The Village School Master.
By N. Uspènsky.
An elderly gentleman, sitting on the verandah of his house, called to a workman who was passing with a water-cart—
“Hi! Prokòfyi! Prokòfyi!”
The cart stopped.
“Are you deaf?”
“The wheels makes such a noise, Grigòryi Naòmich; one can’t hear anything. They wants greasing.”
“Oh, they’re all right. What have you got there? water?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From the pond?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” said the master after a moment’s pause, “you can go.”
A soldier came up to the verandah.
“Wish your honour good-day!”
“Who are you?”
“From Verkhogliàdov in the Merkoùlovsky district; perhaps you know it?—by the river Kostra....”
“What d’ you want?”
“I’m looking for a place, sir, as doorkeeper, or bailiff.”
“What have you been up till now?”
“Well, when I served in the army, I used to be postillion for the commander; then, in Mouràvki, I was cook for the examining magistrate. I’m a Jack-of-all trades, your honour—gardener, whipper-in, cook—anything you like!”
“Can you break stones?”
“Why, no, your honour, I can’t do that kind of work!”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, the army life breaks a chap down so; I was in a line regiment, not in the guards, and a man never gets over that.”
“Oh, you’re healthy enough, I can see that, and yet you want to do such little fiddling work! What sort of career is it to be a bailiff or a whipper-in?”...
“Surely, your honour, it’s better than stone-breaking!”
“I think stone-breaking a very fine occupation.... H’m.... Have you recommendations from your former employers?”
“No, your honour.”
“I can’t take you without a character, my good man.”
“Yes, sir, you’re quite right, sir.”
“Perhaps you’re some good-for-nothing fellow—a thief or drunkard for all I know....”
“Just so, your honour.”
“You must bring me a character.”
“Yes, sir; good-morning, sir.”
The soldier went away. Presently the steward came up to his master and announced—
“If you please, sir, a strange gentleman came while your honour was asleep; he calls himself a village schoolmaster.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sitting in the office.”
“Let him in.”
There came on to the verandah a sunburnt man of about forty, in a nankeen coat and high boots. The master of the house offered him a chair.
“Who are you?”
“Schoolmaster from the Pobiràkhinsky district, from the village of Bezzùbov. I humbly venture to trouble you with a request; can I not obtain some kind of situation?”
“I don’t want a schoolmaster,” said the owner of the house.
“I can take other situations. I have heard that you are looking for a clerk?”
“Why did you leave your situation in Bezzùbov?”
“The school was destroyed by fire.”
“Long ago?”
“On All Soul’s day. The cause is not known—the whole village was burnt down.”
“Yes, one is constantly hearing of fires nowadays. A village close to us has been burnt down too.... Allow me to ask, though, how did you become a teacher?”
“After completing my education I lived in my brother’s house in the village of Khmyèlnoye. I did not work, but he supported me. Then I took a situation as tutor in a country gentleman’s house at Ogoùrtzov, at a salary of two roubles a month. But I did not stop with him long, and while there I served chiefly as coachman....”
“But why?”
“Because my pupil did not like studying, and his parents let him have his own way, and employed me temporarily as coachman....”
“That’s strange!”
“I did the work properly! I had no choice....”
“How much did you get for it?”
“Nothing! only board and lodging, and a cast-off dressing-gown that the gentleman gave me. In that dressing-gown I went back to my brother, and he said: ‘What are you hanging about here for, doing nothing? can’t you set to and learn something, if it’s only singing—you might get to be choir-master in time.’ So I began to study singing, and then my brother got tired of hearing me. ‘Confound it all!’ he said, ‘I’m sick of this; go home to father.’ Well, then I went home. Of course my people abused me:—‘Always hanging about in the way! We’ve had enough of this!’ What would you have me do, sir, when I couldn’t get a situation anywhere? I thought one time of going into a monastery; but just then I got a letter from my brother, telling me to come to him. I went, and he said, ‘The prince’s steward wants to start a choir. You must engage yourself as choir-master.’ I asked him how did he suppose I was to do that when I don’t know how to sing myself? But all he would say was: ‘Don’t be afraid! you’ll learn in teaching your class.’ So I took the post. They gave me a tuning-fork——”
“May I ask,” interrupted the gentleman, “whether you were attired in the dressing-gown?”...
“No, in my mother’s cloak; the dressing-gown was worn out.... It was a short cloak, ... home-made....”
“Well, and how did you get on?”
“Very well. There was quite a fair choir. My brother sang tenor; Ivàn Alexèyich (at the present moment a teacher of patrology and hermeneutics) bass; then there were a few more volunteers. We got perfect in ‘Kol Slàven,’[[25]] and two sort of ... a ... choral part-songs, ‘Vzỳde’ and’ Polozhìl yesi.’ The steward was quite surprised at us; he was a critic in musical matters; and he wrote a letter to Moscow, to the prince, about a salary for the choir-master. Meanwhile we began to practice: ‘Kto Bog?’ and ‘Kheruvìmskaya Razòrennaya’[[26]].... All of a sudden the prince wrote back, ‘I don’t want a choir; I am going away for my health.’...
“So after that I got appointed at the village school at Bezzùbov. The people there are very poor; many of the peasants used to sleep in their ovens in winter-time. One day the priest came into a cottage to bless the household; he looked round, and there was no one there, so he began to sing the tropar.[[27]] Suddenly the people crawled out from the oven and came up to kiss the crucifix.... A good many of my pupils went about begging. For all that, though, a great gentleman from St. Petersburg passed through our village, and he said the people were not averse to education—really.”
“Do you mean that ironically?” asked the master of the house.
“Oh dear no!”
“Of course, even a poor man may desire education; just take the case of Lomonòsov: he was a peasant and became an academician.”
“Exactly so.”
“Well, what else did the great gentleman from St. Petersburg remark?”
“He said that it would be a good thing for our administration to introduce a uniform for the scholars.”
“A capital idea!” exclaimed the master of the house; “there ought to be discipline in a school. Without discipline no institution can exist. H’m.... What subjects were taught in your school?”
“We used the New Testament in the Russian and Slavonic tongues, a hundred and four selections from the Old and New Testaments, the ‘Elements of Christian Doctrine,’ ‘Examples of Piety,’ and the Breviary, for the children to learn by heart; the first hour’s division[[28]] of the Thirty-third Psalm, and the Book of Six Psalms, with ‘All that has breath.’”...
“Is that all?”
“No, we had a library, containing the following books:
“Selected Passages from Schreck’s ‘Universal History.’”
“The Programme for Acceptance into the Military Service.”
“Food for the Mind and Heart.”
The Psalter, without red lettering.
The Breviary, with red lettering.
A work of Glinka, entitled, “Hurrah.”
“The Life of St. Prokopius the Natural.”
“Reader for the People.”
“Domestic Conversations.”
“The Clever Reader.”
And a few others.”
“The books are good,” remarked the gentleman; “I’ll order ‘Domestic Conversation’ and the ‘Clever Reader’ myself. How long did you retain your post?”
“Eight years. I received no rise in my salary for the whole time. One day the inspector came, and he asked me, ‘How long have you been teaching here?’ ‘Eight years,’ said I. ‘Has your salary been raised?’ ‘No,’ said I; ‘I receive the minimum salary.’ ‘Why is that?’ ‘I don’t know.’ Then he turned to the chief of the district and said, ‘The teacher is to receive a rise in his salary.’ The inspector observed, too, that the school-house garden was neglected, and ordered it to be put to rights, saying, ‘that it would then have a favourable moral influence on the minds of the scholars, who would, in time, become agriculturists.’”
“I agree with him. The bad tendencies must be restrained in these people from the very tenderest years.”
“The inspector ordered flowers to be planted in the garden——”
“H’m, in my opinion that is superfluous. He should have had birch trees planted; that would have influenced the pupils more favourably.”
“There were birch trees already——”
“Ah! Birch trees are as valuable as the ‘Clever Reader’ and ‘Domestic Conversations.’ Are you married?”
“I SHOULD HAVE LIKED TO MARRY.”
“I should have liked to marry, but I was afraid to. The parish clerk of Ogoùrtzov offered me his sister-in-law in marriage. I knew her—she was a first-rate girl. I went to see her.”
“Was she clever?”
“A-a! Really, sir, I don’t know whether she was clever or not.”
“But you talked with her?”
“Oh yes, of course! I said, ‘We are acquaintances, Olga Mìtrevna.’”
“Oh yes,” she said, “I am quite aware of that.”
“I have been brought here,” said I, “to ask you in marriage.”
“Indeed!” said she.
“Do you know where I have seen you? At a christening at Ogoùrtzov,” said I, and she answered—
“Yes, I remember. And you are from Khmièlnoye?”
“Yes,” said I.
“Ah! the scenery is pretty round there.”
“And that was about all her cleverness!... Her father kept on begging me to marry quickly, because a man can’t live properly without some one to keep his house. ‘We shall get on much better together,’ she used to say.... So we stayed up till dawn, singing and dancing.”
“Sacred songs?”
“No, sir, various—sacred and secular.”
“Well, and did your betrothed sing?”
“No; afterwards, when I left her—she sang that romance—you know—
‘’Twas my fault for thus betraying
All too soon my love to thee;
Now thou hast beheld my weakness,
Ah! thou hast forsaken me.’”
“That’s to say, you jilted her?”
“I don’t know—anyway, I hadn’t anything to keep her on.”
“H’m—so you say the school burned down?”
“To the ground.”
“And are all the books and things burnt too?”
“No; they were saved. The fire was in the day-time, and our people had time to get the books out.”
“That’s good. So I suppose it will soon be built again, and you can go on being teacher?”
“I don’t wish to take that work.”
“Why not?”
“I’m sick of it! You wouldn’t believe me, I’ve often thought of putting an end to myself.”
“So you prefer to be a clerk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“H’m’m—I am sorry that I can’t help you; it’s true that I’ve just dismissed my clerk, but I don’t want another. You see, in these times one must look after everything oneself. I do all my accounts myself. Now, I have a vacancy for a bailiff, but you wouldn’t care for that ... the salary is so small ... three roubles a month.”
“That is very little,” said the teacher.
“There you see! and I don’t want a clerk. Besides, I can’t understand why you don’t wish to be a teacher.”
