs, such as quotation marks, hyphens, parentheses; on my conscience, I always put them right.”

“And can you distinguish the feminine from the masculine gender?”

“I can. I should not make a mistake, even by night.”

And that was all. The woodpecker was chained and placed in solitary confinement for life in a hollow tree. On the next day, being devoured by ants, he gave up the ghost in his prison. His sorrows were hardly over when the thunderbolt fell on the Academy of Science.

The owls and night-jars, however, defended themselves sturdily; they did not wish to be evicted from their cosy free quarters. They said that they followed scientific pursuits, not in order to popularise science, but to protect it from the evil eye. But the kite instantly demolished their arguments by asking—

“What’s the use of having science at all?”

This being an unexpected question, they could give no answer. They were then separated and sold to market-gardeners, who killed and stuffed them and set them up in their nurseries for scarecrows. The farthing alphabets were next taken away from the baby rooks, and mashed up in a mortar, to form a homogeneous mass of pulp, which was then made into playing-cards.

Matters grew worse and worse. After the owls and the night-jars came the turn of the starlings; then the corn-crakes, parrots, and finches. Even the deaf heath-cock was suspected of “a certain way of thinking,” on the ground that he held his tongue all day and slept all night.

The staff of the establishment gradually dwindled away. At last there was no one left to serve the Eagle and his mate but the vulture and the kite. In the background there remained, of course, a crowd of rooks, who multiplied at a pace that was perfectly disgraceful; and the faster they multiplied the more their arrears of taxes accumulated.

Finally the kite and vulture, having no one else to intrigue against (of course you don’t count the vulgar rooks), began to intrigue one against the other; and all on the ground of science. The vulture denounced the kite as reading the prayer-book in secret; and the kite invented against the vulture the slander that he kept the “New Song-Book” hidden in a hollow tree.

The Eagle began to grow uneasy.

But just at this moment an extraordinary thing happened. Finding themselves left without supervision, the rooks suddenly raised the question—

“By the by, what did the farthing alphabet say about all this?”

And, without stopping to remember clearly what was said, they all left their nests in a body and flew away.

The Eagle started off to pursue them, but it was no use; the indolent life he had been living had so enervated him that he could hardly flap his wings.

He returned to his mate, and uttered these words of wisdom—

“Be this a lesson to Eagles!”

But in what exactly the “lesson” consisted—whether it were that education is injurious to Eagles, or that Eagles are injurious to education, or, finally, that each is injurious to the other—that he never explained.

THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.

---

[1]. In Russia marriages cannot be solemnised during the weeks appointed by the Greek Church as fasts.

[2]. The district of St. Petersburg in which stands the terminus of the Moscow railway.

[3]. The north-east district of St. Petersburg.

[4]. Literally, “Omelette” or “Custard.”

[5]. Government clerk.

[6]. “Bring some bread, my man.”

[7]. Son of a dog.

[8]. Pomòy—dish-water.

[9]. Yarỳzhnik—rake, roué.

[10]. Perepryèlyi—stewed too long.

[11]. Dỳrka—any little hole or gap.

[12]. “The Island,” in the singular, means the Vasìlyevsky Island.

[13]. The pious ejaculation used, with the sign of the cross, by strict members of the Orthodox Greek Church, on starting upon any enterprise, great or small.

[14]. Interval of one month between the Second and Third Pictures.

[15]. Warden’s Council.

[16]. Gentleman of the Emperor’s Bedchamber.

[17]. Sledge-driver.

[18]. Assistant to a village priest in Russia.

[19]. Long coat worn by Russian peasants.

[20]. Metropolitan.

[21]. In provincial places in Russia it is customary to use an abacus in adding up accounts.

[22]. Colloquial for “the wife of Lòpàtin.”

[23]. The Patronymic without the Christian name of the person addressed is a common colloquialism.

[24]. A Russian proverb.

[25]. Russian hymn.

[26]. Russian sacred songs.

[27]. Special canticle on a Saint’s day.

[28]. In the Greek Church the psalms are divided up into a kind of rosary.

[29]. Literally “Pig’s ear.”

[30]. And I, at what risks and perils, go and waste myself expending saliva! What folly!

[31]. Extorsion des nédoymkàs, une espèce de peine corporelle, en vigueur en Russie, surtout dans le cas où le paysan, par suite d’une mauvaise récolte, n’a pas de quoi payer les impôts.—Chenapan.[^[63]]

[32]. Oh, my poor mother! Oh, my sister, wasting her youth in the vain hope of a husband!

[33]. “The law, good gracious, we have fifteen volumes of law!”

[34]. 1853.

[35]. Mr. Chenapan has again made rather a muddle of his Russian. “Zvon pobièdy, razdavaïsia!” (“Bells of victory, ring out!”) is the opening line of one of Derzhàvin’s pompous, servile, and essentially jingoish odes on the victories of Catherine II.—Translator.

