PORRIDGE.
By NIKOLAI USPÈNSKY.
A cart drove in at the gate of a provincial town with a village deacon[[18]] sitting in it, and in front, driving, his legs dangling over the shafts, a peasant in a kaftan.[[19]]
“Well now, sir, who’s above the bishop?” the driver was asking.
“Above the bishop is the archbishop,”[[20]] answered the deacon. “It is all arranged on the model of the celestial hierarchy, that I was telling you about in the posting station.”
“And is there any sort of man above the governor?”
“Of course there is.... Look here, Yeremèi; when we get to the inn, I’ll go into the Consistorium, and you order dinner for yourself here; there is bread in the bag, so you needn’t get any here.”
“As your honour likes; of course I’ll eat our own bread, as if I didn’t know! ’Tis all the same to me. How much oats shall I take? I doubt ’tis terrible dear in these parts?”
“Take half a measure, not more; everything’s dear hereabouts. That’s why it’s so dear to live in the town.”...
“Lord bless you, yes, sir, ’tis all so dear, so dear, that it is!”