“I can’t stand it, indeed I can’t!”
“It’s true that the root of learning is bitter, but, you see, the fruits are sweet.... No, I would advise you to disseminate instruction among the people.... At the present time, when education has become a positive necessity, we ought all of us to assist in the work, to the limit of our powers. For my part, I am quite willing to do what I can. I will make a donation of books to your school. Here! Aliòshka! Fetch the hamper that stands under the ante-room sofa.”
The footman brought in a hamper of books, gnawed all over by rats.
“THE FORMER TEACHER, IT IS SAID, HAD HANGED HIMSELF.”
“Now,” said the gentleman, “here’s a book for you; ‘Nature’s Vengeance,’ a capital book; I’ve forgotten what it’s about. Ah! and here ... ‘The Oath, taken at the Holy Sepulchre.’... In fact, you can have the whole lot. When your new school is built, kindly range all these works in your library with an inscription: ‘Presented by Mr. Yàkov Antònovich Svinooùkhov,[[29]] the squire of Prokhòrovka.’ Posterity will remember me.... I am very glad that fortune brought you here, otherwise my books would have lain by uselessly, but now they will do good; and not to one generation only, but to future ages.... Hi! Aliòshka. Tell the man to harness a horse and conduct these books and the schoolmaster with them to the village of Bezzùbov.”
Two months later the new school was built. The educational library had been enriched by the following works, the gift of Mr. Svinooùkhov:—
“The Correspondence of the Nobility of Hell.”
“Hunting with the Hounds.”
“The Russian Theatre.”
“Nature’s Vengeance.”
“The Works of Bulgarin.”
“Political and Moral Fables.”
“The Moscow Gazette.”
“A New Latin Alphabet.”
“Words to Scholars, Concerning the Attributes of True Wisdom.”
“A Guide to Didactics.”
“A Short Dissertation upon the Rules of True Wisdom.”
&c., &c.
Nothing was wanting, except a teacher. The former teacher, it is said, had hanged himself.
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF ONÉSIME CHENAPAN.
“Une triste histoire. Souvenirs d’un voyage dans les steppes du Nord,” par Onésime Chenapan, ancien agent provocateur, ayant servi sous les ordres de Monseigneur Maupas, Préfet de Police, 1853. Paris: Librairie nouvelle, 1 vol.
From “Opinions of distinguished foreigners concerning Pompadours,”—(Appendix to “Pompadours and Pompadouresses.”)
By “SHCHEDRÌN” (SALTYKÒV).
I take up my pen to show how one rash step may ruin a man’s whole life, destroy all the fruits gained at the cost of long-continued humiliation, and turn to dust all hopes of further advancement in his special career—nay, it may even rob from a man his dearest earthly right—the right to be called a faithful son of the holy Roman Church!
All this was brought upon me by a worthless being who called himself a Pompadour; he did it simply, calmly, without an instant’s hesitation, leaving me without even the faintest hope of obtaining any recompense whatsoever for all the losses he caused me!
Oh, young man! Thou who readest these tear-stained pages, consider them and ponder deeply. And if ever, in the Closerie de Lilas, or any other such place, thou meetest with a man called a Pompadour, flee from him! For the name of that man is frivolity and hardness of heart!
In the year 1852, not long after the famous coup d’état of December, chance brought me together with the Prince de la Klioukwà, a man still young although a little tarè, a man whom I, seeing only his personal appearance and cheerful manners, should never have guessed to be a high official. It appeared, however, that such he was.
We met in one of the Parisian cafés chantans which I frequented in the exercise of my professional duties, as these agreeable places were the favourite resorts of those mistaken young people who failed to show due unconditional confidence in the changes of December 2nd. Here also were to be found many foreigners, acquainting themselves with Paris from the point of view of the dolce far niente.
Our conversation began à propos of the song, “Ah! j’ai un pied qui r’mue,” which at that time had just come into fashion, and was charmingly sung by Mdlle. Rivière. It appeared that my neighbour (we were sitting at the same table, in leisurely enjoyment of our petits verres) was not only a fine connoisseur of genre, but himself performed admirably the principal pieces of the Cascade repertoire. I cannot explain how it was, but, to my sorrow, I experienced a kind of blind, unreasoning attraction towards this man, and, after not more than a quarter of an hour’s conversation, I frankly acknowledged to him that I was an agent provocateur, honoured by the peculiar confidence of Monseigneur Maupas. To my astonishment, he not only did not start up to strike me (as mistaken young people almost invariably do), but he even held out both his hands to me, and, in his turn, informed me that he was a Russian, occupying in his native land the rank of Pompadour.
“WE MET IN ONE OF THE PARISIAN CAFÉS CHANTANS.”
“I will explain to you afterwards,” said he, observing the perplexity expressed in my face, “what constitute the attributes and jurisdiction of a Pompadour’s office; at present I will only say that no other meeting could cause me such pleasure as this meeting with you. I was just seeking to make the acquaintance of a good, thoroughly reliable agent provocateur. Tell me, is your business a profitable one?”
“Monseigneur,” I replied, “I receive a regular salary of 1,500 francs a year, and, besides that, as encouragement, extra pay for every denunciation.”
“Why ... that’s not bad!”
“If I were paid by the line, though only at the rate of the newspaper penny-a-liners, it would really be not bad; but the thing is, monseigneur, that I am paid by the job.”
“But, no doubt, at Christmas or Easter there are some little perquisites?”
“No, monseigneur. All the perquisites go to Monseigneur Maupas, and his most gracious Majesty the Emperor Napoleon III. The only addition to the salary I told you of consists in a special sum, reserved for cases of mutilation and fatal injuries, which are very common occurrences in my profession. On the 2nd of December I literally presented the appearance of a mass of flesh streaming with blood, so that in one day I earned more than a thousand francs!”
“A thousand francs ... mais c’est très joli!”
“But I have an aged mother, monseigneur! I have a maiden sister, whom I do my utmost to settle in life!”
“Oh! quant à cela ... the deuce take them!”
This exclamation was very noteworthy, and should have served as a warning to me. But it pleased Providence to darken my reason, doubtless in order that I might drain to the very dregs the chalice of bitterness which this terrible man was to bring to me.
“Well, and now tell me, has it ever happened to you—in the exercise of your functions, s’entend—to open other people’s letters?” he continued, after a momentary silence, which followed his exclamation.
“Very often, excellence!”
“Understand my idea. Formerly, when letters were fastened down merely with sealing-wax, when envelopes were not gummed at the edges, it was quite simple, of course. All that was necessary was to insert a thin wooden needle, roll the letter upon it and draw it out of the envelope. But now that the envelope presents an unbroken, impenetrable surface, what is one to do? I have repeatedly tried the use of saliva, but I confess that my efforts have never once been crowned with success. The persons who received the letters have always observed it and made complaints.”
“And yet nothing is simpler, excellence. Here, in such cases, we take the following course: we approach the letter to boiling water and hold in the steam that side of the envelope on which are the gummed edges, until the gum melts. Then we open it, take out the letter, read it, and replace it in the envelope; and there remain no signs of indiscretion.”
“So simple—and I never knew! Yes, the French are in advance of us in all respects! Oh, generous nation! How sad that revolutions so often disturb thee! Et moi, qui, à mes risques et périls, me consumais à dépenser ma salive! Quelle dérision!”[[30]]
“But does the opening of other people’s letters appertain to your ... attributes, monseigneur?”
“Everything connected with internal policy appertains to my duties, especially the opening of private letters and the exaction of nedoimki.[[31]]
“Do you know, my new friend, that you have helped me out of a very great difficulty?”
He pressed my hand warmly, and was so generous as to invite me to supper with him at the Café Anglais, where we passed the time in the most agreeable manner till almost morning. Finally, he very amiably proposed that I should accompany him to his native Steppes, where, according to him, a highly advantageous career was open to me.
“You will travel with me, and at my expense,” said he; “your salary will amount to four hundred francs a month; besides that, you will live with me and receive free board, light, and fuel. Your duties will be as follows: to teach me all the secrets of your profession and to find out all that is said about me in the town. And, in order to attain my purpose more easily, you will frequent society and the clubs, and there abuse me right and left.”
I was bewildered and delighted. Oh, ma pauvre mère! Oh, ma soeur, dont la jeunesse se consume dans la vaine attente d’un mari!...[[32]]
Yet, notwithstanding my agitation, I observed a certain inconsistency in his proposition, and instantly remarked it to him.
“Permit me to make one respectful comment, monseigneur,” said I. “You were so kind as to say that I should live in your house, yet at the same time you desire me to malign you. Although I fully understand that the latter measure may be one of utility (for ascertaining the direction of public opinion), still, would it not be better if I were to live, not in your house, but in a separate lodging—just in the character of a distinguished foreigner living on his income?”
“That’s of no consequence,” he replied, with a fascinating smile. “Please do not disturb yourself about that. In our Steppes it is a customary thing to foul your own nest; when you eat a man’s bread, you’re supposed to abuse him.”...
I decided.
Parting with thee, oh, my beloved France, I felt that my heart was torn in pieces!
Oh, ma mère!
Oh, ma pauvre sœur chérie!
But I said to myself, “Oh, ma belle France! If only the Steppes do not swallow me up, I will scrape together a small capital, and will set up in Paris a matrimonial and divorce agency. Then shall nothing ever separate us more, oh, beloved—oh, incomparable native land!”
Looking forward to that longed-for moment, I decided to give up all my salary to my poor mother. For myself, I intended to live on casual gains, of which, by the exercise on my part of a certain amount of skill and inventive capacity, there would certainly be no lack.
On the journey the prince was exceedingly obliging. He always permitted me to sit at the same table with him, and gave me good food. Several times he attempted to explain to me in detail in what consist the “attributes of a Pompadour”; but I must confess that these explanations produced on me no other effect than complete bewilderment. This bewilderment was still further increased by the fact that during these explanations his face wore so ambiguous an expression that I never was able to make out whether he was speaking seriously or romancing.
“The Pompadourical profession,” said he, “is almost a superfluous one, but just that very superfluity is what gives to it the piquante significance which it has in our country. It is unnecessary, and yet it is ... you understand me?”
