“Why, my dear sir, instead of pitying Ivan Matvyèich, they pity the crocodile!”
“And why not? A mere animal—a mammal—and we have pity even for it! Which way are we behind Europe after that, eh? They’re very tender to crocodiles in Europe too, you know. Ha, ha, ha!”
And my neighbour buried himself in his papers and spoke not another word.
I put the Vòlos and Listòk into my pocket and took, in addition to them, all the back numbers I could find, for the evening recreation of Ivan Matvyèich, and, although it was still early, slipped away out of the Department in order to visit the Passage, to look on, if only from the distance, at what was taking place there, and to overhear various expressions of opinions and views. I was convinced that there would be a tremendous crowd, and drew up the collar of my cloak to hide my face, for somehow I felt a little bit ashamed—so unaccustomed are we to publicity. But I feel that I have no right to dilate upon my personal, prosaic feelings in presence of so extraordinary and original an event.
The Steam-Chicken.
(A Story fit to be printed only in the Christmas holidays.)[[42]]
By GLYEB USPÈNSKY.
Although I cannot protest against the above observation, which very truly characterises this little sketch, I am bound to remark that the title—“A Story”—given to this production by the editor in question, is entirely out of character with both the subject under discussion and the manner in which that subject is treated. The sketch contains no coherent story at all, nor is it founded upon any story in real life. A group of people were simply discussing “the soul,” and one of the disputants, a poultry-farmer on a journey, delivered a kind of lecture upon the subject, bringing forward some very interesting facts concerning gallinaceous psychology. That is all.
This is how it happened:—