[36]. “This is our way of giving tips.”

[37]. A well-known French actress of that time in St. Petersburg.—Author.

[38]. Evidently a mistake; there are no municipal counsellors in Russia.—Author.

[39]. “Now you’ll see me at my business!”

[40]. The St. Petersburg Arcade.

[41]. A quotation from Griboyèdov.

[42]. The observation of a certain editor.

[43]. The Islands in the Delta of the Neva are recognised places for fast amusements. The Arcadia is a well-known music-hall there.

[44]. Village syndic.

[45]. Landlord and Serf-owner (corruption of the ancient word “boyàrin”).

[46]. The village bell-ringer.

[47]. Bishop.

[48]. District Police Inspector.

[49]. Inferior police official, who collects taxes.

[50]. The peasant is satirizing the Russian “Passport regulations,” according to which it is a penal offence for a householder to take in any inmate who cannot show police certificates.

[51]. Colloquial for Mikhail.

[52]. Principal town of any province.

[53]. A famous group of statuary in Moscow.

[54]. A slang term for the gendarmes; probably because their uniforms are “deeply, darkly, beautifully blue,” like the waters of the Mediterranean.—Translator.

[55]. Equipage with three horses.

[56]. Member of the Committee of Inquiry.

[57]. Contemptuous diminutive of Lipàtkin.

[58]. Of the clerical class.

[59]. Fragments of popular songs.

[60]. The popular emblem of hospitality.

[61]. A flunkeyish poetaster at the Court of Catherine II.

[62]. “Exekoùtzia,” official term for wholesale flogging, in case of mutiny, or inability to pay taxes, among the peasantry.

[63]. Mr. Chenapan has made a slight mistake. Nedoìmka is the Russian word for debt; but he is so far right that “recovery of nedoìmki” is the expression officially used for the extortion of taxes from a starving population, and that such extortion is very often accomplished by means of “une espèce de peine corporelle.”—Translator.

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PROSPECTUS.

LIBRARY

OF

HUMOUR.

London: Walter Scott, Ltd., Paternoster Square.

SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.

“The books are delightful in every way, and are notable for the high standard of taste and the excellent judgment that characterise their editing, as well as for the brilliancy of the literature that they contain.”—Boston (U.S.A.) Gazette.

LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Copiously Illustrated.

Cloth Elegant, Large Crown 8vo, Price 3s. 6d. per Vol.

Each volume deals with the humour of the literature of a particular nation, the aim in making the various selections being to produce volumes as representative as possible in each case of the particular national humour, as it appears throughout the literature dealt with.

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Illustrations to the different volumes by Dudley Hardy, H. R. Millar, C. E. Brock, Arturo Faldi, Paul Frénzeny, Oliver Paque, etc.

SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION.

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE.)

DOCTOR DECHAR: “AND YET YOU DECLARED THE OPERATION MUST BE DONE?”
DOCTOR RAPPASS: “OF COURSE. YOU MUST ALWAYS OPERATE.”

THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE.

Selected and Translated, with Introduction and Biographical Index, by Elizabeth Lee. With 70 Illustrations by Paul Frénzeny.

“From Villon to Paul Verlaine, from dateless fabliaux to newspapers fresh from the kiosk, we have a tremendous range of selections.”—Birmingham Daily Gazette.

“The work of translation has been well done, and the book sparkles from beginning to end.”—Globe.

“Miss Lee has compiled a very entertaining volume, traversing the whole world of French literature from the thirteenth to the nineteenth centuries gleaning from novelists, dramatists, poets, essayists, writers of fabliaux, newspapers. The result is a very readable and amusing volume.”—Birmingham Post.

“A most agreeable and entertaining volume.”—Scottish Leader.

“There is not a dull page in the volume from beginning to end, is a piece of praise too often lavished on a book by the indolent, unconscientious, or over tender-hearted reviewer; nevertheless, at the risk of ranking ourselves with him, we will make that assertion concerning these specimens of ‘The Humour of France.’”—St. James’s Gazette.

SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION.

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.)

“HE WAS TOO FOND OF DELIVERING LONG SPEECHES AT THE ALEHOUSE.”

“SIT THE GOOD TOWNSPEOPLE OF A SUMMER EVENING.”

THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.

Selected and Translated, with Introduction and Biographical Index, by Hans Müller-Casenov. With 60 Illustrations by C. E. Brock.

“It is an excellently representative volume, comprising selections from all the best writers in the humoristic vein, whether high or low German. Of course Heinrich Heine figures largely, and in addition are capital extracts from Hauff, Zschokke, Ludwig Tieck, Chamisso, Fritz Reuter, and others.”—Daily Telegraph.

“Can be recommended to all in quest of amusing literature. The illustrations are delightful.”—Literary World.