“Not quite, monseigneur.”
“I will try to express myself more clearly. A Pompadour has no special business; it would be better to say no business,” he added, correcting himself. “He produces nothing, manages nothing directly, and decides nothing. But he has internal policy and time to spare. The former gives him the right to interfere in the affairs of others; the latter enables him to vary that right without limit. I hope that now you understand me?”
“Pardon me, excellence, but I am so imperfectly initiated into the wire-pulling of the policy of the Steppes that there is much which I cannot comprehend. Thus, for instance, why do you interfere in other people’s affairs? Surely all those ‘others’ are servants of the same bureaucratic principle of which you are a representative. For, in so far as I understand, the constitution of the Steppes——”
“First of all, we have no constitution whatever. Our Steppes are free—as Steppes should be—or as the hurricane that sweeps across them from end to end. Who shall control the hurricane? I ask you, What constitution can attain to it?”
He interrupted me so sternly that I became somewhat embarrassed and felt it necessary to apologise.
“I expressed myself badly, monseigneur,” said I; “I used the word ‘constitution’ in quite another sense from the one you were pleased to give to it. According to the opinion of scientific men, any state, when once constituted, by that very fact declares itself to have a constitution. It is a matter admitting of no doubt that there may be constitutions which are pernicious, and others again which are useful——”
“All that is very fine, but I beg of you not to employ in our conversations the hateful word ‘constitution’—never! Entendez vous: jamais! Et maintenant que vous êtes averti, continuons.”
I therefore explained that I could not understand of what use the interference of one set of bureaucrats in the affairs of another set could possibly be. I was just going to add: “Possibly you share? In that case ... I understand. Oh, comme je comprends cela, monseigneur!” But, not being, as yet, quite intimate with my illustrious friend, I refrained from that remark. Apparently, however, he guessed my secret thought, for he grew as red as a boiled lobster, and exclaimed, in an agitated voice—
“I protest with all my soul! Do you hear—I protest!”
“But, in that case, I really do not understand what is the purpose of this constant interference.”
“You are stupid, Chenapan!” (Yes, he said that to me, although at that time he was still very polite to me.) “You don’t understand that the more interference there is on my part, the more right I attain to the notice of the higher authorities. If I put down one revolution a year, that is well; but if I put down two in a year, that is excellent! And you, who are in the service of the greatest of suppressors of revolutions—you cannot understand that!”
“I understand—I understand that very well, monseigneur. But I confess I had supposed that the condition of your country——”
“All countries are in the same condition for a man who desires to attract to himself the attention of the authorities—vous m’entendez! But that is not all! I have my personal amour-propre.... Sacrebleu! I have my internal policy; I have my prerogatives! I wish to introduce my view—sapristi! I wish that people should act in harmony with my views, not in contradiction to them. It is my right; if you like to put it so, it is my caprice. You lay a responsibility on me; you demand of me this and that ... allow me, too, to have my caprice. I hope that this does not amount to any monstrous pretentiousness on my part?”
“But the law, monseigneur? How can you reconcile caprices with the law?”
“La loi! Parlez moi de ça! nous en avons quinze volumes, mon cher!”[[33]]
Here our conversation broke off. Although the administrative theory expressed in the last exclamation of my interlocutor was quite new to me, still I acknowledge frankly that the coolness with which he spoke of the law pleased me. Monseigneur Maupas had often said to me, “In case of need, mon cher, even the law can alter,” but he said it softly, as if afraid that any one should hear. And now suddenly—this clearness, this daring, this élan—how could one fail to be charmed by them! The Cossacks are a bold race altogether, and inclined to see enemies where we, people of an older civilisation, see only protection and surety. These people are absolutely fresh, and are free from all those prejudices which burden the life of a Western. They look upon the so-called “moral duties” with the most easy-going cheerfulness, but, on the other hand, no one can compare with them in matters of physical exertion; and as for their activity at table, with the bottle, with women—there they are undoubtedly the first warriors in the whole world. I, for instance, have never once seen my amphytrion drunk, although the quantity of liquor consumed by him before my eyes is, indeed, hardly credible. Never once did he lay down his arms before the enemy, and all the effect that wine ever produced on him consisted in a change of colour and a certain extra animation in romancing.
“I CANNOT REMEMBER HOW THE CEREMONY WAS PERFORMED.”
I am none the less bound to acknowledge that the significance of Pompadours in Russian society continued to appear to me wanting in clearness. I could not conceive that there could exist anywhere an administrative caste, the duties of which should consist in hindering (I consider the word “intervene” too serious for such an occupation), and which, when reminded of the law, could answer, “’Pristi! nous en avons quinze volumes!” For the rest, I ascribed my doubts, not to my own want of comprehension, but rather to the prince’s incapacity to formulate his thought clearly. It was evident that he himself did not understand in what his administrative rôle consists; and this is quite comprehensible if we remember that in Russia up to the present time[[34]] the corps of cadets are regarded as the nurseries of the administration. In these institutions the pupils are put through a detailed course of study in only one science, which bears the name of “Zwon popêta razdawaiss”[[35]] (the prince was in an exceedingly merry humour when he told me this long name, and I am convinced that in no other European country is there a science with such a name); the other sciences, without which it is impossible to get on in any human society, are passed over more than superficially. It is, therefore, not in the least surprising that persons who have received such an education prove incapable of expressing their thoughts coherently and consequentially, but get along how they can with such senseless exclamations as “Sapristi!” “Ventre de biche!” “Parlez moi de ça!” and so on.
Only when the inhospitable Steppe received us in its stern embrace, that is to say, when we arrived at our destination, did I even to some extent realise what my exalted amphytrion meant by his prerogatives.
Until we entered the confines of that tract of country over which the Prince de la Klioukwà’s Pompadourical sway extended, his conduct was in some degree moderate. He beat the drivers with a leniency of which I can only speak with the greatest admiration (as for his behaviour when abroad, of that I need not speak—it was the very pink of courtesy). But no sooner did he see the boundary-post which marks the beginning of his jurisdiction, than he drew his sword from its scabbard, made the sign of the cross, and, turning to the driver, uttered a cry of gloomy significance. We flew along like an arrow from the bow, and the remaining fifteen versts to the posting station were taken at a gallop. He, however, considered that we were not going fast enough, for every five minutes he would encourage the driver with violent blows of his sword.
I was unable to understand the cause of his anger, but I have never seen any human being so enraged. I confess that I was very much afraid the axle-tree of our carriage would break, as, if that had happened, we should inevitably have perished. But to persuade him not to hurry the driver was impossible, for furious driving along the roads is one of those prerogatives to which the Pompadours most passionately cling.
“I’ll teach him how to drive—canaille!” he repeated, addressing me, and appearing to enjoy the terror depicted on my countenance.
And indeed we travelled more than two hundred versts in twelve hours, and yet, notwithstanding this unheard of speed, at the stations he used to order the drivers to be flogged, remarking to me:
“C’est notre manière de leur donner le pourboire!”[[36]]
On arriving at the principal town we stopped at a large state building, in which we were absolutely lost, as in a desert. (The Prince had no family.) It was early morning, and I was dying for want of sleep; but he insisted on having the official reception at once, and despatched couriers in all directions with the news of his arrival. Two hours later the state-rooms of the house were filled with trembling officials.
Although prerogatives play an important part in our fair France, yet I could never have conceived of anything like what I saw here. Among us such words as “scoundrel” (“vaurien,” “polisson” and—unfortunately—“Chenapan”) constitute the severest reprimand which a guilty official can possibly deserve from an angry superior. Here, on the contrary, independently of plenteously-scattered personal insults, it is customary to add emphatic remarks concerning the genealogy of the person abused.
The prince was as scarlet as a boiled lobster, and hurried on from one subordinate to another, pouring out deluges of virulent abuse. He was especially hard upon a certain lame major, whom he ironically introduced to me with the remark, “This is my Maupas.” I at first imagined that this unhappy man must have attempted to usurp the prince’s power during his absence (which, of course, would have justified his wrath), but it appeared that nothing of the kind had happened. Up to this day I cannot explain to myself what was the cause of those grievous scenes which I witnessed on that memorable morning. The prince explained them to me as resulting from a desire to defend his prerogatives, but that reason appeared to me insufficient, as no one, apparently, had infringed those prerogatives. In a word, the official reception ended in a complete victory for my exalted amphytrion, who paced about the rooms, bridling like a spirited horse and proudly rejoicing in his easily-won triumph.
It was only at dinner that I began to feel at ease. It went off rather pleasantly, for there were present several favourites of the prince, young men, evidently very well educated. One of them, who had lately returned from St. Petersburg, very cleverly mimicked Mdlle. Paget,[[37]] at her soirées intimes, singing, “Un soir à la barrière.” This song, though far from new, and almost gone from my memory, gave me the greatest pleasure.
That evening the prince introduced me to the lady of his affections, whom he had taken away a short time before from one of the local municipal counsellors.[[38]] This most charming woman produced on me a profound impression, which was still further strengthened when I felt under the table the pressure of her foot against mine. Her husband was present, and greatly amused us by his jests at the expense of betrayed husbands, from which category the simple-hearted man did not exclude himself. Some of these jests, under the mask of naïveté, were so biting that the Pompadour reddened and lost his temper; but his morganatic friend, apparently, was accustomed to such scenes, for she looked on as if she had been an unconcerned outsider.
Our merry supper was drawing to a close, when suddenly some one came running in to announce that a fire had broken out at the end of the town.
“That is capital!” said the Pompadour to me. “Vous allez me voir à l’œuvre!”[[39]]
But I, for my part, was far from glad, for I observed that the prince, for the first time in our acquaintance, was quite drunk. Whether the proximity of the object of his affections acted on him as a stimulant, or whether it was the direct result of the intoxication of power—be that as it may, he could hardly keep on his feet. It turned out, however, that even this was to his advantage. As a general rule, no fire ever occurred without his beating somebody, but on this occasion he slept through the whole affair, and only woke up when the flames were fully extinguished.
As we returned home he startled me so distressingly that my heart seemed to contract as under the influence of some dark presentiment.
“Well, Monsieur Chenapan” (he did not even conceal the insulting double meaning that he put into my name), “how do you (tu) like my place?” asked he.
However deeply I was wounded by this deliberate jest, and by his unceremonious “thou,” addressed to a man who was no subordinate of his, I nevertheless felt it wise to submit.
“I am more than enchanted, monseigneur,” said I.
“H’m!... I should just like to see you not enchanted, you hound!”
As he said that he laughed so strangely that I suddenly understood—I was not a guest, but a captive!
Oh, ma France bien aimée! Oh, ma mère!
The prince very soon learned from me all the secrets of the craft, but, as he became more sure and confident in them, I fell lower and lower in his estimate. The first two months he paid my salary punctually, but the third month he told me right out that the whole of me was not worth two sous. When I tried to move him with entreaties, referring to my aged mother and my maiden sister, whose only treasure on earth is her virtue, he not only refused to hear the voice of generosity, but even permitted himself certain ambiguities concerning the virtue of my poor dear sister.
“STROLLING ABOUT THE BOULEVARDS.”
While waiting till God should soften his heart, I was forced to be content with receiving my board and lodging. Yet even this much cost me bitter insults. They took away my former bed and replaced it by a thing for which in our sweet language there is no name. At table they constantly mocked and jeered at me, and took to habitually calling me “rascal.” Unhappily, I was so imprudent as to let out on one occasion that I had sometimes been beaten in Paris when fulfilling my duties, and by this needless frankness I, as it were, laid myself open to the most monstrous and outrageous jests, in which these people (who have no inventive capacity of their own) indulged at my expense. Moreover, at every meal they would purposely leave me without some particular dish (as a general rule, with a refinement of cruelty, they would choose whichever dish I liked best); and when I complained of hunger they would unceremoniously send me into the servants’ hall. But what hurt me most of all was the fact that they insulted in my presence my most gracious sovereign and emperor, Napoleon III., and in his person my dear, beautiful France. Thus, for instance, they would ask me was it true that Napoleon (they purposely pronounced his name Napoleòschka—a contemptuous diminutive) sold geese in London? or was it true that he and Morny together had kept a house of tolerance in New York? etc.... And all this frivolous jesting at the moment when the terrible Eastern Question stood before us!...
So it went on until autumn. The cold weather began, but they neither put double windows into my room nor heated it. I was never of a rebellious temperament, but at the first cruel grasp of cold, even my self-abnegation broke down. Only then did I become fully convinced that the hope that God would touch the heart of my exalted amphytrion was a hope in the last degree illusory and vain. Gathering up my courage, I decided to brave the inhospitable Steppes and appealed to the prince to grant me the necessary sum to reach the banks of the Seine.
“I no longer demand the payment of what is due to me, monseigneur,” said I; “the payment of what I have earned, far away from my beloved country, while subsisting on the bitter bread of exile....”
“You’re wise not to demand it—Chenapan!” he remarked, coldly.
“I beg for only one favour. Give me a sufficient sum to enable me to return to my country and embrace my beloved mother.”
“All right; I’ll think it over ... Chenapan!”
Day after day passed—still they did not heat my room, and still he thought. During that time I reached the last degree of prostration, and no longer complained to any one, but my eyes shed tears of themselves. If any dog had been in my position it might have aroused compassion—but he was silent!
Afterwards I learned that such things are called in the Russian language “jokes.” But if these are their jokes, what must their cruelties be?
At last he sent for me.
“All right,” he said; “I will give you four hundred francs, but only on condition that you become a convert to the Greek faith.”
I looked into his eyes with amazement, but those eyes expressed nothing, save an inflexibility that admits of no reply.
I cannot remember how the ceremony was performed.... I am even not quite certain whether it was a real ceremony, and whether the priest’s part was not played by the Pompadour’s adjutant disguised.
Justice compels me to add, however, that, after the ceremony was over, he behaved to me like a grand seigneur, that is, he gave me not only the whole of the sum agreed upon, but also two beautiful, hardly-worn suits, and ordered that I should be driven free of expense to the boundary of the next Pompadourdom. My hope did not deceive me. God had touched his heart at last!
Twelve days later I had reached the banks of the Seine, and, graciously received back into the service by Monseigneur Maupas, was strolling about the boulevards, humming merrily—
“Les lois de la France,
Votre Excellence!
Mourir, mourir,
Toujours mourir!”
Oh, ma France!
Oh, ma mère!
THE CROCODILE.
AN EXTRAORDINARY EVENT; OR, A PASSAGE IN THE PASSAGE.
(The true narrative of how a gentleman of a certain age and a certain appearance was swallowed alive and whole by the crocodile of the Passage, and of what were the consequences.)
By FÈDOR DOSTOYÈVSKY.
“Ohè Lambert! Où est Lambert? As tu vu Lambert?”
On the 13th of this present month of January, 1865, at half-past twelve in the day, Elyòna Ivànovna, the spouse of my learned friend, fellow in office, and distant connection, Ivan Matvyèich, desired to visit the crocodile which is now to be seen for a certain price in the Passage.[[40]] Ivan Matvyèich, having already in his pocket his ticket for a foreign tour (it was more for interest than for his health that he was going abroad), and therefore considering himself as off duty, and perfectly free for the whole morning, not only did not oppose his wife’s uncontrollable desire, but even became fired with curiosity himself. “A splendid idea,” he said contentedly; “we’ll go and see the crocodile. Before starting for Europe it is well to make oneself acquainted with its native population;” and with these words he took his wife upon his arm and instantly started off with her for the Passage. I, as usual, went along with them, in my character of family friend. I had never seen Ivan Matvyèich in a more cheerful mood than on that memorable morning. How true it is that we know not our fate beforehand! The moment we entered the Passage he went into raptures over the magnificence of the building, and when we reached the shop in which the newly arrived monster was on view, he even wished to pay the crocodile keeper the twenty-five kopecks for my entrance out of his own pocket—a thing which had never happened with him before. On entering we found ourselves in a small room, in which, besides the crocodile, were several cockatoos and a collection of monkeys in a separate cage in the background. To the left hand of the door, by the wall, stood a large tin tank, something like a bath, covered with a strong iron-wire netting, and at the bottom of it were two or three inches of water. In this shallow puddle lay an enormous crocodile, as still as a log, perfectly motionless, and appearing to have lost all his powers in our damp and, for foreigners, inhospitable climate. At first sight the monster aroused no particular interest in any of us.
“So that’s the crocodile!” said Elyòna Ivànovna regretfully, in a sing-song voice. “I thought he would be ... quite different somehow.”
She probably expected him to be made of diamonds. The German exhibitor, at once keeper and owner of the crocodile, who had come into the room, looked at us with an air of the greatest pride.
“He’s right,” whispered Ivan Matvyèich to me; “for he knows that no one else in all Russia is exhibiting a crocodile.”
I attributed this utterly senseless remark to the particularly pleasant humour that Ivan Matvyèich was in, as on the whole he was a very envious man.
“I think your crocodile is dead,” said Elyòna Ivànovna, piqued by the ungraciousness of the German, and turning to him with a fascinating smile, intended to “vanquish this boor”—a peculiarly feminine manœuvre.
“Oh, no, madame,” answered the German in his broken Russian, and, half-lifting the network of the tank, he began to tap the crocodile on the head with a cane.
At this the perfidious monster, to show that it was alive, slightly moved its paws and tail, raised its head and uttered a sound resembling a prolonged snuffle.
“There, don’t be cross, Karlchen,” caressingly said the German, whose vanity was flattered.
“What a horrid brute! I am quite afraid of him,” lisped Elyòna Ivànovna still more coquettishly. “I shall dream of him now at night!”
“But he not vill bite you at ze night, madame,” gallantly rejoined the German, and burst out laughing at his own joke, though none of us answered him.
“Come, Semyòn Semyònich,” continued Elyòna Ivànovna, addressing herself only to me, “let’s go and look at the monkeys. I am awfully fond of monkeys; some of them are such little loves—but the crocodile is horrible.”
“Oh, don’t be afraid, my dear,” Ivan Matvyèich called after us, showing off his bravery before his wife. “This sleepy denizen of the realm of the Pharaohs will do us no harm;” and he remained beside the tank. He even took off one glove and began to tickle the crocodile’s nose with it, in the hope, as he afterwards confessed, of making it snore again. The keeper, out of politeness to a lady, followed Elyòna Ivànovna to the monkeys’ cage.
Thus all was well, and there was no sign of coming misfortune. Elyòna Ivànovna was so much fascinated with the monkeys that she appeared completely absorbed in them. She uttered screams of delight, talked incessantly to me, as if wishing to ignore the keeper altogether, and went into fits of laughing over resemblances which she found in the monkeys to her most intimate friends and acquaintances. I, too, was greatly amused, for there could be no doubt as to the likeness. The German did not know whether to laugh or not, and therefore ended by scowling. At this moment an appalling—I may even say supernatural—shriek suddenly shook the room. Not knowing what to think, I stood for a moment rooted to the spot; then, hearing Elyòna Ivànovna shrieking too, I turned hastily round—and what did I see! I saw—oh, heavens!—I saw the unhappy Ivan Matvyèich in the fearful jaws of the crocodile, seized across the middle, lifted horizontally in the air, and kicking despairingly. Then, one moment, and he was gone. But I will describe all in detail, for I was standing motionless the whole time, and observed the entire process with an attention and curiosity such as I do not remember experiencing on any other occasion. For, thought I in that fatal moment, “what if this had happened to me, instead of to Ivan Matvyèich; how very unpleasant it would be for me!” But to the point. The crocodile began by turning poor Ivan Matvyèich round in its horrible jaws feet fore most, swallowed first of all his legs; then let Ivan Matvyèich, who all this while was clutching at the tank and trying to jump out, protrude again a little, and sucked him back into its throat to the waist. Again it let him protrude, and gulped him down once more. In this manner Ivan Matvyèich was visibly disappearing before our eyes. At last, with a final gulp, the crocodile drew into itself the whole of my learned friend, leaving nothing behind. On the surface of the crocodile one could see how Ivan Matvyèich, in his uniform, completely passed down its inside. I was just going to cry out again, when suddenly cruel fate played another jest upon us. The crocodile swelled itself out (probably half stifled by the enormous size of the mouthful), once more opened its fearful jaws, and for the last time the head of Ivan Matvyèich, with a despairing expression on the face, was suddenly protruded from them. At that instant the spectacles dropped off his nose into the bottom of the tank. It seemed as if this despairing head appeared only in order to cast one last glance upon everything, and take a mute farewell of all the pleasures of this world. But it had no time to carry out its intention; the crocodile once more gathered up its powers, gulped, and in a moment the head vanished, and this time for ever. This appearance and disappearance of a living human head was so dreadful, but at the same time, whether from the rapidity and unexpectedness of the event, or whether from the dropping of the spectacles from the nose, so funny, that I suddenly burst into a quite unexpected fit of laughter; but realising that for me, in my quality of family friend, to laugh at such a moment was improper, I instantly turned to Elyòna Ivànovna, and said to her with a look of sympathy—
“It’s all up now with Ivan Matvyèich!”
