And much moved, he would tell me the "sad" story of the life of the actor, Yakolev.
"There, that will show you what may happen!"
He loved to tell stories about Marie Stuart, whom he called "the rogue," and his peculiar delight was the "Spanish nobleman."
"Don Cæsar de Bazan was a real nobleman. Maximich! Wonderful!"
There was something of the "Spanish nobleman" about himself.
One day in the market-place, in front of the fire-station, three firemen were amusing themselves by beating a peasant. A crowd of people, numbering about forty persons, looked on and cheered the soldiers. Sitanov threw himself into the brawl. With swinging blows of his long arms he struck the firemen, lifted the peasant, and carried him into the crowd, crying:
"Take him away!"
But he remained behind himself, one against three. The yard of the fire-station was only about ten steps away; they might easily have called others to their aid and Sitanov would have been killed. But by good luck the firemen were frightened and ran away into the yard.
"Dogs!" he cried after them.
On Sunday the young people used to attend boxing-matches held in the Tyessni yard behind the Petropavlovski churchyard, where sledge-drivers and peasants from the adjacent villages assembled to fight with the workmen. The wagoners put up against the town an eminent boxer, a Mordovan giant with a small head, and large eyes always full of tears. Wiping away the tears with the dirty sleeve of his short caftan, he stood before his backers with his legs planted widely apart, and challenged good-naturedly: