“I must say, that is, I have the honour to say by way of preface, that it is not precisely an ode such as used to be written for fêtes, but is rather, so to say, a jest, but full of undoubted feeling, together with playful humour, and, so to say, the most realistic truthfulness.”
“Read it, read it!”
He unfolded the paper. No one of course was in time to stop him. Besides, he was wearing his steward’s badge. In a ringing voice he declaimed:
“To the local governesses of the Fatherland from the poet at the fête:
“Governesses all, good morrow,
Triumph on this festive day.
Retrograde or vowed George-Sander—
Never mind, just frisk away!”
“But that’s Lebyadkin’s! Lebyadkin’s!” cried several voices. There was laughter and even applause, though not from very many.
“Teaching French to wet-nosed children,
You are glad enough to think
You can catch a worn-out sexton—
Even he is worth a wink!”
“Hurrah! hurrah!”
“But in these great days of progress,
Ladies, to your sorrow know,
You can’t even catch a sexton,
If you have not got a ‘dot’.”
“To be sure, to be sure, that’s realism. You can’t hook a husband without a ‘dot’!”