I cannot even attempt to describe the agitation of Elyòna Ivànovna during the whole process. After her first cry she stood for some time as petrified, and stared at the scene before her, as if indifferently, though her eyes were starting out of her head; then she suddenly burst into a piercing shriek. I caught her by the hands. At this moment the keeper, who until now had also stood petrified with horror, clasped his hands and raising his eyes to heaven, cried aloud—
“Oh, my crocodile! oh, mein allerliebster Karlchen! Mutter! Mutter! Mutter!”
At this cry the back door opened, and “Mutter,” a red-cheeked, untidy, elderly woman in a cap, rushed with a yell towards her son.
There began an awful row. Elyòna Ivànovna, beside herself, reiterated one single phrase: “Cut it! Cut it!” and rushed from the keeper to the “Mutter” and back to the keeper, imploring them (evidently in a fit of frenzy) to “cut” something or some one for some reason. Neither the keeper nor “Mutter” took any notice of either of us; they were hanging over the tank and shrieking like stuck pigs.
“He is gone dead; he vill sogleich burst, because he von ganz Tchinovnik eat up haf!” cried the keeper.
“Unser Karlchen, unser allerliebster Karlchen wird sterben!” wailed the mother.
“Ve are orphans, vitout bread!” moaned the keeper.
“Cut it! Cut it! Cut it open!” screamed Elyòna Ivànovna, hanging on to the German’s coat.
“He did teaze ze crocodile; vy your man teaze ze crocodile?” yelled the German, wriggling away; “you vill pay me if Karlchen wird bersten; dass war mein Sohn, dass war mein einziger Sohn!”
“Cut it!” shrieked Elyòna Ivànovna.
“How! You will dat my crocodile shall be die?” “No, your man shall be die first, and denn my crocodile. Mein Vater show von crocodile, mein Grossvater show von crocodile, mein Sohn shall show von crocodile, and I shall show von crocodile. All ve shall show crocodile. I am ganz Europa famous, and you are not ganz Europa famous, and do be me Straf pay shall!”
“Ja, ja!” agreed the woman, savagely; “ve you not let out; Straf ven Karlchen vill berst.”
“For that matter,” I put in calmly, in the hope of getting Elyòna Ivànovna home without further ado, “there’s no use in cutting it open, for in all probability our dear Ivan Matvyèich is now soaring in the empyrean....”
“My dear,” remarked at this moment the voice of Ivan Matvyèich, with startling suddenness, “my advice, my dear, is to act through the bureau of police, for the German will not comprehend truth without the assistance of the police.”
These words, uttered with firmness and gravity, and expressing astonishing presence of mind, at first so much amazed us that we could not believe our ears. Of course, however, we instantly ran to the crocodile’s tank and listened to the speech of the unfortunate captive with a mixture of reverence and distrust. His voice sounded muffled, thin, and even squeaky, as though coming from a long distance.
“Ivan Matvyèich, my dearest, and are you then alive?” lisped Elyòna Ivànovna.
“Alive and well,” answered Ivan Matvyèich; “and, thanks to the Almighty, swallowed whole without injury. I am only disturbed by doubt as to how the superior authorities will regard this episode; for, after having taken a ticket to go abroad, to go into a crocodile instead is hardly sensible.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t worry about sense now; first of all we must somehow or other dig you out,” interrupted Elyòna Ivànovna.
“Tig!” cried the German. “I not vill let you to tig ze crocodile! Now shall bery mush publikum be come, and I shall fifety kopeck take, and Karlchen shall leave off to berst.”
“Gott sei Dank!” added the mother.
“They are right,” calmly remarked Ivan Matvyèich; “the economic principle before everything.”
“Dear friend!” I exclaimed; “I will fly at once to the authorities and complain, for I feel convinced that we can’t settle this hash by ourselves.”
“I also am of that opinion,” said Ivan Matvyèich; “but without an economic remuneration it is hard, in our age of financial crisis, to rip open the belly of a crocodile, and, nevertheless, we are confronted with the inevitable question: What will the owner take for his crocodile? With this there is also another question: Who is to pay? For you know I have not the means.”
“Couldn’t you get your salary in advance?”... I began, timidly; but the German instantly interrupted—
“I not sell ze crocodile. I tree tausend sell ze crocodile, I four tausend sell ze crocodile! Now shall mush publikum come. I fife tausend sell ze crocodile!”
In a word, he carried it with a high hand; avarice and greed shone triumphantly in his eyes.
“I will go!” I cried, indignantly.
“And I! And I, too! I will go to Andrey Osìpych himself—I will move him with my tears!” wailed Elyòna Ivànovna.
“Don’t do that, my dear,” hastily interrupted Ivan Matvyèich, who had long been jealous of Andrey Osìpych’s admiration of his wife, and knew that she was glad of a chance to weep before a man of refinement, as tears became her very well. “And you, my friend,” he continued, addressing me, “you had better go to Timofèy Semyònych. And now take away Elyòna Ivànovna.... Be calm, my love,” he added to her. “I am tired with all this noise and feminine quarrelling, and wish to take a little nap. It is warm and soft here, though I have not yet had time to look about me in this unexpected refuge.”
“Look about you! Is there any light there?” cried Elyòna Ivànovna in delight.
“I am surrounded by impenetrable darkness,” answered the poor captive; “but I can feel, and, so to say, look about me with my hands. Good-bye! Be calm, and do not deny yourself recreation. You, Semyòn Semyònich, come back to me this evening, and, as you are absent-minded and may forget, tie a knot in your handkerchief.”
The respectable Timofèy Semyònych received me in a hurried and, as it were, somewhat embarrassed manner. He took me into his little study and carefully shut the door: “So that the children shan’t disturb us,” as he explained with evident anxiety. He then placed me in a seat by the writing-table, sat down in an armchair, gathered up the tails of his old wadded dressing-gown, and put on an official, even severe expression, although he was not in authority over either Ivan Matvyèich or myself, but simply an acquaintance and fellow-official.
“First of all,” he began, “remember that I am not an authority; I am a mere subordinate, like yourself or Ivan Matvyèich. I am an outsider, and do not intend to mix myself up with anything.”
He evidently knew all, much to my astonishment. However, I told him the whole story over again, with all details. I spoke with emotion, for at that moment I was fulfilling the duty of a true friend. He listened without any great surprise, but with evident suspiciousness.
“Just imagine,” he said, when I had done; “I always expected that this very thing would happen to him.”
“But why, Timofèy Semyònych—the case is a most exceptional one?”
“Certainly. But during the whole term of his service Ivan Matvyèich has been leading up to this result. He’s too nimble—yes, and too conceited. Always ‘progress’ and new-fangled ideas—and that’s where progress ends.”
“Well, but this is an altogether extraordinary occurrence; one can’t put it forward as a general rule for all progressists.”
“Yes, but that’s just how it is. You see, all this comes of too much learning—it does, believe me, sir. People that have too much learning always will poke their noses everywhere, and particularly where they’re not wanted. However, of course you know best,” he added, in a half-offended tone; “I’m an old man, and not so well educated as you; I entered the service from a school for soldiers’ children, and my fifty-years’ jubilee was this year.”
“Oh no, indeed, Timofèy Semyònych, how can you! On the contrary, Ivan Matvyèich longs for your advice, for your guidance. Even, so to say, with tears.”
“‘Even, so to say, with tears.’ H’m, indeed! Well, those are crocodile tears, and mustn’t be too much believed in. Now, just tell me, what put it into his head to go abroad? And on what money? He has nothing, has he?”
“Only savings, Timofèy Semyònych,” I answered, sadly, “from the last perquisites. He only wanted to travel for three months—to Switzerland—to the fatherland of William Tell.”
“William Tell. H’m!”
“And to Naples, to see the spring there. He wished to see the museums, the life, the animals.”
“H’m, animals? In my opinion all that is nothing but pride. What animals? Animals? Haven’t we animals enough at home? We have zoological gardens, museums, camels. There are wild bears quite near to Petersburg. And now, you see, he went and tumbled into a crocodile.”
“Timofèy Semyònych, for mercy’s sake—a man in trouble—a man comes as to his friend, as to an elder relative, imploring advice, and you—reproach him. Have pity, at least, upon the unhappy Elyòna Ivànovna!”
“You are speaking of his wife? A charming lady!” remarked Timofèy Semyònych, evidently softening, and taking a pinch of snuff with much gusto. “A person of subtle refinement. So nice and plump, and the head just on one side—just a leetle on one side. Very agreeable—yes. Andrey Osìpych mentioned her again the day before yesterday.”
“Mentioned her?”
“Mentioned her, and in the most flattering terms. ‘Such a bust,’ he said, ‘such a glance, such hair! A sugar-plum,’ he said, ‘not a lady!’ and he began to laugh. They are both young people still.” (Here Timofèy Semyònych blew his nose loudly.) “And yet, you see, a young man, and what a career he’s made for himself!”
“Yes; but this is quite another case, Timofèy Semyònych.”
“Oh, of course, of course!”
“Well then, Timofèy Semyònych, how is it to be?”
“Why, what can I do?”
“Advise us, guide us, as a man of experience—as a parent! What shall we do? Go to the authorities, or——”
“To the authorities? On no account!” hastily exclaimed Timofèy Semyònych. “If you want my advice, I say the first thing is to hush up the matter, and act in the character of a private person. It is a suspicious case, an unheard of case. The worst is that it’s unheard of—there’s no precedent—indeed, it looks very bad. So that the first of all things is caution. Let him stop where he is a bit. He must have patience, patience!”
