Zeneida, understanding his meaning, whispered something in Ryleieff's ear.
"All right," returned Ryleieff, "let us hear our Pushkin's song of liberty. True, the fine romance you read us entitles us to name you our Tyrtæus. Never, since Byron—"
Pushkin did not allow him to finish the sentence. His praises excited him to fury. A schoolboy may win with pride the prize for the best verses, and carry it home in triumph to his parents, but your true poet cannot brook being praised to his face. He feels that he has constrained your praises. Thus, if you be a woman, throw him a flower; if a man, give him a shake of the hand; but never tell him face to face that he has composed a fine poem; by so doing you repel him. And worse than all is it for another poet to praise his work. "Genus irritabile vatum."
"No, no, gentlemen," he cried, in wrathful voice. "My poem is not for your ears. It is not meant for musk-scented atmospheres, but for such as reek with tar and tobacco. Come, Jakuskin, let us go off to some beer-shop; that's the right place for it."
Springing up, Jakuskin held out his hand to him.
"All right, let us go to the Bear's Paw."
"Very well."
No one attempted to detain them. Between the two doors the rest of their conversation was heard.
"Shall we take Diabolka with us?" said Jakuskin.
"All right. Let's look for her."