"Well, he's got a Mam'zell, but she may be a damn sell," replied Tishkov.
"He who has not sinned against God is not responsible to the Tsar."
"Against God we've all sinned; by love we're all pinned."
"But he wants to hide his sin under a bridal-wreath."
"They'll hide sin under a bridal wreath and tear each other with furious teeth."
Tishkov always talked in this way when the conversation did not concern his own affairs. He might have bored everybody to tears, but they had all got used to him and did not notice his brisk rhyming; but occasionally they let him loose on a new-comer. But it was all the same to Tishkov whether they listened to him or not; he could not help catching up other people's words to make rhymes, and he acted with the infallibility of a shrewdly devised boring-machine. If you looked at his quick, precise movements, you might conclude that he was not a living person, that he was already dead or had never lived, and that he saw nothing in the living world and heard nothing but dead-sounding words.
[1] This rhyming fellow is not such a rare specimen as may seem to the English reader. The tendency to speak in rhymes is rather common among Russian peasants. The rayeshnik is an interesting native institution. He usually improvises rhymes at gatherings and entertainments in open places, especially at carnivals and fairs. There is also the balagani d'yed (the tent grandfather), who appears in a tent in a long white beard of flax, and makes jests in rhymes. It is an institution that is gradually disappearing.
[CHAPTER IX]
The next day Peredonov went to see the District Attorney Avinovitsky.