"A mad, doating old fellow, of whom I could tell you a thousand follies."
"Really?"
"Oh yes. He never budges from his native village; but he has a theatre in his castle, in which they play his own comedies; he sends for the leading prima donnas, simply that they may sing boorish peasant ditties to him; and he keeps a
whole palace for his dogs, who eat with him from the same table."
"Anything else?"
"Then he has a whole harem of farmyard wenches, and betyárs similar to himself dance with them and him till dawn. Then he sets the whole company by the ears, and they fight till the blood flows in streams."
"Nothing more?"
"And then his conduct is so very eccentric. He can't endure anything that comes from abroad. He does not allow peas to appear on his table, because they don't grow on his estate. They are for the same reason not allowed to bring coffee into the house, and he uses honey instead of sugar. Mad, eh?"
"Certainly. But do you know anything else about him?"
"Oh, I could tell you a thousand things. His whole life is an absurdity. He only did a wise thing once in his life. When I was at the very last gasp, and nothing in the world could save me but a rich uncle, this Hungarian Nabob, this Plutus, one night crammed himself up to the very throat with plover's eggs, and died early in the morning. I was immediately advertised of the fact."