“I will have nothing to do with him,” said I.
“Wherefore?” said the Armenian.
“There is an old proverb,” said I, ‘“that a burnt child avoids the fire.’ I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempting to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing upon it again;” and then I told the Armenian how I had been persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into German, and what sorry thanks I had received; “and who knows,” said I, “but the attempt to translate Armenian philosophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable consequences.”
The Armenian smiled. “You would find me very different from the publisher.”
“In many points I have no doubt I should,” I replied; “but at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from a cage, and,
though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at the desk?”
“He is a Moldave,” said the Armenian; “the dog [and here his eyes sparkled] deserves to be crucified; he is continually making mistakes.”
The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z---, which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes. I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon him whenever I should feel disposed.
CHAPTER XLVIII
What to Do—Strong Enough—Fame and Profit—Alliterative Euphony—Excellent Fellow—Listen to Me—A Plan—Bagnigge Wells.