“Oh, that’s capital. Go to him, and read aloud to him, and don’t come to me to-day. I am not well, and perhaps I shall go out to some friends. Well, good-bye, you bad boy.”
“That black-whiskered fellow is going to be there this evening,” I thought to myself.
At the Department I of course made no sign that I was devoured with such cares and responsibilities. I soon observed, though, that several of the most progressive daily papers were on that morning passing unusually quickly from hand to hand among my fellow officials, who read them with exceedingly grave faces. The first which fell into my hands was the “Listòk,” a paper without any special tendency, but on the whole very humanitarian—for which it was generally despised in our set, although much read. It was with a certain surprise that I read the following:—
“Yesterday our vast capital, enriched with its magnificent buildings, was filled with extraordinary rumours. A certain N., a well-known gourmand of the highest spheres of society, wearied, no doubt, of the cuisine of our first-class restaurants, entered the building of the Passage at that part where an immense crocodile, just brought to the capital, was on view, and demanded that the latter should be prepared for his dinner. After bargaining with the keeper, he instantly set to work to devour him (that is, not the keeper, an exceedingly peaceable German with a taste for accuracy, but the crocodile) alive, cutting off juicy morsels with a penknife and gulping them down with extraordinary speed. Gradually the whole of the crocodile disappeared into his fat paunch, and he even set to work upon the ichneumon, the constant companion of the crocodile, probably supposing that it would be equally delicious. We have no objection at all to this new product, already long familiar to foreign gastronomists. We have even prophesied this beforehand. In Egypt the English lords and travellers go out in regular parties to catch crocodiles, and eat the monster’s back in the form of steaks with mustard, onion, and potatoes. The French followers of Lesseps prefer the paws, baked in hot ashes, though, indeed, they do this merely to spite the English, who make fun of them. Here both dishes will probably be appreciated. We, for our part, gladly welcome this new branch of industry, of which our great and varied fatherland is so much in want. After the disappearance of this first crocodile into the interior of the St. Petersburg gourmand, it is probable that, before a year passes, they will be imported by hundreds. And why should crocodiles not be acclimatised here in Russia? If the water of the Neva is too cold for these interesting foreigners, we have reservoirs within the capital and streams and lakes without. Why, for instance, should crocodiles not be reared at Pàrgolov or Pavlòvsk, or in Moscow, in the Prièssnensky pools or the Samotyòk? While providing a delicate and wholesome food for our refined gastronomists, they would also afford amusement to the ladies strolling past these pools, and would serve for our children as a lesson in natural history. The skin of the crocodiles could be made into étuies, travelling-trunks, cigarette cases, and pocket-books, and perhaps many a thousand roubles—in the greasy notes for which our commercial classes have so strong a predilection—would find its way into crocodile-skins. We hope to often return to this interesting subject.”
Though I had felt a presentiment of something of this kind, the blunders in this article quite upset me. Turning to the fellow-official sitting opposite me, I observed that he was watching me and holding in his hand the paper Vòlos, as if waiting to hand it on to me. He silently took the Listòk from my hand, and replaced it by the Vòlos, in which he had marked a particular article. This is what I read:—
“It is a matter of public notoriety that we are a progressive and humane people, and are trying to catch up Europe in this respect. But, notwithstanding all our efforts and the energy of our newspapers, we are still far from mature, as is shown by the disgraceful occurrence which took place yesterday in the Passage, and which we had already prophesied. A foreign entrepreneur comes to St. Petersburg, bringing with him a crocodile, which he at once begins to exhibit to public view in the Passage. We made haste to welcome this new branch of useful industry, of which our great and varied fatherland is so much in want. Yesterday, at half-past four in the afternoon, there appeared in the foreigner’s shop a personage of enormous corpulence and in an intoxicated condition, who paid the entrance-fee and instantly, without any warning, forced his way into the jaws of the crocodile, which was, of course, constrained by the instinct of self-preservation to swallow him, in order not to choke. Tumbling headlong into the interior of the crocodile, the unknown instantly fell asleep. Neither the cries of the foreign owner, nor the shrieks of his terrified family, nor the threat of an appeal to the police have any effect. From the entrails of the crocodile resounds only laughter, and the unhappy mammal, forced to swallow so enormous a body, sheds copious floods of tears. ‘An uninvited guest is worse than a tartar’; but, in disregard of the proverb, the insolent visitor refuses to come out. We do not know how to explain such barbarous incidents, which bear witness to our backwardness, and disgrace us in the eyes of foreigners. The happy-go-lucky Russian temperament has led to a worthy result. We would ask: What did the unwelcome guest desire? A warm and comfortable dwelling? But there are in this city many fine houses, with cheap and exceedingly comfortable apartments, with Neva water laid on, staircases lighted with gas, and often with a porter hired by the landlord. We would also draw the attention of our readers to the savage brutality of such treatment of a domestic animal; the foreign crocodile is, of course, unable to digest so enormous a mass at once, and now lies, frightfully swollen and in intolerable agonies, awaiting death. In Europe inhuman treatment of domestic animals has long been punishable by law. But, notwithstanding our European lighting-system, our European pavements, our European house-building, we are still far from having shaken off our ancient prejudices:—
‘The houses may be new, but the prejudices are old.’[[41]]
Nay, even the houses are not new—at least, the staircases of them. We have already several times mentioned in our columns that on the north side of the river, in the house of the merchant Loukyànov, the bottom steps of the wooden stairs are rotten, fallen in, and a constant danger to his servant, the soldier’s widow Afimia Skapidàrova, who is often obliged to carry water or firewood up this staircase. At last our warnings have proved true; yesterday evening, at half-past eight o’clock, Afimia Skapidàrova fell through the staircase with a soup tureen and broke her leg. We do not know whether Loukyànov will mend his staircase now; Russians are always wise when it is too late; but the victim of this Russian has perhaps already been carried to the hospital. In the same way, we still persist in maintaining that the dvorniks, who clean the wooden pavements of the Wyborg district of this town, have no right to splash the legs of the passers-by, but should shovel the mud into heaps, as is done in Europe, where boots are cleaned,” &c.
“But how’s this?” said I, looking in stupefaction at my neighbour; “I never heard of such a thing!”
“How so?”