“But how can he stop there, Timofèy Semyònych? Supposing he chokes to death?”
“Why should he? Didn’t you tell me that he had made rather a comfortable arrangement for himself there?”
I repeated all over again. Timofèy Semyònych meditated.
“H’m!” he pronounced, holding his snuff-box in his hands; “in my opinion it will be even a very good thing for him to stop there a bit, instead of going abroad. He can think at his leisure; of course it wouldn’t do to choke, and he must take measures for the preservation of his health.... I mean—he must take care not to get a cough or anything.... And as for the German, my personal opinion is that he is right—more so than the other side, indeed; because, you see, Ivan Matvyèich got into his crocodile without leave, and not he into Ivan Matvyèich’s crocodile; indeed, so far as I remember, Ivan Matvyèich had no crocodile of his own. Very well, then, a crocodile constitutes private property, therefore without remuneration it cannot be cut open, as I take it.”
“To save a human life, Timofèy Semyònych.”
“Oh well, that’s the business of the police. You should apply to them.”
“But then, again, Ivan Matvyèich may be needed. He may be sent for——”
“Ivan Matvyèich needed? Ha, ha, ha! Besides, he is supposed to be on furlough, therefore we can ignore the whole matter and suppose him to be looking at European lands. It will be another case if he doesn’t turn up at the end of his furlough; then, of course, we must make inquiries.”
“Three months! Timofèy Semyònych, for mercy’s sake!”
“It’s his own fault. Who asked him to poke his nose in there? I suppose the next thing will be there’ll have to be a nursemaid hired for him at Government expense, and that’s not stated in the regulations. But the main point is that the crocodile is property, therefore what is called the economic principle comes into play. And the economic principle is before everything. Now, the day before yesterday, at Loukà Andrèich’s evening, Ignàtyi Prokòfich was talking about that. He’s a capitalist, a business man, and he put it all so plainly, you know: ‘What we want,’ he said, ‘is industry; we have too little industry. It must be created. We must create capital; that is, we must create a middle-class, we must create what is called a bourgeoisie. And as we have no capital, we must import it from abroad. In the first place, we must give full liberty to foreign companies to buy up our land in lots, as is the accepted custom now abroad. Communal property,’ said he, ‘is poison—it is ruin!’ And you know he talked so hotly—of course, such men as he have a right to—men of capital; ... and then, he doesn’t serve. ‘With communal property,’ said he, ‘neither industry nor agriculture will improve. What we need,’ said he, ‘is that the foreign companies should buy up as much as possible of our land in lots, and then divide, divide, divide it up into as many little pieces as they can’—and you should have heard how positively he said it: ‘di-v-vide,’ said he—‘and then sell it for private property. That is—not exactly sell it, but let it. Then,’ said he, ‘when all the land will be in the hands of the foreign companies that will have been invited over, then, of course, the rent can be put up to any figure you like. The result of that will be that the peasant will work three times as much as now, for bare bread, and we shall be able to do anything we like with him. Undoubtedly he will feel, he will be humble and submissive, and will do three times the work for the same price. But now, with common property, what can you do with him? He knows he won’t starve, and so he gets lazy, and drinks. And then, besides all that, money will come in, and capital will be created, and a bourgeoisie will grow up. Now, the English political paper, the Times, speaking of our finances, expressed the opinion that the reason our finances do not grow is, that we have no middle-class, no long purses, no submissive proletariat....’ Ah! Ignàtyi Prokòfich speaks well; he’s an orator. He is going to send in a report to the authorities, and then have it printed in the News. That’s a very different thing from Ivan Matvyèich and his verses....”
“And what about Ivan Matvyèich?” I asked, when I had let the old man talk to his heart’s content. Timofèy Semyònych liked to talk this way sometimes, to show that he knew everything and was not behind the age.
“Ivan Matvyèich? Well, that is just what I was leading up to. As you see, we are making efforts to attract foreign capital into the country, and now judge for yourself: the capital of the crocodile-keeper (a foreigner attracted here) has barely had time to become doubled by means of Ivan Matvyèich, and we, instead of protecting the foreign possessor of property, are aiming, on the contrary, to rip open the belly of the fundamental capital itself! Now, really, is that consistent? In my opinion, Ivan Matvyèich, as a true son of the Fatherland, should even be glad and proud that, by the addition of himself, he has doubled, and maybe trebled, the value of the foreign crocodile. That, sir, is an essential feature in the attracting of capital. If one succeeds, perhaps another will come with a crocodile, and a third will bring two or three at once, and capital will collect round them. And so you get your bourgeoisie. People must be encouraged, my good sir.”
“But, Timofèy Semyònych,” I exclaimed, “you demand almost supernatural self-abnegation of poor Ivan Matvyèich!”
“And who told him to get into the crocodile? A respectable man, a man holding a certain position, living in lawful wedlock, and suddenly—such a step? Now, is that consistent?”
“But the step was taken unintentionally.”
“How should I know that? And then, how is the crocodile-keeper to be paid, eh? No, no, he had better stop where he is; he has nowhere to hurry to.”
A happy thought flashed into my mind.
“Can’t we manage it this way,” said I. “If he is fated to stay in the entrails of the monster, and if, by the will of Providence, he remains alive, can’t he send in a petition that he shall be regarded as serving during his sojourn there?”
“H’m; you mean, as on furlough, without salary?”
“No, I mean with his salary.”
“On what ground?”
“As being on an expedition, on Government service——”
“What expedition? Where to?”
“Why, into the entrails—the crocodile’s entrails.... So to say, to collect information, to study facts on the spot. Of course it is a new idea, but then it is progressive, and at the same time it shows care for education.”
Timofèy Semyònych meditated.
“To despatch an official,” he remarked, at last, “into a crocodile’s entrails on a special commission, is, according to my personal opinion, absurd. It is not in accordance with the regulations. And then, what commission can there be to fulfil there?”
“Well, you know, natural philosophy—I mean the study of Nature on the spot, in the living organism. Natural science is all the rage now, and botany and all that.... He could live there and give information.... Well, for instance, about the digestion ... or even the general habits. For the obtaining of facts.”
“That is to say, in the department of statistics. Well, I’m not strong on that point, and then I’m not a philosopher. You say—facts; as it is, we’re crowded out with facts, and don’t know what to do with them all. And then these statistics are dangerous things.”
“How so?”
“Very dangerous. And, moreover, you must admit that he will have to communicate his facts while lying down at his ease. How can a man be on Government service while he’s lying down? That, again, is an innovation, and a dangerous one; and for that, too, there is no precedent. Now, if there were even any sort of precedent, then, in my opinion, it might be possible to arrange a commission.”
“But up till now live crocodiles have not been brought here, Timofèy Semyònych.”
“H’m, yes.”... He meditated again. “There is some truth in your argument, and it might even serve as a basis for the further development of the case. But again, on the other hand, if with the introduction of live crocodiles Government servants begin to disappear, and then, in consideration of the fact that it is soft and warm inside there, begin to demand commissions to live there, and then spend their time lying down, you must acknowledge it’ll be a bad example. You see, if it were so, every one would be wanting to get paid for nothing. Well, good-bye; I must go to Nikìfor Nikìforych; are you coming?”
“No, I must go back to the captive.”
“Ah, yes, to the captive. Oh-h-h! That’s what frivolity leads to!”
When I reached the Passage it was about nine o’clock, and I had to enter the crocodile-room by the back door; for the German had shut up his place earlier than usual. He was walking about at his ease in a greasy old coat, and was evidently three times more self-satisfied even than in the morning. It was plain that he was troubled with no fears, and that “bery mush publikum” had come. “Mutter” came out, too, evidently for the purpose of keeping a watch upon me. She and her son often whispered together. Although the premises were shut up, the German took twenty-five kopecks as entrance-fee from me. That seems to me an excess of accuracy!
“You vill pay ebery time; ze publikum vill pay von rouble, and you vill pay twenti-fife kopeck, vy for you are von goot friend ob your goot friend, and I honour ze friend.”
“Is he alive? Is my learned friend alive?” I cried, loudly, approaching the crocodile.
“Alive and well,” he answered, as if from the far distance; “but of that afterwards. What news?”
Pretending not to hear the question, I began hastily and with sympathy to put questions in my turn. I asked him how he was, how he got on in the crocodile, and what the inside of a crocodile is like. But he interrupted me irritably.
“What news?” he shouted, in his squeaky voice, which sounded now peculiarly unpleasant.
I related to him all my conversation with Timofèy Semyònych, to the minutest detail. In relating it, I tried to express that I was somewhat hurt.
“The old man is right,” said Ivan Matvyèich; “I like practical people, and can’t bear sentimental milksops. Sit down anywhere—on the floor if you like—and listen to me:
“Now, for the first time, I have leisure to think out how to improve the lot of all humanity. Out of the crocodile shall come forth light and truth. I shall now invent a new theory, all my own, of new economic relations—a theory of which I can be proud. Up till now my time has been occupied with the service and with the frivolous amusements of the world. Now I shall overthrow everything and become a new Fourier. But to the point. Where is my wife?”
I told him how I had left Elyòna Ivànovna; but he did not even hear me out.
“I build great hopes upon her,” he said. “From next week she must begin to throw open her drawing-room every evening. I feel sure that the keeper will sometimes bring me, together with the crocodile, into my wife’s brilliant salon. I will stand, in my tank, in the splendid reception-room and shower around me witty sayings, which I will think out beforehand, in the mornings. I will confide my projects to statesmen, with poets I will speak of verse, with the ladies I will be amusing and fascinating (though strictly moral), and I shall have the advantage of being quite innocuous for their husbands. To the rest of society I will serve as an example of submission to fate and to the will of Providence.”
I confess that, though all this was something in Ivan Matvyèich’s usual style, it came into my head that he was feverish and light-headed. This was the ordinary, every day Ivan Matvyèich twenty times magnified.
“My friend,” I asked him, “do you hope for a long life? Tell me about yourself: are you well? How do you eat, sleep and breathe? I am your friend, and indeed you must acknowledge that the case is altogether supernatural, therefore my curiosity is altogether natural.”