“The book throws eloquent and entertaining side-lights upon the characteristics of the German people. The text is amply and aptly illustrated.”—Manchester Examiner.

“One of the brightest books that has come to this country.”—Boston (U.S.A.) Herald.

“The reader may feel assured of having quite a treasury of novelty in each volume of this beautiful series as it appears.”—Liverpool Mercury.

SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION.

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.)

PULCINELLA’S DUEL.

THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.

Selected and Translated, with Introduction, Biographical Index, and Notes, by A. Werner. With 55 Illustrations by Arturo Faldi.

“Modern Italian light literature is very rich, and those who cannot read the language easily, and yet would like to obtain some notion of what contemporary Italian writers are doing, cannot do better than turn to these pages.... Will reveal to English readers a whole new world of literature.”—Athenæum.

“The book contains some delightful modern short stories and sketches. We may particularly mention those by Verga, Capuana, and De Amicis.”—Literary World.

“Most readers will think that it affords ample proof of the abundance of genuine wit in the Italian literature of the nineteenth century. It has plenty of capital stories, and the man who is not tickled by Capuana’s ‘Rival Earthquakes,’ or Castelnuovo’s ‘Theorem of Pythagoras,’ can have little sense of the ridiculous.”—Morning Post.

SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION.

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA.)

“SHE SHRILLY OBSERVES, THOMAS JEFFERSON, COME RIGHT INTO THE HOUSE THIS MINIT.”

“KOSCIUSKO AND I FROLICKED AROUND.”

THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA.

Selected by James Barr. With an Introduction and a Comprehensive Biographical Index of American Humorists. Eighty Illustrations by Charles E. Brock.

“Certainly these 462 pages of queer stories and good illustrations are as exceptional for amusing narration as they are for excellence of printing and binding.”—Liverpool Mercury.

“Sparkles and ripples with good things.”—Manchester Examiner.

“Mr. Barr has made his volume as representative as it could well be, and it would be difficult to mention any American writer having a claim to be considered a humorist, who has not had that claim recognised.”—Glasgow Herald.

“The selection is judiciously made, and displays a catholic taste.... The book is a really representative collection of humour, and what passes for humour, in America.”—The Academy.

SPECIMEN ILLUSTRATION.

(FROM THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.)

“AND HE WAS QUITE SATISFIED.”

THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND.

Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by A. Werner. With numerous Illustrations by Dudley Hardy.

“Apart from the quality of humour, one is much struck by the evidence that in Holland during the present day there is a genial literature, of which we know nothing at all.”—Bookman.

“There are some quite irresistible pieces in the volume. The illustrations are excellent, and the whole style in which the book is produced reflects credit on the publishers.”—British Weekly.

“There are really good things in the book—things of quaint or pretty fancy, things of strong or subtle satire.... Even Mark Twain, in ‘Tom Sawyer’ and ‘Huck Finn’ does not show a finer knowledge of the humours of imaginative boyhood than is displayed by Conrad van der Liede in ‘My Hero.’”—Daily Chronicle.

“The new humour has grown wearisomely old, but here is something to again stimulate.”—The Graphic.

“Interesting sketches of life and manners.”—Daily News.

“The pictures are numerous and good, the dramatic literature of the people is well represented, and the work altogether is so truly excellent that it will always be in season.”—Liverpool Mercury.

“Those who wish to compare the humour of several countries must needs have in their possession such a rich storehouse as this is of the Humour of Holland.”—Irish Times.

“KAPBLOK, THE BUTCHER’S MAN.”

SPECIMEN. (FROM THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND.)

LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Cloth Elegant, Large Crown 8vo, Price 3/6 per vol.

VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED.

THE HUMOUR OF FRANCE. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by Elizabeth Lee. With numerous Illustrations by Paul Frénzeny.

THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by Hans Müller-Casenov. With numerous Illustrations by C. E. Brock.

THE HUMOUR OF ITALY. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by A. Werner. With 50 Illustrations and a Frontispiece by Arturo Faldi.

THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA. Selected with a copious Biographical Index of American Humorists, by James Barr.

THE HUMOUR OF HOLLAND. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by A. Werner. With numerous Illustrations by Dudley Hardy.

THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND. Selected by D. J. O’Donoghue. With numerous Illustrations by Oliver Paque.

THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by S. Taylor. With numerous Illustrations by H. R. Millar.

THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA. Translated, with Notes, by E. L. Boole, and an Introduction by Stepniak. With 50 Illustrations by Paul Frénzeny.

THE HUMOUR OF JAPAN. Translated, with an Introduction, by A. M. With Illustrations by George Bigot (from Drawings made in Japan). [In preparation.

London: Walter Scott, Limited, Paternoster Square.

SPECIMEN. (FROM THE HUMOUR OF SPAIN.)

PEPITA AND THE YOUNG PRIEST.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end of the last chapter.