“Idle curiosity and nothing more,” he answered, sententiously; “but you shall be satisfied. You ask: How am I domiciled in the entrails of the monster? In the first place, the crocodile, to my great surprise, turns out to be completely hollow. Its interior consists of what appears to be an enormous empty sack, made of gutta-percha. If it were not so, think yourself, how could I find room in it?”
“Is it possible?” I exclaimed in utter stupefaction. “Can the crocodile really be quite empty?”
“Quite,” severely and dogmatically affirmed Ivan Matvyèich. “In all probability it is so constructed in accordance with the laws of Nature herself. The crocodile has only jaws, furnished with sharp teeth, and, in addition to the jaws, a rather long tail; and in reality that is all. In the middle, between these two extremities, is an empty space, enclosed in something which resembles indiarubber, and which, in all probability, is indiarubber.”
“But the ribs, the stomach, the intestines, the liver, the heart?” I interrupted almost crossly.
“There is nothing, absolutely no-th-thing of the kind, and probably there never was anything of the kind. All those things are the idle fancies of frivolous travellers. Just as you swell out an air-cushion with air, so I now swell out the crocodile with my person. It is elastic to an incredible degree. For that matter, this hollow formation of the crocodile is fully in accordance with natural science. For supposing, for instance, you were commissioned to construct a new crocodile, the question would naturally present itself to you: What is the fundamental characteristic of the crocodile? The answer is plain: To swallow people. How should this aim—the swallowing of people—be attained in the construction of the crocodile? The answer is still plainer: Make him hollow. The science of physics has long proved that Nature abhors a vacuum. According to this law, the interior of the crocodile must necessarily be empty, in order that the crocodile may abhor a vacuum and may therefore swallow everything that comes to hand, so as to fill itself up. And this is the only reasonable cause that all crocodiles eat men. Now, the construction of man is different: for instance, the emptier is a human head, the less desire it feels to fill itself up; and this is the only exception to the general rule. All this has now become to me as clear as day; all this I have comprehended out of my own intellect and experience, being, as it were, in the entrails of Nature, in Nature’s retort, listening to the beating of her pulse. Even etymology agrees with my theory, for the very name of the crocodile implies devouring greed. ‘Crocodile,’ ‘crocodillo,’ is an Italian word—a word contemporary, it may be, with the ancient Egyptian Pharaohs, and evidently derived from the French root, croquer, which means: to eat, to devour, or in any way to use (any object) for food. All this I intend to explain in my first lecture to the audience which will assemble in Elyòna Ivànovna’s salon, when I am carried there in my tank.”
“My dear friend, don’t you think you had better take a—a cooling medicine?” I involuntarily exclaimed. “He’s delirious, delirious!” I repeated to myself in horror.
“Fiddlesticks!” he replied, contemptuously; “moreover, in my present position that would be not altogether convenient. For that matter, I knew you would begin to talk about cooling medicines.”
“Ivan Matvyèich,” said I; “it is hard to believe all the wonders you speak of. And do you mean to tell me that you really, really intend never to dine any more?”
“What silly things you think about, you frivolous rattlepate! I tell you of great ideas and you.... Know then, that I am sufficiently nourished with the great ideas that illumine the night which surrounds me. For the rest, the good-natured keeper of the monster has talked the matter over with his kind-hearted mother, and they have decided together that every morning they will introduce into the jaws of the crocodile a curved metallic tube, something like a shepherd’s pipe, through which I am to suck coffee or broth with white bread soaked in it. The tube has already been ordered from a neighbouring shop, but I consider that this is superfluous luxury. I hope to live, at the least, a thousand years, if it be true that crocodiles live so long (by the by, you had better look that up to-morrow in some book on natural history and let me know, for I may have made a mistake and confused the crocodile with some other fossil). One consideration alone somewhat disturbs me. As I am dressed in cloth and have boots on my feet, the crocodile is, evidently, unable to digest me; moreover, I am alive and resist the digesting of myself with all my force of will; for, naturally, I do not wish to turn into what all food turns into, as that would be too humiliating. But I fear one thing: in the course of a thousand years the cloth of my coat (which, unfortunately, is of Russian manufacture) may decay, and I, remaining without clothes, may then, notwithstanding all my indignation, begin to be digested; and, although by day I shall not permit—shall not under any circumstances allow this,—by night, in sleep, when man is deprived of his free will, I may be overtaken by the most humiliating doom of a mere potato, pancake, or slice of veal. The thought of this drives me to frenzy. If only on this ground the Revenue law must be changed in order to encourage the importation of English cloth, which is stronger, and therefore will resist nature longer in cases of persons tumbling into crocodiles. I shall take the earliest opportunity of communicating this idea to some statesman, and also to the political critics of our St. Petersburg daily papers. They can cry it up. I hope that this will not be the only idea they will take from me. I foresee that every morning a whole assembly of them, armed with editorial twenty-five kopeck pieces, will crowd around me, to catch my thoughts upon the telegrams of the day before. In short, the future appears to me in quite a rose-coloured light.”
“High fever, high fever!” I whispered to myself.
“But, my friend, what about liberty?” I asked, wishing to hear all he had to say upon that point. “You see, you are, as it were, in a dungeon, whereas man should enjoy freedom.”
“You are stupid,” he replied. “Savages care for independence, but wise men love only order, and there is no order——”
“Ivan Matvyèich, have a little pity on me!”
“Silence! Listen!” he screamed out in his rage at being interrupted. “My spirit has never soared so high as now. In my narrow retreat I have but one fear: the literary criticism of the big magazines, and the gibes of our satirical papers. I fear that frivolous visitors, fools, envious persons, and nihilists generally, may hold me up to ridicule. But I will take measures. I await with impatience to-morrow’s expression of public opinion, and, above all, the criticisms in the newspapers. Be sure and tell me about the papers to-morrow. But enough; you are probably sleepy. Go home, and don’t think of what I said about criticism. I am not afraid of criticism, for it is in a critical position itself. It is sufficient to be wise and virtuous, and you are certain to be raised upon a pedestal. If you do not become Socrates you will become Diogenes, or perhaps both at once, and that is my future vocation as regards humanity.”
“Your friend is von bery clefer man,” remarked the German to me in an undertone, as he came up to let me out; he had been listening attentively to all our conversation.
“By the by,” said I; “so as not to forget;—how much would you take for your crocodile, in case any one should think of buying it?”
Ivan Matvyèich, hearing this question, awaited the answer with interest. It was evident that he did not wish the German to take too little; at any rate, he uttered a very peculiar grunt when I put the question.
At first the German would not even listen; he grew quite angry.
“No man not shall to buy my own eigener crocodile!” he cried furiously, reddening like a boiled lobster. “I not vill ze crocodile to sell! I for ze crocodile von million thaler to take not vill! I von hondert treety thaler to-day from ze publikum take, and to-morrow ten tausend thaler take, and zen von hondert tausend thaler every day to take vill. I not vill sell.”
Ivan Matvyèich even sniggered with pleasure.
Controlling my indignation, coldly and calmly—for I was fulfilling the duty of a true friend—I suggested to the crazy German that his calculations were not altogether correct; that if he were to take 100,000 a day he would soon exhaust the population of St. Petersburg, and then would get no more money, that life and death are in God’s hands, that the crocodile might somehow burst, that Ivan Matvyèich might fall ill and die, &c., &c.
The German meditated.
“I to him from the apotheke drops vill bring,” he said, after thinking it over, “and your friend shall not die.”
“Drops are all very well,” said I; “but also consider that a law-suit may be started. Ivan Matvyèich’s wife may demand her lawful husband. You intend to get rich, but do you intend to settle any pension upon Elyòna Ivànovna?”
“No, vot for I intent?” exclaimed the German, sternly and decidedly.
“No, vot for ve intent!” repeated the mother, angrily.
“Very well, then; would it not be better for you to take now, at once, a definite and certain sum, if even a moderate one, than to plunge into uncertainty? I consider it my duty to inform you that I put the question not from idle curiosity.”
The German took his mother for consultation into the corner where stood the cage containing the largest and most hideous monkey of the whole collection.
“Now you’ll see,” said Ivan Matvyèich to me.
For my part, at that moment I was burning with the longing, firstly, to cudgel the German soundly; secondly, to cudgel the mother still more soundly; and thirdly, to cudgel Ivan Matvyèich most soundly of all for his boundless conceit. But all this was as nothing in comparison with the greedy German’s answer.
After discussing the point with his mother, he demanded in exchange for his crocodile: 50,000 roubles in tickets for the latest internal loan lottery, a stone house in the Goròkhovaya Street, with a pharmacy of his own, and, in addition, the rank of a Russian colonel.
“There, you see!” cried Ivan Matvyèich, triumphantly; “I told you so! Except for the last absurd demand to be made a colonel, he is perfectly right, for he thoroughly understands the present value of the monster he exhibits. The economic principle before all!”
“Gracious heavens!” I exclaimed, turning furiously to the German. “What do you want to be colonel for? What feat have you performed, what service have you done, what military fame have you attained to? Why, you must be mad to say such a thing!”
“Mad!” shrieked the offended German; “no, I am von very clefer man, and you are von very sheep-head! I haf merited ze colonel, vy for I did show ze crocodile, and in him von life Hof-rath sit, and no Russian not did show von crocodile, and in him von life Hof-rath sit. I am von wunderbar clefer man, and I to be colonel much vill like!”
“Good-bye, Ivan Matvyèich!” I cried, quivering with rage, and almost ran out of the house. I felt that in another moment I should not be able to answer for myself. The wild hopes of these two idiots were simply unendurable. The cold air refreshed me and somewhat calmed down my indignation, and at last I took a sledge, drove home, undressed, and threw myself upon my bed.
Meditating, over my morning cup of tea, upon all the occurrences of the preceding day, I decided to go at once to Elyòna Ivànovna, on my way to the Department, as, indeed, I was bound to do in my character of domestic friend.
In a tiny room adjoining her bedroom, and called the “little drawing-room” (though their “big drawing-room” was little enough), on a little fancy sofa beside a little tea-table, in a half-ethereal morning négligé, sat Elyòna Ivànovna, sipping coffee out of a little cup, in which she dipped the minutest of rusks. She looked distractingly pretty, but also, I thought, somewhat pensive.
“Ah, it is you, bad boy!” she said, greeting me with an absent smile; “sit down, you frivolous person, and drink some coffee. Well, what did you do yesterday? Were you at the masked ball?”
“Were you? I never go ... and then I spent the evening visiting our captive.”
“Who? what captive?... Ah, yes, of course! Poor fellow! Well, how is he? Very blue? By the by, I wanted to ask you ... I suppose I can claim a divorce now?”
“Divorce!” I ejaculated indignantly, and nearly upset my coffee. “It’s that black-whiskered fellow,” I said to myself, inwardly fuming.
There existed a certain person with black whiskers (he served in the Building Department) who had taken to visiting at the house rather too often, and who greatly amused Elyòna Ivànovna. I acknowledge that I detested him, and there could be no question that he had already contrived to see her, either here or at the masked ball, and had been talking all sorts of nonsense to her.
“Well, you know,” Elyòna Ivànovna began hastily, as if she had learned her speech by heart, “very likely he’ll stop in the crocodile all his life, and never come back at all, and what’s the use of my sitting here and waiting for him? One’s husband ought to live at home, not in a crocodile!”
“But then this is an unforeseen case,” I began, in very natural agitation.
“No, no, no! I won’t hear anything! I don’t want to!” she cried out, suddenly firing up. “You always oppose me, you horrid wretch! There’s no doing anything with you, you never will advise one! Why, even strangers have told me that I can get a divorce now, because Ivan Matvyèich won’t get his salary.”
I began to relate to her all the plans expressed by Ivan Matvyèich the day before. The idea of the evenings at home pleased her greatly.
“Only I shall want heaps of new dresses,” she remarked; “and so Ivan Matvyèich must manage to send me a lot of money, and as soon as possible.... Only ... only, you know,” she added, meditatively, “how about his being brought to me in a tank? That is absurd. I don’t want my husband to be carried in a tank. I shall feel ashamed before my visitors. I don’t want that ... no, no.”
“By the by, did Timofèy Semyònych call on you yesterday evening?”
“Oh, yes; he came to console me, and do you know, we played at trumps all the time. When he lost, he had to give me sweets, and when I lost I had to let him kiss my hands. What a rogue he is! And do you know, he very nearly went to the masked ball with me. Really!”
“He’s bewitched,” I replied; “and whom can’t you bewitch, you sorceress!”
“Oh, there, if you’re going to begin with your compliments! Look here, I want to pinch you before you go. I’ve learned to pinch most frightfully. There! What do you think of that! Oh, by the by, did Ivan Matvyèich often speak of me yesterday evening?”
“N—n—no, not very often ... in fact, he thinks more just now of the destinies of humanity, and wishes to——.”
“There, there! Let him think! You needn’t finish; I’m sure it’s something awfully dull. I shall run in and visit him some time. I’ll be sure and go to-morrow. Only not to-day; my head aches, and there will be such a lot of people there.... They will say, ‘That’s his wife,’ and I shall feel confused.... Good-bye. In the evening shall you be there?”
“With him, of course. He asked me to bring him the newspapers.”
“Oh, that’s capital. Go to him, and read aloud to him, and don’t come to me to-day. I am not well, and perhaps I shall go out to some friends. Well, good-bye, you bad boy.”
“That black-whiskered fellow is going to be there this evening,” I thought to myself.
At the Department I of course made no sign that I was devoured with such cares and responsibilities. I soon observed, though, that several of the most progressive daily papers were on that morning passing unusually quickly from hand to hand among my fellow officials, who read them with exceedingly grave faces. The first which fell into my hands was the “Listòk,” a paper without any special tendency, but on the whole very humanitarian—for which it was generally despised in our set, although much read. It was with a certain surprise that I read the following:—
“Yesterday our vast capital, enriched with its magnificent buildings, was filled with extraordinary rumours. A certain N., a well-known gourmand of the highest spheres of society, wearied, no doubt, of the cuisine of our first-class restaurants, entered the building of the Passage at that part where an immense crocodile, just brought to the capital, was on view, and demanded that the latter should be prepared for his dinner. After bargaining with the keeper, he instantly set to work to devour him (that is, not the keeper, an exceedingly peaceable German with a taste for accuracy, but the crocodile) alive, cutting off juicy morsels with a penknife and gulping them down with extraordinary speed. Gradually the whole of the crocodile disappeared into his fat paunch, and he even set to work upon the ichneumon, the constant companion of the crocodile, probably supposing that it would be equally delicious. We have no objection at all to this new product, already long familiar to foreign gastronomists. We have even prophesied this beforehand. In Egypt the English lords and travellers go out in regular parties to catch crocodiles, and eat the monster’s back in the form of steaks with mustard, onion, and potatoes. The French followers of Lesseps prefer the paws, baked in hot ashes, though, indeed, they do this merely to spite the English, who make fun of them. Here both dishes will probably be appreciated. We, for our part, gladly welcome this new branch of industry, of which our great and varied fatherland is so much in want. After the disappearance of this first crocodile into the interior of the St. Petersburg gourmand, it is probable that, before a year passes, they will be imported by hundreds. And why should crocodiles not be acclimatised here in Russia? If the water of the Neva is too cold for these interesting foreigners, we have reservoirs within the capital and streams and lakes without. Why, for instance, should crocodiles not be reared at Pàrgolov or Pavlòvsk, or in Moscow, in the Prièssnensky pools or the Samotyòk? While providing a delicate and wholesome food for our refined gastronomists, they would also afford amusement to the ladies strolling past these pools, and would serve for our children as a lesson in natural history. The skin of the crocodiles could be made into étuies, travelling-trunks, cigarette cases, and pocket-books, and perhaps many a thousand roubles—in the greasy notes for which our commercial classes have so strong a predilection—would find its way into crocodile-skins. We hope to often return to this interesting subject.”
Though I had felt a presentiment of something of this kind, the blunders in this article quite upset me. Turning to the fellow-official sitting opposite me, I observed that he was watching me and holding in his hand the paper Vòlos, as if waiting to hand it on to me. He silently took the Listòk from my hand, and replaced it by the Vòlos, in which he had marked a particular article. This is what I read:—
“It is a matter of public notoriety that we are a progressive and humane people, and are trying to catch up Europe in this respect. But, notwithstanding all our efforts and the energy of our newspapers, we are still far from mature, as is shown by the disgraceful occurrence which took place yesterday in the Passage, and which we had already prophesied. A foreign entrepreneur comes to St. Petersburg, bringing with him a crocodile, which he at once begins to exhibit to public view in the Passage. We made haste to welcome this new branch of useful industry, of which our great and varied fatherland is so much in want. Yesterday, at half-past four in the afternoon, there appeared in the foreigner’s shop a personage of enormous corpulence and in an intoxicated condition, who paid the entrance-fee and instantly, without any warning, forced his way into the jaws of the crocodile, which was, of course, constrained by the instinct of self-preservation to swallow him, in order not to choke. Tumbling headlong into the interior of the crocodile, the unknown instantly fell asleep. Neither the cries of the foreign owner, nor the shrieks of his terrified family, nor the threat of an appeal to the police have any effect. From the entrails of the crocodile resounds only laughter, and the unhappy mammal, forced to swallow so enormous a body, sheds copious floods of tears. ‘An uninvited guest is worse than a tartar’; but, in disregard of the proverb, the insolent visitor refuses to come out. We do not know how to explain such barbarous incidents, which bear witness to our backwardness, and disgrace us in the eyes of foreigners. The happy-go-lucky Russian temperament has led to a worthy result. We would ask: What did the unwelcome guest desire? A warm and comfortable dwelling? But there are in this city many fine houses, with cheap and exceedingly comfortable apartments, with Neva water laid on, staircases lighted with gas, and often with a porter hired by the landlord. We would also draw the attention of our readers to the savage brutality of such treatment of a domestic animal; the foreign crocodile is, of course, unable to digest so enormous a mass at once, and now lies, frightfully swollen and in intolerable agonies, awaiting death. In Europe inhuman treatment of domestic animals has long been punishable by law. But, notwithstanding our European lighting-system, our European pavements, our European house-building, we are still far from having shaken off our ancient prejudices:—
‘The houses may be new, but the prejudices are old.’[[41]]
Nay, even the houses are not new—at least, the staircases of them. We have already several times mentioned in our columns that on the north side of the river, in the house of the merchant Loukyànov, the bottom steps of the wooden stairs are rotten, fallen in, and a constant danger to his servant, the soldier’s widow Afimia Skapidàrova, who is often obliged to carry water or firewood up this staircase. At last our warnings have proved true; yesterday evening, at half-past eight o’clock, Afimia Skapidàrova fell through the staircase with a soup tureen and broke her leg. We do not know whether Loukyànov will mend his staircase now; Russians are always wise when it is too late; but the victim of this Russian has perhaps already been carried to the hospital. In the same way, we still persist in maintaining that the dvorniks, who clean the wooden pavements of the Wyborg district of this town, have no right to splash the legs of the passers-by, but should shovel the mud into heaps, as is done in Europe, where boots are cleaned,” &c.
“But how’s this?” said I, looking in stupefaction at my neighbour; “I never heard of such a thing!”
“How so?”
“Why, my dear sir, instead of pitying Ivan Matvyèich, they pity the crocodile!”
“And why not? A mere animal—a mammal—and we have pity even for it! Which way are we behind Europe after that, eh? They’re very tender to crocodiles in Europe too, you know. Ha, ha, ha!”
And my neighbour buried himself in his papers and spoke not another word.
I put the Vòlos and Listòk into my pocket and took, in addition to them, all the back numbers I could find, for the evening recreation of Ivan Matvyèich, and, although it was still early, slipped away out of the Department in order to visit the Passage, to look on, if only from the distance, at what was taking place there, and to overhear various expressions of opinions and views. I was convinced that there would be a tremendous crowd, and drew up the collar of my cloak to hide my face, for somehow I felt a little bit ashamed—so unaccustomed are we to publicity. But I feel that I have no right to dilate upon my personal, prosaic feelings in presence of so extraordinary and original an event.